10401	----	[Illustration: _Daniel Drayton_] PERSONAL MEMOIR Of DANIEL DRAYTON, For Four Years And Four Months A PRISONER (FOR CHARITY'S SAKE) IN WASHINGTON JAIL Including A Narrative Of The VOYAGE AND CAPTURE OF THE SCHOONER PEARL. We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal; that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights; that among these are life, _liberty_, and the pursuit of happiness. DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE. 1855. Entered according to Act of Congress, In the year 1853, by DANIEL DRAYTON, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts ADVERTISEMENT. Considering the large share of the public attention which the case of the schooner Pearl attracted at the time of its occurrence, perhaps the following narrative of its origin, and of its consequences to himself, by the principal actor in it, may not be without interest. It is proper to state that a large share of the profits of the sale are secured to Captain Drayton, the state of whose health incapacitates him from any laborious employment. MEMOIR. I was born in the year 1802, in Cumberland County, Downs Township, in the State of New Jersey, on the shores of Nantuxet Creek, not far from Delaware Bay, into which that creek flows. My father was a farmer,--not a very profitable occupation in that barren part of the country. My mother was a widow at the time of her marriage with my father, having three children by a former husband. By my father she had six more, of whom I was the youngest but one. She was a woman of strong mind and marked character, a zealous member of the Methodist church; and, although I had the misfortune to lose her at an early age, her instructions--though the effect was not apparent at the moment--made a deep impression on my youthful mind, and no doubt had a very sensible influence over my future life. Just previous to, or during the war with Great Britain, my father removed still nearer to the shore of the bay, and the sight of the vessels passing up and down inspired me with a desire to follow the life of a waterman; but it was some years before I was able to gratify this wish. I well remember the alarm created in our neighborhood by the incursions of the British vessels up the bay during the war, and that, at these times, the women of the neighborhood used to collect at our house, as if looking up to my mother for counsel and guidance. I was only twelve years old when this good mother died; but, so strong was the impression which she left upon my memory, that, amid the struggles and dangers and cares of my subsequent life, I have seldom closed my eyes to sleep without some thought or image of her. As my father soon after married another widow, with four small children, it became necessary to make room in the house for their accommodation; and, with a younger brother of mine, I was bound out an apprentice in a cotton and woollen factory at a place called Cedarville. Manufactures were just then beginning to be introduced into the country, and great hopes were entertained of them as a profitable business. My employer,--or bos, as we called him,--had formerly been a schoolmaster, and he did not wholly neglect our instructions in other things besides cotton-spinning. Of this I stood greatly in need; for there were no public schools in the neighborhood in which I was born, and my parents had too many children to feed and clothe to be able to pay much for schooling. We were required on Sundays, by our employer, to learn two lessons, one in the forenoon, the other in the afternoon; after reciting which we were left at liberty to roam at our pleasure. Winter evenings we worked in the factory till nine o'clock, after which, and before going to bed, we were required to recite over one of our lessons These advantages of education were not great, but even these I soon lost. Within five months from the time I was bound to him, my employer died. The factories were then sold out to three partners. The one who carried on the cotton-spinning took me; but he soon gave up the business, and went back to farming, which had been his original occupation. I remained with him for a year and a half, or thereabouts, when my father bound me out apprentice to a shoe-maker. My new bos was, in some respects, a remarkable man, but not a very good sort of one for a boy to be bound apprentice to. He paid very little attention to his business, which he seemed to think unworthy of his genius. He was a kind-hearted man, fond of company and frolics, in which he indulged himself freely, and much given to speeches and harangues, in which he had a good deal of fluency. In religion he professed to be a Universalist, holding to doctrines and opinions very different from those which my mother had instilled into me. He ridiculed those opinions, and argued against them, but without converting me to his way of thinking; though, as far as practice went, I was ready enough to imitate his example. My Sundays were spent principally in taverns, playing at dominos, which then was, and still is, a favorite game in that part of the country; and, as the unsuccessful party was expected to treat, I at times ran up a bill at the bar as high as four or six dollars,--no small indebtedness for a young apprentice with no more means than I had. As I grew older this method of living grew less and less satisfactory to me; and as I saw that no good of any kind, not even a knowledge of the trade he had undertaken to teach me, was to be got of my present bos, I bought my time of him, and went to work with another man to pay for it. Before I had succeeded in doing that, and while I was not yet nineteen, I took upon myself the still further responsibility of marriage. This was a step into which I was led rather by the impulse of youthful passion than by any thoughtful foresight. Yet it had at least this advantage, that it obliged me to set diligently to work to provide for the increasing family which I soon found growing up around me. I had never liked the shoe-making business, to which my father had bound me an apprentice. I had always desired to follow the water. The vessels which I had seen sailing up and down the Delaware Bay still haunted my fancy; and I engaged myself as cook on board a sloop, employed in carrying wood from Maurice river to Philadelphia. Promotion in this line is sufficiently rapid; for in four months, after commencing as cook, I rose to be captain. This wood business, in which I remained for two years, is carried on by vessels of from thirty to sixty tons, known as _bay-craft_. They are built so as to draw but little water, which is their chief distinction from the _coasters_, which are fit for the open sea. They will carry from twenty-five to fifty cords of wood, on which a profit is expected of a dollar and upwards. They have usually about three hands, the captain, or skipper, included. The men used to be hired, when I entered the business, for eight or ten dollars the month, but they now get nearly or quite twice as much. The captain usually sails the vessel on shares (unless he is himself owner in whole, or in part), victualling the vessel and hiring the men, and paying over to the owner forty dollars out of every hundred. During the winter, from December to March, the navigation is impeded by ice, and the bay-craft seldom run. The men commonly spend this long vacation in visiting, husking-frolics, rabbiting, and too often in taverns, to the exhaustion of their purses, the impoverishment of their families, and the sacrifice of their sobriety. Yet the watermen, if many of them are not able always to resist the temptations held out to them, are in general an honest and simple-hearted set, though with little education, and sometimes rather rough in their manners. The extent of my education when I took to the water--and in this respect I was not, perhaps, much inferior to the generality of my brother watermen--was to read with no great fluency, and to sign my name; nor did I ever learn much more than this till my residence in Washington jail, to be related hereafter. Having followed the wood business for two years, I aspired to something a little higher, and obtained the command of a sloop engaged in the coasting business, from Philadelphia southward and eastward. At this time a sloop of sixty tons was considered a very respectable coaster. The business is now mostly carried on by vessels of a larger class; some of them, especially the regular lines of packets, being very handsome and expensive. The terms on which these coasters were sailed were very similar to those already stated in the case of the bay-craft. The captain victualled the vessel, and paid the hands, and received for his share half the net profits, after deducting the extra expenses of loading and unloading. It was in this coasting business that the best years of my life were spent, during which time I visited most of the ports and rivers between Savannah southward, and St. John, in the British province of New Brunswick, eastward;--those two places forming the extreme limits of my voyagings. As Philadelphia was the port from and to which I sailed, I presently found it convenient to remove my family thither, and there they continued to live till after my release from the Washington prison. I was so successful in my new business, that, besides supporting my family, I was able to become half owner of the sloop Superior, at an expense of over a thousand dollars, most of which I paid down. But this proved a very unfortunate investment. On her second trip after I had bought into her, returning from Baltimore to Philadelphia by the way of the Delaware and Chesapeake canal, while off the mouth of the Susquehannah, she struck, as I suppose, a sunken tree, brought down by a heavy freshet in that river. The water flowed fast into the cabin. It was in vain that I attempted to run her ashore. She sunk in five minutes. The men saved themselves in the boat, which was on deck, and which floated as she went down. I stood by the rudder till the last, and stepped off it into the boat, loath enough to leave my vessel, on which there was no insurance. By this unfortunate accident I lost everything except the clothes I had on, and was obliged to commence anew. I accordingly obtained the command of the new sloop Sarah Henry, of seventy tons burden, and continued to sail her for several years, on shares. While in her I made a voyage to Savannah; and while under sail from that city for Charleston, I was taken with the yellow fever. I lay for a week quite unconscious of anything that was going on about me and came as near dying as a man could do and escape. The religious instructions of my mother had from time to time recurred to my mind, and had occasioned me some anxiety. I was now greatly alarmed at the idea of dying in my sins, from which I seemed to have escaped so narrowly. My mind was possessed with this fear; and, to relieve myself from it, I determined, if it were a possible thing, to get religion at any rate. The idea of religion in which I had been educated was that of a sudden, miraculous change, in which a man felt himself relieved from the burden of his sins, united to God, and made a new creature. For this experience I diligently sought, and tried every way to get it. I set up family prayers in my house, went to meetings, and conversed with experienced members of the church; but, for nine months or more, all to no purpose. At length I got into an awful state, beginning to think that I had been so desperate a sinner that there was no forgiveness for me. While I was in this miserable condition, I heard of a camp-meeting about to be held on Cape May, and I immediately resolved to attend it, and to leave no stone unturned to accomplish the object which I had so much at heart. I went accordingly, and yielded myself entirely up to the dictation of those who had the control of the meeting. I did in everything as I was told; went into the altar, prayed, and let them pray over me. This went on for several days without any result. One evening, as I approached the altar, and was looking into it, I met a captain of my acquaintance, and asked him what he thought of these proceedings; and, as he seemed to approve them, I invited him to go into the altar with me. We both went in accordingly, and knelt down. Pretty soon my friend got up and walked away, saying he had got religion. I did not find it so easily. I remained at the altar, praying, till after the meeting broke up, and even till one o'clock,--a few acquaintances and others remaining with me, and praying round me, and over me, and for me;--till, at last, thinking that I had done everything I could, I told them pray no more, as evidently there was no forgiveness for me. So I withdrew to a distance, and sat down upon an old tree, lamenting my hard case very seriously. I was sure I had committed the unpardonable sin. A friend, who sat down beside me, and of whom I inquired what he supposed the unpardonable sin was, endeavored comfort me by suggesting that, whatever it might be, it would take more sense and learning than ever I had to commit it. But I would not enter into his merriment. All the next day, which was Sunday, I passed in a most miserable state. I went into the woods alone. I did not think myself worthy or fit to associate with those who had religion, while I was anxious to avoid the company of those who made light of it. Sometimes I would sit down, sometimes I would stand up, sometimes I would walk about. Frequently I prayed, but found no comfort in it. About sun-set I met a friend, who said to me, "Well, our camp-meeting is about ended." What a misery those few words struck to my heart! "About ended!" I said to myself; "about ended, and I not converted!" A little later, as I was passing along the camp-ground, I saw a woman before me kneeling and praying. An acquaintance of mine, who was approaching her in an opposite direction, called out to me, "Daniel, help me pray for this woman!" I had made up my mind to make one more effort, and I knelt down and commenced praying; but quite as much for myself as for her. Others gathered about us and joined in, and the interest and excitement became so great, that, after a vain effort to call us off, the regular services of the evening were dispensed with, and the ground was left to us. Things went on in this way till about nine o'clock, when, as suddenly as if I had been struck a heavy blow, I felt a remarkable change come over me. All my fears and terrors seemed to be instantaneously removed, and my whole soul to be filled with joy and peace. This was the sort of change which I had been taught to look for as the consequence of getting that religion for which I had been struggling so hard. I instantly rose up, and told those about me that I was a converted man; and from that moment I was able to sing and shout and pray with the best of them. In the midst of my exultation who should come up but my old master in the shoe-making trade, of whom I have already given some account. He had heard that I was on the camp-ground in pursuit of religion, and had come to find me out. "Daniel," he said, addressing me by my Christian name, "what are you doing here? Don't make a fool of yourself." To which I answered, that I had got to be just such a fool as I had long wanted to be; and I took him by the arm, and endeavored to prevail upon him to kneel down and allow us to pray over him, assuring him that I knew his convictions to be much better than his conduct; that he must get religion, and now was the time. But he drew back, and escaped from me, with promises to do better, which, however, he did not keep. As for myself, considering, and, as I thought, feeling that I was a converted man, I now enjoyed for some time an extraordinary satisfaction, a sort of offset to the months of agony and misery which I had previously endured. But, though regarding myself as now truly converted, I delayed some time before uniting myself with any particular church. I did not know which to join. This division into so many hostile sects seemed to me unaccountable. I thought that all good Christians should love each other, and be as one family. Yet it seemed necessary to unite myself with some body of Christians; and, as I had been educated a Methodist, I concluded to join them. I have given the account of my religious experience exactly as it seemed to me at the time, and as I now remember it. It corresponded with the common course of religious experiences in the Methodist church, except that with me the struggle was harder than commonly happens. I did not doubt at the time that it was truly a supernatural change, as much the work of the Spirit as the sudden conversions recorded in the Acts of the Apostles. Others can form their own opinion about it. I will only add that subsequent experience has led me to the belief that the reality of a man's religion is more to be judged of by what he does than by how he feels or what he says. The change which had taken place in me, however it is to be regarded, was not without a decided influence on my whole future life. I no longer considered myself as living for myself alone. I regarded myself as bound to do unto others as I would that they should do unto me; and it was in attempting to act up to this principle that I became involved in the difficulties to be hereafter related. Meanwhile I resumed my voyages in the Sarah Henry, in which I continued to sail, on shares, for several years, with tolerable success. Afterwards I followed the same business in the schooner Protection, in which I suffered another shipwreck. We sailed from Philadelphia to Washington, in the District of Columbia, laden with coal, proceeding down the Delaware, and by the open sea; but, when off the entrance of the Chesapeake, we encountered a heavy gale, which split the sails, swept the decks, and drove us off our course as far south as Ocracoke Inlet, on the coast of North Carolina. I took a pilot, intending to go in to repair damages; but, owing to the strength of the current, which defeated his calculations, the pilot ran us on the bar. As soon as the schooner's bow touched the ground, she swung round broadside to the sea, which immediately began to break over her in a fearful manner. She filled immediately,--everything on deck was swept away; and, as our only chance of safety, we took to the main-rigging. This was about seven o'clock in the evening. Towards morning, by reason of the continual thumping, the mainmast began to work through the vessel, and to settle in the sand, so that it became necessary for us to make our way to the fore-rigging; which we did, not without danger, as one of the men was twice washed off. About a quarter of a mile inside was a small, low island, on which lay five boats, each manned by five men, who had come down to our assistance; but the surf was so high that they did not venture to approach us; so we remained clinging with difficulty to the rigging till about half-past one, when the schooner went to pieces. The mast to which we were clinging fell, and we were precipitated into the raging surf, which swept us onward towards the island already mentioned. The men there, anticipating what had happened, had prepared for its occurrence; and the best swimmers, with ropes tied round their waists, the other end of which was held by those on shore, plunged in to our assistance. One of our unfortunate company was drowned,--the rest of us came safely to the shore; but we lost everything except the clothes we stood in. The fragments saved from the wreck were sold at auction for two hundred dollars. The people of that neighborhood treated us with great kindness, and we presently took the packet for Elizabeth city, whence I proceeded to Norfolk, Baltimore, and so home. I had made up my mind to go to sea no more; but, after remaining on shore for three weeks, and not finding anything else to do, as it was necessary for me to have the means of supporting my increasing family, I took the command of another vessel, belonging to the same owners, the sloop Joseph B. While in this vessel, my voyages were to the eastward. I was engaged in the flour-trade, in conjunction with the owners of the vessel. We bought flour and grain on a sixty days' credit, which I carried to the Kennebec, Portsmouth, Boston, New Bedford, and other eastern ports, calculating upon the returns of the voyage to take up our notes. I was so successful in this business as finally to become the owner of the Joseph B., which vessel I exchanged away at Portsmouth for the Sophronia, a top-sail schooner of one hundred and sixty tons, worth about fourteen hundred dollars. In this vessel I made two trips to Boston,--one with coal, and the other with timber. Having unloaded my timber, I took in a hundred tons of plaster, purchased on my own account, intending to dispose of it in the Susquehanna. But on the passage I encountered a heavy storm, which blew the masts out of the vessel, and drove her ashore on the south side of Long Island. We saved our lives; but I lost everything except one hundred and sixty dollars, for which I sold what was left of the vessel and cargo. Having returned to my family, with but little disposition to try my fortune again in the coasting-trade, one day, being in the horse-market, I purchased a horse and wagon; and, taking in my wife and some of the younger children, I went to pay a visit to the neighborhood in which I was born. Here I traded for half of a bay-craft, of about sixty tons burden, in which I engaged in the oyster-trade, and other small bay-traffic. Having met at Baltimore the owner of the other half, I bought him out also. The whole craft stood me in about seven hundred dollars. I then purchased three hundred bushels of potatoes, with which I sailed for Fredericksburg, in Virginia; but this proved a losing trip, the potatoes not selling for what they cost me. At Fredericksburg I took in flour on freight for Norfolk; but my ill-luck still pursued me. In unloading the vessel, the cargo forward being first taken out, she settled by the stern and sprang a leak, damaging fifteen barrels of flour, which were thrown upon my hands. I then sailed for the eastern shore of Virginia, and at a place called Cherrystone traded off my damaged flour for a cargo of pears, with which I sailed for New York. I proceeded safely as far as Barnegat, when I encountered a north-east storm, which drove me back into the Delaware, obliging me to seek refuge in the same Maurice river from which I had commenced my sea-faring life in the wood business. But by this time the pears were spoiled, and I was obliged to throw them overboard. At Cherrystone I had met the owner of a pilot-boat, who had seemed disposed to trade with me for my vessel; and I now returned to that place, and completed the trade; after which I loaded the pilot-boat with oysters and terrapins, and sailed for Philadelphia. This boat was an excellent sailer, but too sharp, and not of burden enough for my business; and I soon exchanged her for half a little sloop, in which I carried a load of water-melons to Baltimore. By this time I was pretty well sick of the water; and, having hired out the sloop, I set up a shop, at Philadelphia, for the purchase and sale of junk, old iron, &c. &c. But, after continuing in this business for about two years,--my health being bad, and the doctor having advised me to try the water again,--I bought half of another sloop, and engaged in trading up and down Chesapeake Bay. Returning home, towards the close of the season, with the proceeds of the summer's business, I encountered, in the upper part of Chesapeake Bay, a terrible snow-storm which proved fatal to many vessels then in the bay. In attempting to make a harbor, the vessel struck the ground, and knocked off her rudder; and, in order to get her off, we were obliged to throw over the deck-load. We drifted about all day, it still blowing and snowing, and at night let go both anchors. So we lay for a night and a day; but, having neither boat, rudder nor provisions, I was finally obliged to slip the anchors and run ashore. I sold my half of her, as she lay, for ninety dollars, which was all that remained to me of my investment and my summer's work. Not having the means to purchase a boat, my health also continuing quite infirm, the next summer I hired one, and continued the same trade up and down the bay which I had followed the previous summer. My trading up and down the bay, in the way which I have described, of course brought me a good deal into contact with the slave population. No sooner, indeed, does a vessel, known to be from the north, anchor in any of these waters--and the slaves are pretty adroit in ascertaining from what state a vessel comes--than she is boarded, if she remains any length of time, and especially over night, by more or less of them, in hopes of obtaining a passage in her to a land of freedom. During my earlier voyagings, several years before, in Chesapeake Bay, I had turned a deaf ear to all these requests. At that time, according to an idea still common enough, I had regarded the negroes as only fit to be slaves, and had not been inclined to pay much attention to the pitiful tales which they told me of ill-treatment by their masters and mistresses. But my views upon this subject had undergone a gradual change. I knew it was asserted in the Declaration of Independence that all men are born free and equal, and I had read in the Bible that God had made of one flesh all the nations of the earth. I had found out, by intercourse with the negroes, that they had the same desires, wishes and hopes, as myself. I knew very well that I should not like to be a slave even to the best of masters, and still less to such sort of masters as the greater part of the slaves seemed to have. The idea of having first one child and then another taken from me, as fast as they grew large enough, and handed over to the slave-traders, to be carried I knew not where, and sold, if they were girls, I knew not for what purposes, would have been horrible enough; and, from instances which came to my notice, I perceived that it was not less horrible and distressing to the parties concerned in the case of black people than of white ones. I had never read any abolition books, nor heard any abolition lectures. I had frequented only Methodist meetings, and nothing was heard there about slavery. But, for the life of me, I could not perceive why the golden rule of doing to others as you would wish them to do to you did not apply to this case. Had I been a slave myself,--and it is not a great while since the Algerines used to make slaves of our sailors, white as well as black,--I should have thought it very right and proper in anybody who would have ventured to assist me in escaping out of bondage; and the more dangerous it might have been to render such assistance, the more meritorious I should have thought the act to be. Why had not these black people, so anxious to escape from their masters, as good a light to their liberty as I had to mine? I know it is sometimes said, by those who defend slavery or apologize for it, that the slaves at the south are very happy and contented, if left to themselves, and that this idea of running away is only put into their heads by mischievous white people from the north. This will do very well for those who know nothing of the matter personally, and who are anxious to listen to any excuse. But there is not a waterman who ever sailed in Chesapeake Bay who will not tell you that, so far from the slaves needing any prompting to run away, the difficulty is, when they ask you to assist them, to make them take no for an answer. I have known instances where men have lain in the woods for a year or two, waiting for an opportunity to escape on board some vessel. On one of my voyages up the Potomac, an application was made to me on behalf of such a runaway; and I was so much moved by his story, that, had it been practicable for me at that time, I should certainly have helped him off. One or two attempts I did make to assist the flight of some of those who sought my assistance; but none with success, till the summer of 1847, which is the period to which I have brought down my narrative. I was employed during that summer, as I have mentioned already in trading up and down the Chesapeake, in a hired boat, a small black boy being my only assistant. Among other trips, I went to Washington with a cargo of oysters. While I was lying there, at the same wharf, as it happened, from which the Pearl afterwards took her departure, a colored man came on board, and, observing that I seemed to be from the north, he said he supposed we were pretty much all abolitionists there. I don't know where he got this piece of information, but I think it likely from some southern member of Congress. As I did not check him, but rather encouraged him to go on, he finally told me that he wanted to get passage to the north for a woman and five children. The husband of the woman, and father of the children, was a free colored man; and the woman, under an agreement with her master, had already more than paid for her liberty; but, when she had asked him for a settlement, he had only answered by threatening to sell her. He begged me to see the woman, which I did; and finally I made an arrangement to take them away. Their bedding, and other things, were sent down on board the vessel in open day, and at night the woman came on board with her five children and a niece. We were ten days in reaching Frenchtown, where the husband was in waiting for them. He took them under his charge, and I saw them no more; but, since my release from imprisonment in Washington, I have heard that the whole family are comfortably established in a free country, and doing well. Having accomplished this exploit,--and was it not something of an exploit to bestow the invaluable gift of liberty upon seven of one's fellow-creatures--the season being now far advanced, I gave up the boat to the owner, and returned to my family at Philadelphia. In the course of the following month of February, I received a note from a person whom I had never known or heard of before, desiring me to call at a certain place named in it. I did so, when it appeared that I had been heard of through the colored family which I had brought off from Washington. A letter from that city was read to me, relating the case of a family or two who expected daily and hourly to be sold, and desiring assistance to get them away. It was proposed to me to undertake this enterprise; but I declined it at this time, as I had no vessel, and because the season was too early for navigation through the canal. I saw the same person again about a fortnight later, and finally arranged to go on to Washington, to see what could be done. There I agreed to return again so soon as I could find a vessel fit for the enterprise. I spoke with several persons of my acquaintance, who had vessels under their control; but they declined, on account of the danger. They did not appear to have any other objection, and seemed to wish me success. Passing along the street, I met Captain Sayres, and knowing that he was sailing a small bay-craft, called the Pearl, and learning from him that business was dull with him, I proposed the enterprise to him, offering him one hundred dollars for the charter of his vessel to Washington and back to Frenchtown where, according to the arrangement with the friends of the passengers, they were to be met and carried to Philadelphia. This was considerably more than the vessel could earn in any ordinary trip of the like duration, and Sayres closed with the offer. He fully understood the nature of the enterprise. By our bargain, I was to have, as supercargo, the control of the vessel so far as related to her freight, and was to bring away from Washington such passengers as I chose to receive on board; but the control of the vessel in other respects remained with him. Captain Sayres engaged in this enterprise merely as a matter of business. I, too, was to be paid for my time and trouble,--an offer which the low state of my pecuniary affairs, and the necessity of supporting my family, did not allow me to decline. But this was not, by any means, my sole or principal motive. I undertook it out of sympathy for the enslaved, and from my desire to do something to further the cause of universal liberty. Such being the different ground upon which Sayres and myself stood, I did not think it necessary or expedient to communicate to him the names of the persons with whom the expedition had originated; and, at my suggestion, those persons abstained from any direct communication with him, either at Philadelphia or Washington. Sayres had, as cook and sailor, on board the Pearl, a young man named Chester English. He was married, and had a child or two, but was himself as inexperienced as a child, having never been more than thirty miles from the place where he was born. I remonstrated with Sayres against taking this young man with us. But English, pleased with the idea of seeing Washington, desired to go; and Sayres, who had engaged him for the season, did not like to part with him. He went with us, but was kept in total ignorance of the real object of the voyage. He had the idea that we were going to Washington for a load of ship-timber. We proceeded down the Delaware, and by the canal into the Chesapeake, making for the mouth of the Potomac. As we ascended that river we stopped at a place called Machudock, where I purchased, by way of cargo and cover to the voyage, twenty cords of wood; and with that freight on board we proceeded to Washington, where we arrived on the evening of Thursday, the 13th of April, 1848. As it happened, we found that city in a great state of excitement on the subject of emancipation, liberty and the rights of man. A grand torch-light procession was on foot, in honor of the new French revolution, the expulsion of Louis-Philippe, and the establishment of a republic in France. Bonfires were blazing in the public squares, and a great out-door meeting was being held in front of the _Union_ newspaper office, at which very enthusiastic and exciting speeches were delivered, principally by southern democratic members of Congress, which body was at that time in session. A full account of these proceedings, with reports of the speeches, was given in the _Union_ of the next day. According to this report, Mr. Foote, the senator from Mississippi, extolled the French revolution as holding out "to the whole family of man a bright promise of the universal establishment of civil and religious liberty." He declared, in the same speech, "that the age of tyrants and of slavery was rapidly drawing to a close, and that the happy period to be signalized by the _universal emancipation_ of man from the fetters of civic oppression, and the recognition in all countries of the great principles of popular sovereignty, equality and brotherhood, was at this moment visibly commencing." Mr. Stanton, of Tennessee, and others, spoke in a strain equally fervid and philanthropic. I am obliged to refer to the _Union_ newspaper for an account of these speeches, as I did not hear them myself. I came to Washington, not to preach, nor to hear preached, emancipation, equality and brotherhood, but to put them into practice. Sayres and English went up to see the procession and hear the speeches. I had other things to attend to. The news of my arrival soon spread among those who had been expecting it, though I neither saw nor had any direct communication with any of those who were to be my passengers. I had some difficulty in disposing of my wood, which was not a very first-rate article, but finally sold it, taking in payment the purchaser's note on sixty days, which I changed off for half cash and half provisions. As the trader to whom I passed the note had no hard bread, Sayres and myself went in the steamer to Alexandria to purchase a barrel,--a circumstance of which it was afterwards attempted to take advantage against us. It was arranged that the passengers should come on board after dark on Saturday evening, and that we should sail about midnight. I had understood that the expedition, had principally originated in the desire to help off a certain family, consisting of a woman, nine children and two grand-children, who were believed to be legally entitled to their liberty. Their case had been in litigation for some time; but, although they had a very good case,--the lawyer whom they employed (Mr. Bradley, one of the most distinguished members of the bar of the district) testified, in the course of one of my trials, that he believed them to be legally free,--yet, as their money was nearly exhausted, and as there seemed to be no end to the law's delay and the pertinacity of the woman who claimed them, it was deemed best by their friends that they should get away if they could, lest she might seize them unawares, and sell them to some trader. In speaking of this case, the person with whom I communicated at Washington informed me that there were also quite a number of others who wished to avail themselves of this opportunity of escaping, and that the number of passengers was likely to be larger than had at first been calculated upon. To which I replied, that I did not stand about the number; that all who were on board before eleven o'clock I should take,--the others would have to remain behind. Saturday evening, at supper, I let English a little into the secret of what I intended. I told him that the sort of ship-timber we were going to take would prove very easy to load and unload; that a number of colored people wished to take passage with us down the bay, and that, as Sayres and myself would be away the greater part of the evening, all he had to do was, as fast as they came on board, to lift up the hatch and let them pass into the hold, shutting the hatch down upon them. The vessel, which we had moved down the river since unloading the wood, lay at a rather lonely place, called White-house Wharf, from a whitish-colored building which stood upon it. The high bank of the river, under which a road passed, afforded a cover to the wharf, and there were only a few scattered buildings in the vicinity. Towards the town there stretched a wide extent of open fields. Anxious, as might naturally be expected, as to the result, I kept in the vicinity to watch the progress of events. There was another small vessel that lay across the head of the same wharf, but her crew were all black; and, going on board her just at dusk, I informed the skipper of my business, intimating to him, at the same time, that it would be a dangerous thing for him to betray me. He assured me that I need have no fears of him--that the other men would soon leave the vessel, not to return again till Monday, and that, for himself, he should go below and to sleep, so as neither to hear nor to see anything. Shortly after dark the expected passengers began to arrive, coming stealthily across the fields, and gliding silently on board the vessel. I observed a man near a neighboring brick-kiln, who seemed to be watching them. I went towards him, and found him to be black. He told me that he understood what was going on, but that I need have no apprehension of him. Two white men, who walked along the road past the vessel, and who presently returned back the same way, occasioned me some alarm; but they seemed to have no suspicions of what was on foot, as I saw no more of them. I went on board the vessel several times in the course of the evening, and learned from English that the hold was fast filling up. I had promised him, in consideration of the unusual nature of the business we were engaged in, ten dollars as a gratuity, in addition to his wages. Something past ten o'clock, I went on board, and directed English to cast off the fastenings and to get ready to make sail. Pretty soon Sayres came on board. It was a dead calm, and we were obliged to get the boat out to get the vessel's head round. After dropping down a half a mile or so, we encountered the tide making up the river; and, as there was still no wind, we were obliged to anchor. Here we lay in a dead calm till about daylight. The wind then began to breeze up lightly from the northward, when we got up the anchor and made sail. As the sun rose, we passed Alexandria. I then went into the hold for the first time, and there found my passengers pretty thickly stowed. I distributed bread among them, and knocked down the bulkhead between the hold and the cabin, in order that they might get into the cabin to cook. They consisted of men and women, in pretty equal proportions, with a number of boys and girls, and two small children. The wind kept increasing and hauling to the westward. Off Fort Washington we had to make two stretches, but the rest of the way we run before the wind. Shortly after dinner, we passed the steamer from Baltimore for Washington, bound up. I thought the passengers on board took particular notice of us; but the number of vessels met with in a passage up the Potomac at that season is so few, as to make one, at least for the idle passengers of a steamboat, an object of some curiosity. Just before sunset, we passed a schooner loaded with plaster, bound up. As we approached the mouth of the Potomac, the wind hauled to the north, and blew with such stiffness as would make it impossible for us to go up the bay, according to our original plan. Under these circumstances, apprehending a pursuit from Washington, I urged Sayres to go to sea, with the intention of reaching the Delaware by the outside passage. But he objected that the vessel was not fit to go outside (which was true enough), and that the bargain was to go to Frenchtown. Having reached Point Lookout, at the mouth of the river, and not being able to persuade Sayres to go to sea, and the wind being dead in our teeth, and too strong to allow any attempt to ascend the bay, we came to anchor in Cornfield harbor, just under Point Lookout, a shelter usually sought by bay-craft encountering contrary winds when in that neighborhood. We were all sleepy with being up all the night before, and, soon after dropping anchor, we all turned in. I knew nothing more till, waking suddenly, I heard the noise of a steamer blowing off steam alongside of us. I knew at once that we were taken. The black men came to the cabin, and asked if they should fight. I told them no; we had no arms, nor was there the least possibility of a successful resistance. The loud shouts and trampling of many feet overhead proved that our assailants were numerous. One of them lifted the hatch a little, and cried out, "Niggers, by G--d!" an exclamation to which the others responded with three cheers, and by banging the buts of their muskets against the deck. A lantern was called for, to read the name of the vessel; and it being ascertained to be the Pearl, a number of men came to the cabin-door, and called for Captain Drayton. I was in no great hurry to stir; but at length rose from my berth, saying that I considered myself their prisoner, and that I expected to be treated as such. While I was dressing, rather too slowly for the impatience of those outside, a sentinel, who had been stationed at the cabin-door, followed every motion of mine with his gun, which he kept pointed at me, in great apprehension, apparently, lest I should suddenly seize some dangerous weapon and make at him. As I came out of the cabin-door, two of them seized me, took me on board the steamer and tied me; and they did the same with Sayres and English, who were brought on board, one after the other. The black people were left on board the Pearl, which the steamer took in tow, and then proceeded up the river. To explain this sudden change in our situation, it is necessary to go back to Washington. Great was the consternation in several families of that city, on Sunday morning, to find no breakfast, and, what was worse, their servants missing. Nor was this disaster confined to Washington only. Georgetown came in for a considerable share of it, and even Alexandria, on the opposite side of the river, had not entirely escaped. The persons who had taken passage on board the Pearl had been held in bondage by no less than forty-one different persons. Great was the wonder at the sudden and simultaneous disappearance of so many "prime hands," roughly estimated, though probably with considerable exaggeration, as worth in the market not less than a hundred thousand dollars,--and all at "one fell swoop" too, as the District Attorney afterwards, in arguing the case against me, pathetically expressed it! There were a great many guesses and conjectures as to where these people had gone, and how they had gone; but it is very doubtful whether the losers would have got upon the right track, had it not been for the treachery of a colored hackman, who had been employed to carry down to the vessel two passengers who had been in hiding for some weeks previous, and who could not safely walk down, lest they might be met and recognized. Emulating the example of that large, and, in their own opinion at least, highly moral, religious and respectable class of white people, known as "dough-faces," this hackman thought it a fine opportunity to feather his nest by playing cat's-paw to the slave-holders. Seeing how much the information was in demand, and anticipating, no doubt, a large reward, he turned informer, and described the Pearl as the conveyance which the fugitives had taken; and, it being ascertained that the Pearl had actually sailed between Saturday night and Sunday morning, preparations were soon made to pursue her. A Mr. Dodge, of Georgetown, a wealthy old gentleman, originally from New England, missed three or four slaves from his family, and a small steamboat, of which he was the proprietor, was readily obtained. Thirty-five men, including a son or two of old Dodge, and several of those whose slaves were missing, volunteered to man her; and they set out about Sunday noon, armed to the teeth with guns, pistols, bowie-knives, &c., and well provided with brandy and other liquors. They heard of us on the passage down, from the Baltimore steamer and the vessel loaded with plaster. They reached the mouth of the river, and, not having found the Pearl, were about to return, as the steamer could not proceed into the bay without forfeiting her insurance. As a last chance, they looked into Cornfield harbor, where they found us, as I have related. This was about two o'clock in the morning. The Pearl had come to anchor about nine o'clock the previous evening. It is a hundred and forty miles from Washington to Cornfield harbor. The steamer, with the Pearl in tow, crossed over from Point Lookout to Piney Point, on the south shore of the Potomac, and here the Pearl was left at anchor, a part of the steamer's company remaining to guard her, while the steamer, having myself and the other white prisoners on board, proceeded up Coan river for a supply of wood, having obtained which, she again, about noon of Monday, took the Pearl in tow and started for Washington. The bearing, manner and aspect of the thirty-five armed persons by whom we had been thus seized and bound, without the slightest shadow of lawful authority, was sufficient to inspire a good deal of alarm. We had been lying quietly at anchor in a harbor of Maryland; and, although the owners of the slaves might have had a legal right to pursue and take them back, what warrant or authority had they for seizing us and our vessel? They could have brought none from the District of Columbia, whose officers had no jurisdiction or authority in Cornfield harbor; nor did they pretend to have any from the State of Maryland. Some of them showed a good deal of excitement, and evinced a disposition to proceed to lynch us at once. A man named Houver, who claimed as his property two of the boys passengers on board the Pearl, put me some questions in a very insolent tone; to which I replied, that I considered myself a prisoner, and did not wish to answer any questions; whereupon one of the bystanders, flourishing a dirk in my face, exclaimed, "If I was in his place, I'd put this through you!" At Piney Point, one of the company proposed to hang me up to the yard-arm, and make me confess; but the more influential of those on board were not ready for any such violence, though all were exceedingly anxious to get out of me the history of the expedition, and who my employers were. That I had employers, and persons of note too, was taken for granted on all hands; nor did I think it worth my while to contradict it, though I declined steadily to give any information on that point. Sayres and English very readily told all that they knew. English, especially, was in a great state of alarm, and cried most bitterly. I pitied him much, besides feeling some compunctions at getting him thus into difficulty; and, upon the representations which I made, that he came to Washington in perfect ignorance of the object of the expedition, he was finally untied. As Sayres was obliged to admit that he came to Washington to take away colored passengers, he was not regarded with so much favor. But it was evidently me whom they looked upon as the chief culprit, alone possessing a knowledge of the history and origin of the expedition, which they were so anxious to unravel. They accordingly went to work very artfully to worm this secret out of me. I was placed in charge of one Orme, a police-officer of Georgetown, whose manner towards me was such as to inspire me with a certain confidence in him; who, as it afterwards appeared from his testimony on the trial, carefully took minutes--but, as it proved, very confused and incorrect ones--of all that I said, hoping thus to secure something that might turn out to my disadvantage. Another person, with whom I had a good deal of conversation, and who was afterwards produced as a witness against me, was William H. Craig, in my opinion a much more conscientious person than Orme, who seemed to think that it was part of his duty, as a police-officer, to testify to something, at all hazards, to help on a conviction. But this is a subject to which I shall have occasion to return presently. In one particular, at least, the testimony of both these witnesses was correct enough. They both testified to my expressing pretty serious apprehensions of what the result to myself was likely to be. What the particular provisions were, in the District of Columbia, as to helping slaves to escape, I did not know; but I had heard that, in some of the slave-states, they were very severe; in fact, I was assured by Craig that I had committed the highest crime, next to murder, known in their laws. Under these circumstances, I made up my mind that the least penalty I should be apt to escape with was confinement in the penitentiary for life; and it is quite probable that I endeavored to console myself, as these witnesses testified, with the idea that, after all, it might, in a religious point of view, be all for the best, as I should thus be removed from temptation, and have ample time for reflection and repentance. But my apprehensions were by no means limited to what I might suffer under the forms of law. From the temper exhibited by some of my captors, and from the vindictive fury with which the idea of enabling the enslaved to regain their liberty was, I knew, generally regarded at the south, I apprehended more sudden and summary proceedings; and what happened afterwards at Washington proved that these apprehensions were not wholly unfounded. The idea of being torn in pieces by a furious mob was exceedingly disagreeable. Many men, who might not fear death, might yet not choose to meet it in that shape. I called to mind the apology of the Methodist minister, who, just after a declaration of his that he was not afraid to die, ran away from a furious bull that attacked him,--"that, though not fearing death, he did not like to be torn in pieces by a mad bull." I related this anecdote to Craig, and, as he testified on the trial, expressed my preference to be taken on the deck of the steamer and shot at once, rather than to be given up to a Washington mob to be baited and murdered. I talked pretty freely with Orme and Craig about myself, the circumstances under which I had undertaken this enterprise, my motives to it, my family, my past misfortunes, and the fate that probably awaited me; but they failed to extract from me, what they seemed chiefly to desire, any information which would implicate others. Orme told me, as he afterwards testified, that what the people in the District wanted was the principals; and that, if I would give information that would lead to them, the owners of the slaves would let me go, or sign a petition for my pardon. Craig also made various inquiries tending to the same point. Though I was firmly resolved not to yield in this particular, yet I was desirous to do all I could to soften the feeling against me; and it was doubtless this desire which led me to make the statements sworn to by Orme and Craig, that I had no connection with the persons called abolitionists,--which was true enough; that I had formerly refused large offers made me by slaves to carry them away; and that, in the present instance, I was employed by others, and was to be paid for my services. On arriving off Fort Washington, the steamer anchored for the night, as the captors preferred to make their triumphant entry into the city by daylight. Sayres and myself were watched during the night by a regular guard of two men, armed with muskets, who were relieved from time to time. Before getting under weigh again,--which they did about seven o'clock in the morning of Tuesday, Feb. 18,--Sayres and myself were tied together arm-and-arm, and the black people also, two-and-two, with the other arm bound behind their backs. As we passed Alexandria, we were all ordered on deck, and exhibited to the mob collected on the wharves to get a sight of us, who signified their satisfaction by three cheers. When we landed at the steamboat-wharf in Washington, which is a mile and more from Pennsylvania Avenue, and in a remote part of the city, but few people had yet assembled. We were marched up in a long procession, Sayres and myself being placed at the head of it, guarded by a man on each side; English following next, and then the negroes. As we went along, the mob began to increase; and, as we passed Gannon's slave-pen, that slave-trader, armed with a knife, rushed out, and, with horrid imprecations, made a pass at me, which was very near finding its way through my body. Instead of being arrested, as he ought to have been, this slave-dealer was politely informed that I was in the hands of the law, to which he replied, "D--n the law!--I have three negroes, and I will give them all for one thrust at this d--d scoundrel!" and he followed along, waiting his opportunity to repeat the blow. The crowd, by this time, was greatly increased. We met an immense mob of several thousand persons coming down Four-and-a-half street, with the avowed intention of carrying us up before the capitol, and making an exhibition of us there. The noise and confusion was very great. It seemed as if the time for the lynching had come. When almost up to Pennsylvania Avenue, a rush was made upon us,--"Lynch them! lynch them! the d--n villains!" and other such cries, resounded on all sides. Those who had us in charge were greatly alarmed; and, seeing no other way to keep us from the hands of the mob, they procured a hack, and put Sayres and myself into it. The hack drove to the jail, the mob continuing to follow, repeating their shouts and threats. Several thousand people surrounded the jail, filling up the enclosure about it. Our captors had become satisfied, from the statements made by Sayres and myself, and from his own statements and conduct, that the participation of English in the affair was not of a sort that required any punishment; and when the mob made the rush upon us, the persons having him in charge had let him go, with the intention that he should escape. After a while he had found his way back to the steamboat wharf; but the steamer was gone. Alone in a strange place, and not knowing what to do, he told his story to somebody whom he met, who put him in a hack and sent him up to the jail. It was a pity he lacked the enterprise to take care of himself when set at liberty, as it cost him four months' imprisonment and his friends some money. I ought to have mentioned before that, on arriving within the waters of the District, Sayres and myself had been examined before a justice of the peace, who was one of the captors; and who had acted as their leader. He had made out a commitment against us, but none against English; so that the persons who had him in charge were right enough in letting him go. Sayres and myself were at first put into the same cell, but, towards night, we were separated. A person named Goddard, connected with the police, came to examine us. He went to Sayres first. He then came to me, when I told him that, as I supposed he had got the whole story out of Sayres, and as it was not best that two stories should be told, I would say nothing. Goddard then took from me my money. One of the keepers threw me in two thin blankets, and I was left to sleep as I could. The accommodations were not of the most luxurious kind. The cell had a stone floor, which, with the help of a blanket, was to serve also for a bed. There was neither chair, table, stool, nor any individual piece of furniture of any kind, except a night-bucket and a water-can. I was refused my overcoat and valise, and had nothing but my water-can to make a pillow of. With such a pillow, and the bare stone floor for my bed, looked upon by all whom I saw with apparent abhorrence and terror,--as much so, to all appearance, as if I had been a murderer, or taken in some other desperate crime,--remembering the execrations which the mob had belched forth against me, and uncertain whether a person would be found to express the least sympathy for me (which might not, in the existing state of the public feeling, be safe), it may be imagined that my slumbers were not very sound. Meanwhile the rage of the mob had taken, for the moment, another direction. I had heard it said, while we were coming up in the steamboat, that the abolition press must be stopped; and the mob accordingly, as the night came on, gathered about the office of the _National Era_, with threats to destroy it. Some little mischief was done; but the property-holders in the city, well aware how dependent Washington is upon the liberality of Congress, were unwilling that anything should occur to place the District in bad odor at the north. Some of them, also, it is but justice to believe, could not entirely give in to the slave-holding doctrine and practice of suppressing free discussion by force; and, by their efforts, seconded by a drenching storm of rain, that came on between nine and ten o'clock, the mob were persuaded to disperse for the present. The jail was guarded that night by a strong body of police, serious apprehensions being entertained, lest the mob, instigated by the violence of many southern members of Congress, should break in and lynch us. Great apprehension, also, seemed to be felt at the jail, lest we might be rescued; and we were subject, during the night, to frequent examinations, to see that all was safe. Great was the terror, as well as the rage, which the abolitionists appeared to inspire. They seemed to be thought capable, if not very narrowly watched, of taking us off through the roof, or the stone floor, or out of the iron-barred doors; and, from the half-frightened looks which the keepers gave me from time to time, I could plainly enough read their thoughts,--that a fellow who had ventured on such an enterprise as that of the Pearl was desperate and daring enough to attempt anything. For a poor prisoner like me, so much in the power of his captors, and without the slightest means, hopes, or even thoughts of escape, it was some little satisfaction to observe the awe and terror which he inspired. Of the prison fare I shall have more to say, by and by. It is sufficient to state here that it was about on a par with the sleeping accommodations, and hardly of a sort to give a man in my situation the necessary physical vigor. However, I thought little of this at that moment, as I was too sick and excited to feel much disposition to eat. The Washington prison is a large three-story stone building, the front part of the lower story of which is occupied by the guard-room, or jail-office, and by the kitchen and sleeping apartments for the keepers. The back part, shut off from the front by strong grated doors, has a winding stone stair-case, ascending in the middle, on each side of which, on each of the three stories, are passage-ways, also shut off from the stair-case, by grated iron doors. The back wall of the jail forms one side of these passages, which are lighted by grated windows. On the other side are the cells, also with grated iron doors, and receiving their light and air entirely from the passages. The passages themselves have no ventilation except through the doors and windows, which answer that purpose very imperfectly. The front second story, over the guard-room, contains the cells for the female prisoners. The front third story is the debtors' apartment. The usage of the jail always has been--except in cases of insubordination or attempted escape, when locking up in the cells by day, as well as by night, has been resorted to as a punishment--to allow the prisoners, during the day-time, the use of the passages, for the benefit of light, air and exercise. Indeed, it is hard to conceive a more cruel punishment than to keep a man locked up all the time in one of these half-lighted, unventilated cells. On the morning of the second day of our confinement, we too were let out into the passage. But we were soon put back again, and not only into separate cells, but into separate passages, so as to be entirely cut off from any communication with each other. It was a long time before we were able to regain the privilege of the passage. But, for the present, I shall pass over the internal economy and administration of the prison, and my treatment in it, intending, further on, to give a general sketch of that subject. About nine or ten o'clock, Mr. Giddings, the member of Congress from Ohio, came to see us. There was some disposition, I understood, not to allow him to enter the jail; but Mr. Giddings is a man not easily repulsed, and there is nobody of whom the good people at Washington, especially the office-holders, who make up so large a part of the population, stand so much in awe as a member of Congress; especially a member of Mr. Giddings' well-known fearless determination. He was allowed to come in, bringing another person with him, but was followed into the jail by a crowd of ruffians, who compelled the turnkey to admit them into the passage, and who vented their rage in execration and threats. Mr. Giddings said that he had understood we were here in jail without counsel or friends, and that he had come to let us know that we should not want for either; and he introduced the person he had brought with him as one who was willing to act temporarily as our counsel. Not long after, Mr. David A. Hall, a lawyer of the District, came to offer his services to us in the same way. Key, the United States Attorney for the District, and who, as such, had charge of the proceedings against us, was there at the same time. He advised Mr. Hall to leave the jail and go home immediately, as the people outside were furious, and he ran the risk of his life. To which Mr. Hall replied that things had come to a pretty pass, if a man's counsel was not to have the privilege of talking with him. "Poor devils!" said the District Attorney, as he went out, "I pity them,--they are to be made scape-goats for others!" Yet the rancor, and virulence, and fierce pertinacity with which this Key afterwards pursued me, did not look much like pity. No doubt he was a good deal irritated at his ill success in getting any information out of me. The seventy-six passengers found on board the Pearl had been committed to the jail as runaways, and Mr. Giddings, on going up to the House, by way of warning, I suppose, to the slave-holders, that they were not to be allowed to have everything their own way, moved an inquiry into the circumstances under which seventy-six persons were held prisoners in the District jail, merely for attempting to vindicate their inalienable rights. Mr. Hale also, in the Senate, in consequence of the threats held out to destroy the _Era_ office, and to put a stop to the publication of that paper, moved a resolution of inquiry into the necessity of additional laws for the protection of property in the District. The fury which these movements excited in the minds of the slave-holders found expression in the editorial columns of the Washington _Union_, in an article which I have inserted below, as forming a curious contrast to the exultations of that print, only a week before, and to which I have had occasion already to refer, over the spread of the principles of liberty and universal emancipation. The violent attack upon Mr. Giddings, because he had visited us three poor prisoners in jail, and offered us the assistance of counsel,--as if the vilest criminals were not entitled to have counsel to defend them,--is well worthy of notice. The following is the article referred to. THE ABOLITION INCENDIARIES. Those two abolition incendiaries (Giddings and Hale) threw firebrands yesterday into the two houses of Congress. The western abolitionist moved a resolution of inquiry into the transactions now passing in Washington, which brought on a fierce and fiery debate on the part of the southern members, in the course of which Mr. Giddings _was compelled to confess_, on the cross-questioning of Messrs. Venable and Haskell, _that he had visited the three piratical kidnappers now confined in jail, and offered them counsel_. The reply of Mr. Toombs, of Georgia, was scorching to an intense degree. The abolitionist John P. Hale threw a firebrand resolution into the Senate, calling for additional laws to compel this city to prevent riots. This also gave rise to a long and excited debate. No question was taken, in either house, before they adjourned. But, in the progress of the discussion in both houses, some doctrines were uttered which are calculated to startle the friends of the Union. Giddings justified the kidnappers, and contended that, though the act was legally forbidden, it was not morally wrong! Mr. Toombs brought home the practical consequences of this doctrine to the member from Ohio in a most impressive manner. Hale, of the Senate, whilst he was willing to protect the abolitionist, expressed himself willing to relax the laws and weaken the protection which is given to the slave property in this district! Mr. Davis, of Massachusetts, held the strange doctrine, that while he would not disturb the rights of the slave-holders, he would not cease to discuss those rights! As if Congress ought to discuss, or to protect a right to discuss, a domestic institution of the Southern States, with which they had no right to interfere! Why discuss, when they cannot act? Why first lay down an abstract principle, which they intend to violate in practice? Such fanatics as Giddings and Hale are doing more mischief than they will be able to atone for. Their incessant and impertinent intermeddling with the most delicate question in our social relations is creating the most indignant feelings in the community. The fiery discussions they are exciting are calculated to provoke the very riots which they deprecate. Let these madmen forbear, if they value the tranquillity of our country, and the stability of our Union. We conjure them to forbear their maddened, parricidal hand. An article like this in the _Union_ was well calculated, and probably was intended, to encourage and stimulate the rioters, and accordingly they assembled that same evening in greater force than before threatening the destruction of the _Era_ office. The publication office of the _Era_ was not far from the Patent Office; and the dwelling-house of Dr. Bailey, the editor, was at no great distance. The mob, taking upon themselves the character of a meeting of citizens, appointed a committee to wait upon Dr. Bailey, to require him to remove his press out of the District of Columbia. Of course, as I was locked up in the jail, trying to rest my aching head and weary limbs, with a stone floor for a bed and a water-can for my pillow, I can have no personal knowledge of what transpired on this occasion. But a correspondent of the New York _Tribune_, who probably was an eye-witness, gives the following account of the interview between the committee and Dr. Bailey: Clearing his throat, the leader of the committee stretched forth his hand, and thus addressed Dr. Bailey: _Mr. Radcliff_.--Sir, we have been appointed as a committee to wait upon you, by the meeting of the citizens of Washington which has assembled this evening to take into consideration the circumstances connected with the late outrage upon _our_ property, and to convey to you the result of the deliberations of that meeting. You are aware of the excitement which now prevails. It has assumed a most threatening aspect. This community is satisfied that the existence of your press among us is endangering the public peace, and they are convinced that the public interests demand its removal. We have therefore waited upon you for the purpose of inquiring whether you are prepared to remove your press by ten o'clock to-morrow morning; and we beseech you, as you value the peace of this District, to accede to our request. [Loud shouting heard at the Patent Office.] _Dr. Bailey_.--Gentlemen: I do not believe you are actuated by any unkind feelings towards me personally; but you must be aware that you are demanding of me the surrender of a great constitutional right,--a right which I have used, but not abused,--in the preservation of which you are as deeply interested as I am. How can you ask me to abandon it, and thus become a party to my own degradation? _Mr. Radcliff_.--We subscribe to all that you say. But you see the popular excitement. The consequences of your refusal are inevitable. Now, if you can avert these consequences by submitting to what the people request, although unreasonable, is it not your duty, as a good citizen, to submit? It is on account of the community we come here, obeying the popular feeling which you hear expressed in the distance, and which cannot be calmed, and, but for the course we have adopted, would at this moment be manifested in the destruction of your office. But they have consented to wait till they hear our report. We trust, then, that, as a good citizen, you will respond favorably to the wish of the people. _Another of the Committee_.--As one of the oldest citizens, I do assure you that it is in all kindness we make this request. We come here to tell you that we cannot arrest violence in any other way than by your allowing us to say that you yield to the request of the people. In kindness we tell you that if this thing commences here we know not where it may end. I am for mild measures myself. The prisoners were in my hands, but I would not allow my men to inflict any punishment on them. _Dr. Bailey_.--Gentlemen, I appreciate your kindness; but I ask, is there a man among you who, standing as I now stand, the representative of a free press, would accede to this demand, and abandon his rights as an American citizen? _One of the Committee_.--We know it is a great sacrifice that we ask of you; but we ask it to appease popular excitement. _Dr. Bailey_.--Let me say to you that I am a peace-man. I have taken no measures to defend my office, my house or myself. I appeal to the good sense and intelligence of the community, and stand upon my rights as an American citizen, looking to the law alone for protection. _Mr. Radcliff_.--We have now discharged our duty. It has come to this,--the people say it must be done, unless you agree to go to-morrow. We now ask a categorical answer,--Will you remove your press? _Dr. Bailey_.--I answer: I make no resistance, and I cannot assent to your demand. The press is there--it is undefended--you can do as you think proper. _One of the Committee_.--All rests with you. We tell you what will follow your refusal, and, if you persist, all the responsibility must fall upon your shoulders. It is in your power to arrest the arm that is raised to give the blow. If you refuse to do so by a single expression, though it might cost you much, on you be all the consequences. _Dr. Bailey_.--You demand the sacrifice of a great right. You-- _One of the Committee (interrupting him_).--I know it is a hardship; but look at the consequences of your refusal. We do not come here to express our individual opinions. I would myself leave the District to-morrow, if in your place. We now ask of you, Shall this be done? We beg you will consider this matter in the light in which we view it. _Dr. Bailey_.--I am one man against many. But I cannot sacrifice any right that I possess. Those who have sent you here may do as they think proper. _One of the Committee_.--The whole community is against you. They say here is an evil that threatens them, and they ask you to remove that evil. You say "No!" and of course on your head be all the consequences. _Dr. Bailey_.--Let me remind you that we have been recently engaged in public rejoicings. For what have we rejoiced? Because the people in another land have arisen and triumphed over the despot, who had done--what? He did not demolish presses, but he imprisoned editors. In other words, he enslaved the press. Will you then present to America and the world-- _One of the Committee (interrupting him_).--If we could stop this movement, of the people, we would do it. But you make us unable to do so. We cannot tell how far it will go. After your press is pulled down, we do not know where they will go next. It is your duty, in such a case, to sacrifice your constitutional rights. _Dr. Bailey_.--I presume, when they shall have accomplished their object-- _Mr. Radcliff (interrupting)._--We advise you to be out of the way! The people think that your press endangers their property and their lives; and they have appointed us to tell you so, and ask you to remove it to-morrow. If you say that you will do so, they will retire satisfied. If you refuse, they say they will tear it down. Here is Mr. Boyle, a gentleman of property, and one of our oldest residents. You see that we are united. If you hold out and occupy your position, the men, women and children of the District will universally rise up against you. _Dr. Bailey (addressing himself to his father, a venerable man of more than eighty years of age, who approached the doorway and commenced remonstrating with the committee)_.--You do not understand the matter, father; these gentlemen are a committee appointed by a meeting assembled in front of the Patent Office. You need not address remonstrances to them. Gentlemen, you appreciate my position. I cannot surrender my rights. Were I to die for it, I cannot surrender my rights! Tell those who sent you hither that my press and my house are undefended--they must do as they see proper. I maintain my rights, and make no resistance! The committee then retired, and Dr. Bailey reëntered his dwelling. Meanwhile, the shouts of the mob, as they received the reports of the committee, were reëchoed along the streets. A fierce yell greeted the reäppearance of Radcliff in front of the Patent Office. He announced the result of the interview with the editor of the _Era_. Shouts, imprecations, blasphemy, burst from the crowd. "Down with the _Era_!" "Now for it!" "Gut the office!" were the exclamations heard on all sides, and the mob rushed tumultuously to Seventh-street. But a body of the city police had been stationed to guard the building, and the mob finally contented themselves with passing a resolution to pull it down the next day at ten o'clock, if the press was not meanwhile removed. That same afternoon, we three prisoners had been taken before three justices, who held a court within the jail for our examination. Mr. Hall appeared as our counsel. The examination was continued till the next day, when we were, all three of us, recommitted to jail, on a charge of stealing slaves, our bail being fixed at a thousand dollars for each slave, or seventy-six thousand dollars for each of us. Meanwhile, both houses of Congress became the scenes of very warm debates, growing out of circumstances connected with our case. In the Senate, Mr. Hale, agreeably to the notice he had given, asked leave to introduce a bill for the protection of property in the District of Columbia against the violence of mobs. This bill, as was stated in the debate, was copied, almost word for word, from a law in force in the State of Maryland (and many other states have--and all ought to have--a similar law), making the cities and towns liable for any property which might be destroyed in them by mob violence. In the House the subject came up on a question of privilege, raised by Mr. Palfrey, of Massachusetts, who offered a resolution for the appointment of a select committee to inquire into the currently-reported facts that a lawless mob had assembled during the two previous nights, setting at defiance the constituted authorities of the United States, and menacing members of Congress and other persons. In both those bodies the debate was very warm, as any one interested in it will find, by reading it in the columns of the _Congressional Globe_. It was upon this occasion, during the debate in the Senate, that Mr. Foote, then a senator from Mississippi, and now governor of that state, whose speech on the French revolution has been already quoted, threatened to join in lynching Mr. Hale, if he ever set foot in Mississippi, whither he invited him to come for that purpose. This part of the debate was so peculiar and so characteristic, showing so well the spirit with which the District of Columbia was then blazing against me, that I cannot help giving the following extract from Mr. Foote's speech, as contained in the official report: "All must see that the course of the senator from New Hampshire is calculated to embroil the confederacy--to put in peril our free institutions--to jeopardize that Union which our forefathers established, and which every pure patriot throughout the country desires shall be perpetuated. Can any man be a patriot who pursues such a course? Is he an enlightened friend of freedom, or even a judicious friend of those with whom he affects to sympathize, who adopts such a course? Who does not know that such men are, practically, the worst enemies of the slaves? I do not beseech the gentleman to stop; but, if he perseveres, he will awaken indignation everywhere, and it cannot be that enlightened men, who conscientiously belong to the faction at the north of which he is understood to be the head, can sanction or approve everything that he may do, under the influence of excitement, in this body. I will close by saying that, if he really wishes glory, and to be regarded as the great liberator of the blacks,--if he wishes to be particularly distinguished in this cause of emancipation, as it is called,--let him, instead of remaining here in the Senate of the United States, or instead of secreting himself in some dark corner of New Hampshire, where he may possibly escape the just indignation of good men throughout this republic,--let him visit the good State of Mississippi, in which I have the honor to reside, and no doubt he will be received with such shouts of joy as have rarely marked the reception of any individual in this day and generation. I invite him there, and will tell him, beforehand, in all honesty, that he could not go ten miles into the interior before he would grace one of the tallest trees in the forest, with a rope around his neck, with the approbation of every virtuous and patriotic citizen; and that, if necessary, I should myself assist in the operation!" Mr. Hale's reply was equally characteristic: "The honorable Senator invites me to visit the State of Mississippi, and kindly informs me that he would be one of those who would act the assassin, and put an end to my career. He would aid in bringing me to public execution,--no, death by a mob! Well, in return for his hospitable invitation, I can only express the desire that he would penetrate into some of the dark corners of New Hampshire; and, if he do, I am much mistaken if he would not find that the people in that benighted region would be very happy to listen to his arguments, and engage in an intellectual conflict with him, in which the truth might be elicited. I think, however, that the announcement which the honorable Senator has made on this floor of the fate which awaits so humble an individual as myself in the State of Mississippi must convince every one of the propriety of the high eulogium which he pronounced upon her, the other day, when he spoke of the high position which she occupied among the states of this confederacy.--But enough of this personal matter."[A] [Footnote A: The following paragraph, which has recently been going the rounds of the newspapers, will serve to show the sort of manners which prevail in the state so fitly represented by Mr. Foote, and how these southern ruffians experience in their own families the natural effect of the blood-thirsty sentiments which they so freely avow: "THE DEATH OF MR. CARNEAL.--The Vicksburg _Sentinel_, of the 13th ult., gives the following account of the shooting of Mr. Thomas Carneal, son-in-law of Governor Foote: "We have abstained thus long from giving any notice of the sad affair which resulted in the death of Mr. Thomas Carneal, the son-in-law of the governor of our state, that we might get the particulars. It seems that the steamer E.C. Watkins, with Mr. Carneal as a passenger, landed at or near the plantation of Judge James, in Washington county. Mr. Carneal had heard that the judge was an extremely brutal man to his slaves, and was likewise excited with liquor; and, upon the judge inviting him and others to take a drink with him, Carneal replied that he would not drink with a man who abused his negroes; this the judge resented as an insult, and high words ensued. "The company took their drink, however, all but Mr. Carneal, who went out upon the bow of the boat, and took a seat, where he was sought by Judge James, who desired satisfaction for the insult. Carneal refused to make any, and asked the old gentleman if any of his sons would resent the insult if he was to slap him in the mouth; to which the judge replied that he would do it himself, if his sons would not; whereupon Mr. Carneal struck him in the month with the back of his hand. The judge resented it by striking him across the head with a cane, which stunned Mr. Carneal very much, causing the blood to run freely from the wound. As soon as Carneal recovered from the wound, he drew a bowie-knife, and attacked the judge with it, inflicting several wounds upon his person, some of which were thought to be mortal. "Some gentlemen, in endeavoring to separate the combatants, were wounded by Carneal. When Judge James arrived at his house, bleeding, and in a dying state, as was thought, his son seized a double-barrelled gun, loaded it heavily with large shot, galloped to where the boat was, hitched his horse, and deliberately raised his gun to shoot Carneal, who was sitting upon a cotton-bale. Mr. James was warned not to fire, as Carneal was unarmed, and he might kill some innocent person. He took his gun from his shoulder, raised it again, and fired both barrels in succession, killing Carneal instantly. "It is a sad affair, and Carneal leaves, besides numerous friends, a most interesting and accomplished widow, to bewail his tragical end."] Such was the savage character of the debate, that even Mr. Calhoun, who was not generally discourteous, finding himself rather hard pressed by some of Mr. Hale's arguments, excused himself from an answer, on the ground that Mr. Hale was a maniac! The slave-holders set upon Mr. Hale with all their force; but, though they succeeded in voting down his bill, it was generally agreed, and anybody may see by the report, that he had altogether the best of the argument. Mr. Palfrey's resolution was also lost; but the boldness with which Giddings and others avowed their opinions, and the freedom of speech which they used on the subject of slavery, afforded abundant proof that the gagging system which had prevailed so long in Congress had come at last to an end. These movements, though the propositions of Messrs. Hale and Palfrey were voted down, were not without their effect. The Common Council of Washington appointed an acting mayor, in place of the regular mayor, who was sick. President Polk sent an intimation to the clerks of the departments, some of whom had been active in the mobs, that they had better mind their own business and stay at home. Something was said about marines from the Navy-Yard; and from that time the riotous spirit began to subside. Meanwhile, the unfortunate people who had attempted to escape in the Pearl had to pay the penalty of their love of freedom. A large number of them, as they were taken out of jail by the persons who claimed to be their owners, were handed over to the slave-traders. The following account of the departure of a portion of these victims for the southern market was given in a letter which appeared at the time in several northern newspapers: "_Washington, April_ 22, 1848. "Last evening, as I was passing the railroad dépôt, I saw a large number of colored people gathered round one of the cars, and, from manifestations of grief among some of them, I was induced to draw near and ascertain the cause of it. I found in the car towards which they were so eagerly gazing about fifty colored people, some of whom were nearly as white as myself. A majority of them were of the number who attempted to gain their liberty last week. About half of them were females, a few of whom had but a slight tinge of African blood in their veins, and were finely formed and beautiful. The men were ironed together, and the whole group looked sad and dejected. At each end of the car stood two ruffianly-looking personages, with large canes in their hands, and, if their countenances were an index of their hearts, they were the very impersonation of hardened villany itself. "In the middle of the car stood the notorious slave-dealer of Baltimore, Slatter, who, I learn, is a member of the Methodist church, 'in good and regular standing.' He had purchased the men and women around him, and was taking his departure for Georgia. While observing this old, gray-headed villain,--this dealer in the bodies and souls of men,--the chaplain of the Senate entered the car,--a Methodist brother,--and took his brother Slatter by the hand, chatted with him for some time, and seemed to view the heart-rending scene before him with as little concern as we should look upon cattle. I know not whether he came with a view to sanctify the act, and pronounce a parting blessing; but this I do know, that he justifies slavery, and denounces anti-slavery efforts as bitterly as do the most hardened slave-dealers. "A Presbyterian minister, who owned one of the fugitives, was the first to strike a bargain with Slatter, and make merchandise of God's image; and many of these poor victims, thus manacled and destined for the southern market, are regular members of the African Methodist church of this city. I did not hear whether they were permitted to get letters of dismission from the church, and of 'recommendation to any church where God, in his providence, might cast their lot.' Probably a certificate from Slatter to the effect that they are Christians will answer every purpose. No doubt he will demand a good price for slaves of this character. Perhaps brother Slicer furnished him with testimonials of their religious character, to help their sale in Georgia. I understand that he was accustomed to preach to them here, and especially to urge upon them obedience to their masters. "Some of the colored people outside, as well as in the car, were weeping most bitterly. I learned that many families were separated. Wives were there to take leave of their husbands, and husbands of their wives, children of their parents, brothers and sisters shaking hands perhaps for the last time, friends parting with friends, and the tenderest ties of humanity sundered at the single bid of the inhuman slave-broker before them. A husband, in the meridian of life, begged to see the partner of his bosom. He protested that she was free--that she had free papers, and was torn from him, and shut up in the jail. He clambered up to one of the windows of the car to see his wife, and, as she was reaching forward her hand to him, the black-hearted villain, Slatter, ordered him down. He did not obey. The husband and wife, with tears streaming down their cheeks, besought him to let them converse for a moment. But no! a monster more hideous, hardened and savage, than the blackest spirit of the pit, knocked him down from the car, and ordered him away. The bystanders could hardly restrain themselves from laying violent hands upon the brutes. This is but a faint description of that scene, which took place within a few rods of the capitol, under _enactments_ recognized by Congress. O! what a revolting scene to a feeling heart, and what a retribution awaits the actors! Will not these wailings of anguish reach the ears of the Most High? 'Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.'" Of those sent off at this time, several, through the generosity of charitable persons at the north, were subsequently redeemed, among whom were the Edmundson girls, of whom an account is given in the "Key to Uncle Tom's Cabin." From one of the women, who was not sold, but retained at Washington, I received a mark of kindness and remembrance for which I felt very grateful. She obtained admission to the jail, the Sunday after our committal, to see some of her late fellow-passengers still confined there; and, as she passed the passage in which I was confined, she called to me and handed a Bible through the gratings. I am happy to be able to add that she has since, upon a second trial, succeeded in effecting her escape, and that she is now a free woman. The great excitement which our attempt at emancipation had produced at Washington, and the rage and fury exhibited against us, had the effect to draw attention to our case, and to secure us sympathy and assistance on the part of persons wholly unknown to us. A public meeting was held in Faneuil Hall, in Boston, on the 25th of April, at which a committee was appointed, consisting of Samuel May, Samuel G. Howe, Samuel E. Sewell, Richard Hildreth, Robert Morris, Jr., Francis Jackson, Elizur Wright, Joseph Southwick, Walter Channing, J.W. Browne, Henry I. Bowditch, William F. Channing, Joshua P. Blanchard and Charles List, authorized to employ counsel and to collect money for the purpose of securing to us a fair trial, of which, without some interference from abroad, the existing state of public feeling in the District of Columbia seemed to afford little prospect. A correspondence was opened by this committee with the Hon. Horace Mann, then a representative in Congress from the State of Massachusetts, with ex-Governor Seward, of New York, with Salmon P. Chase, Esq., of Ohio, and with Gen. Fessenden, of Maine, all of whom volunteered their gratuitous services, should they be needed. A moderate subscription was promptly obtained, the larger part of it, as I am informed, through the liberality of Gerrit Smith, now a representative in Congress from New York, whose large pecuniary contributions to all philanthropic objects, as well as his zealous efforts in the same direction both with the tongue and the pen, have made him so conspicuous. He has, indeed, a unique way of spending his large fortune, without precedent, at least in this country, and not likely to find many imitators. The committee, being thus put in funds, deputed Mr. Hildreth, one of the members of it, to proceed to Washington to make the necessary arrangements. He arrived there toward the end of the month of May, by which time the public excitement against us, or at least the exterior signs of it, had a good deal subsided. But we were still treated with much rigor, being kept locked up in our cells, denied the use of the passage, and not allowed to see anybody, except when once in a while Mr. Giddings or Mr. Hall found an access to us; but even then we were not allowed to hold any conversation, except in the presence of the jailer. It may well be imagined that the news of my capture and imprisonment, and of the danger in which I seemed to be, had thrown my family into great distress. I also had suffered exceedingly on their account, several of the children being yet too young to shift for themselves. But I was presently relieved, by the information which I received before long, that during my imprisonment my family would be provided for. Warm remonstrances had been made to the judge of the criminal court by Mr. Hall against the attempt to exclude us from communication with our friends,--a liberty freely granted to all other prisoners. The judge declined to interfere; but Mr. Mann, having agreed to act as our counsel, was thenceforth freely admitted to interviews with us, without the presence of any keeper. Books and newspapers were furnished me by friends out of doors. I presently obtained a mattress, and the liberty of providing myself with better food than the jail allows. I continued to suffer a good deal of annoyance from the capricious insolence and tyranny of the marshal, Robert Wallace; but I intend to go more at length into the details of my prison experience after having first disposed of the legal proceedings against us. The feeling against me was no doubt greatly increased by the failure of the efforts repeatedly made to induce me to give up the names of those who had coöperated with me, and to turn states-evidence against them. There was a certain Mr. Taylor, from Boston, I believe, then in Washington, the inventor of a submarine armor for diving purposes. I had formerly been well acquainted with him, and, at a time when no friend of mine was allowed access to me, he made me repeated visits at the jail, at the request, as he said, of the District Attorney, to induce me to make a full disclosure, in which case it was intimated I should be let off very easy. As Mr. Taylor did not prevail with me, one of the jailers afterwards assured me that he was authorized to promise me a thousand dollars in case I would become a witness against those concerned with me. As I turned a deaf ear to all these propositions, the resolution seemed to be taken to make me and Sayres, and even English, suffer in a way to be a warning to all similar offenders. The laws under which we were to be tried were those of the State of Maryland as they stood previous to the year 1800. These laws had been temporarily continued in force over that part of the District ceded by Maryland (the whole of the present District) at the time that the jurisdiction of the United Spates commenced; and questions of more general interest, and the embarrassment growing out of the existence of slavery, having defeated all attempts at a revised code, these same old laws of Maryland still remain in force, though modified, in some respects, by acts of Congress. In an act of Maryland, passed in the year 1796, and in force in the District, there was a section which seemed to have been intended for precisely such cases as ours. It provided "That any person or persons who shall hereafter be convicted of giving a pass to any slave, or person held to service, or shall be found to assist, by advice, donation or loan, or otherwise, the transporting of any slave or any person held to service, from this state, or by any other unlawful means depriving a master or owner of the service of his slave or person held to service, for every such offence the party aggrieved shall recover damages in an action on the case, against such offender or offenders, and such offender or offenders shall also be liable, upon indictment, and conviction upon verdict, confession or otherwise, in this state, in any county court where such offence shall happen, to be fined a sum not exceeding two hundred dollars, at the discretion of the court, one-half to the use of the master or owner of such slave, the other half to the county school, if there be any; if there be no such school, to the use of the county." Accordingly, the grand jury, under the instructions of the District Attorney, found seventy-four indictments against each of us prisoners, based on this act, one for each of the slaves found on board the vessel, two excepted, who were runaways from Virginia, and the names of their masters not known. As it would have been possible to have fined us about, fifteen thousand dollars apiece upon these indictments, besides costs, and as, by the laws of the District, there is no method of discharging prisoners from jail who are unable to pay a fine, except by an executive pardon, one would have thought that this might have satisfied. But the idea that we should escape with a fine, though we might be kept in prison for life from inability to pay it, was very unsatisfactory. It was desired to make us out guilty of a penitentiary offence at the least; and for that purpose recourse was had to an old, forgotten act of Maryland, passed in the year 1737, the fourth section of which provided "That any person or persons who, after the said tenth day of September [1737], shall steal any ship, sloop, or other vessel whatsoever, out of any place within the body of any county within this province, of seventeen feet or upwards by the keel, and shall carry the same ten miles or upwards from the place whence it shall be stolen, _or who shall steal any negro or other slave_, or who shall counsel, hire, aid, abet, or command any person or persons to commit the said offences, or who shall be accessories to the said offences, and shall be thereof legally convicted as aforesaid, or outlawed, or who shall obstinately or of malice stand mute, or peremptorily challenge above twenty, shall suffer death as a felon, or felons, and be excluded the benefit of the clergy." They would have been delighted, no doubt, to hang us under this act; but that they could not do, as Congress, by an act passed in 1831, having changed the punishment of death, inflicted by the old Maryland statutes (except in certain cases specially provided for), into confinement in the penitentiary for not less than twenty years. To make sure of us at all events, not less than forty-one separate indictments (that being the number of the pretended owners) were found against each of us for stealing slaves. Our counsel afterwards made some complaint of this great number of indictments, when two against each of us, including all the separate charges in different counts, would have answered as well. It was even suggested that the fact that a fee of ten dollars was chargeable upon each indictment toward the five-thousand-dollar salary of the District Attorney might have something to do with this large number. But the District Attorney denied very strenuously being influenced by any such motive, maintaining, in the face of authorities produced against him, that this great number was necessary. He thought it safest, I suppose, instead of a single jury on each charge against each of us, to have the chance of a much greater number, and the advantage, besides, of repeated opportunities of correcting such blunders, mistakes and neglects, as the prisoner's counsel might point out. On the 6th of July, I was arraigned in the criminal court, Judge Crawford presiding, on one of the larceny indictments, to which I pleaded not guilty; whereupon my counsel, Messrs. Hall and Mann, moved the court for a continuance till the next term, alleging the prevailing public excitement, and the want of time to prepare the defence and to procure additional counsel. But the judge could only be persuaded, and that with difficulty, to delay the trial for eighteen days. When this unexpected information was communicated to the committee at Boston, a correspondence was opened by telegraph with Messrs. Seward, Chase and Fessenden. But Governor Seward had a legal engagement at Baltimore on the very day appointed for the commencement of the trial, and the other two gentlemen had indispensable engagements in the courts of Ohio and Maine. Under these circumstances, as Mr. Hall was not willing to take the responsibility of acting as counsel in the case, and as it seemed necessary to have some one familiar with the local practice, the Boston committee retained the services of J.M. Carlisle, Esq., of the Washington bar, and Mr. Hildreth again proceeded to Washington to give his assistance. Just as the trial was about to commence, Mr. Carlisle being taken sick, the judge was, with great difficulty, prevailed upon to grant a further delay of three days. This delay was very warmly opposed, not only by the District Attorney, but by the same Mr. Radcliff whom we have seen figuring as chairman of the mob-committee to wait on Dr. Bailey, and who had been retained, at an expense of two hundred dollars, by the friends of English, as counsel for him, they thinking it safest not to have his defence mixed up in any way with that of myself and Sayres. Before the three days were out, Governor Seward, having finished his business in Baltimore, hastened to Washington; but, as the rules of the court did not allow more than two counsel to speak on one side, the other counsel being also fully prepared, it was judged best to proceed as had been arranged. The trials accordingly commenced on Thursday, the 27th of July, upon an indictment against me for stealing two slaves, the property of one Andrew Houver. The District Attorney, in opening his case, which he did in a very dogmatic, overbearing and violent manner, declared that this was no common affair. The rights of property were violated by every larceny, but this case was peculiar and enormous. Other kinds of property were protected by their want of intelligence; but the intelligence of this kind of property greatly diminished the security of its possession. The jury therefore were to give such a construction to the laws and the facts as to subject violators of it to the most serious consequences. The facts which seemed to be relied upon by the District Attorney as establishing the alleged larceny were--that I had come to Washington, and staid from Monday to Saturday, without any ostensible business, when I had sailed away with seventy-six slaves on board, concealed under the hatches, and the hatches battened down; and that when pursued and overtaken the slaves were found on board with provisions enough for a month. It is true that Houver swore that the hatches were battened down when the Pearl was overtaken by the steamer; but in this he was contradicted by every other government witness. This Houver was, according to some of the other witnesses, in a considerable state of excitement, and at the time of the capture he addressed some violent language to me, as already related. He had sold his two boys, after their recapture, to the slave-traders; but had been obliged to buy them back again, at a loss of one hundred dollars, by the remonstrances of his wife, who did not like to part with them, as they had been raised in the family. Perhaps this circumstance made him the more inveterate against me. As to the schooner being provisioned for a month, the bill of the provisions on board, purchased in Washington, was produced on the trial, and they were found to amount to three bushels of meal, two hundred and six pounds of pork, and fifteen gallons of molasses, which, with a barrel of bread, purchased in Alexandria, would make rather a short month's supply for seventy-nine persons! It was also proved, by the government witnesses, that the Pearl was a mere bay-craft, not fit to go to sea; which did not agree very well with the idea held out by the District Attorney, that I intended to run these negroes off to the West Indies, and to sell them there. But, to make up for these deficiencies, Williams, who acted as the leader of the steamer expedition, swore that I had said, while on board, that if I had got off with the negroes I should have made an independent fortune; but on the next trial he could not say whether it was I who told him so, or whether somebody else told him that I had said so. Orme and Craig, with whom I principally conversed, and who went into long details, recollected nothing of the sort; and it is very certain that, as there was no foundation for it, and no motive for such a statement on my part, I never made it. Williams, perhaps, had heard somebody guess that, if I had got off, I had slaves enough to make me independent; and that guess of somebody else he perhaps remembered, or seemed to remember, as something said by me, or reported to have been said by me; and such often, in cases producing great public excitement, is the sort of evidence upon which men's lives or liberty is sworn away. The idea, however, of an intention to run the negroes off for sale, seemed principally to rest on the testimony of a certain Captain Baker, who had navigated the steamer by which we were captured at the mouth of the Potomac, and who saw, as he was crossing over to Coan river for wood, a long, black, suspicious-looking brig, with her sails loose, lying at anchor under Point Lookout, about three miles from our vessel. This was proved, by other witnesses, to be a very common place of anchorage; in fact, that it was common for vessels waiting for the wind, or otherwise, to anchor anywhere along the shores of the bay. But Captain Baker thought otherwise; and he and the District Attorney wished the jury to infer that this brig seen by him under Point Lookout was a piratical craft, lying ready to receive the negroes on board, and to carry them off to Cuba! Besides Houver, Williams, Orme, Craig and Baker, another witness was called to testify as to the sale of the wood, and my having been in Washington the previous summer. Many questions as to evidence arose, and the examination of these witnesses consumed about two days and a half. In opening the defence, Mr. Mann commenced with some remarks on the peculiarity of his position, growing out of the unexpected urgency with which the case had been pushed to a trial, and the public excitement which had been produced by it. He also alluded to the hardship of finding against me such a multiplicity of indictments,--for what individual, however innocent, could stand up against such an accumulated series of prosecutions, backed by all the force of the nation? Some observations on the costs thus unnecessarily accumulated, and, in particular, on the District Attorney's ten-dollar fees, produced a great excitement, and loud denials on the part of that officer. Mr. Mann then proceeded to remark that, in all criminal trials which he had ever before attended or heard of, the prosecuting officer had stated and produced to the jury, in his opening, the law alleged to be violated. As the District Attorney had done nothing of that sort, he must endeavor to do it for him. Mr. Mann then proceeded to call the attention of the jury to the two laws already quoted, upon which the two sets of indictments were founded. Of both these acts charged against me--the stealing of Houver's slaves, and the helping them to escape from their master--I could not be guilty. The real question in this case was, Which had I done? To make the act stealing, there must have been--so Mr. Mann maintained--a taking _lucri causa_, as the lawyers say; that is, a design on my part to appropriate these slaves to my own use, as my own property. If the object was merely to help them to escape to a free state, then the case plainly came under the other statute. In going on to show how likely it was that the persons on board the Pearl might have desired and sought to escape, independently of any solicitations or suggestions on my part, Mr. Mann alluded to the meeting in honor of the French revolution, already mentioned, held the very night of the arrival of the Pearl at Washington. As he was proceeding to read certain extracts from the speech of Senator Foote on that occasion, already quoted, and well calculated, as he suggested, to put ideas of freedom and emancipation into the heads of the slaves, he was suddenly interrupted by the judge, when the following curious dialogue occurred: "_Judge Crawford_.--A certain latitude is to be allowed to counsel in this case; but I cannot permit any harangue against slavery to be delivered here. "_Carlisle (rising suddenly and stepping forward_).--I am sure your honor must be laboring under some strange misapprehension. Born and bred and expecting to live and die in a slave-holding community, and entertaining no ideas different from those, which commonly prevail here, I have watched the course of my associate's argument with the closest attention. The point he is making, I am sure, is most pertinent to the case,--a point it would be cowardice in the prisoner's counsel not to make; and I must beg your honor to deliberate well before you undertake to stop the mouths of counsel, and to take care that you have full constitutional warrant for doing so. "_Judge Crawford_.--I can't permit an harangue against slavery." Mr. Mann proceeded to explain the point at which he was aiming. He had read these extracts from Mr. Foote's speech, delivered to a miscellaneous collection of blacks and whites, bond and free, assembled before the _Union_ office, as showing to what exciting influences the slaves of the District were exposed, independently of any particular pains taken by anybody to make them discontented; and, with the same object in view, he proposed to read some further extracts from other speeches delivered on the same occasion. "_District Attorney_.--If this matter is put in as evidence, it must first be proved that such speeches were delivered. "_Mann_.--If the authenticity of the speeches is denied, I will call the Honorable Mr. Foote to prove it. "_District Attorney_.--What newspaper is that from which the counsel reads? "_Mann_ (_holding it up_).--The Washington _Union_, of April 19th." And, without further objection, he proceeded to read some further extracts. He concluded by urging upon the jury that this case was to be viewed merely as an attempt of certain slaves to escape from their masters, and on my part an attempt to assist them in so doing; and therefore a case under the statute of 1796, punishable with fine; and not a larceny, as charged against me in this indictment. Several witnesses were called who had known me in Philadelphia, to testify as to my good character. The District Attorney was very anxious to get out of these witnesses whether they had never heard me spoken of as a man likely to run away with slaves? And it did come out from one of them that, from the tenor of my conversation, it used sometimes to be talked over, that one day or other it "would heave up" that I had helped off some negro to a free state. But these conversations, the witness added, were generally in a jesting tone; and another witness stated that the charge of running off slaves was a common joke among the watermen. According to the practice in the Maryland criminal courts,--and the same practice prevails in the District of Columbia,--the judge does not address the jury at all. After the evidence is all in, the counsel, before arguing the case, may call upon the judge to give to the jury instructions as to the law. These instructions, which are offered in writing, and argued by the counsel, the judge can give or refuse, as he sees fit, or can alter them to suit himself; but any such refusal or alteration furnishes ground for a bill of exceptions, on which the case, if a verdict is given against the prisoner, may be carried by writ of error before the Circuit Court of the District, for their revisal. My counsel asked of the judge no less than fourteen instructions on different points of law, ten of which the judge refused to give, and modified to suit himself. Several of these related to the true definition of theft, or what it was that makes a taking larceny. It was contended by my counsel, and they asked the judge to instruct the jury, that, to convict me of larceny, it must be proved that the taking the slaves on board the Pearl was with the intent to convert them to my own use, and to derive a gain from such conversion; and that, if they believed that the slaves were received on board with the design to help them to escape to a free state, then the offence was not larceny, but a violation of the statute of 1796. This instruction, variously put, was six times over asked of the judge, and as often refused. He was no less anxious than the District Attorney to convict me of larceny, and send me to the penitentiary. But, having a vast deal more sense than the District Attorney, he saw that the idea that I had carried off these negroes to sell them again for my own profit was not tenable. It was plain enough that my intention was to help them to escape. The judge therefore, who did not lack ingenuity, went to work to twist the law so as, if possible, to bring my case within it. Even he did not venture to say that merely to assist slaves to escape was stealing. Stealing, he admitted, must be a taking, _lucri causa_, for the sake of gain; but--so he told the jury in one of his instructions--"this desire of gain need not be to convert the article taken to his--the taker's--own use, nor to obtain for the thief the value in money of the thing stolen. If the act was prompted by a desire to obtain for himself, or another even, other than the owner, a money gain, or any other inducing advantage, a dishonest gain, then the act was a larceny." And, in another instruction, he told the jury, "that if they believed, from the evidence, that the prisoner, before receiving the slaves on board, imbued their minds with discontent, persuaded them to go with him, and, by corrupt influences and inducements, caused them to come to his ship, and then took and carried them down the river, then the act was a larceny." Upon these instructions of the judge, to which bills of exceptions were filed by my counsel, the case, which had been already near a week on trial, was argued to the jury. The District Attorney had the opening and the close, and both my counsel had the privilege of speaking. For the following sketch of the argument, as well as of the legal points already noted, I am indebted to the notes of Mr. Hildreth, taken at the time: "_District Attorney_.--I shall endeavor to be very brief in the opening, reserving myself till I know the grounds of defence. It is the duty of the jury to give their verdict according to the law and evidence; and, so far as I knew public opinion, there neither exists now, nor has existed at any other time, the slightest desire on the part of a single individual that the prisoner should have otherwise than a fair trial. I think, therefore, the solemn warnings by the prisoner's counsel to the jury were wholly uncalled for. There was, no doubt, an excitement out of doors,--a natural excitement,--at such an amount of property snatched up at one fell swoop; but was that to justify the suggestion to a jury of twelve honest men that they were not to act the part of a mob? The learned counsel who opened the case for the prisoner has alluded to the disadvantage of his position from the fact that he was a stranger. I acknowledge that disadvantage, and I have attempted to remedy it, and so has the court, by extending towards him every possible courtesy. "The prisoner's counsel seems to think I press this matter too hard. But am I to sit coolly by and see the hard-earned property of the inhabitants of this District carried off, and when the felon is brought into court not do my best to secure his conviction? [The District Attorney here went into a long and labored defence of the course he had taken in preferring against the prisoner forty-one indictments for larceny, and seventy-four others, on the same state of facts, for transportation. He denied that the forty-one larcenies of the property of different individuals could be included in one indictment, and declared that if the prisoner's counsel would show the slightest authority for it he would give up the case. After going on in this strain for an hour or more, attacking the opposite counsel and defending himself, in what Carlisle pronounced 'the most extraordinary opening argument he had ever heard in his life,' the District Attorney came down at last to the facts of the case."] "In what position is the prisoner placed by the evidence? How is he introduced to the jury by his Philadelphia friends? These witnesses were examined as to his character, and the substance of their testimony is, that he is a man who would steal a negro if he got a chance. He passed for honest otherwise. But he says himself he would steal a negro to liberate him, and the court says it makes no difference whether he steals to liberate or steals to sell. Being caught in the act, he acknowledges his guilt, and says he was a deserter from his God,--a backslider,--a church-member one year--the next, in the Potomac with a schooner, stealing seventy-four negroes! Why say he took them for gain, if he did not steal them? Why say he knew he should end his days in a penitentiary? Why say if he got off with the negroes he should have realized an independent fortune? Did he not know they were slaves? He chartered the vessel to carry off negroes; and, if they were free negroes, or he supposed them to be, how was he to realize an independent fortune? He was afraid of the excitement at Washington. Why so, if the negroes were not slaves? There was the fact of their being under the hatches, concealed in the hold of the vessel,--did not that prove he meant to steal them? Add to that the other fact of his leaving at night. He comes here with a miserable load of wood; gives it away; sells it for a note; did not care about the wood, wanted only to get it out; had a longing for a cargo of negroes. The wood was a blind; besides he lied about it;--would he have ever come back to collect his note? But the prisoner's counsel says the slaves might have heard Mr. Foote's torch-light oration, and so have been persuaded to go. A likely story! They all started off, I suppose, ran straight down to the vessel and got into the hold! Seventy-four negroes all together! But was not the vessel chartered in Philadelphia to carry off negroes? This shows the excessive weakness of the defence. And how did the slaves behave after they were captured? If they had been running away, would they not have been downcast and disheartened? Would not they have said, Now we are taken? On the other hand, according to the testimony of Major Williams, on their way back they were laughing, shouting and eating molasses in large quantities. Nero fiddled when Rome was burning, but did not eat molasses. What a transition, from liberty to molasses! "Then it is proved that the bulkhead between the cabin and the hold was knocked down, and that the slaves went to Drayton and asked if they should fight. Did not that show his authority over them,--that the slaves were under his control, and that he was the master-spirit? It speaks volumes. [Here followed a long eulogy on the gallantry and humanity of the thirty-five captors. One man did threaten a little, but he was drunk.] "The substance of the law, as laid down by the judge, is this: If Drayton came here to carry off these people, and, by machinations, prevailed on them to go with him, and knew they were slaves, it makes no difference whether he took them to liberate, or took them to sell. If he was to be paid for carrying them away, that was gain enough. Suppose a man were to take it into his head that the northern factories were very bad things for the health of the factory-girls, and were to go with a schooner for the purpose of liberating those poor devils by stealing the spindles, would not he be served as this prisoner is served here? Would they not exhaust the law-books to find the severest punishment? There may be those carried so far by a miserable mistaken philanthropy as even to steal slaves for the sake of setting them at liberty. But this prisoner says he did it for gain. We might look upon him with some respect if, in a manly style, he insisted on his right to liberate them. But he avowedly steals for gain. He lies about it, besides. Even a jury of abolitionists would have no sympathy for such a man. Try him anyhow, by the word of God--by the rules of common honesty--he would be convicted, anyhow. He is presented to the world at large as a rogue and a common thief and liar. There can be no other conception of him. He did it for dishonest gain. "The prisoner must be convicted. He cannot escape. There can be no manner of doubt as to his guilt. I am at a loss, without appearing absurd in my own eyes, to conceive what kind of a defence can be made. "I have not the least sort of feeling against the wretch himself,--I desire a conviction from principle. I have heard doctrines asserted on this trial that strike directly at the rights and liberty of southern citizens. I have heard counsel seeking to establish principles that strike directly at the security of southern property. I feel no desire that this man, as a man, should be convicted; but I do desire that all persons inclined to infringe on our rights of property should know that there is a law hero to punish them, and I am happy that the law has been so clearly laid down by the court. Let it be known from Maine to Texas, to earth's widest limits, that we have officers and juries to execute that law, no matter by whom it may be violated! "_Mann_--for the prisoner--regretted to occupy any more of the jury's time with this very protracted trial. I mentioned, some days since, that the prisoner was liable, under the indictments against him, to eight hundred years imprisonment,--a term hardly to be served out by Methuselah himself; but, apart from any punishment, if his hundred and twenty-five trials are to proceed at this rate, the chance is he will die without ever reaching their termination. The District Attorney has dwelt at great length on what passed the other day, and more than once he has pointedly referred to me, in a tone and manner not to be mistaken. I have endeavored to conduct this trial according to the principles of law, and to that standard I mean to come up. My client, though a prisoner at this bar, has rights, legal, social, human; and upon those rights I mean to insist. This is the first time in my life that I ever heard a prisoner on trial, and before conviction, denounced as a liar, a thief, a felon, a wretch, a rogue. It is unjust to apply these terms to any man on trial. The law presumes him to be innocent. The feelings of the prisoner ought not to be thus outraged. He is unfortunate; he may be guilty; that is the very point you are to try. "This prisoner is charged with stealing two slaves, the property of Andrew Houver. Did he, or not? That point you are to try by the law and the evidence. Because you may esteem this a peculiarly valuable kind of property, you are not to measure out in this case a peculiar kind of justice. You have heard the evidence; the law for the purposes of this trial you are to take from the judge. But you are not to be led away with the idea that you must convict this prisoner at any rate. It is a well-established principle that it is better for an indefinite number of guilty men to escape than for one innocent man to be convicted and punished; and for the best of reasons,--for to have the very machinery established for the protection of right turned into an instrument for the infliction of wrong, strikes a more fatal blow at civil society than any number of unpunished private injuries. "Nor is there any danger that the prisoner will escape due punishment for any crimes he may have committed. Besides this and forty other larceny indictments hanging over his head, there are seventy-four transportation indictments against him. Now, he cannot be guilty of both; and which of these offences, if either, does the evidence against him prove? "Who is this man? Look at him! You see he has passed the meridian of life. You have heard about him from his neighbors. They pronounce him a fair, upright, moral man. No suspicion hitherto was ever breathed against his honesty. He was a professor of religion, and, so far as we know, had walked in all the ordinances and commands of the law blameless. Now, in all cases of doubt, a fair and exemplary character, especially in an elderly man, is a great capital to begin with. This prisoner may have been mistaken in his views as to matters of human right; but, as to violating what he believed to be duty, there is not the slightest evidence that such was his character, but abundance to the contrary. He is found under circumstances that make him amenable to the law; let him be tried,--I do not gainsay that; but let him have the common sentiments of humanity extended toward him, even if he be guilty. "The point urged against him with such earnestness--I may say vehemence--is, not that he took the slaves merely, but that he took them with design to steal. His confessions are dwelt upon, stated and overstated, as you will recollect. But consider under what circumstances these alleged confessions were made. There are circumstances which make such statements very fallacious. Consider his excitement--his state of health; for it is in evidence that he had been out of health, suffering with some disorder which required his head to be shaved. Consider the armed men that surrounded him, and the imminent peril in which he believed his life to be. It is great injustice to brand him with the foul epithet of liar for any little discrepancies, if such there were, in statements made under such circumstances. Other matters have been forced in, of a most extraordinary character, to prejudice his case in your eyes. It has been suggested--the idea has been thrown out, again and again--that, under pretence of helping them to freedom, he meant to sell these negroes. This suggestion, which outruns all reason and discretion, is founded on the simple fact of a brig seen lying at anchor in a place of common anchorage, suggesting no suspicious appearance, but as to which you are asked to infer that these seventy-six slaves were to be transported into her, and carried to Cuba or elsewhere for sale. What a monstrous imagination! What a gross libel on that brig, her officers, her crew, her owners, all of whom are thus charged as kidnappers and pirates; and all this baseless dream got up for the purpose of influencing your minds against the prisoner! It marks, indeed, with many other things, the style in which this prosecution is conducted. "Take the law as laid down by the court, and it is necessary for the government to prove, if this indictment is to be sustained, that the prisoner corrupted the minds of Houver's slaves, and induced and persuaded them to go on board his vessel. They were found on board the prisoner's vessel, no doubt; but as to how they came there we have not a particle of evidence. Here is a gap, a fatal gap, in the government's case. By what second-sight are you to look into this void space and time, and to say that Drayton enticed them to go on board? [The counsel here read from 1 _Starkie on Evidence,_ 510, &c., to the effect that the prosecution are bound by the evidence to exclude every hypothesis inconsistent with the prisoner's guilt.] Now, is it the only possible means of accounting for the presence of Houver's slaves on board to suppose that this prisoner enticed them? Might not somebody else have done it? Might they not have gone without being enticed at all? We wished to call the slaves themselves as witnesses, but the law shuts up their mouths. Can you, without any evidence, say that Drayton enticed them, and that by no other means could they come onboard? Presumptive evidence, as laid down in the book--an acknowledged and unquestioned authority--from which I have read, ought to be equally strong with the evidence of one unimpeached witness swearing positively to the fact. Are you as sure that Drayton enticed those slaves as if that fact had been positively sworn to by one witness, testifying that he stood by and saw and heard it? If you are not, then, under the law as laid down by the court, you can not find him guilty. "_Thursday, Aug_. 13. "_Carlisle_, for the prisoner.--The sun under which we draw our breath, the soil we tottle over, in childhood, the air we breathe, the objects that earliest attract our attention, the whole system of things with which our youth is surrounded, impress firmly upon us ideas and sentiments which cling to us to our latest breath, and modify all our views. I trust I am man enough always to remember this, when I hear opinions expressed and views maintained by men educated under a system different from that prevailing here, no matter how contrary those views and opinions may be to my own. "It may surprise those of you who know me,--the moral atmosphere in which I have grown up, and the opinions which I entertain,--but never have I felt so deep and hearty an interest in the defence of any case as in this. This prisoner I never saw till I came from a sick bed into this court, when I met him for the first time. I had participated strongly in the feeling which in connection with him had been excited in this community. As you well know, I have and could have no sympathy with the motives by which he may be presumed to have been actuated. Why, then, this sudden feeling in his behalf? Not, I assure you, from mercenary motives. His acquittal or his condemnation will make no difference in the compensation I receive for my services. The overpowering interest I feel in this case originates in the fact that it places at stake the reputation of this District, and, in some respects, of the country itself, of which this city is the political capital. The counsel for the government has dwelt with emphasis on the great amount and value of property placed at hazard by this prisoner. There is something, however, far more valuable than property--a fair, honorable, impartial administration of justice; and of the chivalrous race of the south it may be expected that they will do justice, though the heavens fall! God forbid that the world should point to this trial as a proof that we are so besotted by passion and interest that we cannot discern the most obvious distinctions and that on a slave question with a jury of slave-holders there is no possible chance of justice! Many, I assure you, will be ready to fasten this charge upon us. It is my hope, my ardent desire, it is your sworn duty, that no step be taken against this prisoner without full warrant of law and evidence. The duty of defence I discharge with pleasure. I could have desired that this prisoner might have been defended entirely by counsel resident in this District. It would have been my pride to have shown to the world that of our own mere motion we would do justice in any case, no matter how delicate, no matter how sore the point the prisoner had touched. "My learned friend, the District Attorney, has alluded to the courtesy which he and the court have extended to my associate in this cause. I hope he does not plume himself upon that. A gentleman of my associate's learning, ability, unexceptionable deportment, and high character among his own people, must and will be treated with courtesy wherever he goes. But, at the same time that he boasts of his courtesy, the District Attorney takes occasion to charge my associate with gross ignorance of the law. He says the forty-one charges could not have been included in one indictment, and offers to give up the case if we will produce a single authority to that effect. It were easy to produce the authority [see 1 _Chitty_, C.L. Indictment], but, unfortunately, the District Attorney has made a promise which he can't fulfil. The District Attorney is mistaken in this matter; at the same time, let me admit that in the management of this case he has displayed an ability beyond his years. This is the first prosecution ever brought, so far as we can discover, on this slave-stealing statute, either in this District or in Maryland. This statute, of the existence of which few lawyers were aware,--I am sure I was not,--has been waked up, after a slumber of more than a century, and brought to bear upon my client. It is your duty to go into the examination of this novel case temperately and carefully; to take care that no man and no court, upon review of the case, shall be able to say that your verdict is not warranted by the evidence. If the case is made out against the prisoner, convict him; but if not, as you value the reputation of the District and your own souls, beware how you give a verdict against him! "You are not a lynch-law court. It is no part of your business to inquire whether the prisoner has done wrong, and if so to punish him for it. It is your sole business to inquire if he be guilty of this, special charge set forth against him in this indictment, of stealing Andrew Houver's two slaves. The law you are not expected to judge of; to enlighten you on that matter, we have prayed instructions from the court, and those instructions, for the purpose of this trial, are to be taken as the law. The question for you is, Does the evidence in this case bring the prisoner within the law as laid down by the court? To bring him within that law, you are not to go upon imagination, but upon facts proved by witnesses; and, it seems to me, you have a very plain duty before you. This is not a thing done in a corner. Take care that you render such a verdict that you will not be ashamed to have it set forth in letters of light, visible to all the world. "There are two offences established by the statutes of Maryland, between which, in this case, it becomes your duty to distinguish. Everything depends on these statutes, because without these statutes neither act is a crime. At common law, there are no such offences as stealing slaves, or transporting slaves. Now, which of these two acts is proved against this prisoner? In some respects they are alike. The carrying the slaves away, the depriving the master of their services, is common to both. But, to constitute the stealing of slaves, according to the law as laid down by the court, there must be something more yet. There must be a corruption of the minds of the slaves, and a seducing them to leave their masters' service. And does not this open a plain path for this prisoner out of the danger of this prosecution? Where is the least evidence that the prisoner seduced these slaves, and induced them to leave their masters? Has the District Attorney, with all his zeal, pointed out a single particle of evidence of that sort? Has he done anything to take this case out of the transportation statute, and to convert it into a case of stealing? He has, to be sure, indulged in some very harsh epithets applied to this prisoner,--epithets very similar to those which Lord Coke indulged in on the trial of Sir Walter Raleigh, and which drew out on the part of that prisoner a memorable retort. My client is not a Raleigh; but neither, I must be permitted to say, is the District Attorney a Lord Coke. I should be sorry to have it go abroad that we cannot try a man for an offence of this sort without calling him a liar, a rogue, a wretch. [The District Attorney here interrupted, with a good deal of warmth. He insisted that he did not address the prisoner, but the jury, and that it was his right to call the attention of the jury to the evidence proving the prisoner to be a liar, rogue and wretch.] _Carlisle_--I do not dispute the learned gentleman's right. It is a matter of taste; but with you, gentlemen of the jury, these harsh epithets are not to make the difference of a hair. You are to look at the evidence; and where is the evidence that the prisoner seduced and enticed these slaves? "It may happen to any man to have a runaway slave in his premises, and even in his employment. It happened to me to have in my employ a runaway,--one of the best servants, by the way, I ever had. He told me he was free, and I employed him as such. If I had happened to have taken him to Baltimore, there would have been a complete similitude to the case at bar, and, according to the District Attorney's logic, I might have been indicted for stealing. Because I had him with me, I am to be presumed to have enticed him from his master! As to the particular circumstances under which he came into my employment, I might have been wholly unable to show them. Is it not possible to suppose a great number of circumstances under which these slaves of Houver left their master's service and came on board the Pearl, without any agency on the part of this prisoner? Now, the government might positively disprove and exclude forty such suppositions; but, so long as one remained which was not excluded, you cannot find a verdict of conviction. The government is to prove that the prisoner enticed and seduced these negroes, and you have no right to presume he did so unless every other possible explanation of the case is positively excluded by the testimony. Is it so extravagant a supposition that Mr. Foote's speech, and the other torch-light speeches heretofore alluded to, heard by these slaves, or communicated to them, might have so wrought upon their minds as to induce them to leave their masters? I don't say that they had any right to suppose that these declamations about universal emancipation had any reference to them. I am a southern man, and I hold to the southern doctrine. I admit that there is no inconsistency between perfect civil liberty and holding people of another race in domestic servitude. But then it is natural that these people should overlook this distinction, however obvious and important. Nor do they lack wit to apply these speeches to their own case or interest in such matters. I myself have a slave as quick to see distinctions as I am, and who would have made a better lawyer if he had had the same advantages. It came out the other day, in a trial in this court, that the colored people have debating-societies among themselves. It was an assault and battery case; one of the disputants, in the heat of the argument, struck the other; but then they have precedents for that in the House of Representatives. Is it an impossible, or improbable, or a disproved supposition, that a number of slaves, having agreed together to desert their masters, or having concerted such a plan with somebody here, Drayton was employed to come and take them away, and that he received them on board without ever having seen one of them? If his confessions are to be taken at all, they are to be taken together; and do they not tend to prove such a state of facts? Drayton says he was hired to come here,--that he was to be paid for taking them away. Does that look as if he seduced them? [The counsel here commented at length on Drayton's statements, for the purpose of showing that they tended to prove nothing more than a transportation for hire; and he threw no little ridicule on the 'phantom ship' which the District Attorney had conjured up in his opening of the case, but which, in his late speech, he had wholly overlooked.] "But, even should you find that Drayton seduced these slaves to leave their masters, to make out a case of larceny you must be satisfied that he took them into his possession. Now, what is possession of a slave? Not merely being in company with him. If I ride in a hack, I am not in possession of the driver. Possession of a slave is dominion and control; and where is the slightest evidence that this prisoner claimed any dominion or control over these slaves? The whole question in this case is, Were these slaves stolen, or were they running away with the prisoner's assistance? The mere fact of their being in the prisoner's company throws no light whatever on this matter. "The great point, however, in this case is this,--By the judge's instructions, enticement must be proved. Shall the record of this trial go forth to the world showing that you have found a fact of which there was no evidence? "I believe in my conscience there is a gap in this evidence not to be filled up except by passion and prejudice. If that is so, I hope there is no one so ungenerous, so little of a true southerner, as to blame me for my zeal in this case, or not to rejoice in a verdict of acquittal. It is bad enough that strangers should have got up a mob in this District in relation to this matter. It would, however, be a million times worse if juries cannot be found here cool and dispassionate enough to render impartial verdicts. "_District Attorney_.--I hope, gentlemen of the jury, you will rise above all out-of-door influence. Make yourselves abolitionists, if you can; but look at the facts of the case. And, looking at those facts, is it necessary for me to open my lips in reply? In a case like this, sustained by such direct testimony, such overwhelming proof, I defy any man,--however crazy on the subject of slavery, unless he be blinded by some film of interest,--to hesitate a moment as to his conclusions. [The District Attorney here proceeded at great length, and with a great air of offended dignity, to complain of having been schooled and advised by the prisoner's counsel, and to justify the use of the foul epithets he had bestowed on the prisoner.] This is not a place for parlor talk. I had chosen the English words that conveyed my meaning most distinctly. It was all very well for the prisoner's counsel to smooth things over; but was I, instead of calling him a liar, to say, he told a fib? When I call him a thief and a felon, do I go beyond the charge of the grand jury in the indictment? If this is stepping over the limits of propriety, in all similar cases I shall do the same. I do not intend to blackguard the prisoner,--I do not delight in using these epithets. My heart is not locked up; I am no Jack Ketch, prosecuting criminals for ten dollars a head. I sympathize with the wretches brought here; but when I choose to call them by their proper names I am not to be accused of bandying epithets. [The District Attorney then proceeded also at great length, and in a high key, to justify his hundred and twenty-five indictments against the prisoner, and to clear himself from the imputation of mercenary motives, on the ground that the business of the year, independently of these indictments, would furnish the utmost amount to which he was entitled. He next referred to the matter of the brig testified to by Captain Baker, which had been made the occasion of much ridicule by the prisoner's counsel. Part of the evidence which he had relied on in connection with the brig had been ruled out; and the law, as laid down by the court, according to which taking to liberate was the same as taking to steal, had made it unnecessary for him, so he said, to dwell on this part of the case. Yet he now proceeded to argue at great length, from the testimony in the case, that there must have been a connection between the brig and the schooner; that, as the schooner was confessedly unseaworthy, and could not have gone out of the bay, it must have been the intention to put the slaves on board the brig, and to carry them off to Cuba or elsewhere and sell them. The testimony to this effect he pronounced conclusive.] "The United States (said the District Attorney) have laid before you the clearest possible case. I have just gone through a pretty long term of this court; I see several familiar faces on the jury, and I rely on your intelligence. In fact, the only point of the defence is, that the United States have offered no proof that Drayton seduced and enticed these slaves to come on board the Pearl; and that the prisoner's counsel are pleased to call a gap, a chasm, which they say you can't fill up. It is the same gap which occurs in every larceny case. Where can the government produce positive testimony to the taking? That is done secretly, in the dark, and is to be presumed from circumstances. A man is found going off with a bag of chickens,--your chickens. Are you going to presume that the chickens run into his bag of their own accord, and without his agency? A man is found riding your horse. Are you to presume that the horse came to him of its own accord? and yet horses love liberty,--they love to kick up their heels and run. Yet this would be just as sensible as to suppose that these slaves came on board Drayton's vessel without his direct agency. He came here from Philadelphia for them; they are found on board his vessel; Drayton says he would steal a negro if he could; is not that enough? Then he was here some months before with an oyster-boat, pretending to sell oysters. He pretended that he came for his health. Likely story, indeed! I should like to see the doctor who would recommend a patient to come here in the fall of the year, when the fever and ague is so thick in the marshes that you can cut it with a knife. Cruising about, eating and selling oysters, at that time of the year, for his health! Nonsense! He was here, at that very time, hatching and contriving that these very negroes should go on board the Pearl. But the prisoner's counsel say he might have been employed by others simply to carry them away! Who could have employed him but abolitionists; and did he not say he had no sympathy with abolitionists. So much for that hypothesis. Then, he in fact pleads guilty,--he says he expects to die in the penitentiary. Don't you think he ought to? If there is any chasm here, the prisoner must shed light upon it. If he had employers, who were they? The prisoner's counsel have said that he is not bound to tell; and that the witnesses, if summoned here, would not be compelled to criminate themselves. But shall this prisoner be allowed to take advantage of his own wrong? "As to the metaphysics of the prisoner's counsel about possession, that is easily disposed of. Were not these slaves found in Drayton's possession, and didn't he admit that he took them? "As to the cautions given you about prejudice and passion, I do not think they are necessary. I have seen no sort of excitement here since the first detection of this affair that would prevent the prisoner having a fair trial. Is there any crowd or excitement here? The community will be satisfied with the verdict. There is no question the party is guilty. I never had anything to do with a case sustained by stronger evidence. I don't ask you to give an illegal or perjured verdict. Take the law and the evidence, and decide upon it. "N.B.--The argument being now concluded, and the jury about to go out, some question arose whether the jury should have the written instructions of the court with them; and some inquiry being made as to the practice, one of the jurors observed that in a case in which he had formerly acted as juror the jury had the instructions with them, and he proceeded to tell a funny story about a bottle of rum, told by one of the jurors on that occasion, which story caused him to remember the fact. It may be observed, by the way, that the proceedings of the United States Criminal Court for the District of Columbia are not distinguished for any remarkable decorum or dignity. The jury, in this case, were in constant intercourse, during any little intervals in the trial, with the spectators outside the bar." The case was given to the jury about three o'clock, P.M., and the court, after waiting half an hour, adjourned. When the court met, at ten o'clock the next morning, the jury were still out, having remained together all night without being able to agree. Meanwhile the District Attorney proceeded to try me on another indictment, for stealing three slaves the property of one William H. Upperman. As this trial was proceeding, about half-past two the jury in the first case came in, and rendered a verdict of GUILTY. They presented rather a haggard appearance, having been locked up for twenty-four hours, and some of them being perhaps a little troubled in their consciences. The jury, it was understood, had been divided, from the beginning, four for acquittal and eight for conviction. These four were all Irishmen, and perhaps they did not consider it consistent with their personal safety and business interests to persist in disappointing the slave-holding public of that verdict which the District Attorney had so imperiously demanded. The agreement, it was understood, had taken place only a few moments before they came in, and had been reached entirely on the strength of Williams' testimony to my having said, that had I got off I should have made an independent fortune. Now, it was a curious coincidence, that at the very moment that this agreement was thus taking place, Williams, again on the stand as a witness on the second trial, wished to take back what he had then sworn to on the first trial, stating that he could not tell whether he had heard me say this, or whether he had heard of my having said it from somebody else. After the rendition of the verdict of the other jury, the second case was again resumed. The evidence varied in only a few particulars from that which had been given in the first case. There was, in addition, the testimony of Upperman, the pretended owner of the woman and her daughters, one of fifteen, the other nine years old, whom I was charged in this indictment with stealing. This man swore with no less alacrity, and with no less falsehood, than Houver had done before him. He stated that about half-past ten, of that same night that the Pearl left Washington, while he was fastening up his house, he saw a man standing on the side-walk opposite his door, and observed him for some time. Not long after, having gone to bed, he heard a noise of somebody coming down stairs; and, calling out, he was answered by his slave-woman, who was just then going off, though he had no suspicion of it at the time. That man standing on the side-walk he pretended to recognize as me. He was perfectly certain of it, beyond all doubt and question. The object of this testimony was, to lead to a conclusion of enticement or persuasion on my part, and so to bring the case within one of the judge's instructions already stated. On a subsequent trial, Upperman was still more certain, if possible, that I was the man. But he was entirely mistaken in saying so. His house was on Pennsylvania Avenue, more than a mile from where the Pearl lay, and I was not within a mile of it that night. I dare say Upperman was sincere enough. He was one of your positive sort of men; but his case, like that of Houver, shows that men in a passion will sometimes fall into blunders. I have reason to believe that after the trials were over Upperman became satisfied of his error. The first trial had consumed a week; the second one lasted four days. The judge laid down the same law as before, and similar exceptions were taken by my counsel. The jury again remained out all night, being long divided,--nine for conviction to three for acquittal; but on the morning of August 9th they came in with a verdict of GUILTY. Satisfied for the present with these two verdicts against me, the District Attorney now proposed to pass over the rest of my cases, and to proceed to try Sayres. My counsel objected that, having been forced to proceed against my remonstrances, I was here ready for trial, and they insisted that all my cases should be now disposed of. They did not prevail, however; and the District Attorney proceeded to try Sayres on an indictment for stealing the same two slaves of Houver. In addition to the former witnesses against me, English was now put upon the stand, the District Attorney having first entered _nolle prosequi_ upon the hundred and fifteen indictments against him. But he could state nothing except the circumstances of his connection with the affair, and the coming on board of the passengers on Saturday night, as I have already related them. On the other hand, the "phantom brig" story, of which the District Attorney had made so great a handle in the two cases against me, was now ruled out, on the ground that the brig could not be brought into the case till some connection had first been shown between her and the Pearl. The trial lasted three days. The District Attorney pressed for a conviction with no less violence than he had done in my case, assuring the jury that if they did not convict there was an end of the security of slave property. But Sayres had several advantages over me. My two juries had been citizens of Washington, several of them belonging to a class of loafers who frequent the courts for the sake of the fees to be got as jurymen. Some complaints having been made of this, the officers had been sent to Georgetown and the country districts, and the present jury was drawn from those quarters. Then, again, I was regarded as the main culprit,--the only one in the secret of the transaction; and, as I was already convicted, the feeling against Sayres was much lessened. In fact, the jury in his case, after an absence of half an hour, returned a verdict of NOT GUILTY. The District Attorney, greatly surprised and vexed, proceeded to try Sayres on another indictment. This trial lasted three days and a half; but, in spite of the efforts of the District Attorney, who was more positive, longer and louder, than ever, the jury, in ten minutes, returned a verdict of NOT GUILTY. The trials had now continued through nearly four weeks of very hot weather, and both sides were pretty well worn out. Vexed at the two last verdicts, the District Attorney threatened to give up Sayres on a requisition from Virginia, which was said to have been lodged for us, some of the alleged slaves belonging there, and we having been there shortly before. Finally, it was agreed that verdicts should be taken against Sayres in the seventy-four transportation cases, he to have the advantage of carrying the points of law before the Circuit Court, and the remaining larceny indictments against him to be discontinued. Thus ended the first legal campaign. English was discharged altogether, without trial. Sayres had got rid of the charge of larceny. I had been found guilty on two indictments for stealing, upon which Judge Crawford sentenced me to twenty years imprisonment in the penitentiary; while Sayres, on seventy-four indictments for assisting the escape of slaves, was sentenced to a fine on each indictment of one hundred and fifty dollars and costs, amounting altogether to seven thousand four hundred dollars. But from these judgments an appeal had been taken to the Circuit Court, and meanwhile Sayres and I remained in prison as before. The hearing before the Circuit Court came on the 26th of November. That court consisted of Chief-Justice Cranch, an able and upright judge, but very old and infirm; and Judges Morrell and Dunlap, the latter of whom claimed to be the owner of two of the negroes found on board the Pearl. My cases were argued for me by Messrs. Hildreth, Carlisle and Mann. The District Attorney, who was much better fitted to bawl to a jury than to argue before a court, had retained, at the expense of the United States, the assistance of Mr. Bradley, one of the ablest lawyers of the District. The argument consumed not less than three days. Many points were discussed; but that on which the cases turned was the definition of larceny. It resulted in the allowance of several of my bills of exceptions, the overturn of the law of Judge Crawford on the subject of larceny, and the establishment by the Circuit Court of the doctrine on that subject contended for by my counsel; but from this opinion Judge Dunlap dissented. The case of Sayres, for want of time, was postponed till the next term. A new trial having been ordered in my two cases, everybody supposed that the charge of larceny would now be abandoned, as the Circuit Court had taken away the only basis on which it could possibly rest. But the zeal of the District Attorney was not yet satisfied; and, no longer trusting to his own unassisted efforts, he obtained (at the expense of the United States) the assistance of Richard Cox, Esq., an old and very unscrupulous practitioner, with whose aid he tried the cases over again in the Criminal Court. The two trials lasted about fourteen days. I was again defended by Messrs. Mann and Carlisle, and now with better success, as the juries, under the instructions which Judge Crawford found himself obliged to give, and notwithstanding the desperate efforts against me, acquitted me in both cases, almost without leaving their seats. Finally, the District Attorney agreed to abandon the remaining larceny cases, if we would consent to verdicts in the transportation cases on the same terms with those in the case of Sayres. This was done; when Judge Crawford had the satisfaction of sentencing me to fines and costs amounting together to ten thousand and sixty dollars, and to remain in prison until that amount was paid. There was still a further hearing before the Circuit Court on the bills of exceptions to these transportation indictments. My counsel thought they had some good legal objections; but the hearing unfortunately came on when Judge Cranch was absent from the bench, and the other two judges overruled them. By a strange construction of the laws, no criminal case, except by accident, can be carried before the Supreme Court of the United States; otherwise, the cases against us would have been taken there, including the question of the legality of slavery in the District of Columbia. Thus, after a severe and expensive struggle, I was saved from the penitentiary; but Sayres and myself remained in the Washington jail, loaded with enormous fines, which, from our total inability to pay them, would keep us there for life, unless the President could be induced to pardon us; and it was even questioned, as I shall show presently, whether he had any such power. The jail of the District of Columbia is under the charge of the Marshal of the District. That office, when I was first committed to prison, was filled by a Mr. Hunter; but he was sick at the time, and died soon after, when Robert Wallace was appointed. This Wallace was a Virginian, from the neighbor hood of Alexandria, son of a Doctor Wallace from whom he had inherited a large property, including many slaves. He had removed to Tennessee, and had set up cotton-planting there; but, failing in that business, had returned back with the small remnants of his property, and Polk provided for him by making him marshal. It was not long before I found that he had a great spite against me. It was in vain that I solicited from him the use of the passage. The light which came into my cell was very faint, and I could only read by sitting on the floor with my back against the grating of the cell door. But, so far from aiding me to read,--and it was the only method I had of passing my time,--Wallace made repeated and vexatious attempts to keep me from receiving newspapers. I should very soon have died on the prison allowance. The marshal is allowed by the United States thirty-three cents per day for feeding the prisoners. For this money they receive two meals; breakfast, consisting of one herring, corn-bread and a dish of molasses and water, very slightly flavored with coffee; and for dinner, corn-bread again, with half a pound of the meanest sort of salted beef, and a soup made of corn-meal stirred into the pot-liquor. This is the bill of fare day after day, all the year round; and, as at the utmost such food cannot cost more than eight or nine cents a day for each prisoner, and as the average number is fifty, the marshal must make a handsome profit. The diet has been fixed, I suppose, after the model of the slave allowances. But Congress, after providing the means of feeding the prisoners in a decent manner, ought not to allow them to be starved for the benefit of the marshal. Such was the diet to which I was confined in the first days of my imprisonment. But I soon contrived to make a friend of Jake, the old black cook of the prison, who, I could see as he came in to pour out my coffee, evinced a certain sympathy and respect for me. Through his agency I was able to purchase some more eatable food; and indeed the surgeon of the jail allowed me flour, under the name of medicine, it being impossible, as he said, for me to live on the prison diet. Wallace, soon after he came into office, finding a small sum in my possession, of about forty dollars, took it from me. He expressed a fear that I might corrupt old Jake, or somebody else,--especially as he found that I gave Jake my old newspapers,--and so escape from the prison. But he left the money in the hands of the jailer, and allowed me to draw it out, a dollar at a time. He presently turned out old Jake, and put in a slave-woman of his own as cook; but she was better disposed towards me than her master, and I found no difficulty in purchasing with my own money, and getting her to prepare such food as I wanted. I was able, too, after some six or eight weeks' sleeping on the stone floor of my cell, to obtain some improvement in that particular; and not for myself only, but for all the other prisoners also. The jailer was requested by several persons who came to see us to procure mattresses for us at their expense; and, finally, Wallace, as if out of pure shame, procured a quantity of husk mattresses for the use of the prisoners generally. Still, we had no cots, and were obliged to spread our mattresses on the floor. The allowance of clothing made to the prisoners who were confined without any means of supporting themselves corresponded pretty well with the jail allowance of provisions. They received shirts, one at a time, made of the very meanest kind of cotton cloth, and of the very smallest dimensions; trousers of about equal quality, and shoes. It was said that the United States paid also for jackets and caps. How that was I do not know; but the prisoners never received any. The custody of the jail was intrusted to a head jailer, assisted by four guards, or turnkeys, one of whom acted also as book-keeper. Of the personal treatment toward me of those in office, at the time I was first committed, I have no complaint to make. The rigor of my confinement was indeed great; but I am happy to say that it was not aggravated by any disposition on the part of these men to triumph over me, or to trample upon me. As they grew more acquainted with me, they showed their sense that I was not an ordinary criminal, and treated me with many marks of consideration, and even of regard, and in one of them I found a true friend. Shortly after Wallace came into office, he made several changes. He was full of caprices, and easily took offence from very small causes; and of this the keepers, as well as the prisoners, had abundant experience. The head jailer did his best to please, behaving in the most humble and submissive manner; but all to no purpose. He was discharged, as were also the others, one after another,--Wallace undertaking to act as head jailer himself. Of Wallace's vexatious conduct towards me; of his refusal to allow me to receive newspapers,--prohibiting the under jailer to lend me even the Baltimore _Sun_; of his accusation against me of bribing old Jake, whom he forbade the turnkeys to allow to come near me; of his keeping me shut up in my cell; and generally of a bitter spirit of angry malice against me,--I had abundant reason to complain during the weary fifteen months or more that I remained under his power. But his subordinates, though obliged to obey his orders and to comply with his humors, were far from being influenced by his feelings. Even his favorite among the turnkeys, a person who pretty faithfully copied his conduct towards the other prisoners, always behaved very kindly towards me, and even used to make a confidant of me, by coming to my cell to talk over his troubles. But the person whose kind offices and friendly sympathy did far more than those of any other to relieve the tediousness of my confinement, and to keep my heart from sinking, was Mr. Wood. There is no chaplain at the Washington jail, nor has Congress, so far as I am aware, made any provision of any kind for the spiritual wants or the moral and religious instruction of the inmates of it. This great deficiency Mr. Wood, a man of a great heart, though of very limited pecuniary means, being then a clerk in the Telegraph office, had taken it upon himself to supply, so far as he could; and for that purpose he was in the habit of visiting the prison on Sundays, conversing with the prisoners, and furnishing tracts and books to such as were able and disposed to read. He came to my cell, or to the grating of the passage in which I was confined, on the very first Sunday of my imprisonment, and he readily promised, at my request, to furnish me with a Bible; though in that act of kindness he was anticipated by the colored woman of whom I have already made mention, who appeared at my cell, with a Bible for me, just after Mr. Wood had left it. The kindness of Mr. Wood's heart, and the sincerity of his sympathy, was so apparent as to secure him the affectionate respect of all the prisoners. To me he proved a very considerate and useful friend. Not only was I greatly indebted to his assistance in making known my necessities and those of my family to those disposed to relieve them, but his cheerful and Christian conversation served to brighten many a dark hour, and to dispel many gloomy feelings. Were all professing Christians like my friend Mr. Wood, we should not hear so many denunciations as we now do of the church, and complaints of her short-comings. There was another person, also, whose kind attentions to me I ought not to overlook. This was Mrs. Susannah Ford, a very respectable colored woman, who sold refreshments in the lobby of the court-house, and who, in the progress of the trial, had evinced a good deal of interest in the case. As she often had boarders in the jail, who, like me, could not live on the jail fare, and whom she supplied, she was frequently there, and she seldom came without bringing with her some substantial token of her regard. Sayres and myself had looked forward to the change of administration, which resulted from the election of General Taylor, with considerable hopes of advantage from it--but, for a considerable time, this advantage was limited to a change in the marshal in whose custody we were. The turning out of Wallace gave great satisfaction to everybody in the jail, or connected with it, except the turnkeys, who held office by his appointment, and who expected that his dismissal would be followed by their own. The very day before the appointment of his successor came out, I had been remonstrating with him against the cruelty of refusing me the use of the passage; and I had even ventured to hint that I hoped he would do nothing which he would be ashamed to see spoken of in the public prints; to which he replied, "G--d d--n the public prints!--in that cell you will stay!" But in this he proved not much of a prophet. The next day, as soon as the news of his dismissal reached the jail, the turnkeys at once unlocked my cell-door and admitted me into the passage, observing that the new marshal, when he came to take possession, should at least find me there. This new marshal was Mr. Robert Wallach, a native of the District, very similar in name to his predecessor, but very different in nature; and from the time that he entered into office the extreme rigor hitherto exercised to me was a good deal abated. One thing, however, I had to regret in the change, which was the turning out of all the old guards, with whom I was already well acquainted, and the appointment of a new set. One of these thus turned out--the person to whom I have already referred to as the chief favorite of the late marshal--made a desperate effort to retain his office. But, although he solicited and obtained certificates to the effect that he was, and always had been, a good Whig, he had to walk out with the others. The new jailer appointed by Wallach, and three of the new guards, or turnkeys, were very gentlemanly persons, and neither I nor the other prisoners had any reason to complain of the change. Of the fourth turnkey I cannot say as much. He was violent, overbearing and tyrannical, and he was frequently guilty of conduct towards the prisoners which made him very unfit to serve under such a marshal, and ought to have caused his speedy removal. But, unfortunately, the marshal was under some political obligations to him, which made the turning him out not so easy a matter. This person seemed to have inherited all the feelings of hatred and dislike which the late marshal had entertained towards me, and he did his best to annoy me in a variety of ways, though, of course, his power was limited by his subordinate position. But, although I gained considerably by the new-order of things, I soon found that it had also some annoying consequences. Under the old marshal, either to make the imprisonment more disagreeable to me, or from fear lest I should corrupt the other prisoners, I had been kept in a sort of solitary confinement, no other prisoners being placed in the same passage. This system was now altered; and, although my privacy was always so far respected that I was allowed a cell by myself, I often found myself with fellow-prisoners in the same passage from whose society it was impossible for me to derive either edification or pleasure. I suffered a good deal from this cause; but at length succeeded in obtaining a remedy, or, at least, a partial one. I was allowed, during the day-time, the range of the debtors' apartments, a suite of spacious, airy and comfortable rooms, in which there were seldom more than one or two tenants. I pleaded hard to be removed to these apartments altogether,--to be allowed to sleep there, as well as to pass the days there. As it was merely for the non-payment of a sum of money that I was held, I thought I had a right to be treated as a debtor. But those apartments were so insecure, that the keepers did not care to trust me there during the night. By this change of quarters my condition was a good deal improved. I not only had ample conveniences for reading, but I improved the opportunity to learn to write, having only been able to sign my name when T was committed to the prison. But a jail, after all, is a jail; and I longed and sighed to obtain my liberty, and to enjoy again the society of my wife and children. Had it been wished to impress my mind in the strongest manner with the horrors of slavery, no better method could have been devised than this imprisonment in the Washington jail. I felt personally what it was to be restrained of my liberty; and, as many of the prisoners were runaway slaves, or slaves committed at the request of their masters, I saw a good deal of what slaves are exposed to. Of this I shall here give but a single instance. Wallace, the marshal, as I have already mentioned, had two female slaves, the last remnants of the large slave-property which he had inherited from his father. One of these was a young and very comely mulatto girl, whom Wallace had made his housekeeper, and whom he sought to make also his concubine. But, as the girl already had a child by a young white man, to whom she was attached, she steadily repelled all his advances. Not succeeding by persuasion, this scion of the aristocracy of the Old Dominion--this Virginian gentleman, and marshal of the United States for the District of Columbia--shut the girl up in the jail of the District, in hopes of thus breaking her to his will; and, as she proved obstinate, he finally sold her. He then turned his eyes on the other woman,--his property,--Jemima, our cook, already the mother of three children. But she set him at open defiance. As she wished to be sold, he had lost the greatest means of controlling her; and as she openly threatened, before all the keepers, to tear every rag of clothing off his body if he dared lay his hand upon her, he did not venture, to brave her fury. In most of the states, if not in all of them, certainly in all the free states, there is no such thing as keeping a man in prison for life merely for the non-payment of a fine which he has no means to pay. The same spirit of humanity which has abolished the imprisonment of poor debtors at the caprice of their creditors has provided means for discharging, after a short imprisonment, persons held in prison for fines which they have no means of paying. Indeed, what can be more unequal or unjust than to hold a poor man a prisoner for life for an offence which a rich man is allowed to expiate by a small part of his superfluous wealth? But this is one, among many other barbarisms, which the existence of slavery in the District of Columbia, by preventing any systematic revision of the laws, has entailed upon the capital of our model democracy. There was, as I have stated, no means by which Sayres and myself could be discharged from prison except by paying our fines (which was totally out of the question), or by obtaining a presidential pardon, which, for a long time, seemed equally hopeless. There was, indeed, a peculiarity about our case, such as might afford a plausible excuse for not extending to us any relief. Under the law of 1796, the sums imposed upon us as fines were to go one half to the owners of the slaves, and the other half to the District; and it was alleged, that although the President might remit the latter half, he could not the other. That same Mr. Radcliff whom I have already had occasion to mention volunteered his services--for a consideration--to get over this difficulty. In consequence of a handsome fee which he received, he undertook to obtain the consent of the owners of the slaves to our discharge. But, having pocketed the money, he made, so far as I could find, very little progress in the business, not having secured above five or six signers. In answer to my repeated applications, he at length proposed that my wife and youngest daughter should come on to "Washington to do the business which he had undertaken, and for which he had secured a handsome payment in advance. They came on accordingly, and, by personal application, succeeded in obtaining, in all, the signatures of twenty-one out of forty-one, the whole number. The reception which they met with from different parties was very different, showing that there is among slave-holders as much variety of character as among other people. Some signed with alacrity, saying that, as no slaves had been lost, I had been kept in jail too long already. Others required much urging. Others positively refused. Some even added insults. Young Francis Dodge, of Georgetown, would not sign, though my life had depended upon it. One wanted me hung, and another tarred and feathered. One pious church-member, lying on his death-bed, as he supposed, was persuaded to sign; but he afterwards drew back, and nothing could prevail on him to put his name to the paper. Die or live, he wholly refused. But the most curious case occurred at Alexandria, to which place my wife went to obtain the signature of a pious old lady, who had been the claimant of a youngster found among the passengers of the Pearl, and who had been sold, in consequence, for the southern market. The old lady, it appeared, was still the owner of the boy's mother, who acted as one of her domestics, and, if she was willing, the old lady professed her readiness to sign. The black woman was accordingly called in, and the nature of my wife's application stated to her. But, with much positiveness and indignation, she refused to give her consent, declaring that my wife could as well do without her husband as she could do without her boy. So imbruted and stupefied by slavery was this old woman, that she seemed to think the selling her boy away from her a perfectly humane, Christian and proper act, while all her indignation was turned against me, who had merely afforded the boy an opportunity of securing his freedom! I dare say they had persuaded the old woman that I had enticed the boy to run away; whereas, as I have already stated, I had never seen him, nor any other of the passengers, till I found them on board. As only twenty-one signers could be obtained, the matter stood very much as it did before the attempt was made. So long as President Fillmore remained a candidate for reëlection there was little ground to expect from him a favorable consideration of my case. I therefore felt sincerely thankful to the Whig convention when they passed by Mr. Fillmore, and gave the nomination to General Scott. Mr. Fillmore being thus placed in a position which enabled him to listen to the dictates of reason, justice and humanity, my hopes, and those of my friends, were greatly raised. Mr. Sumner, the Free Democratic senator from Massachusetts, had visited me in prison shortly after his arrival at Washington, and had evinced from the beginning a sincere and active sympathy for me. Some complaints were made against him in some anti-slavery papers, because he did not present to the senate some petitions in my behalf, which had been forwarded to his care. But Mr. Sumner was of opinion, and I entirely agreed with him, that if the object was to obtain my discharge from prison, that object was to be accomplished, not by agitating the matter in the senate, but by private appeals to the equity and the conscience of the President; nor did he think, nor I either, that my interests ought to be sacrificed for the opportunity to make an anti-slavery speech. There is reason in everything; and I thought, and he thought too, that I had been made enough of a martyr of already. The case having been brought to the notice of the President, he, being no longer a candidate for reëlection, could not fail to recognize the claim of Sayres and myself to a discharge. We had already been kept in jail upwards of four years, for an offence which the laws had intended to punish by a trifling pecuniary fine Nor was this all. The earlier part of our confinement had been exceedingly rigorous, and it had only been by the untiring efforts of our friends, and at a great expense to them, that we had been saved from falling victims to the conspiracy, between the District Attorney and Judge Crawford, to send us to the penitentiary. Although my able and indefatigable counsel, Mr. Mann, whose arduous labors and efforts in my behalf I shall never forget, and still less his friendly counsels and kind personal attentions, had received nothing, except, I believe, the partial reimbursement of his travelling expenses, and although there was much other service gratuitously rendered in our cases, yet it had been necessary to pay pretty roundly for the services of Mr. Carlisle; and, altogether, the expenditures which had been incurred to shield us from the effects of the conspiracy above mentioned far exceeded any amount of fine which might have been reasonably imposed under the indictments upon which we had been found guilty. Was not the enormous sum which Judge Crawford sentenced us to pay a gross violation of the provision in the constitution of the United States against excessive fines? Any fine utterly beyond a man's ability to pay, and which operates to keep him a prisoner for life, must be excessive, or else that word has no meaning. But, though our case was a strong one, there still remained a serious obstacle in the way, in the idea that, because half the fines was to go to the owners of the slaves, the President could not remit that half. Here was a point upon which Mr. Sumner was able to assist us much more effectually than by making speeches in the senate. It was a point, too, involved in a good deal of difficulty; for there were some English cases which denied the power of pardon under such circumstances. Mr. Sumner found, however, by a laborious examination of the American cases, that a different view had been taken in this country; and he drew up and submitted to the President an elaborate legal opinion, in which the right of the executive to pardon us was very clearly made out. This opinion the President referred to the Attorney General. A considerable time elapsed before he found leisure to examine it; but at last it obtained his sanction, also. Information at length reached us--the matter having been pending for two months or more--that the President had signed our pardon. It had yet, however, to pass through the office of the Secretary for the Interior, and meanwhile we were not by any means free from anxiety. The reader will perhaps recollect that among the other things which the District Attorney had held over our heads had been the threat to surrender us up to the authorities of Virginia, on a requisition which it was alleged they had made for us. The story of this requisition had been repeated from time to time, and a circumstance now occurred which, in seeming to threaten us with something of the sort, served to revive all our apprehensions. Mr. Stuart, the Secretary of the Interior, through whose office the pardon was to pass, sent word to the marshal that such a pardon had been signed, and, at the same time, requested him, if it came that day into his hands, not to act upon it till the next. As this Stuart was a Virginian, out apprehensions were naturally excited of some movement from that quarter. The pardon arrived about five o'clock that afternoon; and immediately upon receiving it the marshal told us that he had no longer any hold upon us,--that we were free men, and at liberty to go where we chose. As we were preparing to leave the jail, I observed that a gentleman, a friend of the marshal, whom I had often seen there, and who had always treated me with great courtesy, hardly returned my good-day, and looked at me as black as a thunder-cloud. Afterwards, upon inquiring of the jailer what the reason could be, I learned that this gentleman, who was a good deal of a politician, was greatly alarmed and disturbed lest the act of the President in having pardoned us should result in the defeat of the Whig party--and, though willing enough that we should be released, he did not like to have it done at the expense of his party, and his own hopes of obtaining some good office. The Whigs were defeated, sure enough; but whether because we were pardoned--though the idea is sufficiently nattering to my vanity--is more than I shall venture to decide. The black prisoners in the jail, having nothing to hope or fear from the rise or fall of parties, yielded freely to their friendly feelings, and greeted our departure with three cheers. We left the jail as privately as possible, and proceeded in a carriage to the house of a gentleman of the District, where we were entertained at supper. Our imprisonment had lasted four years and four months, lacking seven days. We did not feel safe, however, with that Virginia requisition hanging over our heads, so long as we remained in the District, or anywhere on slave-holding ground; and, by the liberality of our friends, a hack was procured for us, to carry us, that same night, to Baltimore, there, the next morning, to take the cars for Philadelphia. The night proved one of the darkest and stormiest which it had ever been my fate to encounter,--and I have seen some bad weather in my time. The rain fell in torrents, and the road was only now and then visible by the flashes of the lightning. But our trusty driver persevered, and, in spite of all obstacles, brought us to Baltimore by the early dawn. Sayres proceeded by the direct route to Philadelphia. Having still some apprehensions of pursuit and a requisition, I took the route by Harrisburg. Great was the satisfaction which I felt as the cars crossed the line from Maryland into Pennsylvania. It was like escaping out of Algiers into a free and Christian country. I shall leave it to the reader to imagine the meeting between myself and my family. They had received notice of my coming, and were all waiting to receive me. If a man wishes to realize the agony which our American slave-trade inflicts in the separation of families, let him personally feel that separation, as I did; let him pass four years in the Washington jail. When committed to the prison, I was by no means well. I had been a good deal out of health, as appeared from the evidence on the trial, for two or three years before. Close confinement, or, indeed, confinement of any sort, does not agree with persons of my temperament; and I came out of the prison a good deal older, and much more of an invalid, than when I entered it. The reader, perhaps, will inquire what good was gained by all these sufferings of myself and my family--what satisfaction I can have, as it did not succeed, in looking back to an enterprise attended with so much risk, and which involved me in so long and tedious an imprisonment? The satisfaction that I have is this: What I did, and what I attempted to do, was my protest,--a protest which resounded from one end of the Union to the other, and which, I hope, by the dissemination of this, my narrative, to renew and repeat it,--it was my protest against the infamous and atrocious doctrine that there can be any such thing as property in man! We can only do according to our power, and the capacity, gifts and talents, that we have. Others, more fortunate than I, may record their protest against this wicked doctrine more safely and comfortably for themselves than I did. They may embody it in burning words and eloquent speeches; they may write it out in books; they may preach it in sermons. I could not do that. I have as many thoughts as another, but, for want of education, I lack the power to express them in speech or writing. I have not been able to put even this short narrative on paper without obtaining the assistance of a friend. I could not talk, I could not write; but I could act. The humblest, the most uneducated man can do that. I did act; and, by my actions, I protested that I did not believe that there was, or could be, any such thing as a right of property in human beings. Nobody in this country will admit, for a moment, that there can be any such thing as property in a white man. The institution of slavery could not last for a day, if the slaves were all white. But I do not see that because their complexions are different they are any the less men on that account. The doctrine I hold to, and which I desired to preach in a practical way, is the doctrine of Jefferson and Madison, that there cannot be property in man,--no, not even in black men. And the rage exerted against me on the part of the slave-holders grew entirely out of my preaching that doctrine. Actions, as everybody knows, speak louder than words. By virtue of my actions proclaiming my opinion on that subject, I became at once, powerless as I otherwise was, elevated, in the minds of the slave-holders, to the same high level with Mr. Giddings and Mr. Hale, who they could not help believing must have been my secret confederates. If I had believed, as the slave-holders do, that men can be owned; if I had really attempted, as they falsely and meanly charged me with doing, to steal; had I actually sought to appropriate men as property to my own use; had that been all, does anybody imagine that I should ever have been pursued with such persevering enmity and personal virulence? Do they get up a debate in Congress, and a riot in the city of Washington, every time a theft is committed or attempted in the District? It was purely because I was not a thief; because, in helping men, women and children, claimed as chattels, to escape, I bore my testimony against robbing human beings of their liberty; this was the very thing that excited the slave-holders against me, just as a strong anti-slavery speech excites them against Mr. Hale, or Mr. Giddings, or Mr. Mann, or Mr. Stunner. Those gentlemen have words at command; they can speak, and can do good service by doing so. As for me, it was impossible that I should ever be able to make myself heard in Congress, or by the nation at large, except in the way of action. The opportunity occurring, I did not hesitate to improve it; nor have I ever yet seen occasion to regret having done so. 
11552	----	images provided by the Library of Congress, Manuscript Division. [TR: ***] = Transcriber Note [HW: ***] = Handwritten Note SLAVE NARRATIVES A Folk History of Slavery in the United States From Interviews with Former Slaves TYPEWRITTEN RECORDS PREPARED BY THE FEDERAL WRITERS' PROJECT 1936-1938 ASSEMBLED BY THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS PROJECT WORK PROJECTS ADMINISTRATION FOR THE DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA SPONSORED BY THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS WASHINGTON 1941 VOLUME VIII MARYLAND NARRATIVES Prepared by the Federal Writers' Project of the Works Progress Administration for the State of Maryland INFORMANTS Brooks, Lucy [TR: and Lafayette Brooks] Coles, Charles Deane, James V. Fayman, Mrs. M.S. Foote, Thomas Gassaway, Menellis Hammond, Caroline Harris, Page Henson, Annie Young Jackson, Rev. Silas James, James Calhart James, Mary Moriah Anne Susanna Johnson, Phillip Jones, George Lewis, Alice Lewis, Perry Macks, Richard Randall, Tom Simms, Dennis Taylor, Jim Wiggins, James Williams, Rezin (Parson) [TR: Interviews were stamped at left side with state name, date, and interviewer's name. These stamps were often partially cut off. Where month could not be determined [--] substituted. Interviewers' names reconstructed from other, complete entries.] Maryland [--]-23-37 Guthrie AUNT LUCY [HW: BROOKS]. References: Interview with Aunt Lucy and her son, Lafayette Brooks. Aunt Lucy, an ex-slave, lives with her son, Lafayette Brooks, in a shack on the Carroll Inn Springs property at Forest Glen, Montgomery County, Md. To go to her home from Rockville, leave the Court House going east on Montgomery Ave. and follow US Highway No. 240, otherwise known as the Rockville Pike, in its southeasterly direction, four and one half miles to the junction with it on the left (east) of the Garrett Park Road. This junction is directly opposite the entrance to the Georgetown Preparatory School, which is on the west of this road. Turn left on the Garrett Park Road and follow it through that place and crossing Rock Creek go to Kensington. Here cross the tracks of the B.&O. R.R. and parallel them onward to Forest Glen. From the railroad station in this place go onward to Forest Glen. From the railroad station in this place go onward on the same road to the third lane branching off to the left. This lane will be identified by the sign "Carroll Springs Inn". Turn left here and enter the grounds of the inn. But do not go up in front of the inn itself which is one quarter of a mile from the road. Instead, where the drive swings to the right to go to the inn, bear to the left and continue downward fifty yards toward the swimming pool. Lucy's shack is on the left and one hundred feet west of the pool. It is about eleven miles from Rockville. Lucy is an usual type of Negro and most probably is a descendant of less remotely removed African ancestors than the average plantation Negroes. She does not appear to be a mixed blood--a good guess would be that she is pure blooded Senegambian. She is tall and very thin, and considering her evident great age, very erect, her head is very broad, overhanging ears, her forehead broad and not so receeding as that of the average. Her eyes are wide apart and are bright and keen. She has no defect in hearing. Following are some questions and her answers: "Lucy, did you belong to the Carrolls before the war?" "Nosah, I didne lib around heah den. Ise born don on de bay". "How old are you?" "Dunno sah. Miss Anne, she had it written down in her book, but she said twas too much trouble for her to be always lookin it up". (Her son, Lafayette, says he was her eldest child and that he was born on the Severn River, in Maryland, the 15th day of October, 1872. Supposing the mother was twenty-five years old then, she would be about ninety now. Some think she is more than a hundred years old). "Who did you belong to?" "I belonged to Missus Ann Garner". "Did she have many slaves?" "Yassuh. She had seventy-five left she hadnt sold when the war ended". "What kind of work did you have to do?" "O, she would set me to pickin up feathers round de yaird. She had a powerful lot of geese. Den when I got a little bigger she had me set the table. I was just a little gal then. Missus used to say that she was going to make a nurse outen me. Said she was gwine to sen me to Baltimo to learn to be a nurse". "And what did you think about that?" "Oh; I thought that would be fine, but he war came befo I got big enough to learn to be a nurse". "I remebers when the soldiers came. I think they were Yankee soldiers. De never hurt anybody but they took what they could find to eat and they made us cook for them. I remebers that me and some other lil gals had a play house, but when they came nigh I got skeered. I just ducked through a hole in the fence and ran out in the field. One of the soldiers seed me and he hollers 'look at that rat run'." "I remebers when the Great Eastern (steamship which laid the Atlantic cable) came into the bay. Missus Ann, and all the white folks went down to Fairhaven wharf to see dat big shep". "I stayed on de plantation awhile after de war and heped de Missus in de house. Den I went away". "Ise had eight chillun. Dey all died and thisun and his brother (referring to Lafayette). Den his brother died too. I said he ought ter died instid o his brother." "Why?" "Because thisun got so skeered when he was little bein carried on a hos that he los his speech and de wouldt let me see im for two days. It was a long time befor he learned to talk again". (To this day he has such an impediment of speech that it is painful to hear him make the effort to talk). "What did you have to eat down on the plantation, Aunt Lucy?" "I hab mostly clabber, fish and corn bread. We gets plenty of fish down on de bay". "When we cum up here we works in the ole Forest Glen hotel. Mistah Charley Keys owned the place then. We stayed there after Mr. Cassidy come. (Mr. Cassidy was the founder of the National Park Seminary, a school for girls). My son Lafayette worked there for thirty five years. Then we cum to Carroll Springs Inn". Maryland 11/15/37 Rogers CHARLES COLES, Ex-slave. Reference: Personal interview with Charles Coles at his home, 1106 Sterling St., Baltimore, Md. "I was born near Pisgah, a small village in the western part of Charles County, about 1851. I do not know who my parents were nor my relatives. I was reared on a large farm owned by a man by the name of Silas Dorsey, a fine Christian gentleman and a member of the Catholic Church. "Mr. Dorsey was a man of excellent reputation and character, was loved by all who knew him, black and white, especially his slaves. He was never known to be harsh or cruel to any of his slaves, of which he had more than 75. "The slaves were Mr. Dorsey's family group, he and his wife were very considerate in all their dealings. In the winter the slaves wore good heavy clothes and shoes and in summer they were dressed in fine clothes. "I have been told that the Dorseys' farm contained about 3500 acres, on which were 75 slaves. We had no overseers. Mr. and Mrs. Dorsey managed the farm. They required the farm hands to work from 7 A.M. to 6:00 P.M.; after that their time was their own. "There were no jails nor was any whipping done on the farm. No one was bought or sold. Mr. and Mrs. Dorsey conducted regular religious services of the Catholic church on the farm in a chapel erected for that purpose and in which the slaves were taught the catechism and some learned how to read and write and were assisted by some Catholic priests who came to the farm on church holidays and on Sundays for that purpose. When a child was born, it was baptised by the priest, and given names and they were recorded in the Bible. We were taught the rituals of the Catholic church and when any one died, the funeral was conducted by a priest, the corpse was buried in the Dorseys' graveyard, a lot of about 1-1/2 acres, surrounded by cedar trees and well cared for. The only difference in the graves was that the Dorsey people had marble markers and the slaves had plain stones. "I have never heard of any of the Dorseys' slaves running away. We did not have any trouble with the white people. "The slaves lived in good quarters, each house was weather-boarded and stripped to keep out the cold. I do not remember whether the slaves worked or not on Saturdays, but I know the holidays were their own. Mr. Dorsey did not have dances and other kinds of antics that you expected to find on other plantations. "We had many marbles and toys that poor children had, in that day my favorite game was marbles. "When we took sick Mr. and Mrs. Dorsey had a doctor who admistered to the slaves, giving medical care that they needed. I am still a Catholic and will always be a member of St. Peter Clavier Church." Maryland Sept. 20, 1937 Rogers JAMES V. DEANE, Ex-slave. Reference: Personal interview with James V. Deane, ex-slave, on Sept. 20, 1937, at his home, 1514 Druid Hill Ave., Baltimore. "My name is James V. Deane, son of John and Jane Deane, born at Goose Bay in Charles County, May 20, 1850. My mother was the daughter of Vincent Harrison, I do not know about my father's people. I have two sisters both of whom are living, Sarah and Elizabeth Ford. "I was born in a log cabin, a typical Charles County log cabin, at Goose Bay on the Potomac River. The plantation on which I was born fronted more than three miles on the river. The cabin had two rooms, one up and one down, very large with two windows, one in each room. There were no porches, over the door was a wide board to keep the rain and snow from beating over the top of the door, with a large log chimney on the outside, plastered between the logs, in which was a fireplace with an open grate to cook on and to put logs on the fire to heat. "We slept on a home-made bedstead, on which was a straw mattress and upon that was a feather mattress, on which we used quilts made by my mother to cover. "As a slave I worked on the farm with other small boys thinning corn, watching watermelon patches and later I worked in wheat and tobacco fields. The slaves never had nor earned any cash money. "Our food was very plain, such as fat hog meat, fish and vegetables raised on the farm and corn bread made up with salt and water. "Yes, I have hunted o'possums, and coons. The last time I went coon hunting, we treed something. It fell out of the tree, everybody took to their heels, white and colored, the white men outran the colored hunter, leading the gang. I never went hunting afterwards. "My choice food was fish and crabs cooked in all styles by mother. You have asked about gardens, yes, some slaves had small garden patches which they worked by moonlight. "As for clothes, we all wore home-made clothes, the material woven on the looms in the clothes house. In the winter we had woolen clothes and in summer our clothes were made from cast-off clothes and Kentucky jeans. Our shoes were brogans with brass tips. On Sunday we fed the stock, after which we did what we wanted. "I have seen many slave weddings, the master holding a broom handle, the groom jumping over it as a part of the wedding ceremony. When a slave married someone from another plantation, the master of the wife owned all the children. For the wedding the groom wore ordinary clothes, sometimes you could not tell the original outfit for the patches, and sometimes Kentucky jeans. The bride's trousseau, she would wear the cast-off clothes of the mistress, or, at other times the clothes made by other slaves. "It was said our plantation contained 10,000 acres. We had a large number of slaves, I do not know the number. Our work was hard, from sunup to sundown. The slaves were not whipped. "There was only one slave ever sold from the plantation, she was my aunt. The mistress slapped her one day, she struck her back. She was sold and taken south. We never saw or heard of her afterwards. "We went to the white Methodist church with slave gallery, only white preachers. We sang with the white people. The Methodists were christened and the Baptists were baptised. I have seen many colored funerals with no service. A graveyard on the place, only a wooden post to show where you were buried. "None of the slaves ran away. I have seen and heard many patrollers, but they never whipped any of Mason's slaves. The method of conveying news, you tell me and I tell you, but be careful, no troubles between whites and blacks. "After work was done, the slaves would smoke, sing, tell ghost stories and tales, dances, music, home-made fiddles. Saturday was work day like any other day. We had all legal holidays. Christmas morning we went to the big house and got presents and had a big time all day. "At corn shucking all the slaves from other plantations would come to the barn, the fiddler would sit on top of the highest barrel of corn, and play all kinds of songs, a barrel of cider, jug of whiskey, one man to dish out a drink of liquor each hour, cider when wanted. We had supper at twelve, roast pig for everybody, apple sauce, hominy, and corn bread. We went back to shucking. The carts from other farms would be there to haul it to the corn crib, dance would start after the corn was stored, we danced until daybreak. "The only games we played were marbles, mumble pegs and ring plays. We sang London Bridge. "When we wanted to meet at night we had an old conk, we blew that. We all would meet on the bank of the Potomac River and sing across the river to the slaves in Virginia, and they would sing back to us. "Some people say there are no ghosts, but I saw one and I am satisfied, I saw an old lady who was dead, she was only five feet from me, I met her face to face. She was a white woman, I knew her. I liked to tore the door off the hinges getting away. "My master's name was Thomas Mason, he was a man of weak mental disposition, his mother managed the affairs. He was kind. Mrs. Mason had a good disposition, she never permitted the slaves to be punished. The main house was very large with porches on three sides. No children, no overseer. "The poor white people in Charles County were worse off than the slaves; because they could not get any work to do, on the plantation, the slaves did all the work. "Some time ago you asked did I ever see slaves sold. I have seen slaves tied behind buggies going to Washington and some to Baltimore. "No one was taught to read. We were taught the Lord's Prayer and catechism. "When the slaves took sick Dr. Henry Mudd, the one who gave Booth first aid, was our doctor. The slaves had herbs of their own, and made their own salves. The only charms that were worn were made out of bones." Maryland 11/3/37 Rogers MRS. M.S. FAYMAN. Reference: Personal interview with Mrs. Fayman, at her home, Cherry Heights near Baltimore, Md. "I was born in St. Nazaire Parish in Louisiana, about 60 miles south of Baton Rouge, in 1850. My father and mother were Creoles, both of them were people of wealth and prestige in their day and considered very influential. My father's name was Henri de Sales and mother's maiden name, Marguerite Sanchez De Haryne. I had two brothers Henri and Jackson named after General Jackson, both of whom died quite young, leaving me the only living child. Both mother and father were born and reared in Louisiana. We lived in a large and spacious house surrounded by flowers and situated on a farm containing about 750 acres, on which we raised pelicans for sale in the market at New Orleans. "When I was about 5 years old I was sent to a private School in Baton Rouge, conducted by French sisters, where I stayed until I was kidnapped in 1860. At that time I did not know how to speak English; French was the language spoken in my household and by the people in the parish. "Baton Rouge, situated on the Mississippi, was a river port and stopping place for all large river boats, especially between New Orleans and large towns and cities north. We children were taken out by the sisters after school and on Saturdays and holidays to walk. One of the places we went was the wharf. One day in June and on a Saturday a large boat was at the wharf going north on the Mississippi River. We children were there. Somehow, I was separated from the other children. I was taken up bodily by a white man, carried on the boat, put in a cabin and kept there until we got to Louisville, Kentucky, where I was taken off. "After I arrived in Louisville I was taken to a farm near Frankfort and installed there virturally a slave until 1864, when I escaped through the kindness of a delightful Episcopalian woman from Cincinnati, Ohio. As I could not speak English, my chores were to act as a tutor and companion for the children of Pierce Buckran Haynes, a well known slave trader and plantation owner in Kentucky. Haynes wanted his children to speak French and it was my duty to teach them. I was the private companion of 3 girls and one small boy, each day I had to talk French and write French for them. They became very proficient in French and I in the rudiments of the English language. "I slept in the children's quarters with the Haynes' children, ate and played with them. I had all the privileges of the household accorded me with the exception of one, I never was taken off nor permitted to leave the plantation. While on the plantation I wore good clothes, similar to those of the white children. Haynes was a merciless brutal tyrant with his slaves, punishing them severly and cruelly both by the lash and in the jail on the plantation. "The name of the plantation where I was held as a slave was called Beatrice Manor, after the wife of Haynes. It contained 8000 acres, of which more than 6000 acres were under cultivation, and having about 350 colored slaves and 5 or 6 overseers all of whom were white. The overseers were the overlords of the manor; as Haynes dealt extensively in tobacco and trading in slaves, he was away from the plantation nearly all the time. There was located on the top of the large tobacco warehouse a large bell, which was rung at sun up, twelve o'clock and at sundown, the year round. On the farm the slaves were assigned a task to do each day and In the event it was not finished they were severely whipped. While I never saw a slave whipped, I did see them afterwards, they were very badly marked and striped by the overseers who did the whipping. "I have been back to the farm on several occasions, the first time in 1872 when I took my father there to show him the farm. At that time it was owned by Colonel Hawkins, a Confederate Army officer. "Let me describe the huts, these buildings were built of stone, each one about 20 feet wide, 50 feet long, 9 feet high in the rear, about 12 feet high In front, with a slanting roof of chestnut boards and with a sliding door, two windows between each door back and front about 2x4 feet, at each end a door and window similar to those on the side. There were ten such buildings, to each building there was another building 12x15 feet, this was where the cooking was done. At each end of each building there was a fire place built and used for heating purposes. In front of each building there were barrels filled with water supplied by pipes from a large spring, situated about 300 yards on the side of a hill which was very rocky, where the stones were quarried to build the buildings on the farm. On the outside near each window and door there were iron rings firmly attached to the walls, through which an iron rod was inserted and locked each end every night, making it impossible for those inside to escape. "There was one building used as a jail, built of stone about 20x40 feet with a hip roof about 25 feet high, 2-story. On the ground in each end was a fire place; in one end a small room, which was used as office; adjoining, there was another room where the whipping was done. To reach the second story there was built on the outside, steps leading to a door, through which the female prisoners were taken to the room. All of the buildings had dirt floors. "I do not know much about the Negroes on the plantation who were there at that time. Slaves were brought and taken away always chained together, men walking and women in ox carts. I had heard of several escapes and many were captured. One of the overseers had a pack of 6 or 8 trained blood hounds which were used to trace escaping slaves. "Before I close let me give you a sketch of my family tree. My grandmother was a Haitian Negress, grandfather a Frenchman. My father was a Creole. "After returning home in 1864, I completed my high school education in New Orleans in 1870, graduated from Fisk University 1874, taught French there until 1883, married Prof. Payman, teacher of history and English. Since then I have lived in Washington, New York, and Louisianna. For further information, write me c/o Y.W.C.A. (col.), Baltimore, to be forwarded". Maryland Dec. 16, 1937 Rogers THOMAS FOOTE'S STORY, A free Negro. Reference: Personal interview with Thomas Foote, at his home, Cockeysville, Md. "My mother's name was Eliza Foote and my father's name was Thomas Foote. Father and mother of a large family that was reared on a small farm about a mile east of Cockeysville, a village situated on the Northern Central Railroad 15 miles north of Baltimore City. "My mother's maiden name was Myers, a daughter of a free man of Baltimore County. In her younger days she was employed by Dr. Ensor, a homeopathic medical doctor of Cockeysville who was a noted doctor in his day. Mrs. Ensor, a very refined and cultured woman, taught her to read and write. My mother's duty along with her other work was to assist Dr. Ensor in the making of some of his medicine. In gaining practical experience and knowledge of different herbs and roots that Dr. Ensor used in the compounding of his medicine, used them for commercial purposes for herself among the slaves and free colored people of Baltimore County, especially of the Merrymans, Ridgelys, Roberts, Cockeys and Mayfields. Her fame reached as far south as Baltimore City and north of Baltimore as far as the Pennsylvania line and the surrounding territory. She was styled and called the doctor woman both by the slaves and the free people. She was suspected by the white people but confided in by the colored people both for their ills and their troubles. "My mother prescribed for her people and compounded medicine out of the same leaves, herbs and roots that Dr. Ensor did. Naturally her success along these lines was good. She also delivered many babies and acted as a midwife for the poor whites and the slaves and free Negroes of which there were a number in Baltimore County. "The colored people have always been religiously inclined, believed in the power of prayer and whenever she attended anyone she always preceeded with a prayer. Mother told me and I have heard her tell others hundreds of times, that one time a slave of old man Cockey was seen coming from her home early in the morning. He had been there for treatment of an ailment which Dr. Ensor had failed to cure. After being treated by my mother for a time, he got well. When this slave was searched, he had in his possession a small bag in which a stone of a peculiar shape and several roots were found. He said that mother had given it to him, and it had the power over all with whom it came in contact. "There were about this time a number of white people who had been going through Cockeysville, some trying to find out if there was any concerted move on the part of the slaves to run away, others contacting the free people to find out to what extent they had 'grape-vine' news of the action of the Negroes. The Negro who was seen coming from mother's home ran away. She was immediately accused of Voodooism by the whites of Cockeysville, she was taken to Towson jail, there confined and grilled by the sheriff of Baltimore County--the Cockeys, and several other men, all demanding that she tell where the escaped slave was. She knowing that the only way he could have escaped was by the York Road, north or south, the Northern Central Railroad or by the way of Deer Creek, a small creek east of Cockeysville. Both the York Road and the railroad were being watched, she logically thought that the only place was Deer Creek, so she told the sheriff to search Deer Creek. By accident he was found about eight miles up Deer Creek in a swamp with several other colored men who had run away. "Mother was ordered to leave Baltimore County or to be sold into slavery. She went to York, Pennsylvania, where she stayed until 1865, when she returned to her home in Cockeysville; where a great many of her descendants live, now, on a hill that slopes west to Cockeysville Station, and is known as Foote's Hill by both white and colored people of Baltimore County today. "I was born in Cockeysville in 1867, where I have lived since; reared a family of five children, three boys and two girls. I am a member of the A.M.E. Church at Cockeysville. I am a member of the Masonic Lodge and belong to Odd Fellows at Towson, Maryland. The Foote's descendants still own five or more homes at Cockeysville, and we are known from one end of the county to the other." Maryland Sept. 22, 1937 Rogers MENELLIS GASSAWAY, Ex-slave. Reference: Personal interview with Menellis Gassaway, ex-slave, on Sept. 22, 1937, at M.E. Home, Carrollton Ave., Baltimore. "My name is Menellis Gassaway, son of Owing and Annabel Gassaway. I was born in Freedom District, Carroll County, about 1850 or 52, brother of Henrietta, Menila and Villa. Our father and mother lived in Carroll County near Eldersberg in a stone and log cabin, consisting of two rooms, one up and one down, with four windows, two in each room, on a small farm situated on a public road, I don't know the name. "My father worked on a small farm with no other slaves, but our family. We raised on the farm vegetables and grain, consisting of corn and wheat. Our farm produced wheat and corn, which was taken to the grist mill to be ground; besides, we raised hogs and a small number of other stock for food. "During the time I was a slave and the short time it was, I can't remember what we wore or very much about local conditions. The people, that is the white people, were friendly with our family and other colored people so far as I can recall. "I do not recall of seeing slaves sold nor did the man who owned our family buy or sell slaves. He was a small man. "As to the farm, I do not know the size, but I know it was small. On the farm there was no jail, or punishment inflicted on Pap or Ma while they were there. "There was no church on the farm, but we were members of the old side Methodist church, having a colored preacher. The church was a long ways from the farm. "My father neglected his own education as well as his children. He could not read himself. He did not teach any of his children to read, of which we in later years saw the advantage. "In Carroll County there were so many people who were Union men that it was dangerous for whites in some places to say they were Rebels. This made the colored and white people very friendly. "Pap was given holidays when he wanted. I do not know whether he worked on Saturdays or not. On Sunday we went to church. "My father was owned by a man by the name of Mr. Dorsey. My mother was bound out by Mr. Dorsey to a man by the name of Mr. Morris of Frederick County. "I have never heard of many ghost stories. But I believe once, a conductor on the railroad train was killed and headed (beheaded), and after that, a ghost would appear on the spot where he was killed. Many people in the neighborhood saw him and people on the train often saw him when the train passed the spot where he was killed. "So far as being sick, we did not have any doctors. The poor white could not afford to hire one, and the colored doctored themselves with herbs, teas and salves made by themselves." Maryland [--] 11, 1938 Rogers CAROLINE HAMMOND, A fugitive. Interview at her home, 4710 Falls Road, Baltimore, Md. "I was born in Anne Arundel County near Davidsonville about 3 miles from South River in the year 1844. The daughter of a free man and a slave woman, who was owned by Thomas Davidson, a slave owner and farmer of Anne Arundel. He had a large farm and about 25 slaves on his farm all of whom lived in small huts with the exception of several of the household help who ate and slept in the manor house. My mother being one of the household slaves, enjoyed certain privileges that the farm slaves did not. She was the head cook of Mr. Davidson's household. "Mr. Davidson and his family were considered people of high social standing in Annapolis and the people in the county. Mr. Davidson entertained on a large scale, especially many of the officers of the Naval Academy at Annapolis and his friends from Baltimore. Mrs. Davidson's dishes were considered the finest, and to receive an invitation from the Davidsons meant that you would enjoy Maryland's finest terrapin and chicken besides the best wine and champagne on the market. "All of the cooking was supervised by mother, and the table was waited on by Uncle Billie, dressed in a uniform, decorated with brass buttons, braid and a fancy Test, his hands incased in white gloves. I can see him now, standing at the door, after he had rung the bell. When the family and guests came in he took his position behind Mr. Davidson ready to serve or to pass the plates, after they had been decorated with meats, fowl or whatever was to be eaten by the family or guest. "Mr. Davidson was very good to his slaves, treating them with every consideration that he could, with the exception of freeing them; but Mrs. Davidson was hard on all the slaves, whenever she had the opportunity, driving them at full speed when working, giving different food of a coarser grade and not much of it. She was the daughter of one of the Revells of the county, a family whose reputation was known all over Maryland for their brutality with their slaves. "Mother with the consent of Mr. Davidson, married George Berry, a free colored man of Annapolis with the proviso that he was to purchase mother within three years after marriage for $750 dollars and if any children were born they were to go with her. My father was a carpenter by trade, his services were much in demand. This gave him an opportunity to save money. Father often told me that he could save more than half of his income. He had plenty of work, doing repair and building, both for the white people and free colored people. Father paid Mr. Davidson for mother on the partial payment plan. He had paid up all but $40 on mother's account, when by accident Mr. Davidson was shot while ducking on the South River by one of the duck hunters, dying instantly. "Mrs. Davidson assumed full control of the farm and the slaves. When father wanted to pay off the balance due, $40.00, Mrs. Davidson refused to accept it, thus mother and I were to remain in slavery. Being a free man father had the privilege to go where he wanted to, provided he was endorsed by a white man who was known to the people and sheriffs, constables and officials of public conveyances. By bribery of the sheriff of Anne Arundel County father was given a passage to Baltimore for mother and me. On arriving in Baltimore, mother, father and I went to a white family on Ross Street--now Druid Hill Ave., where we were sheltered by the occupants, who were ardent supporters of the Underground Railroad. "A reward of $50.00 each was offered for my father, mother and me, one by Mrs. Davidson and the other by the Sheriff of Anne Arundel County. At this time the Hookstown Road was one of the main turnpikes into Baltimore. A Mr. Coleman whose brother-in-law lived in Pennsylvania, used a large covered wagon to transport merchandise from Baltimore to different villages along the turnpike to Hanover, Pa., where he lived. Mother and father and I were concealed in a large wagon drawn, by six horses. On our way to Pennsylvania, we never alighted on the ground in any community or close to any settlement, fearful of being apprehended by people who were always looking for rewards. "After arriving at Hanover, Pennsylvania, it was easy for us to get transportation farther north. They made their way to Scranton, Pennsylvania, in which place they both secured positions in the same family. Father and mother's salary combined was $27.50 per month. They stayed there until 1869. In the meantime I was being taught at a Quaker mission in Scranton. When we come to Baltimore I entered the 7th grade grammar school in South Baltimore. After finishing the grammar school, I followed cooking all my life before and after marriage. My husband James Berry, who waited at the Howard House, died in 1927--aged 84. On my next birthday, which will occur on the 22nd of November, I will be 95. I can see well, have an excellent appetite, but my grandchildren will let me eat only certain things that they say the doctor ordered I should eat. On Christmas Day 49 children and grandchildren and some great-grandchildren gave me a Xmas dinner and one hundred dollars for Xmas. I am happy with all the comforts of a poor person not dependant on any one else for tomorrow". Maryland Dec. 13, 1937 Rogers PAGE HARRIS, Ex-slave. Reference: Personal interview with Page Harris at his home, Camp Parole, A.A.C. Co., Md. "I was born in 1858 about 3 miles west of Chicamuxen near the Potomac River in Charles County on the farm of Burton Stafford, better known as Blood Hound Manor. This name was applied because Mr. Stafford raised and trained blood hounds to track runaway slaves and to sell to slaveholders of Maryland, Virginia and other southern states as far south as Mississippi and Louisiana. "My father's name was Sam and mother's Mary, both of whom belonged to the Staffords and were reared in Charles County. They reared a family of nine children, I being the oldest and the only one born a slave, the rest free. I think it was in 1859 or it might be 1860 when the Staffords liberated my parents, not because he believed in the freedom of slaves but because of saving the lives of his entire family. "Mrs. Stafford came from Prince William County, Virginia, a county on the west side of the Potomac River in Virginia. Mr. and Mrs. Stafford had a large rowboat that they used on the Potomac as a fishing and oyster boat as well as a transportation boat across the Potomac River to Quantico, a small town in Prince William County, Va., and up Quantico Creek in the same county. "I have been told by my parents and also by Joshua Stafford, the oldest son of Mr. Stafford, that one Sunday morning on the date as related in the story previously Mrs. Stafford and her 3 children were being rowed across the Potomac River to attend a Baptist church in Virginia of which she was a member. Suddenly a wind and a thunder storm arose causing the boat to capsize. My father was fishing from a log raft in the river, immediately went to their rescue. The wind blew the raft towards the centre of the stream and in line with the boat. He was able without assistance to save the whole family, diving into the river to rescue Mrs. Stafford after she had gone down. He pulled her on the raft and it was blown ashore with all aboard, but several miles down the stream. Everybody thought that the Staffords had been drowned as the boat floated to the shore, bottom upwards. "As a reward Mr. Stafford took my father to the court house at La Plata, the county seat of Charles County, signed papers for the emancipation of him, my mother, and me, besides giving him money to help him to take his family to Philadelphia. "I have a vague recollection of the Staffords' family, not enough to describe. They lived on a large farm situated in Charles County, a part bounding on the Potomac River and a cove that extends into the farm property. Much of the farm property was marshy and was suitable for the purpose of Mr. Stafford's living--raising and training blood hounds. I have been told by mother and father on many occasions that there were as many as a hundred dogs on the farm at times. Mr. Stafford had about 50 slaves on his farm. He had an original method in training young blood hounds, he would make one of the slaves traverse a course, at the end, the slave would climb a tree. The younger dogs led by an old dog, sometimes by several older dogs, would trail the slave until they reached the tree, then they would bark until taken away by the men who had charge of the dogs. "Mr. Stafford's dogs were often sought to apprehend runaway slaves. He would charge according to the value and worth of the slave captured. His dogs were often taken to Virginia, sometimes to North Carolina, besides being used in Maryland. I have been told that when a slave was captured, besides the reward paid in money, that each dog was supposed to bite the slave to make him anxious to hunt human beings. "There was a slaveholder in Charles County who had a very valuable slave, an expert carpenter and bricklayer, whose services were much sought after by the people in Southern Maryland. This slave could elude the best blood hounds in the State. It was always said that slaves, when they ran away, would try to go through a graveyard and if he or she could get dirt from the grave of some one that had been recently buried, sprinkle it behind them, the dogs could not follow the fleeing slave, and would howl and return home. "Old Pete the mechanic was working on farm near La Plata, he decided to run away as he had done on several previous occasions. He was known by some as the herb doctor and healer. He would not be punished on any condition nor would he work unless he was paid something. It was said that he would save money and give it to people who wanted to run away. He was charged with aiding a girl to flee. He was to be whipped by the sheriff of Charles County for aiding the girl to run away. He heard of it, left the night before he was to be whipped, he went to the swamp in the cove or about 5 miles from where his master lived. He eluded the dogs for several weeks, escaped, got to Boston and no one to this day has any idea how he did it; but he did. "In the year of 1866 my father returned to Maryland bringing with him mother and my brothers and sister. He selected Annapolis for his future home, where he secured work as a waiter at the Naval Academy, he continued there for more than 20 years. In the meantime after 1866 or 1868, when schools were opened for colored people, I went to a school that was established for colored children and taught by white teacher until I was about 17 years old, then I too worked at the Naval Academy waiting on the midshipmen. In those days you could make extra money, sometimes making more than your wages. About 1896 or '97 I purchased a farm near Camp Parole containing 120 acres, upon which I have lived since, raising a variety of vegetables for which Anne Arundel County is noted. I have been a member of Asbury Methodist Episcopal Church, Annapolis, for more than 40 years. All of my children, 5 in number, have grown to be men and women, one living home with me, one in New York, two in Baltimore, and one working in Washington, D.C." Maryland Sept. 27, 1937 Rogers ANNIE YOUNG HENSON, Ex-slave. Reference: Personal interview with Annie Young Henson, ex-slave, at African M.E. Home, 207 Aisquith St., Baltimore. "I was born in Northumberland County, Virginia, 86 years ago. Daughter of Mina and Tom Miller. I had one brother Feelingchin and two sisters, Mary and Matilda. Owned by Doctor Pressley Nellum. "The farm was called Traveler's Rest. The farm so named because a man once on a dark, cold and dreary night stopped there and asked for something to eat and lodging for the night; both of which was given and welcomed by the wayfarer. "The house being very spacious with porches on each side, situated on a high hill, with trees on the lawn giving homes to the birds and shade to the master, mistress and their guests where they could hear the chant of the lark or the melodious voices of the slaves humming some familiar tunes that suited their taste, as they worked. "Nearby was the slave quarters and the log cabin, where we lived, built about 25 feet from the other quarter. Our cabin was separate and distinct from the others. It contained two rooms, one up and one down, with a window in each room. This cabin was about 25 feet from the kitchen of the manor house, where the cooking was done by the kitchen help for the master, mistress and their guests, and from which each slave received his or her weekly ration, about 20 pounds of food each. "The food consisted of beef, hog meat, and lamb or mutton and of the kind of vegetables that we raised on the farm. "My position was second nurse for the doctor's family, or one of the inner servants of the family, not one of the field hands. In my position my clothes were made better, and better quality than the others, all made and arranged to suit the mistress' taste. I got a few things of femine dainty that was discarded by the mistress, but no money nor did I have any to spend. During my life as a slave I was whipped only once, and that was for a lie that was told on me by the first nurse who was jealous of my looks. I slept in the mistress' room in a bed that we pushed under the mistress' in the day or after I arose. "Old Master had special dogs to hunt opossum, rabbit, coons and birds, and men to go with them on the hunt. When we seined, other slave owners would send some of their slaves to join ours and we then dividing the spoils of the catch. "We had 60 slaves on the plantation, each family housed in a cabin built by the slaves for Nellums to accommodate the families according to the number. For clothes we had good clothes, as we raised sheep, we had our own wool, out of which we weaved our cloth, we called the cloth 'box and dice'. "In the winter the field slaves would shell corn, cut wood and thrash wheat and take care of the stock. We had our shoes made to order by the shoe maker. "My mistress was not as well off before she married the doctor as afterward. I was small or young during my slave days, I always heard my mistress married for money and social condition. She would tell us how she used to say before she was married, when she saw the doctor coming, 'here comes old Dr. Nellums'. Another friend she would say 'here comes cozen Auckney'. "We never had any overseers on the plantation, we had an old colored man by the name of Peter Taylor. His orders was law, if you wanted to please Mistress and Master, obey old Peter. "The farm was very large, the slaves worked from sunup to sundown, no one was harshly treated or punished. They were punished only when proven guilty of crime charged. "Our master never sold any slaves. We had a six-room house, where the slaves entertained and had them good times at nights and on holidays. We had no jail on the plantation. We were not taught to read or write, we were never told our age. "We went to the white church on Sunday, up in the slave gallery where the slaves worshipped sometimes. The gallery was overcrowded with ours and slaves from other plantations. My mistress told me that there was once an old colored man who attended, taking his seat up in the gallery directly over the pulpit, he had the habit of saying Amen. A member of the church said to him, 'John, if you don't stop hollowing Amen you can't come to church'; he got so full of the Holy Ghost he yelled out Amen upon a venture, the congregation was so tickled with him and at his antics that they told him to come when and as often as he wanted. "During my slave days only one slave ran away, he was my uncle, when the Yankees came to Virginia, he ran away with them. He was later captured by the sheriff and taken to the county jail. The Doctor went to the court house, after which we never heard nor saw my uncle afterwards. "I have seen and heard white-cappers, they whipped several colored men of other plantations, just prior to the soldiers drilling to go to war. "I remember well the day that Dr. Nellum, just as if it were yesterday, that we went to the court house to be set free. Dr. Nellum walked in front, 65 of us behind him. When we got there the sheriff asked him if they were his slaves. The Dr. said they were, but not now, after the papers were signed we all went back to the plantation. Some stayed there, others went away. I came to Baltimore and I have never been back since. I think I was about 17 or 18 years old when I came away. I worked for Mr. Marshall, a flour merchant, who lived on South Charles Street, getting $6.00 per month. I have been told by both white and colored people of Virginia who knew Dr. Nellum, he lost his mind." Maryland Sept. 29, 1937 Rogers REV. SILAS JACKSON, Ex-slave. Reference: Personal interview with Rev. Silas Jackson, ex-slave, at his home, 1630 N. Gilmor St., Baltimore. "I was born at or near Ashbie's Gap in Virginia, either in the year of 1846 or 47. I do not know which, but I will say I am 90 years of age. My father's name was Sling and mother's Sarah Louis. They were purchased by my master from a slave trader in Richmond, Virginia. My father was a man of large stature and my mother was tall and stately. They originally came from the Eastern Shore of Maryland, I think from the Legg estate, beyond that I do not know. I had three brothers and two sisters. My brothers older than I, and my sisters younger. Their names were Silas, Carter, Rap or Raymond, I do not remember; my sisters were Jane and Susie, both of whom are living in Virginia now. Only one I have ever seen and he came north with General Sherman, he died in 1925. He was a Baptist minister like myself. "The only things I know about my grandparents were: My grandfather ran away through the aid of Harriet Tubman and went to Philadelphia and saved $350, and purchased my grandmother through the aid of a Quaker or an Episcopal minister, I do not know. I have on several occasions tried to trace this part of my family's past history, but without success. "I was a large boy for my age, when I was nine years of age my task began and continued until 1864. You see _I saw and_ I was a slave. "In Virginia where I was, they raised tobacco, wheat, corn and farm products. I have had a taste of all the work on the farm, besides of digging and clearing up new ground to increase the acreage to the farm. We all had task work to do--men, women and boys. We began work on Monday and worked until Saturday. That day we were allowed to work for ourselves and to garden or to do extra work. When we could get work, or work on some one else's place, we got a pass from the overseer to go off the plantation, but to be back by nine o'clock on Saturday night or when cabin inspection was made. Some time we could earn as much as 50 cents a day, which we used to buy cakes, candies, or clothes. "On Saturday each slave was given 10 pounds corn meal, a quart of black strap, 6 pounds of fat back, 3 pounds of flour and vegetables, all of which were raised on the farm. All of the slaves hunted or those who wanted, hunted rabbits, opossums or fished. These were our choice food as we did not get anything special from the overseer. "Our food was cooked by our mothers or sisters and for those who were not married by the old women and men assigned for that work. "Each family was given 3 acres to raise their chickens or vegetables and if a man raised his own food he was given $10.00 at Christmas time extra, besides his presents. "In the summer or when warm weather came each slave was given something, the women, linsey goods or gingham clothes, the men overalls, muslin shirts, top and underclothes, two pair of shoes, and a straw hat to work in. In the cold weather, we wore woolen clothes, all made at the sewing cabin. "My master was named Tom Ashbie, a meaner man was never born in Virginia--brutal, wicked and hard. He always carried a cowhide with him. If he saw anyone doing something that did not suit his taste, he would have the slave tied to a tree, man or woman, and then would cowhide the victim until he got tired, or sometimes, the slave would faint. "The Ashbie's home was a large stone mansion, with a porch on three sides. Wide halls in the center up and down stairs, numerous rooms and a stone kitchen built on the back connected with dining room. "Mrs. Ashbie was kind and lovely to her slaves when Mr. Ashbie was out. The Ashbies did not have any children of their own, but they had boys and girls of his own sister and they were much like him, they had maids or private waiter for the young men if they wanted them. "I have heard it said by people in authority, Tom Ashbie owned 9000 acres of farm land besides of wood land. He was a large slave owner having more than 100 slaves on his farm. They were awakened by blowing of the horn before sunrise by the overseer, started work at sunrise and worked all day to sundown, with not time to go to the cabin for dinner, you carried your dinner with you. The slaves were driven at top speed and whipped at the snap of the finger, by the overseers, we had four overseers on the farm all hired white men. "I have seen men beaten until they dropped in their tracks or knocked over by clubs, women stripped down to their waist and cowhided. "I have heard it said that Tom Ashbie's father went to one of the cabins late at night, the slaves were having a secret prayer meeting. He heard one slave ask God to change the heart of his master and deliver him from slavery so that he may enjoy freedom. Before the next day the man disappeared, no one ever seeing him again; but after that down in the swamp at certain times of the moon, you could hear the man who prayed in the cabin praying. When old man Ashbie died, just before he died he told the white Baptist minister, that he had killed Zeek for praying and that he was going to hell. "There was a stone building on the farm, it is there today. I saw it this summer while visiting in Virginia. The old jail, it is now used as a garage. Downstairs there were two rooms, one where some of the whipping was done, and the other used by the overseer. Upstairs was used for women and girls. The iron bars have coroded, but you can see where they were. I have never seen slaves sold on the farm, but I have seen them taken away, and brought there. Several times I have seen slaves chained taken away and chained when they came. "No one on the place was taught to read or write. On Sunday the slaves who wanted to worship would gather at one of the large cabins with one of the overseers present and have their church. After which the overseer would talk. When communion was given the overseer was paid for staying there with half of the collection taken up, some time he would get 25¢. No one could read the Bible. Sandy Jasper, Mr. Ashbie's coachman was the preacher, he would go to the white Baptist church on Sunday with family and would be better informed because he heard the white preacher. "Twice each year, after harvest and after New Year's, the slaves would have their protracted meeting or their revival and after each closing they would baptize in the creek, sometimes in the winter they would break the ice singing _Going to the Water_ or some other hymn of that nature. And at each funeral, the Ashbies would attend the service conducted in the cabin there the deceased was, from there taken to the slave graveyard. A lot dedicated for that purpose, situated about 3/4 of a mile from cabins near a hill. "There were a number of slaves on our plantation who ran away, some were captured and sold to a Georgia trader, others who were never captured. To intimidate the slaves, the overseers were connected with the patrollers, not only to watch our slaves, but sometimes for the rewards for other slaves who had run away from other plantations. This feature caused a great deal of trouble between the whites and blacks. In 1858 two white men were murdered near Warrenton on the road by colored people, it was never known whether by free people or slaves. "When work was done the slaves retired to their cabins, some played games, others cooked or rested or did what they wanted. We did not work on Saturdays unless harvest times, then Saturdays were days of work. At other times, on Saturdays you were at leisure to do what you wanted. On Christmas day Mr. Ashbie would call all the slaves together, give them presents, money, after which they spent the day as they liked. On New Year's day we all were scared, that was the time for selling, buying and trading slaves. We did not know who was to go or come. "I do not remember of playing any particular game, my sport was fishing. You see I do not believe in ghost stories nor voodooism, I have nothing to say. We boys used to take the horns of a dead cow or bull, cut the end off of it, we could blow it, some having different notes. We could tell who was blowing and from what plantation. "When a slave took sick she or he would have to depend on herbs, salves or other remedies prepared by someone who knew the medicinal value. When a valuable hand took sick one of the overseers would go to Upper Ville for a doctor." Maryland [--]-20-37 Rogers JAMES CALHART JAMES, Ex-slave. Reference: Personal interview with James Calhart James, ex-slave, at his home, 2460 Druid Hill Ave., Baltimore. "My father's name was Franklin Pearce Randolph of Virginia, a descendant of the Randolphs of Virginia who migrated to South Carolina and located near Fort Sumter, the fort that was surrendered to the Confederates in 1851 or the beginning of the Civil War. My mother's name was Lottie Virginia James, daughter of an Indian and a slave woman, born on the Rapidan River in Virginia about 1823 or 24, I do not know which; she was a woman of fine features and very light in complexion with beautiful, long black hair. She was purchased by her master and taken to South Carolina when about 15 years old. She was the private maid of Mrs. Randolph until she died and then continued as housekeeper for her master, while there and in that capacity I was born on the Randolph's plantation August 23, 1846. I was a half brother to the children of the Randolphs, four in number. After I was born mother and I lived in the servants' quarters of the big house enjoying many pleasures that the other slaves did not: eating and sleeping in the big house, playing and associating with my half-brothers and sisters. "As for my ancestors I have no recollection of them, the history of the Randolphs in Virginia is my background. "My father told mother when I became of age, he was going to free me, send me north to be educated, but instead I was emancipated. During my slave days my father gave me money and good clothes to wear. I bought toys and games. "My clothes were good both winter and summer and according to the weather. "My master was my father; he was kind to me but hard on the field hands who worked in the rice fields. My mistress died before I was born. There were 3 girls and one boy, they treated me fairly good--at first or when I was small or until they realised their father was my father, then they hated me. We lived in a large white frame house containing about 15 rooms with every luxury of that day, my father being very rich. "I have heard the Randolph plantation contained about 4000 acres and about 300 slaves. We had white overseers on the plantation, they worked hard producing rice on a very large scale, and late and early. I know they were severely punished, especially for not producing the amount of work assigned them or for things that the overseers thought they should be punished for. "We had a jail over the rice barn where the slaves were confined, especially on Sundays, as punishment for things done during the week. "I could read and write when I was 12 years old. I was taught by. the teacher who was the governess for the Randolph children. Mother could also read and write. There was no church on the plantation; the slaves attended church on the next plantation, where the owner had a large slave church, he was a Baptist preacher, I attended the white church with the Randolph children. I was generally known and called Jim Randolph. I was baptised by the white Baptist minister and christened by a Methodist minister. "There was little trouble between the white and blacks, you see I was one of the children of the house, I never came in contact much with other slaves. I was told that the slaves had a drink that was made of corn and rice which they drank. The overseers sometimes themselves drank it very freely. On holidays and Sundays the slaves had their times, and I never knew any difference as I was treated well by my father and did not associate with the other slaves. "In the year of 1865, I left South Carolina, went to Washington, entered Howard University 1868, graduated in 1873, taught schools in Virginia, North Carolina and Maryland, retired 1910. Since then I have been connected with A.M.E. educational board. Now I am home with my granddaughter, a life well spent. "One of the songs sung by the slaves on the plantation I can remember a part of it. They sang it with great feeling of happiness---- Oh where shall we go when de great day comes An' de blowing of de trumpets and de bangins of de drums When General Sherman comes. No more rice and cotton fields We will hear no more crying Old master will be sighing. "I can't remember the tune, people sang it according to their own tune." Maryland Sept. 23, 1937 Rogers MARY MORIAH ANNE SUSANNA JAMES, Ex-slave. Reference: Personal interview with Mary James, ex-slave, Sept. 23, 1937, at her home, 618 Haw St., Baltimore, Md. "My father's name was Caleb Harris James, and my mother's name was Mary Moriah. Both of them were owned by Silas Thornton Randorph, a distant relative of Patrick Henry. I have seen the picture of Patrick Henry many a time in the home place on the library wall. I had three sisters and two brothers. Two of my sisters were sold to a slave dealer from Georgia, one died in 1870. One brother ran away and the other joined the Union Army; he died in the Soldiers' Home in Washington in 1932 at the age of 84. "How let me ask you, who told you about me? I knew that a stranger was coming, my nose has been itching for several days. How about my home life in Virginia, we lived on the James River in Virginia, on a farm containing more than 8,000 acres, fronting 3-1/2 miles on the river, with a landing where boats used to come to load tobacco and unload goods for the farm. "The quarters where we lived on the plantation called Randolph Manor were built like horse stables that you see on race tracks; they were 1-1/2 story high, about 25 feet wide, and about 75 feet long, with windows in the sides of the roofs. A long shelter on the front and at the rear. In front, people would have benches to sit on, and on the back were nails to hang pots and pans. Each family would have rooms according to the size of the family. There were 8 such houses, 6 for families and one for the girls and the other for the boys. In the quarters we had furniture made by the overseer and colored carpenters; they would make the tables, benches and beds for everybody. Our beds were ticking filled with straw and covers made of anything we could get. "I have a faint recollection of my grandparents. My grandfather was sold to a man in South Carolina, to work in the rice field. Grandmother drowned herself in the river when she heard that grand-pap was going away. I was told that grandpap was sold because he got religious and prayed that God would set him and grandma free. "When I was ten years old I was put to work on the farm with other children, picking weeds, stone up and tobacco worms and to do other work. We all got new shoes for Christmas, a dress and $2.50 for Christmas or suits of clothes. We spent our money at Mr. Randorph's store for things that we wanted, but was punished if the money was spent at the county seat at other stores. "We were allowed fat meat, corn meal, black molasses and vegetables, corn and grain to roast for coffee. Mother cooked my food after stopping work on the farm for the day, I never ate possum. We would catch rabbits in guns or traps and as we lived on the rivers, we ate any kind of fish we caught. The men and everybody would go fishing after work. Each family had a garden, we raised what we wanted. "As near as I can recall, we had about 150 sheep on the farm, producing our own wool. The old women weaved clothes; we had woolen clothes in the winter and cotton clothes in the summer. On Sunday we wore the clothes given to us at Christmas time and shoes likewise. "I was married on the farm 1863 and married my same husband by a Baptist preacher in 1870 as I was told I had not been legally married. I was married in the dress given to me at Christmas of 1862. I did not get one in 1863. "Old Silas Randolph was a mean man to his slaves, especially when drunk. He and the overseer would always be together, each of whom carried a whip, and upon the least provocation would whip his slaves. My mistress was not as mean as my master, but she was mean There was only one son in the Randolph family. He went to a military school somewhere in Virginia. I don't know the name. He was captured by the Union soldiers. I never saw him until after the war, when he came home with one arm. "The overseer lived on the farm. He was the brother of Mrs. Randolph. He would whip men and women and children if he thought they were not working fast. "The plantation house was a large brick house over-looking the river from a hill, a porch on three sides, two-stories and attic. In the attic slept the house servants and coachman. We did not come in contact with the white people very much. Our place was away from the village. "There were 8,000 acres to the plantation, with more than 150 slaves on it. I do not know the time slaves woke up, but everybody was at work at sunrise and worked to sundown. The slaves were whipped for not working fast or anything that suited the fancy of the master or overseer. "I have seen slaves sold on the farm and I have seen slaves brought to the farm. The slaves were brought up the river in boats and unloaded at the landing, some crying and some seem to be happy. "No one was taught to read or write. There was no church on the farm. No one was allowed to read the Bible or anything else. "I have heard it said that the Randolph's lost more slaves by running away than anyone in the county. The patrollers were many in the county; they would whip any colored person caught off the place after night. Whenever a man wanted to run away he would go with someone else, either from the farm or from some other farm, hiding in the swamps or along the river, making their way to some place where they thought would be safe, sometimes hiding on trains leaving Virginia. "The slaves, after going to their quarters, cooked, rested or did what they wanted. Saturdays was no different from Monday. "On Christmas morning all the slaves would go up to the porch, get the $2.50, shoes and clothes, go back to the cabins and do what they wanted. "On New Year's Day everybody was scared as that was the day that slaves were taken away or brought to the farm. "You have asked about stories, I will tell you one I know. It is true. "During the war one day some Union soldiers came to the farm looking for Rebels. There were a number of them in the woods near the landing; they had come across the river in boats. At night while the Union soldiers were at the landing, they were fired on by the Rebels. The Union soldiers went after them, killed ten, caught I think six and some were drowned in the river. Among the six was the overseer, and from that night people have heard shooting and seen soldiers. One night many years after the Civil War, while visiting a friend who now lives within 500 feet from the landing where the fighting took place, there appeared some soldiers carrying a man out of the woods whom I recognized as being the overseer. He had been seen hundreds of times by other people. White people will tell you the same thing. I will tell you for sure this is true. "You must excuse me I wanted to see some friends this evening." Maryland 9/14/37 Guthrie PHILLIP JOHNSON, An Ex-Slave. Ref: Phillip Johnson, R.F.D. Poolesville, Md. The subject of this sketch is a pure blooded Negro, whose kinky hair is now white, likewise his scraggy beard. He is of medium size and somewhat stooped with age, but still active enough to plant and tend a patch of corn and the chores about his little place at Sugarlands. His home is a small cabin with one or two rooms upstairs and three down, including the kitchen which is a leanto. The cabin is in great disrepair. Phillip John is above the average in intelligence, has some education and is quite well versed in the Holy Scriptures, having been for many years a Methodist preacher among his people. He uses fairly good English and freely talks in answer to questions. Without giving the questions put to him by this writer, his remarks given in the first person and as near his own idiom are as follows: "I'll be ninety years old next December. I dunno the day. My Missis had the colored folks ages written in a book but it was destroyed when the Confederate soldiers came through. But she had a son born two or three months younger than me and she remember that I was born in December, 1847, but she had forgot the day of the month. "I was born down on the river bottom about four miles below Edwards' Ferry, on the Eight Mile Level, between Edwards' Ferry and Seneca. I belonged to ole Doctah White. He owned a lot o' lan down on de bottom. I dunno his first name. Everybody called him Doctah White. Yes, he was related to Doctah Elijah White. All the Whites in Montgomery County is related. Yes sah, Doctah White was good to his slaves. Yes sah, he had many slaves. I dunno how many. My Missis took me away from de bottom when I was a little boy, 'cause de overseer he was so cruel to me. Yes sah he was _mean_. I promised him a killin if ever I got big enough. "We all liked the Missis. Everybody in dem days used to ride horseback. She would come ridin her horse down to de bottom with a great big basket of biscuits. We thought they were fine. We all glad to see de Missis a comin. We always had plenty to eat, such as it was. We had coarse food but there was plenty of it. "The white folks made our clothes for us. They made linsey for the woman and woolen cloth for de men. They gave clothes sufficient to keep em warm. The men had wool clothes with brass buttons that had shanks on em. They looked good when they were new. They had better clothes then than most of us have now. "They raised mostly corn an oats an wheat down on de river bottom in those days. They didn't raise tobacco. But I've heard say that they used to raise it long before I was born. They cut grain with cradles in dem days. They had a lot 'o men and would slay a lot 'o wheat in a day. It was pretty work to see four or five cradlers in a field and others following them raking the wheat in bunches and others following binding them in bundles. The first reapers that came were called Dorsey reapers. They cut the grain and bunched it. It was then bound by hand. "When my Missis took me away from the river bottom I lived in Poolesville where the Kohlhoss home and garage is. I worked around the house and garden. I remember when the Yankee and Confederate soldiers both came to Poolesville. Capn Sam White (son of the doctor) he join the Confederate in Virginia. He come home and say he goin to take me along back with him for to serve him. But the Yankees came and he left very sudden and leave me behind. I was glad I didn't have to go with him. I saw all that fightin around Poolesville. I used to like to watch em fightin. I saw a Yankee soldier shoot a Confederate and kill him. He raised his gun twice to shoot but he kept dodgin around the house an he didn' want to shoot when he might hit someone else. When he ran from the house he shot him. "Yes sah, them Confederates done more things around here than the Yankees did. I remember once during the war they came to town. It was Sunday morning an I was sittin in the gallery of the ole brick Methodist church. One of them came to de door and he pointed his pistol right at that preacher's head. The gallery had an outside stairs then. I ran to de door to go down de stairs but there was another un there pointing his gun and they say don't nobody leave dis building. The others they was a cleanin up all the hosses and wagons round the church. The one who was guarding de stairs, he kept a lookin to see if dey was done cleaning up de hosses, and when he wasn't watching I slip half way down de stairs, an when he turn his back I jump down and run. When he looks he jus laugh. "My father he lived to be eighty nine. He died right here in this house and he's buried over by the church. His name was Sam. They called my mother Willie Ann. She died when I was small. I had three brothers and one sister. My father married again and had seven or eight other children. "I've had eleven children; five livin, six dead. I've been preaching for forty years and I have seen many souls saved. I don't preach regular anymore but once in a while I do. I have preached in all these little churches around here. I preached six years at Sugar Loaf Mountain. The presidin elder he wants me to go there. The man that had left there jus tore that church up. I went up there one Sunday and I didn't see anything that I could do. I think I'm not able for this. I said they needs a more experienced preacher than me. But the presidin elder keeps after me to go there and I says, well, I go for one year. Next thing it was the same thing. I stays on another year and so on for six years. When I left there that church was in pretty good shape. "I think preaching the gospel is the greatest work in the world. But folks don't seem to take the interest in church that they used to." Maryland Sept. 30, 1937 Rogers GEORGE JONES, Ex-slave. Reference: Personal interview with George Jones, Ex-slave, at African M.E. Home, 207 Aisquith St., Baltimore. "I was born in Frederick County, Maryland, 84 years ago or 1853. My father's name was Henry and mother's Jane; brothers Dave, Joe, Henry, John and sisters Annie and Josephine. I know my father and mother were slaves, but I do not recall to whom they belonged. I remember my grandparents. "My father used to tell me how he would hide in the hay stacks at night, because he was whipped and treated badly by his master who was rough and hard-boiled on his slaves. Many a time the owner of the slaves and farm would come to the cabins late at night to catch the slaves in their dingy little hovels, which were constructed in cabin fashion and of stone and logs with their typical windows and rooms of one room up and one down with a window in each, the fireplaces built to heat and cook for occupants. "The farm was like all other farms in Frederick County, raising grain, such as corn, wheat and fruit and on which work was seasonable, depending upon the weather, some seasons producing more and some less. When the season was good for the crop and crops plentiful, we had a little money as the plantation owner gave us some to spend. "When hunting came, especially in the fall and winter, the weather was cold, I have often heard say father speak of rabbit, opossum and coon hunting and his dogs. You know in Frederick County there are plenty of woods, streams and places to hunt, giving homes and hiding places for such game. "We dressed to meet the weather condition and wore shoes to suit rough traveling through woods and up and down the hills of the country. "In my boyhood days, my father never spoke much of my master, only in the term I have expressed before, or the children, church, the poor white people in the neighborhood or the farm, their mode of living, social condition. I will say this in conclusion, the white people of Frederick County as a whole were kind towards the colored people and are today, very little race friction one way or the other." Ellen B. Warfield May 18, 1937 ALICE LEWIS. (Alice Lewis, ex-slave, 84, years old, in charge of sewing-room at Provident Hospital (Negro), Baltimore. Tall, slender, erect, her head crowned by abundant snow white wool, with a fine carriage and an air of poise mud self respect good to behold, Alice belies her 84 years.) "Yes'm, I was born in slavery, I don't look it, but I was! Way down in Wilkes County, Georgia, nigh to a little town named Washington which ain't so far from Augusta. My pappy, he belong to the Alexanders, and my mammy, she belong to the Wakefiel' plantation and we all live with the Wakefiel's. No _ma'am_, none of the Wakefiel' niggers ever run away. They was too well off! They knew who they friends was! _My_ white folkses was good to their niggers! Them was the days when we had good food and it didn't cost nothing--chickens and hogs and garden truck. Saturdays was the day we got our 'lowance for the week, and lemme tell you, they didn't stint us none. The best in the land was what we had, jest what the white folkses had. "Clothes? yes'm. We had two suits of clothes, a winter suit and a summer suit and two pairs of shoes, a winter pair and a summer pair. Yes'm, my mammy, she spin the cotton, yes'm picked right on the plantation, yes'm, cotton picking was fun, believe me! As I was saying, Mammy she spin and she wears the cloth, and she cut it out and she make our clothes. That's where I git my taste to sew, I reckon. When I first come to Baltimore, I done dressmaking, 'deed I did. I sewed for the best fam'lies in this yere town. I sewed for the Howards and the Slingluffs and the Jenkinses. Jest the other day, I met Miss C'milla down town and she say. 'Alice, ain' this you? and I say, 'Law me, Miss C'milla', and 'she say, 'Alice, why don' you come to see Mother? She ain' been so well--she love to see you....' "Well, as I was a saying, we didn't work so hard, them days. We got up early, 'cause the fires had to be lighted to make the house warm for the white folks, but in them days, dinner was in the middle of the day--the quality had theirs at twelve o'clock--and they had a light supper at five and when we was through, we was through, and free to go the quarters and set around and smoke a pipe and rest. "Yes'm they taught us to read and write. Sunday afternoons, my young mistresses used to teach the pickaninnies to read the Bible. Yes'm we was free to go to see the niggers on other plantations but we had to have a pass an' we was checked in an' out. No'm, I ain't never seen no slaves sold, nor none in chains, and I ain't never seen no Ku Kluxers. "I live with the Wakefiel's till I was 'leven and then Marse Wakefiel' give me to my young mistress when she married and went to North Carolina to live. And 'twas in North Carolina that I seed Sherman, 'deed I did! I seed Sherman and his sojers, gathering up all the hogs and all the hosses, and all the cows and all the little cullud chillen. Them was drefful days! These is drefful days, too. Old man Satan, he sure am on earth now. "Yes'm, I believes in ghos'ses. I ain't never seed 'em but I is feel 'em. I live once in a house where a man was killed. I lie in my bed and they close in on me! No'm, I ain't afraid. The landlord say when I move out, 'you is stay there longer than anybody I ever had.' 'Nother house I live in (this was in North Carolina too), it had been a gamblin' house and it had hants. On rainy nights, I'd lie awake and hear "drip, drip ... drip, drip...." What was that? Why, that was the blood a dripping ... Why on rainy night? Why, on rainy nights, the blood gets a little fresh...!" Maryland Sept. 4, 1937 Rogers PERRY LEWIS, Ex-slave. Reference: Personal interview with Perry Lewis, ex-slave, at his home, 1124 E. Lexington St., Baltimore. "I was born on Kent Island, Md. about 86 years ago. My father's name was Henry and mother's Louise. I had one brother John, who was killed in the Civil War at the Deep Bottom, one sister as I can remember. My father was a freeman and my mother a slave, owned by Thomas Tolson, who owned a small farm on which I was born in a log cabin, with two rooms, one up and one down. "As you know the mother was the owner of the children that she brought into the world. Mother being a slave made me a slave. She cooked and worked on the farm, ate whatever was in the farmhouse and did her share of work to keep and maintain the Tolsons. They being poor, not having a large place or a number of slaves to increase their wealth, made them little above the free colored people and with no knowledge, they could not teach me or any one else to read. "You know the Eastern Shore of Maryland was in the most productive slave territory and where farming was done on a large scale; and in that part of Maryland where there were many poor people and many of whom were employed as overseers, you naturally heard of patrollers and we had them and many of them. I have heard that patrollers were on Kent Island and the colored people would go out in the country on the roads, create a disturbance to attract the patrollers' attention. They would tie ropes and grape vines across the roads, so when the patrollers would come to the scene of the disturbance on horseback and at full tilt, they would be throwing those who would come in contact with the rope or vine off the horse; sometimes badly injuring the riders. This would create hatred between the slaves, the free people, the patrollers and other white people who were concerned. "In my childhood days I played marbles, this was the only game I remember playing. As I was on a small farm, we did not come in contact much with other children, and heard no children's songs. I therefore do not recall the songs we sang. "I do not remember being sick but I have heard mother say, when she or her children were sick, the white doctor who attended the Tolsons treated us and the only herbs I can recall were life-everlasting boneset and woodditney, from each of which a tea could be made. "This is about all I can recall." Maryland Sept. 7, 1937 Rogers RICHARD MACKS, Ex-slave. Reference: Personal interview with Richard Macks, ex-slave, at his home, 541 W. Biddle St., Baltimore. "I was born in Charles County in Southern Maryland in the year of 1844. My father's name was William (Bill) and Mother's Harriet Mack, both of whom were born and reared in Charles County--the county that James Wilkes Booth took refuge in after the assassination of President Lincoln in 1865. I had one sister named Jenny and no brothers: let me say right here it was God's blessing I did not. Near Bryantown, a county center prior to the Civil War as a market for tobacco, grain and market for slaves. "In Bryantown there were several stores, two or three taverns or inns which were well known in their days for their hospitality to their guests and arrangements to house slaves. There were two inns both of which had long sheds, strongly built with cells downstairs for men and a large room above for women. At night the slave traders would bring their charges to the inns, pay for their meals, which were served on a long table in the shed, then afterwards, they were locked up for the night. "I lived with my mother, father and sister in a log cabin built of log and mud, having two rooms; one with a dirt floor and the other above, each room having two windows, but no glass. On a large farm or plantation owned by an old maid by the name of Sally McPherson on McPherson Farm. "As a small boy and later on, until I was emancipated, I worked on the farm doing farm work, principally in the tobacco fields and in the woods cutting timber and firewood. I slept on a home-made bed or bunk, while my mother and sister slept in a bed made by father on which they had a mattress made by themselves and filled with straw, while dad slept on a bench beside the bed and that he used in the day as a work bench, mending shoes for the slaves and others. I have seen mother going to the fields each day like other slaves to do her part of the farming. I being considered as one of the household employees, my work was both in the field and around the stable, giving me an opportunity to meet people some of whom gave me a few pennies. By this method I earned some money which I gave to my mother. I once found a gold dollar, that was the first dollar I ever had in my life. "We had nothing to eat but corn bread baked in ashes, fat back and vegetables raised on the farm; no ham or any other choice meats; and fish we caught out of the creeks and streams. "My father had some very fine dogs; we hunted coons, rabbits and opossum. Our best dog was named Ruler, he would take your hat off. If my father said: 'Ruler, take his hat off!', he would jump up and grab your hat. "We had a section of the farm that the slaves were allowed to farm for themselves, my mistress would let them raise extra food for their own use at nights. My father was the colored overseer, he had charge of the entire plantation and continued until he was too old to work, then mother's brother took it over, his name was Caleb. "When I was a boy, I saw slaves going through and to Bryansville town. Some would be chained, some handcuffed, and others not. These slaves were bought up from time to time to be auctioned off or sold at Bryantown, to go to other farms, in Maryland, or shipped south. "The slave traders would buy young and able farm men and well-developed young girls with fine physiques to barter and sell. They would bring them to the taverns where there would be the buyers and traders, display them and offer them for sale. At one of these gatherings a colored girl, a mulatto of fine stature and good looks, was put on sale. She was of high spirits and determined disposition. At night she was taken by the trader to his room to satisfy his bestial nature. She could not be coerced or forced by him [TR: 'by him' lined out] so she was attacked by him. In the struggle she grabbed a knife and with it, she sterilized[HW:?] him and from the result of injury he died the next day. She was charged with murder. Gen. Butler, hearing of it, sent troops to Charles County to protect her, they brought her to Baltimore, later she was taken to Washington where she was set free. She married a Government employe, reared a family of 3 children, one is a doctor practicing medicine in Baltimore and the other a retired school teacher, you know him well if I were to tell you who the doctor is. This attack was the result of being goodlooking, for which many a poor girl in Charles County paid the price. There are several cases I could mention, but they are distasteful to me. "A certain slave would not permit this owner to whip him, who with overseer and several others overpowered the slave, tied him, put him across a hogshead and whipped him severely for three mornings in succession. Some one notified the magistrate at Bryantown of the brutality. He interfered in the treatment of this slave, threatening punishment. He was untied, he ran away, was caught by the constable, returned to his owner, melted sealing wax was poured over his back on the wounds inflicted by him, when whipping, the slave ran away again and never was caught. "There was a doctor in the neighborhood who bought a girl and installed her on the place for his own use, his wife hearing of it severely beat her. One day her little child was playing in the yard. It fell head down in a post hole filled with water and drowned. His wife left him; afterward she said it was an affliction put on her husband for his sins. "During hot weather we wore thin woolen clothes, the material being made on the farm from the wool of our sheep, in the winter we wore thicker clothes made on the farm by slaves, and for shoes our measures were taken of each slave with a stick, they were brought to Baltimore by the old mistress at the beginning of each season, if she or the one who did the measuring got the shoe too short or too small you had to wear it or go barefooted. "We were never taught to read or write by white people. "We had to go to the white church, sit in the rear, many times on the floor or stand up. We had a colored preacher, he would walk 10 miles, then walk back. I was not a member of church. We had no baptising, we were christened by the white preacher. "We had a graveyard on the place. Whites were buried inside of railing and the slaves on the outside. The members of the white family had tombstones, the colored had headstones and cedar post to show where they were buried. "In Charles County and in fact all of Southern Maryland tobacco was raised on a large scale. Men, women and children had to work hard to produce the required crops. The slaves did the work and they were driven at full speed sometimes by the owners and others by both owner and overseers. The slaves would run away from the farms whenever they had a chance, some were returned and others getting away. This made it very profitable to white men and constables to capture the runaways. This caused trouble between the colored people and whites, especially the free people, as some of them would be taken for slaves. I had heard of several killings resulting from fights at night. "One time a slave ran away and was seen by a colored man, who was hunting, sitting on a log eating some food late in the night. He had a corn knife with him. When his master attempted to hit him with a whip, he retaliated with the knife, splitting the man's breast open, from which he died. The slave escaped and was never captured. The white cappers or patrollers in all of the counties of Southern Maryland scoured the swamps, rivers and fields without success. "Let me explain to you very plain without prejudice one way or the other, I have had many opportunities, a chance to watch white men and women in my long career, colored women have many hard battles to fight to protect themselves from assault by employers, white male servants or by white men, many times not being able to protect, in fear of losing their positions. Then on the other hand they were subjected to many impositions by the women of the household through woman's jealousy. "I remember well when President Buchanan was elected, I was a large boy. I came to Baltimore when General Grant was elected, worked in a livery stable for three years, three years with Dr. Owens as a waiter and coachman, 3 years with Mr. Thomas Winanson Baltimore Street as a butler, 3 years with Mr. Oscar Stillman of Boston, then 11 years with Mr. Robert Garrett on Mt. Vernon Place as head butler, after which I entered the catering business and continued until about twelve years ago. In my career I have had the opportunity to come in contact with the best white people and the most cultured class in Maryland and those visiting Baltimore. This class is about gone, now we have a new group, lacking the refinement, the culture and taste of those that have gone by. "When I was a small boy I used to run races with other boys, play marbles and have jumping contests. "At nights the slaves would go from one cabin to the other, talk, dance or play the fiddle or sing. Christmas everybody had holidays, our mistress never gave presents. Saturdays were half-day holidays unless planting and harvest times, then we worked all day. "When the slaves took sick or some woman gave birth to a child, herbs, salves, home liniments were used or a midwife or old mama was the attendant, unless severe sickness Miss McPherson would send for the white doctor, that was very seldom." Maryland Dec. 21, 1937 Rogers TOM RANDALL, Ex-slave. Reference: Personal interview with Tom Randall, at his home, Oella, Md. "I was born in Ellicott City, Howard County, Maryland, in 1856, in a shack on a small street now known as New Cut Road--the name then, I do not know. My mother's name was Julia Bacon. Why my name was Randall I do not know, but possibly a man by the name of Randall was my father. I have never known nor seen my father. Mother was the cook at the Howard House; she was permitted to keep me with her. When I could remember things, I remember eating out of the skillets, pots and pans, after she had fried chicken, game or baked in them, always leaving something for me. When I grew larger and older I can recall how I used to carry wood in the kitchen, empty the rinds of potatoes, the leaves of cabbages and the leaves and tops of other plants. "There was a colored man by the name of Joe Nick, called Old Nick by a great many white people of me city. Joe was owned by Rueben Rogers, a lawyer and farmer of Howard County. The farm was situated about 2-1/2 miles on a road that is the extension of Main Street, the leading street of Ellicott City. They never called me anything but Tomy or Randy, other people told me that Thomas Randall, a merchant of Ellicott City, was my father. "Mother was owned by a man by the name of O'Brien, a saloon or tavern keeper of the town. He conducted a saloon in Ellicott City for a long time until he became manager, or operator, of the Howard House of Ellicott City, a larger hotel and tavern in the city. Mother was a fine cook, especially of fowl and game. The Howard House was the gathering place of the formers, lawyers and business men of Howard and Frederick Counties and people of Baltimore who had business in the courts of Howard County and people of western Maryland on their way to Baltimore. "Joe could read and write and was a good mechanic and wheelright. These accomplishments made him very valuable to Rogers' farm, as wagons, buggies, carriages, plows and other vehicles and tools had to be made and repaired. "When I was about eight or nine years old Joe ran away, everybody saying to join the Union Army. Joe Nick drove a pair of horses, hitched to a covered wagon, to Ellicott City. The horses were found, but no Nick, Rogers offered a reward of $100.00 for the return of Nick. This offer drew to Ellicott City a number of people who had bloodhounds that were trained to hunt Negroes--some coming from Anne Arundel, Baltimore, Howard and counties of southern Maryland, each owner priding his pack as being the best pack in the town. They all stopped at the Howard House, naturally drinking, treating their friends and each other, they all discussed among themselves the reward and their packs of hounds, each one saying that his pack was the best. This boasting was backed by cash. Some cash, plus the reward on their hounds. In the meantime Old Joe was thinking, not boasting, but was riding the rail. "Old Joe left Ellicott City on a freight train, going west, which he hopped when it was stalled on the Baltimore and Ohio railroad a short distance from the railroad station at Ellicott City. Old Joe could not leave on the passenger trains, as no Negro would be allowed on the trains unless he had a pass signed by his master or a free Negro, and had his papers. "At dawn the hunters left the Howard House with the packs, accompanied by many friends and people who joined up for the sport of the chase. They went to Rogers' farm where the dogs were taken in packs to Nick's quarters so they could get the odor and scent of Nick. They had a twofold purpose, one to get the natural scent, the other was, if Old Nick had run away, he might come back at night to get some personal belongings, in that way the direction he had taken would be indicated by the scent and the hounds would soon track him down. The hounds were unleashed, each hunter going in a different direction without result. Then they circled the farm, some going 5 miles beyond the farm without result. After they had hunted all day they returned to the Howard House where they regaled themselves in pleasures of the hotel for the evening. "In June of 1865 Old Nick returned to Ellicott City dressed in a uniform of blue, showing that he had joined the Federal Army. Mr. Rueben Rogers upon seeing him had him arrested, charging him with being a fugitive slave. He was confined in the jail there and held until the U.S. Marshal of Baltimore released him, arresting Rogers and bringing him to Baltimore City where he was reprimanded by the Federal Judge. This story is well known by the older people of Howard County and traditionally known by the younger generation of Ellicott City, and is called 'Old Nick: Rogers' lemon.'" Maryland Sept. 28, 1937 Stansbury DENNIS SIMMS, Ex-slave. Reference: Personal interview with Dennis Simms, ex-slave, September 19, 1937, at his home, 629 Mosher St., Baltimore. Born on a tobacco plantation at Contee, Prince Georges County, Maryland, June 17, 1841, Dennis Simms, Negro ex-slave, 628 Mosher Street, Baltimore, Maryland, is still working and expects to live to be a hundred years old. He has one brother living, George Simms, of South River, Maryland, who was born July 18, 1849. Both of them were born on the Contee tobacco plantation, owned by Richard and Charles Contee, whose forbears were early settlers in the State. Simms always carries a rabbit's foot, to which he attributes his good health and long life. He has been married four times since he gained his freedom. His fourth wife, Eliza Simms, 67 years old, is now in the Providence Hospital, suffering from a broken hip she received in a fall. The aged Negro recalls many interesting and exciting incidents of slavery days. More than a hundred slaves worked on the plantation, some continuing to work for the Contee brothers when they were set free. It was a pretty hard and cruel life for the darkeys, declares the Negro. Describing the general conditions of Maryland slaves, he said: "We would work from sunrise to sunset every day except Sundays and on New Year's Day. Christmas made little difference at Contee, except that we were given extra rations of food then. We had to toe the mark or be flogged with a rawhide whip, and almost every day there was from two to ten thrashings given on the plantations to disobedient Negro slaves. "When we behaved we were not whipped, but the overseer kept a pretty close eye on us. We all hated what they called the 'nine ninety-nine', usually a flogging until fell over unconscious or begged for mercy. We stuck pretty close to the cabins after dark, for if we were caught roaming about we would be unmercifully whipped. If a slave was caught beyond the limits of the plantation where he was employed, without the company of a white person or without written permit of his master, any person who apprehended him was permitted to give him 20 lashes across the bare back. "If a slave went on another plantation without a written permit from his master, on lawful business, the owner of the plantation would usually give the offender 10 lashes. We were never allowed to congregate after work, never went to church, and could not read or write for we were kept in ignorance. We were very unhappy. "Sometimes Negro slave runaways who were apprehended by the patrollers, who kept a constant watch for escaped slaves, besides being flogged, would be branded with a hot iron on the cheek with the letter 'R'." Simms claimed he knew two slaves so branded. Simms asserted that even as late as 1856 the Constitution of Maryland enacted that a Negro convicted of murder should have his right hand cut off, should be hanged in the usual manner, the head severed from the body, divided into four quarters and set up in the most public places of the county where the act was committed. He said that the slaves pretty well knew about this barbarous Maryland law, and that he even heard of dismemberments for atrocious crimes of Negroes in Maryland. "We lived in rudely constructed log houses, one story in heighth, with huge stone chimneys, and slept on beds of straw. Slaves were pretty tired after their long day's work in the field. Sometimes we would, unbeknown to our master, assemble in a cabin and sing songs and spirituals. Our favorite spirituals were--_Bringin' in de sheaves_, _De Stars am shinin' for us all_, _Hear de Angels callin'_, and _The Debil has no place here_. The singing was usually to the accompaniment of a Jew's harp and fiddle, or banjo. In summer the slaves went without shoes and wore three-quarter checkered baggy pants, some wearing only a long shirt to cover their body. We wore ox-hide shoes, much too large. In winter time the shoes were stuffed with paper to keep out the cold. We called them 'Program' shoes. We had no money to spend, in fact did not know the value of money. "Our food consisted of bread, hominy, black strap molasses and a red herring a day. Sometimes, by special permission from our master or overseer, we would go hunting and catch a coon or possum and a pot pie would be a real treat. "We all thought of running off to Canada or to Washington, but feared the patrollers. As a rule most slaves were lazy." Simms' work at Contee was to saddle the horses, cut wood, and make fires and sometimes work in the field. He voted for President Lincoln and witnessed the second inauguration of Lincoln after he was set free. Maryland 12/6/37 Rogers JIM TAYLOR (UNCLE JIM), Ex-slave. Reference: Personal interview with Jim Taylor, at his home, 424 E. 23rd St., Baltimore. "I was born in Talbot County, Eastern Shore, Maryland, near St. Michaels about 1847. Mr. Mason Shehan's father knew me well as I worked for him for more than 30 years after the emancipation. My mother and father both were owned by a Mr. Davis of St. Michaels who had several tugs and small boats. In the summer, the small boats were used to haul produce while the tugs were used for towing coal and lumber on the Chesapeake Bay and the small rivers on the Eastern Shore. Mr. Davis bought able-bodied colored men for service on the boats. They were sail boats. I would say about 50 or 60 feet long. On each boat, besides the Captain, there were from 6 to 10 men used. On the tugs there were more men, besides the mess boy, than on the sail boats. "I think a man by the name of Robinson who was in the coal business at Havre de Grace engaged Mr. Davis to tow several barges of soft coal to St. Michaels. It was on July 4th when we arrived at Havre de Grace. Being a holiday, we had to wait until the 5th, before we could start towards St. Michaels. "Mr. Tuttle, the captain of the tug, did not sleep on the boat that night, but went to a cock fight. The colored men decided to escape and go to Pennsylvania. (I was a small boy). They ran the tug across the bay to Elk Creek, and upon arriving there they beached the tug on the north side, followed a stream that Harriett Tubman had told them about. After traveling about seven miles, they approached a house situated on a large farm which was occupied by one of the deputy sheriffs of the county. The sheriff told them they were under arrest. One of the escaping man seized the sheriff from the rear, after he was thrown they tied him, then they continued on a road towards Pennsylvania. They reached Pennsylvania about dawn. After they had gone some distance in Pennsylvania three men with guns overtook them; but five men and one woman of Pennsylvania with guns and clubs stopped them. In the meantime the sheriff and two of his deputies come up. The sheriff said he had to hold them for the authorities of the county. They were taken by the sheriff from the three men, carried about 15 miles further in Pennsylvania and then were told to go to Chester where they would be safe. "Mr. Davis came to Chester with Mr. Tuttle to claim the escaping slaves. They were badly beaten, Mr. Tuttle receiving a fractured skull. There were several white men in Chester who were very much interested in colored people, they gave us money to go to Philadelphia. After arriving in Philadelphia, we went to Allen's mission, a colored church that helped escaping slaves. I stayed in Philadelphia until I was about 19 years old, then all the colored people were free. I returned to Talbot, there remained until 1904, came to Baltimore where I secured a job with James Hitchens, a colored man, who had six furniture vans drawn by two horses each and sometimes by three and four horses. Mr. Hitchens' office and warehouse were on North Street near Pleasant. I stayed there with Mr. Hitchens until he sold his business to Mr. O. Farror after he had taken sick. "In March I will be 90 years old. I have been sick three times in my life. I am, and have been a member of North Street Baptist Church for thirty-three years. I am the father of nine children, have been married twice and a grandfather of twenty-three granddaughters and grandsons and forty-five great grand-children. "While in Philadelphia I attended free school for colored children conducted at Allen's Mission; when I returned to Talbot county I was in the sixth grade or the sixth reader. Since then I have always been fond of reading. My favored books are the _Bible_, Bunyan's _Pilgrim's Progress_, _Uncle Tom's Cabin_, the lives of Napoleon, Frederick Douglass and Booker T. Washington, and church magazines and the Afro-American." Maryland [--]-22-37 Rogers JAMES WIGGINS, Ex-slave. Reference: Personal interview with James Wiggins, ex-slave, at his home, 625 Barre St. "I was born in Anne Arundel County, on a farm near West River about 1850 or 1851, I do not know which. I do not know my father or mother. Peter Brooks, one of the oldest colored men in the county, told me that my father's name was Wiggins. He said that he was one of the Revells' slaves. He acquired my father at an auction sale held in Baltimore at a high price from a trader who had an office on Pratt Street about 1845. He was given a wife by Mr. Revell and as a result of this union I was born. My father was a carpenter by trade, he was hired out to different farmers by Mr. Revell to repair and build barns, fences and houses. I have been told that my father could read and write. Once he was charged with writing passes for some slaves in the county, as a result of this he was given 15 lashes by the sheriff of the county, immediately afterwards he ran away, went to Philadelphia, where he died while working to save money to purchase mother's freedom, through a white Baptist minister in Baltimore. "I was called "Gingerbread" by the Revells. They reared me until I reached the age of about nine or ten years old. My duty was to put logs on the fireplaces in the Revells' house and work around the house. I remember well when I was taken to Annapolis, how I used to dance in the stores for men and women, they would give me pennies and three cent pieces, all of which was given to me by the Revells. They bought me shoes and clothes with the money collected. "Mr. Revell died in 1861 or 62. The sheriff and men came from Annapolis, sold the slaves, stock and other chattels. I was purchased by a Mr. Mayland, who kept a store in Annapolis. I was sold by him to a slave trader to be shipped to Georgia. I was brought to Baltimore, and was jailed in a small house on Paca near Lombard. The trader was buying other slaves to make a load. I escaped through the aid of a German shoemaker, who sold shoes to owners for slaves. "The German shoeman had a covered wagon, I was put in the wagon covered by boxes, taken to a house on South Sharp Street and there kept until a Mr. George Stone took me to Frederick City where I stayed until 1863, when Mr. Stone, a member of the Lutheran church, had me christened giving me the name of James Wiggins. This is how I got the name of Wiggins, after my father, instead of Gingerbread, through the investigation and the information given by Mr. Brooks. "You know the Revells are well known in Anne Arundel County, consisting of a large family, each family a large property owner. I can't say how many acres were owned by Jim Revell, he was a general farmer having a few slaves, you see I was a small boy. I can't answer all the questions you want. "There were a great many people in Anne Arundel who did not believe in slavery and many free colored people. These conditions caused conflicts between the free colored who many times were charged with aiding the slaves and the whites who were not favorably impressed with slavery and the others who believed in slavery. As a result, the patrollers were numerous. I remember of seeing Jim Revell coming home very much battered and beaten up as a result of an encounter with a number of free people and white people and those who were members of the patrollers. "As a child I was very fond of dancing, especially the jig and buck. I made money as I stated before, I played children's plays of that time, top, marbles and another game we called skinny. Skinny was a game played on trees and grape vines. "As a boy I was very healthy, I never had a doctor until I was over 50 years old. I don't know anything about the medical treatment of that day, you never need medicine unless you are ailing and I never ailed." Maryland Sept. 27, 1937 Stansbury "PARSON" REZIN WILLIAMS, ex-slave. References: Baltimore Morning Sun, December 10, 1928. Registration Books of Board of Election Supervisors Baltimore Court House. Personal interviews with "Parson" Rezin Williams, on Thursday afternoon, September 18 and 24, 1937, at his home, 2610 Pierpont Street, Mount Winans, Baltimore, Md. Maryland Historical Magazine, Vol 1 (1906), p. 56. Buchholz: _Governors of Maryland_--pp. 57-63, 192-167. (P.L.G. 28 B 92.) "Parson" Williams---- Oldest living Negro Civil War veteran; now 116 years old. Oldest registered voter in Maryland and said to be the oldest "freeman" in the United States. Said to be oldest member of Negro family in America with sister and brother still living, more than a century old. Father worked for George Washington. In 1864 when the State Constitution abolished slavery and freed about 83,000 Negro slaves in Maryland, there was one, "Parson" Rezin Williams, already a freeman. He is now living at the age of 116 years, in Baltimore City, Maryland, credited with being the oldest of his race in the United States who served in the Civil War. He was born March 11, 1822, at "Fairview", near Bowie, Prince Georges County, Maryland--a plantation of 1000 acres, then belonging to Governor Oden Bowie's father. "Parson" Williams' father, Rezin Williams, a freeman, was born at "Mattaponi", near Nottingham, Prince Georges County, the estate of Robert Bowie of Revolutionary War fame, friend of Washington and twice Governor of Maryland. The elder Rezin Williams served the father of our country as a hostler at Mount Vernon, where he worked on Washington's plantation during the stormy days of the Revolution. There is perhaps nowhere to be found a more picturesque and interesting character of the colored race than "Parson" Williams, who, besides serving as a colored bishop of the Union American Methodist Church (colored) for more than a half century, is the composer of Negro spirituals which were popular during their day. He attended President Lincoln's inauguration and subsequently every Republican and Democratic presidential inauguration, although he himself is a Republican. Lincoln, according to Williams, shook hands with him in Washington. One of Williams' sons, of a family of fourteen children, was named after George Washington, and another after Abraham Lincoln. The son, George Washington Williams, died in 1912 at the age of seventy-three years. "Parson" Williams, serving the Union forces as a teamster, hauled munitions and supplies for General Grant's army, at Gettysburg. On trips to the rear, he conveyed wounded soldiers from the line of fire. He also served under General McClellan and General Hooker. Although now confined to his home with infirmities of age, he posesses all his faculties and has a good memory of events since his boyhood days. Due to the fact that his grandmother was an Indian the daughter of an Indian chieftan, alleged to be buried in a vault in Baltimore County, Williams was a freeman like his father and hired himself out. Williams claims that his father, when a boy, accompanied Robert Bowie, for whom he was working, to Mount Vernon, where he first met George Washington. He said that General Washington once became very angry at his father because he struck an unruly horse, exclaiming: "The brute has more sense than some slaves. Cease striking the animal." Robert Bowie, the third son of Capt. William and Margaret (Sprigg) Bowie, was born at "Mattaponi", near Nottingham, March 1750. As a captain of a company of militia organized at Nottingham, he accompanied the Maryland forces when they joined Washington in his early campaign near New York. He and Washington became friends. In 1791, when Captain William Bowie died, his son Robert inherited "Mattaponi". He was the first Democratic governor to be elected, one of the presidential electors for Madison, and a director of the first bank established at Annapolis. Williams recalls hearing his father say that when Washington died, December 14, 1799, many paid reverence by wearing mourning scarfs and hatbands. He recalls many interesting incidents during slavery days. He said that slaves could not buy or sell anything except with the permission of their master. If a slave was caught ten miles from his master's home, and had no signed permit, he was arrested as a runaway and harshly punished. There was a standing reward for the capture of a runaway. The Indians who caught a runaway slave received a "match coat." The master gave the slave usually ten to ninety-nine lashes for running off. What slaves feared most was what they called the "nine ninety-nine" or 99 lashes with a rawhide whip, and sometimes they were unmercifully flogged until unconcious. Some cruel masters believed Negroes had no souls. The slaves at Bowie, however, declared "Parson" Williams, were pretty well treated and usually respected the overseers. He said that the slaves at Bowie mostly lived in cabins made of slabs running up and down and crudely furnished. Working time was from sunrise until sunset. The slaves had no money to spend and few masters allowed them to indulge in a religious meeting or even learn about the Bible. Slaves received medical attention from a physician if they were seriously ill. When a death occured, a rough box would be made of heavy slabs and the dead Negro buried the same day on the plantation burying lot with a brief ceremony, if any. The grieving darkeys, relatives, after he was "eased" in the ground, would sing a few spirituals and return to their cabins. Familiar old spirituals were composed by "Parson" Williams, including _Roll De Stones Away_, _You'll Rise in De Skies_, and _Ezekiel, He'se Comin Home_. Following is one of Williams' spirituals: When dat are ole chariot comes, I'm gwine to lebe you: I'm bound for de promised land I'm gwine to lebe you. I'm sorry I'm gwine to lebe you, Farewell, oh farewell But I'll meet you in de mornin Farewell, oh farewell. Still another favorite of "Parson" Williams, which he composed on Col. Bowie's plantation just before the Civil War, a sort of rallying song expressing what Canada meant to the slaves at that time, runs thus: I'm now embarked for yonder shore There a man's a man by law; The iron horse will bear me o'er To shake de lion's paw. Oh, righteous Father, will thou not pity me And aid me on to Canada, where all the slaves are free. Oh, I heard Queen Victoria say That if we would forsake our native land of slavery, And come across de lake That she was standin' on de shore Wid arms extended wide, To give us all a peaceful home Beyond de rollin' tide. Interesting reminiscences are recalled by "Parson" Williams of his early life. He said that he still remembers when Mr. Oden Bowie (later governor) left with the army of invasion of Mexico (1846-1848), and of his being brought home ill after several years was nursed back to health at "Fairview". Governor Bowie died on his plantation in 1894 and is buried in the family burying ground there. He was the first president of the Maryland Jockey Club. Governor Bowie raised a long string of famous race horses that became known throughout the country. From the "Fairview" stables went such celebrated horses as Dickens, Catespy, Crickmore, Commensation, Creknob, who carried the Bowie colors to the front on many well-contested race courses. After Governor Bowie's death, the estate became the property of his youngest son, W. Booth Bowie. "Fairview" is located in the upper part of what was called the "Forest" of Prince Georges County, a few miles southwest of Collington Station. It is a fine type of old Colonial mansion built of brick, the place having been in the posession of the family for some time previous. "Fairview" is one of the oldest and finest homes in Maryland. The mansion contains a wide hall and is a typical Southern home. Baruch Duckett married Kitty Bean, a granddaughter of John Bowie, Sr., the first of his name to come to Prince Georges County. They had but one daughter, whose name was Kitty Bean Duckett, and she married in 1800 William Bowie of Walter. Baruch Duckett outlived his wife and died in 1810. He devised "Fairview" to his son-in-law and the latter's children, and it ultimately became the property of his grandson, afterward known as Col. William B.[TR.?] Bowie, who made it his home until 1880, when he gave it to his eldest son, Oden, who in 1868 became Governor of Maryland. Governor Bowie was always identified with the Democratic Party. "Parson" Williams' wife, Amelia Addison Williams died August 9, 1928, at the age of 94 years. The aged negro is the father of 14 children, one still living,--Mrs. Amelia Besley, 67 years old, 2010 Pierpont Street, Mount Winans, Baltimore, Maryland. His brother, Marcellus Williams, and a single sister, Amelia Williams, both living, reside on Rubio street, Philidelphia, Pa. According to "Parson" Williams, they are both more than a century old and are in fairly good health. Besides his children and a brother and a sister, Williams has several grandchildren, great-grandchildren and great-great-grandchildren living. President Lincoln, Williams says, was looked upon by many slaves as a messenger from heaven. Of course, many slave masters were kind and considerate, but to most slaves they were just a driver and the slaves were work horses for them. Only once during his lifetime does Williams recall tasting whisky, when his cousin bought a pint. It cost three cents in those days. He said his mother used to make beer out of persimmons and cornhusks, but they don't make it any more, so he doesn't even drink beer now. He would much rather have a good cigar. He has since a boy, smoked a pipe. By special permission of plantation owners in Prince Georges, St. Marys, Baltimore and other counties in Maryland, he was often permitted to visit the darkeys and conduct a religious meeting in their cabins. He usually wore a long-tailed black "Kentucky" suit with baggy trousers and sported a cane. Usually when servants or slaves in those days found themselves happy and contented, it was because they were born under a lucky star. As for eating, they seldom got chicken, mostly they ate red herring and molasses--they called black strap molasses. They were allowed a herring a day as part of their food. Slaves as a rule preferred possums to rabbits. Some liked fish best. Williams' favorite food was cornpone and fried liver. "Once before de wah, I was ridin Lazy, my donkey, a few miles from de boss' place at Fairview, when along came a dozen or more patrollers. Dey questioned me and decided I was a runaway slave and dey wuz gwine to give me a coat of tar and feathers when de boss rode up and ordered my release. He told dem dreaded white patrollers dat I was a freeman and a 'parson'." When the slaves were made free, some of the overseers tooted horns, calling the blacks from their toil in the fields. They were told they need no longer work for their masters unless they so desired. Most of the darkeys quit "den and dar" and made a quick departure to other parts, but some remained and to this day their descendants are still to be found working on the original plantations, but of course for pay. Describing the clothing worn in summer time by the slaves, he said they mostly went barefooted. The men and boys wore homespun, three-quarter striped pants and sometimes a large funnel-shaped straw hat. Some wore only a shirt as a covering for their body. "In winter oxhide shoes were worn, much too large, and the soles contained several layers of paper. We called them 'program' shoes, because the paper used for stuffing, consisted of discarded programs. We gathered herbs from which we made medicine, snake root and sassafras bark being a great remedy for many ailments." Williams, though himself not a slave by virtue of the fact that his grandmother was an Indian, was considered a good judge of healthy slaves, those who would prove profitable to their owners, so he often accompanied slave purchasers to the Baltimore slave markets. He told of having been taken by a certain slave master to the Baltimore wharf, boarded a boat and after the slave dealer and the captain negotiated a deal, he, Williams, not realizing that he was being used as a decoy, led a group of some thirty or forty blacks, men, women and children, through a dark and dirty tunnel for a distance of several blocks to a slave market pen, where they were placed on the auction block. He was told to sort of pacify the black women who set up a wail when they were separated from their husbands and children. It was a pitiful sight to see them, half naked, some whipped into submission, cast into slave pens surrounded by iron bars. A good healthy negro man from 18 to 30 would bring from $200 to $800. Women would bring about half the price of the men. Often when the women parted with their children and loved ones, they would never see them again. Such conditions as existed in the Baltimore slave markets, which were considered the most important in the country, and the subsequent ill treatment of the unfortunates, hastened the war between the states. The increasing numbers of free negroes also had much to do with causing the civil war. The South was finding black slavery a sort of white elephant. Everywhere the question was what to do with the freeman. Nobody wanted them. Some states declared they were a public nuisance. "Uncle Rezin", by which name some called him, since slavery days, was, besides being engaged in preaching the Gospel, journeying from one town to another, where he has performed hundreds of marriages among his race, baptised thousands, performed numerous christenings and probably preached more sermons than any Negro now living. He preached his last sermon two years ago. He says his life's work is now through and he is crossing over the River Jordan and will soon be on the other side. Since the Civil War he has made extra money for his support during depression times by doing odd jobs of whitewashing, serving as a porter or janitor, cutting wood, hauling and running errands, also serving as a teamster, picking berries and working as a laborer. He has had several miraculous escapes from death during his long life. Twice during the past quarter of a century his home at Mount Winans has been destroyed by fire, when firemen rescued him in the nick of time, and some years ago, when he was suddenly awakened during a severe windstorm, his house was unroofed and blew down. When workmen were clearing away the debris in search for "Uncle" Rezin, some hours later, a voice was heard coming from a large barrel in the cellar. It was from Williams, who somehow managed to crawl in the barrel during the storm, and called out: "De Lord hab sabed me. You all haul me out of here, but I'se all right." Scabo, his pet dog, was killed by the falling debris during the storm. Firemen at Westport state that three years ago, when fire damaged "Uncle" Rezin's home, the aged negro preacher refused to be rescued, and walked out of the building through stifling smoke, as though nothing had happened. When veterans of a great war have been mowed down by the scythe of Father Time until their numbers are few, an added public interest attaches to them. Baltimore septuagenarians remember the honor paid to the last surviving "Old Defenders", who faced the British troops at North Point in 1814, and now the few veterans of the War of Secession, whether they wore the blue or the gray, receive similar attention. A far different class, one peculiarly associated with the strife between the North and the South, are approaching the point of fading out from the life of today--the old slaves, and original old freemen. "Parson" Williams tops the list of them all. 
12138	----	Team. JOHNS HOPKINS UNIVERSITY STUDIES IN HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SCIENCE HERBERT B. ADAMS, Editor History is past Politics and Politics present History--_Freeman_ NINTH SERIES III-IV The History of University Education in Maryland By BERNARD C. STEINER, A.M. (Yale) _Fellow in History_ The Johns Hopkins University (1876-1891) By DANIEL C. GILMAN, LL.D. _President of the University_ _With Supplementary Notes on University Extension and the University of the Future, by R.G. Moulton, A.M., Cambridge, England_ BALTIMORE THE JOHNS HOPKINS PRESS MARCH-APRIL, 1891 CONTENTS. THE HISTORY OF UNIVERSITY EDUCATION IN MARYLAND: Colonial Attempts to found a College The First University of Maryland The Second University of Maryland Cokesbury College Asbury College Other Extinct Colleges Mount Hope College The College of St. James Newton University Roman Catholic Colleges St. Mary's Seminary Mount St. Mary's College St. Charles's College Loyola College Rock Hill College Western Maryland College Female Education The Baltimore Female College Woman's College of Baltimore Conclusion THE JOHNS HOPKINS UNIVERSITY (1876-1891): Foundation Preliminary Organization Inaugural Assembly Address of President Eliot Inaugural Address of the First President The Faculty Distinction between Collegiate and University Courses Students, Courses of Studies, and Degrees Publications, Seminaries, Societies Buildings, Libraries, and Collections Statistics Trustees UNIVERSITY EXTENSION AND THE UNIVERSITY OF THE FUTURE THE HISTORY OF UNIVERSITY EDUCATION IN MARYLAND. BY BERNARD C. STEINER. COLONIAL ATTEMPTS TO FOUND A COLLEGE. The State of Maryland has been almost extravagantly liberal in bestowing charters on colleges and professional schools. Over forty such charters have been given by the legislature and, in many cases, the result has proved that the gift of a charter was not warranted by the stability of the institution, to which was thus granted the power of conferring degrees. In many other cases, however, the institutions have grown and flourished, and have had an honorable history. Collegiate education in Maryland did not begin until after the Revolution. In the colonial period there was no demand for it sufficient to warrant the establishment of a seat of higher learning. For this state of things there were several causes. The majority of the early settlers were planters and frontiersmen, having little need for an extended education and desiring it still less. Of the wealthier classes, some were like the fox-hunting English gentry, caring for little else than sport; and others, who did desire the advantages of a culture higher than that obtainable from a village schoolmaster or a private tutor, found it elsewhere. They went over to William and Mary's College in Virginia, across the ocean to England, or, in case of some Catholics like Charles Carroll, to the institutions on the continent of Europe. But, though no college was established in colonial times, there was no lack of plans and attempts for one. In 1671, while as yet Harvard was the only American college, there was read and passed in the Upper House of the Assembly "An Act for the founding and Erecting of a School or College within this Province for the Education of Youth in Learning and Virtue." The Lower House amended and passed the bill; but the plan seems never to have progressed further. According to the bill the Lord Proprietor was "to Set out his Declaration of what Privileges and Immunities shall be Enjoyed by the Schollars;" and "the Tutors or School Masters" were to be of "the reformed Church of England" or, if two in number, to be "the one for the Catholick and other for the Protestants' Children."[1] A second collegiate plan was brought before the legislature in 1732; but, having passed the Upper House, was seemingly not acted on by the Lower. This proposed college was intended to be placed at Annapolis and was to offer instruction in "theology, law, medicine, and the higher branches of a collegiate education." The governor of the colony was to be its chancellor and provision was made for a faculty of five, under whom students were to be instructed in everything from their alphabet upwards.[2] A third unsuccessful attempt to secure the founding of a college was made in 1761,[3] and a fourth in 1763, when contrary to the earlier course of events, the rock, on which the project was shipwrecked, was found in the Upper House. The college was to be placed at Annapolis, to occupy Governor Bladen's mansion, and to have a faculty of seven masters, who were to be provided with five servants. The expense was to be defrayed from the colonial treasury, in case a tax to be levied on bachelors should prove insufficient for the purpose.[4] The failure of these projects did not dampen the zeal of the advocates of higher education. In 1773 we find William Eddis, Surveyor of Customs at Annapolis, writing that the Legislature of the Province had determined to fit up Governor Bladen's mansion and "to endow and form a college for the education of youth in every liberal and useful branch of science," which college, "conducted under excellent regulations, will shortly preclude the necessity of crossing the Atlantic for the completion of a classical and polite education."[5] The gathering storm of war, however, drew men's attention away from this project. THE FIRST UNIVERSITY OF MARYLAND. The Rev. Dr. William Smith,[6] head of what is now the University of Pennsylvania, being out of employment on account of the revocation of that college's charter, was called as pastor in Chestertown on the Eastern Shore in 1780. To add to his income, he conceived the idea "of opening a school for instruction in higher branches of education." As a nucleus for his school, he took an old academy, the Kent County school, and, beginning the work of teaching, was so successful, that in 1782 the Legislature, on his application, granted the school a charter as Maryland's first college. To it the name of _Washington_ was given, "in honorable and perpetual memory of His Excellency, General George Washington." Dr. Smith was so earnest and zealous in the presentation of the claims of the college, that in five years he had raised $14,000 from the people of the Eastern Shore. All seemed propitious for the college. In 1783 the first class graduated and the first degrees ever granted in Maryland were conferred, at the same time the corner-stone of the college building was laid, and in 1784 General Washington himself visited the college. Dr. Smith prepared a three years' curriculum for the institution, equal to that of any college of the day and similar to the one used at the University of Pennsylvania. But the Western Shore could not endure that the educational success of its rival section of the State should so far outstrip its own. In the early days of the State, the sections were nearly equal in importance and the prevailing dualism of the political system invaded the field of education. In 1784, two years after the founding of Washington College, _St. John's College_ was chartered.[7] It was to be placed at Annapolis, and in it was merged the old county Academy, "King William's School," founded some eighty years before. By the same act, the two colleges were united in the _University of Maryland_. This University was modeled on the English type: the governor was to be its chancellor, and the governing body was to be the "Convocation of the University of Maryland." The convocation was to be composed of seven members of the Board of Visitors and Governors and two of the faculty of each college; it was to establish ordinances for the government of the colleges, to cause a uniformity in the "manners and literature," to receive appeals from the students, and to confer "the higher degrees and honors of the University." Its meetings were to be annual, and to be held alternately at each college on its commencement day. The provisions of the act were never carried out; two fruitless attempts were made to hold sessions of Convocation in 1790 and 1791, and then nothing was even attempted. So thoroughly was the project forgotten, that the Legislature of 1805, in withdrawing the State appropriations from the two colleges, did not even mention the University, and in 1812, though the old charter had never been repealed, there was no hesitation in bestowing the name of University of Maryland on a second institution.[8] The two colleges which constituted this first University are still existing and doing good work. The elder, Washington College, lost Dr. Smith in 1788 by his return to Philadelphia and re-accession to his old position there. He was succeeded by Rev. Colin Ferguson, a native of Kent county, and educated at Edinburgh University. Under him the college continued to flourish, until the withdrawal of the State's appropriation in 1805. The constitutionality of this withdrawal is questionable, as the original grant was to be paid annually "forever;" but the State refused to permit itself to be sued by the college and, some years later, on increasing its appropriation to the college, the legislature required a release of all claims on the State under the original act. By the act of 1805, the activity of the college was paralyzed and its usefulness much impaired. It had not yet become strong enough to stand alone and, when the helping hand of the State was taken away, it was almost obliged to close its doors to students. Since that time the State has renewed its grants to the college and has greatly aided it in performing its functions; but from the disastrous effects of the act of 1805, the institution has never fully recovered. Indeed, from 1805 to 1816, nothing but a grammar school seems to have been maintained in the college building. In the latter year, however, the college was re-opened, since the legislature had granted it a lottery of $30,000. A year later Rev. Dr. Francis Waters became "Principal," and under his able leadership the college bid fair to regain its old position; but in 1827 a second great misfortune overtook it. On January 11, 1827, the college building was discovered to be on fire, and, in spite of the most zealous efforts, was entirely consumed. After this misfortune the college proper seems to have been suspended a second time, and only a grammar school maintained with one instructor. The classes were conducted in a building intended originally for a rectory, until that was destroyed by fire in 1839, when the school was again moved. Richard W. Ringgold, the principal of the school from 1832 to 1854, seems to have been a man of ability, and under him the number of students so much increased that in 1843 it was resolved to rebuild the college on the old site and to revive the college course. As a result, the present main building was erected, the corner-stone laid with imposing ceremonies on May 4, 1844, and the college was reopened in its own edifice on January 1, 1845. In 1849, a class of four was graduated, and in 1854, two additional buildings were erected; one for the Principal's residence and the other for dormitories and recitation rooms. The college continued prosperous during the second administration of Rev. Dr. Waters from 1854 to 1860; but in the presidency of his successor, Rev. Andrew J. Sutton, came the Civil War, depriving the college of its Southern constituency and distracting men's minds from learning. After the Rebellion, an unfortunate selection of teachers and laxness of discipline caused the college to lose still more ground, and Wm. J. Rivers, Principal from 1873 to 1887, had much to do to build it up again. He was a faithful and diligent teacher, and under him the moral tone of the college was improved and the course of instruction enlarged. The present head, C.W. Reid, Ph.D., is still further advancing the cause of the institution and a new career of prosperity seems opening before Maryland's oldest college and the only one on the Eastern Shore of the Chesapeake Bay. St. John's College, like its sister institution, founded on a non-denominational basis, started out under even fairer auspices.[9] It was granted, by the State, Governor Bladen's mansion and four acres of land surrounding it, was made heir to the funds of King William's School, and secured £9,000 from private beneficence in the first two years of its history. The Bladen mansion, now known as McDowell Hall, was repaired and enlarged and, on August 11, 1789, Bishop Carroll was elected president of the Board of Visitors and Governors and Dr. John McDowell accepted the Professorship of Mathematics. After unsuccessful attempts to obtain a principal from England, Dr. McDowell was chosen to that position in the following year and continued in office, until the State withdrew its aid to the college in 1805. He was a man of great learning and was very successful at St. John's and later at the University of Pennsylvania as provost. Under him, St. John's flourished greatly and many men of a national reputation were enrolled among its students, from the time the first class graduated in 1793. The same disaster fell on St. John's, as on Washington College. The Legislature withdrew the annual grant given by the State. The same doubt as to the constitutionality of this withdrawal existed here, and the State confirmed its position in the same way, by increasing its appropriation in 1832,[10] on condition of the college's accepting it in full satisfaction of all claims against the State under the original charter. Of late years Maryland has been quite generous to St. John's, but it has never quite recovered the station and prestige it lost by the taking away of the State's grant in 1805. In the first despair over the Act of the Legislature, the Visitors and Governors voted to discontinue the college, but their courage soon returned and the Rev. Bethel Judd, elected principal in 1807, was able to graduate a class in 1810. After his withdrawal in 1812, matters were in a disturbed state for some years and no classes were graduated until 1822, when Rev. Henry L. Davis, the father of Maryland's famous orator, Henry Winter Davis, was principal. After that year there were no graduates until 1827, when Rev. William Rafferty was head of the college. The struggle for existence was a hard one and the wonder is that the college succeeded as well as it did. With 1831, however, began a third and more successful period in the history of St. John's. In that year the Rev. Hector Humphreys, then only thirty-four years of age, was chosen president. He was a native of Connecticut and a graduate of Yale College in 1818, and was called to St. John's from the professorship of Ancient Languages at Washington (Trinity) College in his native State. The effect of his energy and devotion was soon recognized, and, largely through his efforts, was passed the compromise of 1832. The curriculum was enlarged, the instruction made more thorough, and classes were yearly graduated, with but six exceptions, until his death in 1857. His energy was very great, his learning wide and accurate. In 1834, after travelling about the State in the interests of the college, he succeeded in raising about $11,000, which were used in the erection of a second building for the college, which most appropriately has since been called by his name. During his administration, the professors' houses were also built, as was Pinkney Hall, a third building for the use of the college. Dr. Humphreys also secured cabinets and philosophical apparatus for the college and gave instruction in Political Economy, Latin and Greek, Chemistry, Geology, Natural Philosophy, Astronomy, Composition, Elocution, Evidences of Christianity, Moral and Intellectual Philosophy, Rhetoric, and Logic. Verily, an encyclopaedic man of vast industry! Only four years after Dr. Humphreys' death the War of the Rebellion broke out, and St. John's, unlike the temple of Janus, closed its doors at the rumors of war. The buildings were used as an hospital, and not until 1866 was the college again reopened with the well-known educator, Henry Barnard, at its head. In less than a year he resigned to become the first United States Commissioner of Education, and neither he nor his successor, Dr. James C. Welling, who was principal until 1870, was able to graduate a class. Since the beginning of the administration of the next principal, James M. Garnett, LL. D., the succession of classes has been unbroken and the college has steadily advanced in reputation and usefulness. Dr. Garnett made the English department especially excellent and, after ten years faithful service, resigned in 1880. The Rev. J.D. Leavitt, his successor, made a departure from the old classic curriculum and organized a department of Mechanical Engineering. After he resigned Prof. W.H. Hopkins acted as principal for a time and introduced military discipline, having secured the detail of an officer from the United States Army as instructor in Military Tactics. St. John's celebrated its centennial in 1889, and has begun its second century with excellent prospects. The four years' administration of its present principal, Thomas Fell, LL. D., has been a most successful one, and St. John's is fulfilling the purpose of its founders "to train up and perpetuate a succession of able and honest men, for discharging the various offices and duties of life, both civil and religious, with usefulness and reputation." THE SECOND UNIVERSITY OF MARYLAND. Most universities have developed from a college; the University of Maryland differs from them, for it originated in a medical school.[11] In 1802 Dr. John B. Davidge of Baltimore began a private class in Medicine and was so successful in it, that, in 1807, he associated with himself Drs. James Cocke and John Shaw and these three obtained from the Legislature a charter for the school, under the name of "the College of Medicine of Maryland."[12] There was made a close connection between the College of Medicine and the State "Medical and Chirurgical Faculty," and its board of medical examiners were made _ex-officio_ members of the Board of Trustees of the College. The Legislature also granted the college a lottery of $40,000.[13] Lectures, which had been carried on at the professors' houses, were begun in 1808, at a building on the corner of Fayette (Chatham) street and McClellan's alley, and the first class, consisting of five, received its degrees in 1810. As the school grew and nourished, the ideas of its founders become more extensive and, in 1812, a long act was passed,[14] authorizing "the college for the promotion of medical knowledge" "to constitute, appoint, and annex to itself the other three colleges or faculties, viz.: The Faculty of Divinity, the Faculty of Law, and the Faculty of the Arts and Sciences; and that the four faculties or colleges thus united, shall be and they are hereby constituted an university, by the name and under the title of the University of Maryland." The connection with the Medical and Chirurgical Faculty was severed and the members of the four faculties, under the name of the Regents of the University of Maryland, were to have full powers over the University and be permitted to hold property not exceeding $100,000 in yearly value. Each faculty was allowed to appoint its own professors and lecturers, to choose a dean, and to exercise such powers as the regents shall delegate. The Faculty of Physic was to be composed of the professors in the Medical College; that of Theology, of the professor of Theology and any "six ordained ministers of any religious society or denomination;" that of Law, of the professor of Law, "together with six qualified members of the bar;" that of the Arts and Sciences, of the professors in that department, "together with three of the principals of any three academies or Colleges of the State." Such a strangely formed and loosely united body could not succeed, as a more homogeneous and closely compacted one would have done. The university was founded "on the most liberal plan, for the benefit of students of every country and every religious denomination, who shall be freely admitted to equal privileges and advantages of education, and to all the honors of the university, according to their merit, without requiring or enforcing any religious or civil test, urging their attendance upon any particular plan of religious worship or service." With these broad powers and provisions,[15] "the Faculty of Phisick, late of the College of Medicine of Maryland, *** convened and, by the authority vested in it by said charter and with the advice and recommendations of learned men of the several professions of Divinity, Law, and the Arts and Sciences, proceeded to annex to itself the other three faculties." On April 22, 1813, the Hon. Robert Smith, formerly United States Secretary of State, was chosen the first provost, and the organization of the regents was completed.[16] A lottery of $30,000 was granted the University in 1814, and another of $100,000 in 1817.[17] From the proceeds of these lotteries and other sources was built the building of the medical department on the corner of Lombard and Greene streets. It was modelled on the Pantheon at Rome, and, when built, is said to have been without an equal in America. The medical school grew extremely fast; a loan of $30,000 from the State in 1822[18] enabled it to build a practice hall and purchase a fine collection for its museum, and the University hospital across the street was opened in 1823. In 1824 the number of students in attendance on lectures amounted to 320. The other faculties took no active steps for some time and, not until 1819, did the regents urge them to proceed to deliver lectures as soon as possible and to lay before the regents annually a report as to their progress and condition. In 1823, possibly on account of this vote. Prof. David Hoffman began the instruction in the Faculty of Law, his school being known as the "Maryland Law Institute." He published part of his lecture notes in a book called _Legal Outlines_ and continued lecturing about ten years. After his withdrawal, the law school was given up; but the organization of the faculty was still maintained. The Faculty of Theology reported in 1852 "no active organization of the faculty has ever been attempted and, in view of the character of the department contemplated by the charter, none seems desirable." Its only activity was a course or two of lectures on the Evidences of Christianity, delivered before the medical students about 1823 by the Rev. William E. Wyatt, Professor of Theology. A nominal organization of the faculty was kept up, however, until 1878. The prosperity of the medical department was destroyed by the effort of some of its professors, discontented with being prohibited from having private classes, to have the Legislature do away with the regents and replace them with a board of trustees, in whom should vest the property. As early as November 12, 1824, the Regents feared trouble and obtained from William Wirt, John Purviance and Daniel Webster, a legal opinion that their position was inexpugnable. With this conclusion the Legislature did not agree, and on March 6, 1862, an act was passed abolishing the Regents and appointing a Board of twenty-one Trustees in their place.[19] The Trustees, by decree of the courts, obtained control of the property and forced the professors to accept them as the legal authority. So matters went on for twelve years, until in 1837, the trustees appointed a professor personally objectionable to some of the others, who resigned their positions under the Trustees and opened a separate medical school in the Indian Queen Hotel at the corner of Baltimore and Hanover Streets. Few out-of-town students attended either school, for the quarrel frightened them away, and the Baltimore students largely attended the Regents' school. Feeling ran high at one time, the Regents took possession of the University buildings by force, and bloodshed was feared. The Board of Regents reorganized with Ashton Alexander, M.D., as Provost, and employed distinguished counsel to plead the case for them in the courts. The Legislature authorized the Court of Appeals to try the suit, and Maryland's Dartmouth College Case was decided in June, 1838, entirely in favor of the Regents. The court held that the act of 1825 was void, since it was "a judicial act, a sentence that condemned without a hearing. The Legislature has no right, without the assent of a Corporation, to alter its charter, or take from it any of its franchises or property." The Trustees would not yield at once and, in March, 1839, presented a petition to the Legislature, praying it not to pass an act requiring them to give up the property to the Regents. The memorial was referred to a joint committee, which reported a bill restoring the property to the Regents. The bill was enacted and the Regents have since ruled. During the supremacy of the Trustees, the Faculty of the Arts and Sciences was organized. They contemplated activity in 1821, and issued a circular, which drew down on them the wrath of Professor Hoffman, inasmuch as they "contemplated 'academic' instruction" not intended by the charter. The founders, he said, intended that instruction should be conveyed by lectures and that no other form of instruction should be allowed. The discussion which followed seems to show that he had the idea of having work carried on, like that done by graduate students to-day. But nothing was done, apparently, until Baltimore College was annexed in 1830. That institution was chartered on January 7, 1804,[20] and was the development of an academy kept by James Priestley, the first president, on Paul's Lane (St. Paul Street). "It was hoped that it would, together with the other valuable seminaries of education in the same city and in the State, become adequate to the wants and wishes of our citizens," and from the proceeds of a lottery, the grant of which was an easy way for a State to be benevolent, a plain but convenient building was erected on Mulberry street.[21] It is very doubtful if it ever graduated any students, and we learn in 1830 that "the celebrity and, in some cases, the superior existing advantages of other institutions have prevented the accomplishment of this object." Still a school had been kept up continuously, and from time to time, we catch glimpses of its lectures, &c. In January, 1830, a joint petition of the Trustees of the University of Maryland and of Baltimore College to the Legislature "proposed the charter of Baltimore College shall be surrendered to the State, on the condition that the property belonging to the college shall be invested in the trustees of the University of Maryland." The petition was granted,[22] and in 1832, we learn that "the Baltimore College *** has now been merged in the University of Maryland and constitutes the chair of Ancient Languages."[23] On October 1, 1830, the Trustees issued a prospectus, from which we learn that it was intended "to maintain an institution on the most enlarged scale of usefulness and responsibility," and that there was a "necessity for the proposed organization of a department in the University of Maryland, exclusively collegiate in its system, requiring an advanced state of classical and scientific attainments for admission to its lectures, calculated to conduct its pupils through the highest branches of a liberal education and to afford them advantages similar to what may be obtained in the distant Universities of this country and Europe." A course of study equal to that of any college of the country was announced, and a brilliant Faculty appointed; but the time was not yet come for a great college in Baltimore and the institution languished away. In 1843, the Commissioners of Public Schools petitioned to have it transferred to the city as a High School, and in 1852, it had only one teacher and 36 scholars, a mere boys' school. In 1854 it was reorganized as the "School of Letters under the Faculty of Arts and Sciences," with Rev. E.A. Dalrymple, formerly of the Episcopal Theological Seminary at Alexandria, as its head. On paper the course was fairly complete, and the Faculty an able one, and there were graduates in 1859, '60, '61, and '63. The course was to be a three years' one; for "the studies of Freshman year will be pursued in the preparatory department, where experience has shown they may be attended with greater advantage." Gradually students fell off, it became a mere boys' school, and finally Dr. Dalrymple was all that was left of the "School of Letters" and the "Faculty of the Arts and Sciences," and at his death, both formally became extinct. With the restoration of the property to the Regents, the classes in the medical school increased to a size somewhat like that attained in years previous to 1825, although, owing to the opening of new schools, they never quite equalled it. During the war of the Rebellion, the school suffered from the loss of southern patronage; but at its close, students came back and the school took on fresh life. It has always been in the front rank; first of all American medical schools it recognized Gynecology as a separate branch of instruction, and it was second in making practical Anatomy a compulsory study. With the session of 1891 it will require a three years' graded course of all candidates for degrees. In 1850 the Hon. John P. Kennedy, statesman and author, was chosen provost, and on his death in 1870, the Hon. S. Teackle Wallis was made his successor and he now fills the office with honor. The Faculty of Law revived the Law School in the beginning of 1870, with a class of 25. An efficient faculty has caused a steady increase, until, in 1890, there were 101 students in the three years' course. The instruction is given by lectures, examinations, and moot-courts. In 1884, the Law Department moved from its former quarters in the old Baltimore College building on Mulberry Street, to a new building erected for it on the University property on Lombard Street, next to the building of the Medical Department. In 1882, the University of Maryland obtained from the Legislature authority to open a Dental Department.[24] In 1837, the first Dental Lectures in America had been delivered before the Medical Students of the University, and it was quite fitting that there should be a dental school connected with it. The first class numbered 60, the last 132, and in eight years there have been 250 graduates. This fact and the further one that twice has it been found necessary to make large additions to the buildings of the department on Green Street, adjoining those of the Medical School, will show how rapid has been its growth. The University has, at present, flourishing departments of Medicine, Law, and Dentistry, and worthily maintains the reputation of thorough and careful training, which it has gained in its history of eighty years. COKESBURY COLLEGE. In Maryland was the first Methodist Church in America, and it was natural that here too should be the first Methodist College in the world. There was no permanent organization of this denomination in the United States, until John Wesley, on the petition of the American churches, consecrated Rev. Thomas Coke, Superintendent for the United States, in 1784. Dr. Coke sailed directly from England, and arrived in New York on November 3, 1784. He thence traveled southward and, on the 15th of the same month, met Francis Asbury at Dover, Delaware. At this first meeting, Coke suggested the founding of an institution for higher education, to be under the patronage of the Methodist Church.[25] This was not a new idea to Asbury; for, four years previous to this meeting, John Dickins had made the same suggestion to him. The earlier idea had contemplated only a school, on the plan of Wesley's at Knightwood, England, and for that purpose, a subscription had been opened in North Carolina in 1781.[26] Coke's suggestion, to have a college, was favorably received and, at the famous Christmas Conference at Baltimore in 1784, the Church was formally organized, with Coke and Asbury as Bishops, and the first Methodist College was founded. Thus the denomination which has increased to be the largest in the United States, recognized the paramount importance of education at its very foundation.[27] To the new institution, the name of Cokesbury was given, in honor of the two Bishops, from whose names the title was compounded. For this College, collections were yearly taken, amounting in 1786 to £800 and implying great self-denial by the struggling churches ill-supplied with wealth.[28] As early as January 3, 1785, only two weeks after the College was decided on, its managers were able to report that £1,057 had been subscribed, a sum that put the enterprise on a firm footing. The site was next to be chosen, and Abingdon in Harford County was pitched upon. Of the 15,000 Methodists in the Union in 1784, over one-third were in Maryland, and hence, it had the best claim for the College, and the beauty of the situation of Abingdon charmed Coke so much that he determined upon placing the College there. It was also a place easy of access, being on the direct stage line from Baltimore to Philadelphia and near the Chesapeake Bay. Bishop Coke, the most zealous advocate of the College, contracted for the building materials; but was prevented from being present at the laying of the corner-stone. Bishop Asbury, however, was present and preached a sermon on Psalms 78, verses 4 to 8.[29] In this sermon, "he dwelt on the importance of a thoroughly religious education, and looked forward to the effects, which would result to the generality, to come from the streams which should spring from this opening fountain of sanctified learning." The building was built of brick, one hundred feet in length and forty in width, faced east and west, and stood on "the summit and centre of six acres of land, with an equal proportion of ground on each side." It was said to be in architecture "fully equal, if not superior, to anything of the kind in the country." Dormitory accommodations were provided in the building; but it was intended that "as many of the students as possible, shall be lodged and boarded in the town of Abingdon among our pious friends,"[30] Gardening, working in wood in a building called the "Taberna Lignaria," bathing under supervision of a master, walking, and riding were the only outdoor exercises permitted. The students were prohibited "from indulging in anything which the world calls play. Let this rule be observed with the strictest nicety; for those who play when they are young, will play when they are old." In 1785 the Bishops issued a "Plan for Erecting a College intended to advance Religion in America." It is quite long and many of its provisions are very quaint. From it we learn that Cokesbury is intended "to receive for education and board the sons of the elders and preachers of the Methodist Episcopal Church, poor orphans, and the sons of the subscribers and other friends. It will be expected that all our friends, who send their children to the college, will, if they be able, pay a moderate sum for their education and board; the others will be taught and boarded and, if our finances allow it, clothed gratis. The institution is also intended for the benefit of our young men, who are called to preach, that they may receive a measure of that improvement, which is highly expedient as a preparation for public service." Teachers of ancient languages and of English will be provided, and no necessary branch of literature shall be omitted. "Above all, especial care shall be taken that due attention be paid to the religion and morals of the children, and to the exclusion of all such as continue of an ungovernable temper." "The expense of such an undertaking will be very large, and the best means we could think of, at our late conference, to accomplish our design, was to desire the assistance of all those in every place who wish well to the cause of God. The students will be instructed in English, Latin, Greek, logic, rhetoric, history, geography, natural philosophy, and astronomy. To these languages and sciences shall be added, when the finances of our college will admit of it, the Hebrew, French, and German languages. But our first object shall be, to answer the designs of _Christian_ education, by forming the minds of the youth, through divine aid, to wisdom and holiness by instilling into their minds the principles of true religion--speculative, experimental, and practical--and training them in the ancient way, that they may be rational, spiritual Christians. We have consented to receive children of seven years of age, as we wish to have the opportunity of teaching 'the young idea how to shoot' and gradually forming their minds, through the divine blessing, almost from their infancy, to holiness and heavenly wisdom, as well as human learning. We shall rigidly insist on their rising early in the morning (five a.m.), and we are convinced by constant observation and experience, that it is of vast importance, both to body and mind. "We prohibit play in the strongest terms, and in this we have the two greatest writers on the subject that, perhaps, any age has produced (Mr. Locke and Mr. Rousseau) of our sentiments; for, though the latter was essentially mistaken in his religious system, yet his wisdom in other respects and extensive genius are indisputably acknowledged. The employments, therefore, which we have chosen for the recreation of the students are such as are of greatest public utility:--agriculture and architecture. "In conformity to this sentiment, one of the completest poetic pieces of antiquity (the Georgics of Virgil) is written on the subject of husbandry; by the perusal of which and submission to the above regulations, the students may delightfully unite the theory and practice together." There is something extremely ludicrous in the idea of making the average student delight in spending his leisure hours in farming, by means of a study of the Georgics in the original. But we can hardly laugh at these men, they were too much in earnest. To return to the circular, "The four guineas a year for tuition, we are persuaded cannot be lowered, if we give the students that finished education, which we are determined they shall have. And, though our principal object is to instruct them in the doctrines, spirit, and practice of Christianity, yet we trust that our college will, in due time, send forth men that will be a blessing to their country in every laudable office and employment of life, thereby uniting the two greatest ornaments of human beings which are too often separated: _deep learning_ and _genuine piety_." As soon as the building was under roof, a preparatory school was opened and the Trustees applied to John Wesley for a President. He suggested a Rev. Mr. Heath, and this suggestion was accepted on December 23, 1786.[31] His inauguration occurred a year later and was a grand affair. Asbury presided on each of the three days of the ceremony, and his text on the second day, "O man of God, there is death in the pot,"[32] was looked on by the superstitious, in time to come, as a presage of disaster. The faculty was filled up and all seemed to bid fair for prosperity; but Mr. Heath remained in charge of the College less than a year, resigning because of certain charges of insufficiency, which seem rather trival. Another professor left to go into business and Asbury's soul was tried by these "heavy tidings." The good Bishop was indefatigable in his care of Cokesbury. His visits were frequent, and while there, he was very active, examining the pupils, preaching, and arranging the affairs, both temporal and spiritual. Abingdon became a centre of Methodism, families moved there to enjoy the educational advantages, and the Conference regularly visited the College, coming over from Baltimore for that purpose. Dr. Jacob Hall, of Abingdon, was the second President, and had under him a faculty of three professors and a chaplain. The school prospered and had public exhibitions of its students' proficiency from time to time. It is doubtful if sufficient care was exercised in the expenditure of money and, in December, 1790, the Trustees felt obliged to contract a loan of £1000. The charitable contributions fell off, and Asbury was forced to go from house to house in Baltimore, "through the snow and cold, begging money for the support of the poor orphans at Cokesbury."[33] The instruction was good, and Asbury could write to Coke, then in England, that "one promising young man has gone forth into the ministry, another is ready, and several have been under awakenings. None so healthy and orderly as our children, and some promise great talents for learning."[34] Still, "all was not well there," and on October 2, 1793, he "found matters in a poor state at college; £500 in debt, and our employes £700 in arrears." A year later, matters were desperate and the good Bishop wrote that "we now make a sudden and dead pause--we mean to incorporate and breathe and take some better plan. If we can not have a Christian school (_i.e._ a school under Christian discipline and pious teachers), we will have none."[35] The project of incorporation was not favored by some, who feared that the College would not be thereby so directly under the control of the Conference, but was carried through, and the charter bears date, December 26, 1794.[36] By it, the institution was allowed to have an income not exceeding £3,000. How a charter was to avoid increased indebtedness does not appear and the College's debt had so increased, that the Conference in 1795 decided to suspend the Collegiate Department and have only an English Free School kept in the buildings.[37] Misfortunes never come singly: an unsuccessful attempt to burn the buildings had been made in the fall of 1788, and now, on December 4, 1795, a completely successful one was made, and the building and its contents were consumed. Rewards to discover the incendiary were offered in vain, and Asbury writes:[38] "We have a second and confirmed report that Cokesbury College is consumed to ashes--a sacrifice of £10,000 in about ten years. If any man should give me £10,000 to do and suffer again what I have done for that house, I would not do it. The Lord called not Mr. Whitefield, nor the Methodists to build colleges. I wished only for schools; Dr. Coke wanted a college. I feel distressed at the loss of the library." Asbury despaired, but Coke did not and, going to work, he raised £1,020 from his friends. After the determination was made to move the College to Baltimore, the Church there gave £700, and a house to house solicitation brought in £600 more. A building originally erected for balls and assemblies was purchased and fitted up. It stood next the old Light Street Methodist Church and a co-educational school was opened therein on May 2, 1796. The high course planned for girls is especially noticeable at this early period. The school opened with promises of success, and within a month there were nearly 200 scholars. Fatality pursued the enterprise, however, and a year to a day from the burning of the first building, this second one was reduced to ashes, with the adjoining church and several houses. Asbury writes rather philosophically:[39] "I conclude God loveth the people of Baltimore, and he will keep them poor to make them pure;" but even Coke gave up hope at this new disaster, and it was twenty years before a second Methodist College was attempted. ASBURY COLLEGE. This was the second Methodist College in the world, and was organized in 1816, the year of Bishop Asbury's death. After a year or two of successful work, a charter was applied for and it was granted to the College February 10, 1818.[40] The President, Samuel K. Jennings, M.D., a Methodist local preacher, was a rather remarkable man. Coming from New Jersey, graduating at Rutgers, and settling in the practice of the medical profession in Virginia, he was converted by the preaching of Asbury, and was persuaded by him some years later, to move to Baltimore and take the leadership of the new enterprise.[41] He was said to be, at one time, the only Methodist preacher with a collegiate education and was well adapted to the task, from his administrative ability and wide learning. Around him, he gathered an undenominational faculty of four professors and began the life of the institution in a large brick building on the corner of Park Avenue and Franklin Street. In March, 1818, the _Methodist Magazine_ tells us that there were one hundred and seventy students, and that "The Asbury College has probably exceeded in its progress, considering the short time it has been established, any literary institution in the country."[42] In that spring, a class was graduated, and yet only a few months later Dr. Bangs wrote that the College "continued for a short time and then, greatly to the disappointment and mortification of its friends, went down as suddenly as it had come up, and Asbury College lives only in the recollection of those who rejoiced over its rise and mourned over its fall." This statement is not absolutely correct; it is probable that there was some catastrophe, and possibly Dr. Jennings then began to break away from the Methodist Episcopal Church, which he left entirely, when the Methodist Protestant Church was formed in 1828. Still some sort of an organization was kept up under the old name; for does not good Hezekiah Niles, of Register fame, tell us of examinations and exhibitions he witnessed in the early spring of 1819,[43] at which time prodigies of learning and cramming were exhibited, and do we not find in 1824, a pamphlet published by Dr. Jennings, entitled "Remarks on the Subject of Education, to which are added the general rules of the school under the appellation of Asbury College." Apparently the College had passed entirely out of the control of the church, and having lowered its grade, was now little more than Dr. Jennings' private school. The school was then situated on the corner of Charles and Baltimore Streets and, in 1833, when we catch the last glimpse of it, another removal had taken it to the corner of South and Fayette Streets. It was then merely a boys' day school and doubtless soon perished. So the second Methodist College failed as the first had done and another was added to the many abortive attempts to found a college in Maryland. OTHER EXTINCT COLLEGES. Three other attempts to found colleges demand a passing notice. _Mount Hope College_ stood at the corner of Eutaw Place and North Avenue, and was charted as a college in 1833.[44] The building was constructed by the Baltimore branch of the United States Bank in 1800, during an epidemic of yellow fever in the city. People feared to come into town to transact business and so a suburban banking house was built. This building was bought by the Rev. Frederick Hall in 1828 and in it a school was begun, which was later expanded into the College. The institution lasted some ten years and is worthy of note from the fact that among the teachers were two young Yale graduates, who afterwards obtained considerable renown: Professor Elias Loomis and Rev. S.W.S. Dutton. _The College of St. James_ was situated in Washington County and was originally intended by its founder, Bishop Whittingham, as a preparatory school. It was opened in October, 1842, with Rev. J.B. Kerfoot,[45] afterwards Bishop of Pittsburg, as Principal, and had such speedy and encouraging success, that it was chartered as a college in 1843, under the control of the Protestant Episcopal Church. The College prospered greatly under Bishop Kerfoot's able management, and was kept up during the War of the Rebellion in spite of the loss of Southern students, a large portion of the entire number. In 1864, however, General Early, of the Confederate Army, invaded Maryland and took Dr. Kerfoot and Professor Coit prisoners, and the College thus forcibly discontinued, was never again reorganized. _Newton University_ was chartered by the Legislature[46] on March 8, 1845 and was situated on Lexington Street, between North and Calvert. It was originally intended to combine the Baltimore preparatory schools and to furnish boys, graduating from them, the means of completing their education without leaving the city. There was an enormous list of Trustees and the unwieldy character of the board, coupled with the irregular habits of the President, made the failure of the enterprise inevitable. Still it offered in its catalogues a good course of study and gave exhibitions, at which polyglot orations were delivered. The late Prof. Perley R. Lovejoy was the life of the institution and, after several classes had graduated, the University finally ceased to be, when Mr. Lovejoy accepted a position as Professor in the Baltimore City College. ROMAN CATHOLIC COLLEGES. Maryland has been the cradle of the Roman Catholic Church in America, as well as of the Methodist and the Presbyterian. The centenary of the consecration of John Carroll, as the first Roman Catholic bishop in the United States, occurred little more than a year ago. A few months after Bishop Carroll's consecration, he received from the Superior of the Order of St. Sulpice an offer to found a seminary in Baltimore for the education of priests. This offer was accepted and, on July 10, 1791, four Sulpician priests arrived in Baltimore. They soon bought a house known as "One Mile Tavern" with four acres of land and there they opened _St. Mary's Seminary_, on the first Sunday in October, 1791. The Seminary still occupies the same site, at the corner of Paca and St. Mary's Streets. The number of the candidates for the priesthood, who entered the Seminary, was disappointing from its smallness and, in order to procure clerics, an Academy was opened in the rooms of the Seminary, on August 20, 1799. This was presided over by Rev. Wm. Du Bourg, and proved so successful, as to demand a separate building. Accordingly, the corner-stone of St. Mary's College was laid on April 10, 1800. At Bishop Carroll's request, no American boys were admitted for a time and only Spaniards and French were received. In 1803, however, the College was opened to all day scholars or boarders, without reference to birth or religion. This step roused some opposition and many communications upon the subject appeared in the newspapers, which were afterwards collected in pamphlet form. The students soon became numerous and the institution grew to such an extent that, in January, 1805, it was chartered as St. Mary's University. On August 13, 1806, the first class was graduated; in that year there were 106 students. New buildings were erected and a superb botanical garden was laid out. The chapel, built soon after the incorporation, was said to be the most beautiful in the United States. The Rev. William Du Bourg, the President, was a man of great ability and the reputation of the College rapidly spread. Many prominent men, Roman Catholics and Protestants, were graduated from St. Mary's; but the Sulpicians felt that their vocation was to educate young men exclusively for the priesthood, and not for secular life, and they finally closed St. Mary's College in 1852, in order to devote all their energies to the Theological Seminary, which has continued its prosperous career to this present day.[47] A second Roman Catholic College was formed by the Sulpicians in 1807 at Emmittsburg, Frederick County. It was begun by Rev. John Dubois and was soon chartered as _Mount Saint Mary's College_. The exercises were first held in a log house with a handful of pupils, who increased to 80 within five years. With the growth of the institution came the demand for larger accommodations. Better buildings were erected and a large stone edifice was undertaken in 1823. When nearly ready for occupancy, it was destroyed by fire; but Father Dubois did not despair and, aided by the people of the vicinity, at once began a new building. In 1826 he was appointed Bishop of New York, and in the same year, the connection of the College with the Sulpician order was terminated. Although originally intended chiefly as a place for the education of clerics, Mt. St. Mary's has ever kept in view the preparation of students for a secular life, and many of its graduates have been distinguished in State, as well as in Church. In 1838, Rev. John McCaffrey, D.D., became president, and under his able control, the College prospered until 1871. During this period, the jubilee of the institution was celebrated with great ceremony in 1858. The Civil War injured the College greatly and the declaration of peace found it burdened with a heavy load of debt. For twenty years the struggle went on and it was doubtful all the time, whether the College could survive. Finally Dr. William Bryne, at his leaving the presidency in 1884, was able to report that the institution was placed on a firm financial basis as to the future, and that the debt had been reduced to $65,000. The present President, Rev. Edward P. Allen, has still further diminished the debt by more than half and the attendance has been largely increased through his efficient administration. A third Roman Catholic College is _St. Charles's_, situated in Howard County, near Ellicott City. It is situated on land given by Charles Carroll of Carroll ton, and was chartered on February 3, 1830,[48] its name being taken from that of its founder and of the great Archbishop of Milan.[49] The institution was placed under the control of the Society of St. Sulpice and was established "exclusively for the education of pious young men of the Catholic persuasion for the ministry of the Gospel." The corner-stone was laid by the venerable Charles Carroll, on July 11, 1831; but, for want of funds to carry on the work successfully, the institution was not opened until the fall of 1848. The first President, Rev. O.L. Jenkins, began the institution with four pupils, and at his death in 1869, the number had grown to 140. Since the closing of St. Mary's College in 1852, St. Charles's has been used by the Sulpicians as preparatory to St. Mary's Seminary. To supply the want of a college, to which Baltimore boys of Roman Catholic families could go without leaving home, _Loyola College_ was opened in September, 1852. It is under the control of the Jesuits and has confined itself to receiving day scholars. The fifth and last Roman Catholic College, _Rock Hill_, was chartered in 1865.[50] It is situated near Ellicott City, as is St. Charles's, and is under the supervision of the Brothers of the Christian Schools. It prepares youth for the various duties and occupations of life with great thoroughness, and has ever been noted especially for the attention paid to the development of the body as well as the mind of its pupils. WESTEEN MARYLAND COLLEGE. In 1865, Mr. Fayette R. Buell began an academy for boys and girls at Westminster, Carroll County,[51] and, in the spring of 1866, he proposed to the Conference of the Methodist Protestant Church, of which he was a member, that the school should be chartered as a college and taken under the Church's patronage. This proposition was not acceded to, but Mr. Buell went on with his plan. Confidence in the Rev. J.T. Ward, one of the teachers in Mr. Buell's school, induced two of his friends to lend the enterprise $10,000, and the corner-stone of the College building was laid on September 6, 1886. The College opened a year later with seventy-three pupils. In February, 1868, Mr. Buell found himself so much in debt, that he appealed to the Conference to take the property off his hands. This was done, and a Board of Trustees appointed by the Conference was incorporated by the legislature on March 30, 1868. The next fall, the institution reopened with Rev. J.T. Ward as President, in which office he continued for seventeen years. These were years of trouble and severe work to make the College a success. There was no endowment, and only by the most strenuous efforts was the College saved on several occasions from being overwhelmed with debt. Still, in spite of all disadvantages, good work was done and valuable experience was gained. The College has been a co-educational one from the first, and connected with it was a department of Biblical Literature, for such as intended to become clergymen, until a separate Theological School was opened in 1882. During Dr. Ward's administration, new buildings were erected and, at his resignation in 1886, he left the institution ready to be made still more efficient by his successor. Rev. Thomas H. Lewis succeeded as President and, while he has caused the work and equipment of the College to be further enlarged, he has also been successful in paying off the last dollar of the debt that had hung over it so long as an incubus. FEMALE EDUCATION. _The Baltimore Female College_, so long presided over by Dr. N.C. Brooks, was the pioneer institution in Maryland for the higher education of women. Founded in 1849, it long had a prosperous existence; but finally was obliged to close its doors in June, 1890, on account of the withdrawal of the grant formerly given by the State. Besides this institution there was no successful attempt in Maryland to found a college for female education, until the _Woman's College of Baltimore_ was chartered in 1884.[52] It was founded by the Methodist Episcopal Church, in honor of the centenary of its organized existence in this country, and is "denominational but not sectarian." For it beautiful buildings, adjoining the First Methodist Church, have been erected on St. Paul Street. Much of the money for its endowment was given by the present President, the Rev. J.F. Goucher, D.D., and, largely through his influence, was it able to open its doors to students on September 13, 1888. It has determined, very sensibly, to grant no degrees, save to those thoroughly fitted to receive them, and so has had no graduates up to the present. Its growth under the care of W.H. Hopkins, Ph.D., its first President, was great in numbers and endowment and the prospects are now fair for this Baltimore Woman's College taking high rank among similar institutions. CONCLUSION. To a superficial observer from a distance, it sometimes seems as if University education in Maryland began with the foundation of the Johns Hopkins University, a sketch of which follows from the pen of its honored President. Our study into the history of education in the State, however, has shown us that Maryland, instead of being one of the latest of the United States to conceive the University idea, was, in fact, one of the very earliest, and that her institutions have a history of which they need not be ashamed; though their work has not been so widely known as some others and though the bright promise of morning, in many cases, has not been followed by the full development of noontide. The patient labors of William Smith, of Hector Humphreys, of Francis Asbury, of John Dubois, and of many others, have been far from lost. Wherein they failed, they gained valuable experience for their successors, and wherein they succeeded, they helped to instil "into the minds and hearts of the citizens, the principles of science and good morals." FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 1: _Md. Archives_; Assembly Proceedings, 1666-1676, pp. 262-264.] [Footnote 2: Scharf, _Hist. of Md._, II, p. 510.] [Footnote 3: Sharpe, _Correspondence_, Vol. II, pp. 523-5 and 545.] [Footnote 4: Scharf, _Hist, of Md_., II, p.511.] [Footnote 5: Eddis, _Letters from Maryland_, 1769-1776.] [Footnote 6: MS. sketch of Prof. Rowland Watts.] [Footnote 7: Act of 1784, ch. 37.] [Footnote 8: Act of 1805, ch. 85. The appropriation had already been diminished by Act of 1798, ch. 107.] [Footnote 9: _Centennial of St. John's._ Address of P.R. Voorhees, Esq.] [Footnote 10: Resolutions of 1832, No. 41.] [Footnote 11: MS. Sketch of Dr. E.F. Cordell.] [Footnote 12: Act of 1807, ch. 53.] [Footnote 13: Act of 1807, ch. 111.] [Footnote 14: Act of 1812, ch. 159.] [Footnote 15: _Records of Univ. of Md_., Vol. A.] [Footnote 16: In 1815 he was succeeded by the Rt. Rev. James Kemp, D.D.] [Footnote 17: Acts of 1813, ch. 125; 1814, ch. 78.] [Footnote 18: Act of 1821, ch. 88.] [Footnote 19: Act of 1825, ch. 190.] [Footnote 20: Act of 1803, ch. 74.] [Footnote 21: Scharf, _Chron. of Baltimore_, p. 294.] [Footnote 22: Act of 1830, ch. 50.] [Footnote 23: Lucas, _Picture of Baltimore_, p. 170.] [Footnote 24: Act of 1882, ch. 88.] [Footnote 25: Stevens' _History of Methodism_, II, 253.] [Footnote 26: Some account of Cokesbury. MSS. of Rev. Wm. Hamilton.] [Footnote 27: _Early Schools of Methodism_, p. 21.] [Footnote 28: MSS. of Rev. I.P. Cook.] [Footnote 29: Strickland's _Asbury_, p. 163.] [Footnote 30: Methodist Discipline, 1789, p. 40.] [Footnote 31: _Asbury's Journal_, Vol. I, p. 523.] [Footnote 32: II Kings, 4: 40.] [Footnote 33: _Journal_, December 5, 1791.] [Footnote 34: _Early Schools of Methodism_, p. 31.] [Footnote 35: _Journal_, November 21, 1794.] [Footnote 36: Act of 1794, ch. 21.] [Footnote 37: Rev. Mr. Hamilton's MSS.] [Footnote 38: _Journal_, January 5, 1796.] [Footnote 39: _Journal_, 1796.] [Footnote 40: Act of 1817, ch. 144.] [Footnote 41: Sprague, _Annals of American Pulpit_, VII, 279.] [Footnote 42: _History of the M.E. Church_, Vol. III.] [Footnote 43: _Niles' Register_, February 20, 1819.] [Footnote 44: Act of 1832, ch. 199.] [Footnote 45: _Life of Bishop Kerfoot_, by Rev. Hall Harrison.] [Footnote 46: Act of 1844, ch. 272.] [Footnote 47: MSS. of Fr. G.E. Viger.] [Footnote 48: Act of 1830, ch. 50.] [Footnote 49: MSS. of Rev. G.E. Viger.] [Footnote 50: Act of 1865, ch. 10.] [Footnote 51: Lewis, _Outline of Western Maryland College_.] [Footnote 52: MSS. of Pres. W.H. Hopkins.] THE JOHNS HOPKINS UNIVERSITY (1876-1891). BY DANIEL C. GILMAN. FOUNDATION. The year 1876 is commonly taken as the date of the foundation of the Johns Hopkins University, as in that year its doors were opened for the reception of students. On the twenty-second of February the plans of the University were publicly made known, and consequently "Washington's Birthday" has since been observed as an anniversary or commemoration day. But in reality the Trustees were organized nine years before. The founder, Johns Hopkins, as he saw the end of life approaching (although he continued in active business for several years afterwards), determined to bestow a large part of his fortune upon two institutions which he proposed to establish, a University and a Hospital. These establishments were to be managed by separate Boards of Trustees, citizens of Baltimore, whom he selected for their integrity, wisdom, and public spirit. In order that the two Boards might be closely allied, the founder was careful that a majority of the Trustees of one corporation should also be a majority of the Trustees of the other corporation, and in a letter which he left as the final expression of his wishes, he declared it to be his "constant wish and purpose that the Hospital should ultimately form a part of the Medical School of the University." The Hospital was opened for the reception of patients in May, 1889; and a volume which was prepared in the following year by Dr. J.S. Billings, gives a full description of the buildings, with other papers illustrative of the history and purposes of that great charity. But as the Medical School, which is to form the bond of union between the two establishments has not yet been organized, the following statements will only refer to those opportunities which are here provided for the study of science and literature, in the faculty commonly known as the faculty of philosophy and the liberal arts. Before speaking of his gifts, a few words should be devoted to the memory of Johns Hopkins. This large-minded man, whose name is now renowned in the annals of American philanthropy, acquired his fortune by slow and sagacious methods. He was born in Anne Arundel county, Maryland, not far from the city of Annapolis, of a family which for several generations had adhered to the views of the Society of Friends. His ancestors were among the earliest settlers of the colony. While still a boy, Johns Hopkins came to Baltimore without any capital but good health, the good habits in which he had been brought up, and unusual capacity for a life of industrious enterprise. He began on the lowest round of the ladder of fortune, and by his economy, fidelity, sagacity, and perseverance he rose to independence and influence. He was called to many positions of financial responsibility, among the most important being that of President of the Merchants' National Bank, and that of a Director in the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad Company. He was a man of positive opinions in political affairs, yet he never entered political life; and although he contributed to the support of educational and benevolent societies he was not active in their management. In the latter part of his life, he dwelt during the winter in a large mansion, still standing on the north side of Saratoga street, west of North Charles street, and during the summer on an estate called Clifton, in Baltimore County. In both these places he exercised hospitality without ostentation. He bought a large library and many oil paintings which are now preserved in a memorial room at the Hospital. Nevertheless, his pursuits were wholly mercantile, and his time and strength were chiefly devoted to the business in which he was engaged,--first as a wholesale grocer, and afterwards as a capitalist interested in many and diverse financial undertakings. More than once, in time of commercial panic, he lent his credit to the support of individuals and firms with a liberality which entitled him to general gratitude. He died in Baltimore, December 24, 1873, at the age of seventy-nine years. He had never married. After providing for his near relations, he gave the principal part of his estate to the two institutions which bear his name, the Johns Hopkins University and the Johns Hopkins Hospital. Each of them received property estimated in round numbers at three and a half million dollars. The gift to the University included his estate of Clifton (three hundred and thirty acres of land), fifteen thousand shares of the common stock of the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad, and other securities which were valued at seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Many persons have expressed surprise that Mr. Hopkins should have made so large an investment in one corporation. But the stock of the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad was free from taxation, for many years it paid a dividend of ten per cent. per annum, and the managers, of whom he was one, confidently anticipated that a large stock dividend would be declared at an early day. Mr. Hopkins not only gave to the University all the common stock that he held in this corporation; he also advised that the Trustees should not dispose of it, nor of the stock accruing thereon by way of increment or dividend. In view of the vibrations to which this stock was subjected during the fifteen years subsequent to the death of Mr. Hopkins, it should not be forgotten that it was his will that linked the fortune of the great educational institution, which he founded, to the fortune of another corporation, in which he had the highest confidence. Fortunately, the crisis into which this union led, has been successfully passed. The friends of the University generously subscribed for its support an "emergency fund" of more than $100,000. Other large gifts were made and others still are known to be in the future. The Trustees, moreover, have changed four-fifths of their holdings of the common stock of the railroad company above mentioned, into its preferred stock, from which a permanent income of six per centum will be derived. The finances of the University are now on a solid basis, although additional gifts will be required for the construction of buildings and for the enlargement of the course of study, and still more before a medical department can be instituted. PRELIMINARY ORGANIZATION. The Johns Hopkins University was incorporated under the laws of the State of Maryland, August 24, 1867. Three years later, June 13, 1870, the Trustees met and elected a President and a Secretary of the Board. They did not meet again until after the death of Mr. Hopkins, when they entered with a definite purpose on the work for which they were associated. They collected a small but excellent library of books, illustrating the history of the universities of this and of other lands; they visited in a body Cambridge, New Haven, Ithaca, Ann Arbor, Philadelphia, Charlottesville, and other seats of learning; they were favored with innumerable suggestions and recommendations from those who knew much about education, and from those who knew little; and they invited several scholars of distinction to give them their counsel. Three presidents of colleges gave them great assistance, answering in the frankest manner all the searching questions which were put to them by a sagacious committee. Grateful acknowledgments will always be due to these three gentlemen: Charles W. Eliot, LL. D., President of Harvard University, Andrew D. White, LL. D., President of Cornell University, and James B. Angell, LL. D., President of the University of Michigan. INAUGURAL ASSEMBLY. The election of a President of the University took place in December, 1874. He entered upon the duties of his station in the following spring, and in the summer of 1875, at the request of the Trustees, he went to Europe and conferred with many leaders of university education in Great Britain and on the continent. At the same time he visited many of the most important seats of learning. During the following winter the plans of the University were formulated and were made public in the Inaugural Address of the President, which was delivered on the 22nd of February, 1876, before a large audience assembled in the Academy of Music. On this occasion, the Governor of the State, Hon. John Lee Carroll; the Mayor of the City, Hon. Ferdinand C. Latrobe; the Presidents and representative Professors of a large number of Universities and Colleges; the Trustees and other officers of the scientific, literary and educational institutions of Baltimore; the State and City officers of public instruction and other invited guests, together with the Trustees of Johns Hopkins, occupied the platform. The house was filled with an attentive audience. At eleven o'clock, the chair was taken by the President of the Trustees, Mr. Galloway Cheston. The orchestra of the Peabody Institute, directed by Professor Asger Hamerik, performed several pieces of classical music. A prayer was then offered up by Rev. Alfred M. Randolph, D D., of Emmanuel Church, now Assistant Bishop of Virginia, after which the Chairman of the Executive Committee, Mr. Reverdy Johnson, Jr., said: "Our gathering to-day is one of no ordinary interest. From all sections of our State, from varied sections of our land, we have met at the opening of another avenue to social progress and national renown. After two years of pressing responsibility and anxious care the Trustees of the Johns Hopkins University present the first detailed account of their trust. Of the difficulties attending the discharge of their duty; of the nice balancing of judgment; of the careful investigation and continued labor called for in the organization of the University, this is not the place to speak; but for the Board of Trustees, I may be allowed to claim the credit of entire devotion to the work, and a sincere desire to make of the University all that the public could expect from the generous foundation. Happily, our action is unfettered, and where mistakes occur, as occur they must, the will and power are at hand to correct them. We may say that the University's birth takes place today, and I do not think it mere sentiment, should we dwell with interest upon its concurrence with the centennial year of our national birth, and the birthday of him who led the nation from the throes of battle to maturity and peace. But it is not my province to detain you from the exercises which are to follow. I am happy to state that we have among us to-day one who represents the highest type of American education, and one who, from the beginning, has sympathized with, counselled and aided us. I know you anticipate me, as I announce the distinguished name, from the most distinguished seat of learning in our land--President Eliot, of Harvard University." ADDRESS OF PRESIDENT ELIOT. President Eliot next delivered a Congratulatory Address in which he said: "The oldest University of the country cordially greets the youngest, and welcomes a worthy ally--an ally strong in material resources and in high purpose. "I congratulate you, gentlemen, Trustees of the Johns Hopkins University, upon the noble work which is before you. A great property, an important part of the fruit of a long life devoted with energy and sagacity to the accumulation of riches, has been placed in your hands, upon conditions as magnanimous as they are wise, to be used for the public benefit in providing for coming generations the precious means of liberal culture. Your Board has great powers. It must hold and manage the property of the University, make all appointments, fix all salaries, and, while leaving both legislative and administrative details to the several faculties which it will create, it must also prescribe the general laws of the University. Your cares and labor will grow heavy as time goes on; but in accordance with an admirable usage, fortunately established in this country, you will serve without other compensation than the public consideration which will justly attach to your office, and the happy sense of being useful. The actuating spirit of your Board will be a spirit of scrupulous fidelity to every trust reposed in you, and of untiring zeal in promoting the welfare of the University and the advancement of learning. Judged by its disinterestedness, its beneficence and its permanence, your function is as pure and high as any that the world knows, or in all time has known. May the work which you do in the discharge of your sacred trust be regarded with sympathetic and expectant forbearance by the present generation, and with admiration and gratitude by posterity. "The University which is to take its rise in the splendid benefaction of Johns Hopkins must be unsectarian. None other could as appropriately be established in the city named for the Catholic founder of a colony to which all Christian sects were welcomed, or in the State in which religious toleration was expressly declared in the name of the Government for the first time in the history of the Christian world. There is a too common opinion that a college or university which is not denominational must therefore be irreligious; but the absence of sectarian control should not be confounded with lack of piety. A university whose officers and students are divided among many sects need no more be irreverent and irreligious than the community which in respect to diversity of creeds it resembles. It would be a fearful portent if thorough study of nature and of man in all his attributes and works, such as befits a university, led scholars to impiety. But it does not; on the contrary, such study fills men with humility and awe, by bringing them on every hand face to face with inscrutable mystery and infinite power. The whole work of a university is uplifting, refining and spiritualizing: it embraces whatsoever touches life With upward impulse; be He nowhere else, God is in all that liberates and lifts; In all that humbles, sweetens and consoles. "A university cannot be built upon a sect, unless, indeed, it be a sect which includes the whole of the educated portion of the nation. This University will not demand of its officers and students the creed, or press upon them the doctrine of any particular religious organization; but none the less--I should better say, all the more--it can exert through high-minded teachers a strong moral and religious influence. It can implant in the young breasts of its students exalted sentiments and a worthy ambition; it can infuse into their hearts the sense of honor, of duty, and of responsibility. "I congratulate the city of Baltimore, Mr. Mayor, that in a few generations she will be the seat of a rich and powerful university. To her citizens its grounds and buildings will in time become objects of interest and pride. The libraries and other collections of a university are storehouses of the knowledge already acquired by mankind, from which further invention and improvement proceed. They are great possessions for any intelligent community. The tone of society will be sensibly affected by the presence of a considerable number of highly educated men, whose quiet and simple lives are devoted to philosophy and teaching, to the exclusion of the common objects of human pursuit. The University will hold high the standards of public duty and public spirit, and will enlarge that cultivated class which is distinguished, not by wealth merely, but by refinement and spirituality. "I felicitate the State of Maryland, whose Chief Magistrate honors this assembly with his presence, upon the establishment within her borders of an independent institution of the highest education. The elementary school is not more necessary to the existence of a free State than the University. The public school system depends upon the institutions of higher education, and could not be maintained in real efficiency without them. The function of colleges, universities, and professional schools is largely a public function; their work is done primarily, indeed, upon individuals, but ultimately for the public good. They help powerfully to form and mould aright the public character; and that public character is the foundation of everything which is precious in the State, including even its material prosperity. In training men thoroughly for the learned professions of law and medicine, this University will be of great service to Maryland and the neighboring States. During the past forty years the rules which governed admission to these honorable and confidential professions have been carelessly relaxed in most of the States of the Union, and we are now suffering great losses and injuries, both material and moral, in consequence of thus thoughtlessly abandoning the safer ways of our fathers. It is for the strong universities of the country to provide adequate means of training young men well for the learned professions, and to set a high standard for professional degrees. "President Gilman, this distinguished assembly has come together to give you God-speed. I welcome you to arduous duties and grave responsibilities. In the natural course of life you will not see any large part of the real fruits of your labors; for to build a university needs not years only, but generations; but though 'deeds unfinished will weigh on the doer,' and anxieties will sometimes oppress you, great privileges are nevertheless attached to your office. It is a precious privilege that in your ordinary work you will have to do only with men of refinement and honor; it is a glad and animating sight to see successive ranks of young men pressing year by year into the battle of life, full of hope and courage, and each year better armed and equipped for the strife; it is a privilege to serve society and the country by increasing the means of culture; but, above all, you will have the great happiness of devoting yourself for life to a noble public work without reserve, or stint, or thought of self, looking for no advancement, 'hoping for nothing again,' Knowing well by experience the nature of the charge which you this day publicly assume, familiar with its cares and labors, its hopes and fears, its trials and its triumphs, I give you joy of the work to which you are called, and welcome you to a service which will task your every power. "The true greatness of States lies not in territory, revenue, population, commerce, crops or manufactures, but in immaterial or spiritual tilings; in the purity, fortitude and uprightness of their people, in the poetry, literature, science and art which they give birth to, in the moral worth of their history and life. With nations, as with individuals, none but moral supremacy is immutable and forever beneficent. Universities, wisely directed, store up the intellectual capital of the race, and become fountains of spiritual and moral power. Therefore our whole country may well rejoice with you, that you are auspiciously founding here a worthy seat of learning and piety. Here may young feet, shunning the sordid paths of low desire and worldly ambition, walk humbly in the steps of the illustrious dead--the poets, artists, philosophers and statesmen of the past; here may fresh minds explore new fields and increase the sum of knowledge; here from time to time may great men be trained up to be leaders of the people; here may the irradiating light of genius sometimes flash out to rejoice mankind; above all, here may many generations of manly youth learn righteousness." INAUGURAL ADDRESS OF THE FIRST PRESIDENT. In his inaugural address, the President of the Johns Hopkins University, after a grateful reference to the founder and his generosity, and a reminder that the endowment, large as it appears, is not large when compared with the acquisitions of many other institutions, called attention to some of the special distinctions of this gift. Among them were named: the freedom from conditions; the absence of political or ecclesiastical control; the connection with an endowed hospital; the geographical advantages of Baltimore; and the timeliness of the foundation. Five agencies for the promotion of superior instruction were next briefly discussed, universities, learned academies, colleges, technical schools, and museums. The object of these paragraphs was to suggest the distinctive Idea of the University, and to show that while forms and methods vary in different countries, the freedom for investigation, the obligation to teach, and the careful bestowal of academic honors are always understood to be among the university functions. Wherever a strong university is established, learned societies, colleges, technical schools, and museums are clustered. It is the sun and they are the planets. Twelve points were then enumerated on which there is a consensus so general that further discussion seemed needless. 1. All sciences are worthy of promotion; or in other words, it is useless to dispute whether literature or science should receive most attention, or whether there is any essential difference between the old and the new education. 2. Religion has nothing to fear from science, and science need not be afraid of religion. Religion claims to interpret the word of God, and science to reveal the laws of God. The interpreters may blunder, but truths are immutable, eternal, and never in conflict. 3. Remote utility is quite as worthy to be thought of as immediate advantage. Those ventures are not always most sagacious that expect a return on the morrow. It sometimes pays to send our argosies across the seas,--to make investments with an eye to slow but sure returns. So it is always in the promotion of science. 4. As it is impossible for any university to encourage with equal freedom all branches of learning, a selection must be made by enlightened governors, and that selection must depend on the requirements and deficiencies of a given people, in a given period. There is no absolute standard of preference. What is more important at one time or in one place may be less needed elsewhere and otherwise. 5. Individual students cannot pursue all branches of learning, and must be allowed to select, under the guidance of those who are appointed to counsel them. Nor can able professors be governed by routine. Teachers and pupils must be allowed great freedom in their method of work. Recitations, lectures, examinations, laboratories, libraries, field exercises, travel, are all legitimate means of culture. 6. The best scholars will almost invariably be those who make special attainments on the foundation of a broad and liberal culture. 7. The best teachers are usually those who are free, competent, and willing to make original researches in the library and the laboratory. 8. The best investigators are usually those who have also the responsibilities of instruction, gaining thus the incitement of colleagues, the encouragement of pupils, the observation of the public. 9. Universities should bestow their honors with a sparing hand; their benefits most freely. 10. A university cannot be created in a day; it is a slow growth. The University of Berlin has been quoted as a proof of the contrary. That was indeed a quick success, but in an old, compact country, crowded with learned men eager to assemble at the Prussian court. It was a change of base rather than a sudden development. 11. The object of the university is to develop character--to make men. It misses its aim if it produces learned pedants, or simple artisans, or cunning sophists, or pretentious practitioners. Its purport is not so much to impart knowledge to the pupils, as to whet the appetite, exhibit methods, develop powers, strengthen judgment, and invigorate the intellectual and moral forces. It should prepare for the service of society a class of students who will be wise, thoughtful, progressive guides in whatever department of work or thought they may be engaged. 12. Universities easily fall into ruts. Almost every epoch requires a fresh start. If these twelve points are conceded, our task is simplified, though it is still difficult. It is to apply these principles to Baltimore in 1876. We are trying to do this with no controversy as to the relative importance of letters and science, the conflicts of religion and science, or the relation of abstractions and utilities; our simple aim is to make scholars, strong, bright, useful and true. Proceeding to speak of the Johns Hopkins University, the speaker then announced that at first the Faculty of Philosophy would alone be organized, where instruction would be given in language, mathematics, ethics, history and science. The Medical Faculty would not long be delayed. That of Jurisprudence would come in time. That of Theology is not now proposed. The next paragraphs of the address will be given without abbreviation. Who shall our teachers be? This question the public has answered for us; for I believe there is scarcely a preeminent man of science or letters, at home or abroad, who has not received a popular nomination for the vacant professorships. Some of these candidates we shall certainly secure, and their names will be one by one made known. But I must tell you, in domestic confidence, that it is not an easy task to transplant a tree which is deeply rooted. It is especially hard to do so in our soil and climate. Though a migratory people, our college professors are fixtures. Such local college attachments are not known in Germany; and the promotions which are frequent in Germany are less thought of here. When we think of calling foreign teachers, we encounter other difficulties. Many are reluctant to cross the sea; and others are, by reason of their lack of acquaintance with our language and ways, unavailable. Besides we may as well admit that London, Paris, Leipsic, Berlin, and Vienna afford facilities for literary and scientific growth and influence, far beyond what our country affords. Hence, it is probable that among our own countrymen, our faculty will be chiefly found. I wrote, not long ago, to an eminent physicist, presenting this problem in social mechanics, for which I asked his solution, "We cannot have a great university without great professors; we cannot get great professors till we have a great university: help us from the dilemma." Let me tell his answer: "Your difficulty," he says, "applies only to old men who are great; these you can rarely move; but the young men of genius, talent, learning and promise, you can draw. They should be your strength." The young Americans of talent and promise--there is our strength, and a noble company they are! We do not ask from what college, or what state, or what church they come; but what do they know, and what can they do, and what do they want to find out. In the biographies of eminent scholars, it is curious to observe how many indicated in youth preeminent ability. Isaac Casaubon, whose name in the sixteenth century shed lustre on the learned circles of Geneva, Montpellier, Paris, London and Oxford, began as professor of Greek, at the age of twenty-two; and Heinsius, his Leyden contemporary, at eighteen. It was at the age of twenty-eight, that Linnaeus first published his _Systema Naturae_. Cuvier was appointed a professor in Paris at twenty-six, and, a few months later, a member of the Institute. James Kent, the great commentator on American law, began his lectures in Columbia College at the age of thirty-one. Henry was not far from thirty years of age when he made his world-renowned researches in electro-magnetism; and Dana's great work on mineralogy was first published before he was twenty-five years old, and about four years after he graduated at New Haven. Look at the Harvard lists:--Everett was appointed Professor of Greek at twenty-one; Benjamin Peirce, of Mathematics at twenty-four; and Agassiz was not yet forty when he came to this country. For fifty years Yale College rested on three men selected in their youth by Dr. Dwight, and almost simultaneously set at work; Day was twenty-eight, Silliman, twenty-three, and Kingsley, twenty-seven, when they began their professorial lives. The University of Virginia, early in its history, attracted foreign teachers, who were all young men. We shall hope to secure a strong staff of young men, appointing them because they have twenty years before them; selecting them on evidence of their ability; increasing constantly their emoluments, and promoting them because of their merit to successive posts, as scholars, fellows, assistants, adjuncts, professors and university professors. This plan will give us an opportunity to introduce some of the features of the English fellowship and the German system of privat-docents; or in other words, to furnish positions where young men desirous of a university career may have a chance to begin, sure at least of a support while waiting for promotion. Our plans begin but do not end here. As men of distinction, who have won the highest rank in their callings, are known to be free, we shall invite them to come among us. If we would maintain a university, great freedom must be allowed both to teachers and scholars. This involves freedom of methods to be employed by the instructors on the one hand, and on the other, freedom of courses to be selected by the students. But this freedom is based on laws,--two of which cannot be too distinctly or too often enunciated. A law which should govern the admission of pupils is this, that before they win this privilege they must have been matured by the long, preparatory discipline of superior teachers, and by the systematic, laborious, and persistent pursuit of fundamental knowledge; and a second law, which should govern the work of professors, is this, that with unselfish devotion to the discovery and advancement of truth and righteousness, they renounce all other preferment, so that, like the greatest of all teachers, they may promote the good of mankind. I see no advantage in our attempting to maintain the traditional four-year class-system of the American colleges. It has never existed in the University of Virginia; it is modified, though not nominally given up at Harvard; it is not an important characteristic of Michigan and Cornell; it is not known in the English, French or German universities. It is a collegiate rather than a university method. If parents or students desire us to mark out prescribed courses, either classical or scientific, lasting four years, it will be easy to do so. But I apprehend that many students will come to us excellent in some branches of a liberal education and deficient in others--good perhaps in Greek, Latin and mathematics; deficient in chemistry, physics, zoology, history, political economy, and other progressive sciences. I would give to such candidates on examination, credit for their attainments, and assign them in each study the place for which they are fitted. A proficient in Plato may be a tyro in Euclid. Moreover, I would make attainments rather than time the condition of promotion; and I would encourage every scholar to go forward rapidly or go forward slowly, according to the fleetness of his foot and his freedom from impediment. In other words, I would have our University seek the good of individuals rather than of classes. The sphere of a university is sometimes restricted by its walls or is limited to those who are enrolled on its lists. There are three particulars in which we shall aim at extramural influence: first, as an examining body, ready to examine and confer degrees or other academic honors on those who are trained elsewhere; next, as a teaching body, by opening to educated persons (whether enrolled as students or not) such lectures as they may wish to attend, under certain restrictions--on the plan of the lectures in the high seminaries of Paris; and, finally, as in some degree at least a publishing body, by encouraging professors and lecturers to give to the world in print the results of their researches. What are we aiming at? An enduring foundation; a slow development; first local, then regional, then national influence; the most liberal promotion of all useful knowledge; the special provision of such departments as are elsewhere neglected in the country; a generous affiliation with all other institutions, avoiding interferences, and engaging in no rivalry; the encouragement of research; the promotion of young men; and the advancement of individual scholars, who by their excellence will advance the sciences they pursue, and the society where they dwell. No words could indicate our aim more fitly than those by which John Henry Newman expresses his "Idea of the University," in a page glowing with enthusiasm, to which I delight to revert. What will be our agencies? A large staff of teachers; abundance of instruments, apparatus, diagrams, books, and other means of research and instruction; good laboratories, with all the requisite facilities; accessory influences, coming both from Baltimore and Washington; funds so unrestricted, charter so free, schemes so elastic, that as the world goes forward, our plans will be adjusted to its new requirements. What will be our methods? Liberal advanced instruction for those who want it; distinctive honors for those who win them; appointed courses for those who need them; special courses for those who can take no other; a combination of lectures, recitations, laboratory practice, field work and private instruction; the largest discretion allowed to the Faculty consistent with the purposes in view; and, finally, an appeal to the community to increase our means, to strengthen our hands, to supplement our deficiencies, and especially to surround our scholars with those social, domestic and religious influences which a corporation can at best imperfectly provide, but which may be abundantly enjoyed in the homes, the churches and the private associations of an enlightened Christian city. _Citizens of Baltimore and Maryland_.--This great undertaking does not rest upon the Trustees alone; the whole community has a share in it. However strong our purposes, they will be modified, inevitably, by the opinions of enlightened men; so let parents and teachers incite the youth of this commonwealth to high aspirations; let wise and judicious counsellors continue their helpful suggestions, sure of being heard with grateful consideration; let skilful writers, avoiding captionsness on the one hand and compliment on the other, uphold or refute or amend the tenets here announced; let the guardians of the press diffuse widely a knowledge of the benefits which are here provided; let men of means largely increase the usefulness of this work by their timely gifts. At the moment there is nothing which seems to me so important, in this region, and indeed in the entire land, as the promotion of good secondary schools, preparatory to the universities. There are old foundations in Maryland which require to be made strong, and there is room for newer enterprises, of various forms. Every large town should have an efficient academy or high school; and men of wealth can do no greater service to the public than by liberally encouraging, in their various places of abode, the advanced instruction of the young. None can estimate too highly the good which came to England from the endowment of Lawrence Sheriff at Rugby, and of Queen Elizabeth's school at Westminster, or the value to New England of the Phillips foundations in Exeter and And over. Every contribution made by others to this new University will enable the Trustees to administer with greater liberality their present funds. Special foundations may be affiliated with our trust, for the encouragement of particular branches of knowledge, for the reward of merit, for the construction of buildings; and each gift, like the new recruits of an army, will be more efficient because of the place it takes in an organized and efficient company. It is a great satisfaction in this world of changes and pecuniary loss to remember what safe investments have been made at Harvard and Yale, and other old colleges, where dollar for dollar is still shown for every gift. The atmosphere of Maryland seems favorable to such deeds of piety, hospitality and "good-will to men." George Calvert, the first Lord Baltimore, comes here, returns to England and draws up a charter which becomes memorable in the annals of civil and religious liberty, for which, "he deserves to be ranked," (as Bancroft says), "among the most wise and benevolent lawgivers of all ages;" among the liberals of 1776 none was bolder than Charles Carroll of Carrollton; John Eager Howard, the hero of Cowpens, is almost equally worthy of gratitude for the liberality of his public gifts; John McDonogh, of Baltimore birth, bestows his fortune upon two cities for the instruction of their youth; George Peabody, resident here in early life, comes back in old age to endow an Athenaeum, and begins that outpouring of munificence which gives him a noble rank among modern philanthropists; Moses Sheppard bequeaths more than half a million for the relief of mental disease; Rinehart, the teamster boy, attains distinction as a sculptor, and bequeaths his hard-won acquisitions for the encouragement of art in the city of his residence; and a Baltimorean still living, provides for the foundation of an astronomical observatory in Yale College; while Johns Hopkins lays a foundation for learning and charity, which we celebrate to-day. The closing sentences of the discourse were addressed to the young men of Baltimore and to the Trustees. THE FACULTY. One of the earliest duties which devolved upon the President and Trustees, after deciding upon the general scope of the University, was to select a staff of teachers by whose assistance and counsel the details of the plan should be worked out. It would hardly be right in this place to recall the distinctive merits of the able and learned scholars who have formed the academic staff during the first fourteen years, but perhaps the writer may be allowed to pay in passing a tribute of gratitude and respect to those who entered the service of the University at its beginning. To their suggestions, their enthusiasm, their learning, and above all their freedom from selfish aims and from petty jealousies, must be attributed in a great degree the early distinction of this institution. They came from widely distant places; they had been trained by widely different methods; they had widely different intellectual aptitudes; but their diversities were unified by their devotion to the university in which they were enlisted, and by their desire to promote its excellence. This spirit has continued till the present time, and has descended to those who have from time to time joined the ranks, so that it may be emphatically said that the union of the Faculty has been the key to its influence. The first requisite of success in any institution is a staff of eminent teachers, each of whom gives freely the best of which he is capable. The best varies with the individual; one may be an admirable lecturer or teacher; another a profound thinker; a third a keen investigator; another a skilful experimenter; the next, a man of great acquisitions; one may excel by his industry, another by his enthusiasm, another by his learning, another by his genius; but every member of a faculty should be distinguished by some uncommon attainments and by some special aptitudes, while the faculty as a whole should be united and cooperative. Each professor, according to his subject and his talents, should have his own best mode of working, adjusted to and controlled by the exigencies of the institution with which he is associated. The original professors, who were present when instructions began in October, 1876, were these: as the head and guide of the mathematical studies, Professor Sylvester, of Cambridge, Woolwich and London, one of the foremost of European mathematicians; as the leader of classical studies, Professor Gildersleeve, then of the University of Virginia; as director of the Chemical Laboratory and of instruction in chemistry, Professor Remsen, then of Williams College; to organize the work in Biology (a department then scarcely known in American institutions, but here regarded as of great importance with reference to the future school of medicine), Professor Martin, then of Cambridge (Eng.), a pupil of Professor Michael Foster and of Professor Huxley; as chief in the department of Physics, Professor Rowland, then holding a subordinate position in the Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute, whose ability in this department had been shown by the contributions he had made to scientific journals; and as collegiate professor, or guide to the undergraduate students, Professor Charles D. Morris, once an Oxford fellow, and then of the University of the City of New York. The names of the professors in the Faculty of Philosophy, from 1876 to 1890, are as follows, arranged in the order of their appointment: 1876 BASIL L. GILDERSLEEVE, LL. D _Greek_. 1876 J.J. SYLVESTER, LL. D _Mathematics_. 1876 IRA KEMSEN, Ph. D _Chemistry_. 1876 HENRY A. ROWLAND, Ph. D _Physics_. 1876 H. NEWELL MARTIN, Sc. D _Biology_. 1876 CHARLES D. MORRIS, A. M _Classics, (Collegiate)._ 1883 PAUL HAUPT, Ph. D _Semitic Languages_. 1884 G. STANLEY HALL, LL. D _Psychology._ 1884 WILLIAM H. WELCH, M. D _Pathology_. 1884 SIMON NEWCOMB, LL. D _Mathematics and Astronomy_. 1886 JOHN H. WRIGHT, A.M _Classical Philology_. 1889 EDWARD H. GRIFFIN, LL.D _History of Philosophy_. 1891 HERBERT B. ADAMS, Ph.D _Amer. and Inst. History_. 1891 WILLIAM K. BROOKS, Ph.D _Animal Morphology_. The persons below named have been appointed associate professors,--and their names are arranged in the order of their appointment: 1883 HERBERT B. ADAMS, Ph.D _History_. 1883 MAURICE BLOOMFIELD, Ph.D _Sanskrit and Comp. Philology_. 1883 WILLIAM K. BROOKS, Ph.D _Animal Morphology_. 1883 THOMAS CRAIG, Ph.D _Mathematics_. 1883 CHARLES S. HASTINGS, Ph.D _Physics_. 1883 HARMON N. MORSE, Ph.D _Chemistry._ 1883 WILLIAM E. STORY, Ph.D _Mathematics._ 1883 MINTON WARREN, Ph.D _Latin._ 1884 A. MARSHALL ELLIOT, Ph.D _Romance Languages_. 1884 J. RENDEL HARRIS, A.M _New Testament Greek_. 1885 GEORGE H. EMMOTT, A.M _Logic_. 1885 C. RENE GREGORY, Ph.D _New Testament Greek_. 1885 GEORGE H. WILLIAMS, Ph.D _Inorganic Geology_. 1885 HENRY WOOD, Ph.D _German_. 1887 RICHARD T. ELY, Ph.D _Political Economy_. 1888 WILLIAM T. COUNCILMAN, M.D _Anatomy_. 1888 WILLIAM H. HOWELL, Ph.D _Animal Physiology_. 1888 ARTHUR L. KIMBALL, Ph.D _Physics_. 1888 EDWARD H. SPIEKER, Ph.D _Greek and Latin_. 1889 Louis DUNCAN, Ph.D _Electricity_. 1889 FABIAN FRANKLIN, Ph.D _Mathematics_. At the opening of the Johns Hopkins Hospital, the principal physicians and surgeons of that foundation were appointed professors of the University, namely, arranged in the order of their appointment: 1889 WILLIAM OSLER, M.D _Medicine._ 1889 HENRY M. HURD, M.D _Psychiatry_. 1889 HOWARD A. KELLY, M.D _Gynecology_. 1889 WILLIAM S. HALSTED, M.D _Surgery_. In selecting a staff of teachers, the Trustees have endeavored to consider especially the devotion of the candidate to some particular line of study and the certainty of his eminence in that specialty; the power to pursue independent and original investigation, and to inspire the young with enthusiasm for study and research; the willingness to coöperate in building up a new institution; and the freedom from tendencies toward ecclesiastical or sectional controversies. They announced that they would not be governed by denominational or geographical considerations in the appointment of any teacher; but would endeavor to select the best person whose services they could secure in the position to be filled,--irrespective of the place where he was born, or the college in which he was trained, or the religious body with which he might be enrolled. It is obvious that in addition to the qualifications above mentioned, regard has always been paid to those personal characteristics which cannot be rigorously defined, but which cannot be overlooked if the ethical as well as the intellectual character of a professorial station is considered, and if the social relations of a teacher to his colleagues, his pupils, and their friends, are to be harmoniously maintained. The professor in a university teaches as much by his example as by his precepts. Besides the resident professors, it has been the policy of the University to enlist from time to time the services of distinguished scholars as lecturers on those subjects to which their studies have been particularly directed. During the first few years the number of such lecturers was larger, and the duration of their visits was longer than it has been recently. When the faculty was small, the need of the occasional lecturer was more apparent for obvious reasons, than it has been in later days. Still the University continues to invite the cooperation of non-resident professors, and the proximity of Baltimore to Washington makes it particularly easy to engage learned gentlemen from the capital to give occasional lectures upon their favorite studies. Recently a lectureship of Poetry has been founded by Mr. and Mrs. Turnbull of Baltimore, in memory of a son who is no longer living, and an annual course may be expected from writers of distinction who are known either as poets, or as critics, or as historians of poetry. The first lecturer on this foundation will be Mr. E.C. Stedman, of New York, the second, Professor Jebb, of Cambridge (Eng.). Another lectureship has been instituted by Mr. Eugene Levering with the object of promoting the purposes of the Young Men's Christian Association. The first lecturer on this foundation was Rev. Dr. Broadus, of Louisville, Ky. A few of those who held the position of lecturers made Baltimore their home for such prolonged periods that they could not properly be called non-resident. The following list contains the principal appointments. It might be much enlarged by naming those persons who have lectured at the request of one department of the University and not of the Trustees, and by naming some who gave but single lectures. 1876 SIMON NEWCOMB _Astronomy_. 1876 LÉONCE RABILLON _French_. 1877 JOHN S. BILLINGS _Medical History, etc_. 1877 FRANCIS J. CHILD _English Literature_, 1877 THOMAS M. COOLEY _Law._ 1877 JULIUS E. HILGARD _Geodetic Surveys_. 1877 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL _Romance Literature_. 1877 JOHN W. MALLET _Technological Chemistry_. 1877 FRANCIS A. WALKER _Political Economy_. 1877 WILLIAM D. WHITNEY _Comparative Philology_. 1878 WILLIAM F. ALLEN _History_. 1878 WILLIAM JAMES _Psychology_. 1878 GEORGE S. MORRIS _History of Philosophy_. 1879 J. LEWIS DIMAN _History._ 1879 H. VON HOLST _History_. 1879 WILLIAM G. FARLOW _Botany_. 1879 J. WILLARD GIBBS _Theoretical Mechanics_. 1879 SIDNEY LANIER _English Literature_. 1879 CHARLES S. PEIRCE _Logic_. 1880 JOHN TROWBRIDGE _Physics_. 1881 A. GRAHAM BELL _Phonology_. 1881 S.P. LANGLEY _Physics_. 1881 JOHN McCRADY _Biology_. 1881 JAMES BRYCE _Political Science_. 1881 EDWARD A. FREEMAN _History_. 1881 JOHN J. KNOX _Banking_. 1882 ARTHUR CAYLEY _Mathematics_. 1882 WILLIAM W. GOODWIN _Plato_. 1882 G. STANLEY HALL _Psychology_. 1882 RICHARD M. VENABLE _Constitutional Law_. 1882 JAMES A. HARRISON _Anglo-Saxon_. 1882 J. RENDEL HARRIS _New Testament Greek_. 1883 GEORGE W. CABLE _English Literature_. 1883 WILLIAM W. STORY _Michel Angela_. 1883 HIRAM CORSON _English Literature_. 1883 F. SEYMOUR HADEN _Etchers and Etching_. 1883 JOHN S. BILLINGS _Municipal Hygiene_. 1883 JAMES BRYCE _Roman Law_. 1883 H. VON HOLST _Political Science_. 1884 WILLIAM TRELEASE _Botany_. 1884 J. THACHER CLARKE _Explorations in Assos_. 1884 JOSIAH ROYCE _Philosophy_. 1884 WILLIAM J. STILLMAN _Archaeology_. 1884 CHARLES WALDSTEIN _Archaeology_. 1884 SIR WILLIAM THOMSON _Molecular Dynamics_. 1885 A. MELVILLE BELL _Phonetics, etc_. 1885 EDMUND GOSSE _English Literature_. 1885 EUGENE SCHUYLER _U.S. Diplomacy_. 1885 JUSTIN WINSOR _Shakespeare_. 1885 FREDERICK WEDMORE _Modern Art_. 1886 ISAAC H. HALL _New Testament_. 1886 WILLIAM HAYES WARD _Assyria_. 1886 WILLIAM LIBBEY, JR _Alaska_. 1886 ALFRED R. WALLACE _Island Life_. 1886 MANDELL CREIGHTON _Rise of European Universities_. 1887 ARTHUR L. FROTHINGHAM, JR _Babylonian and Assyrian Art_. 1887 RODOLFO LANCIANI _Roman Archaeology_. 1888 ANDREW D. WHITE _The French Revolution_. 1890 JOHN A. BROADUS _Origin of Christianity_. The number of associates, readers, and assistants has been very large, most such appointments having been made for brief periods among young men of promise looking forward to preferment in this institution or elsewhere. DISTINCTION BETWEEN COLLEGIATE AND UNIVERSITY COURSES. From the opening of the University until now a sharp distinction has been made between the methods of university instruction and those of collegiate instruction. In the third annual report, September 1, 1878, the views which had been announced at the opening of the University are expanded and are illustrated by the action of the Trustees and the Faculty during the first two years. The terms university and college have been so frequently interchanged in this country that their significance is liable to be confounded; and it may be worth while, once more at least, to call attention to the distinction which is recognized among us. By the college is understood a place for the orderly training of youth in those elements of learning which should underlie all liberal and professional culture. The ordinary conclusion of a college course is the Bachelor's degree. Usually, but not necessarily, the college provides for the ecclesiastical and religious as well as the intellectual training of its scholars. Its scheme admits but little choice. Frequent daily drill in languages, mathematics, and science, with compulsory attendance and frequent formal examinations, is the discipline to which each student is submitted. This work is simple, methodical, and comparatively inexpensive. It is understood and appreciated in every part of this country. In the university more advanced and special instruction is given to those who have already received a college training or its equivalent, and who now desire to concentrate their attention upon special departments of learning and research. Libraries, laboratories, and apparatus require to be liberally provided and maintained. The holders of professorial chairs must be expected and encouraged to advance by positive researches the sciences to which they are devoted; and arrangements must be made in some way to publish and bring before the criticism of the world the results of such investigations. Primarily, instruction is the duty of the professor in a university as it is in a college; but university students should be so mature and so well trained as to exact from their teachers the most advanced instruction, and even to quicken and inspire by their appreciative responses the new investigations which their professors undertake. Such work is costly and complex; it varies with time, place, and teacher; it is always somewhat remote from popular sympathy, and liable to be depreciated by the ignorant and thoughtless. But it is by the influence of universities, with their comprehensive libraries, their costly instruments, their stimulating associations and helpful criticisms, and especially their great professors, indifferent to popular applause, superior to authoritative dicta, devoted to the discovery and revelation of truth, that knowledge has been promoted, and society released from the fetters of superstition and the trammels of ignorance, ever since the revival of letters. In further exposition of these views, from men of different pursuits, reference should be made to an article on Classics and Colleges, by Professor Gildersleeve _(Princeton Review_, July, 1878), lately reprinted in the author's "Essays and Studies," (Baltimore, 1890); to an address by Professor Sylvester before the University on "Mathematical Studies and University Life," (February 22, 1877); to an address by Professor Martin on the study of Biology _(Popular Science Monthly,_ January, 1877); to some remarks on the study of Chemistry by Professor Remsen _(Popular Science Monthly,_ April, 1877); and to an address entitled "A Plea for Pure Science" (Salem, 1883), by Professor Rowland, as a Vice-President of the American Association for the Advancement of Science. Although of a much later date, reference should also be made to an address by Professor Adams (February 22, 1889) on the work of the Johns Hopkins University, printed in the _Johns Hopkins University Circulars_, No. 71. An address by Dr. James Carey Thomas, one of the Trustees, at the tenth anniversary, in 1886, may also be consulted _(Ibid._ No. 50). Reference may also be made to the fifteen annual reports of the University and to the articles below named, by the writer of this sketch. The Group System of College Courses in the Johns Hopkins University _(Andover Review,_ June, 1886); The Benefits which Society derives from Universities: Annual Address on Commemoration Day, 1885 _(Johns Hopkins University Circulars_, No. 37); article on Universities in Lalor's _Cyclopaedia of Political Science_; an address before the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Harvard University, July 1, 1886; an address at the opening of Bryn Mawr College, 1885. STUDENTS, COURSES OF STUDIES, AND DEGREES. In accordance with the plans thus formulated, the students have included those who have already taken an academic degree, and who have here engaged in advanced studies; those who have entered as candidates for the Bachelors' degree; and those who have pursued special courses without reference to degrees. The whole number of persons enrolled in these three classes during the first fourteen years (1876-1890) is fifteen hundred and seventy-one. Seven hundred and three persons have pursued undergraduate courses and nine hundred and two have followed graduate studies. Many of those who entered as undergraduates have continued as graduates, and have proceeded to the degree of Doctor of Philosophy. These students have come from nearly every State in the Union, and not a few of them have come from foreign lands. Many of those who received degrees before coming here were graduates of the principal institutions of this country. The degree of Doctor of Philosophy has been awarded after three years or more of graduate studies to one hundred and eighty-four persons, and that of Bachelor of Arts to two hundred and fifty at the end of their collegiate course. Two degrees, and two only, have been opened to the students of this University. Believing that the manifold forms in which the baccalaurate degree is conferred are confusing the public, and that they tend to lessen the respect for academic titles, the authorities of the Johns Hopkins University determined to bestow upon all those who complete their collegiate courses the title of Bachelor of Arts. This degree is intended to indicate that its possessor has received a liberal education, or in other words that he has completed a prolonged and systematic course of studies in which languages, mathematics, sciences, history, and philosophy have been included. The amount of time devoted to each of these various subjects varies according to individual needs and preference, but all the combinations are supposed to be equally difficult and honorable. Seven such combinations or groups of studies have been definitely arranged, and "the group system," thus introduced, combines many of the advantages of the elective system, with many of the advantages of a fixed curriculum. The undergraduate has his choice among many different lines of study, but having made this determination he is expected to follow the sequence prescribed for him by his teachers. He may follow the old classical course; or he may give decided preference to mathematics and physics; or he may select a group of studies, antecedent to the studies of a medical school; or he may pursue a scientific course in which chemistry predominates; or he may lay a foundation for the profession of law by the study of history and political science; or he may give to modern languages the preference accorded in the first group to the ancient classics. In making his selection, and indeed in prosecuting the career of an undergraduate, he has the counsel of some member of the faculty who is called his adviser. While each course has its predominant studies, each comprises in addition the study of French and German, and at least one branch of science, usually chemistry or physics, with laboratory exercises. The degree of Doctor of Philosophy is offered to those who continue their studies in a university for three years or more after having attained the baccalaureate degree. Their attention must be given to studies which are included in the faculty of philosophy and the liberal arts, and not to the professional faculties of Law, Medicine, and Theology. Students who have graduated in other institutions of repute may offer themselves as candidates for this degree. In addition to the requirements above mentioned, the student must show his proficiency in one principal subject and in two that are secondary, and must submit himself to rigid examinations, first written and then oral. He must also present a thesis which must gain the approval of the special committee to which it may be referred, and must subsequently be printed. All these requisitions are enforced by a faculty which is known as the Board of University Studies. As an encouragement to the systematic prosecution of university studies, the degree of Doctor of Philosophy in this University is offered under the following conditions. A Board of University Studies is constituted for the purpose of guiding the work of those who may become candidates for this degree. The time of study is a period of at least three years of distinctive university work in the philosophical Faculty. It is desirable that the student accepted as a candidate should reside here continuously until his final examinations are passed, and he is required to spend the last year before he is graduated in definite courses of study at this University. Before he can be accepted as a candidate, he must satisfy the examiners that he has received a good collegiate education, that he has a reading knowledge of French and German, and that he has a good command of literary expression. He must also name his principal subject of study and the two subordinate subjects. The Board reserves the right to say in each case whether the antecedent training has been satisfactory, and, if any of the years of advanced work have been passed by the candidate away from this University, whether they may be regarded as spent in university studies under suitable guidance and favorable conditions. Such studies must have been pursued without serious distractions and under qualified teachers. Private study, or study pursued at a distance from libraries and laboratories and other facilities, will not be considered as equivalent to university study. In the conditions which are stated below, it will appear that there are several tests of the proficiency of the candidate, in addition to the constant observation of his instructors. A carefully prepared thesis must be presented by the candidate on a subject approved by his chief adviser, and this thesis must receive the approbation of the Board. There are private examinations of the candidate, both in his chief subject and in the subordinate subjects. If these tests are successfully passed, there is a final oral examination in the presence of the Board. As an indication of the possible combinations which may be made by those who are studying for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy, the following schedule is presented: Physics, Mathematics, and Chemistry; Animal Physiology, Animal Morphology, and Chemistry; Chemistry, Mineralogy, and Geology; Mathematics, Astronomy, and Physics; Sanskrit, Greek, and Latin; History, Political Economy, and International Law; Greek, Sanskrit, and Latin; French, Italian and Spanish, and German; Latin, Sanskrit, and Roman Law; Latin, Sanskrit, and German; Assyriology, Ethiopic and Arabic, and Greek; Political Economy, History, and Administration; English, German, and Old Norse; Inorganic Geology and Petrography, Mineralogy, and Chemistry; Geology and Mineralogy, Chemistry, and Physics; Romance Languages, German, and English; Latin, Greek, and Sanskrit; German, English, and Sanskrit. While students are encouraged to proceed to academic degrees, the authorities have always borne in mind the needs of those who could not, for one reason or another, remain in the university for more than a year or two, and who might wish to prosecute their studies in a particular direction without any reference to academic honors. Such students have always been welcome, especially those who have been mature enough to know their own requirements and to follow their chosen courses, without the incentive of examinations and diplomas. PUBLICATIONS, SEMINARIES, SOCIETIES. The Johns Hopkins University has encouraged publication. In addition to the annual Register or Catalogue, the report of the President is annually published, and from time to time during the year "Circulars" are printed, in which the progress of investigations, the proceedings of societies, reports of lectures, and the appearance of books and essays are recorded. Encouragement is also given by the Trustees to the publication of literary and scientific periodicals and occasionally of learned essays and books. The journals regularly issued are: I. _American Journal of Mathematics_. S. Newcomb, Editor, and T. Craig, Associate Editor. Quarterly. 4to. Volume XIII in progress. II. _American Chemical Journal_. I. Remsen, Editor. 8 nos. yearly. 8vo. Volume XIII in progress. III. _American Journal of Philology_. B.L. Gildersleeve, Editor. Quarterly, 8vo. Volume XI in progress. IV. _Studies from the Biological Laboratory_. II. N. Martin, Editor, and W.K. Brooks, Associate Editor. 8vo. Volume V in progress. V. _Studies in Historical and Political Science_, II. B. Adams, Editor. Monthly. 8vo. Vol. IX in progress. VI. _Contributions to Assyriology, etc_. Fr. Delitzsch and Paul Haupt, Editors. Vol. II in progress. VII. _Johns Hopkins University Circulars_. 85 numbers issued. Another form of intellectual activity is shown in the seminaries and scientific associations which have more or less of an official character. In the seminary, the professor engages with a small company of advanced students, in some line of investigation--the results of which, if found important, are often published. The relations of the head of a seminary to those whom he admits to this advanced work, are very close. The younger men have an opportunity of seeing the methods by which older men work. The sources of knowledge, the so-called authorities, are constantly examined. The drift of modern discussions is followed. Investigations, sometimes of a very special character, are carefully prosecuted. All this is done upon a plan, and with the incessant supervision of the director, upon whose learning, enthusiasm, and suggestiveness, the success of the seminary depends. Each such seminary among us has its own collection of books. The associations or societies serve a different purpose. They bring together larger companies of professors and graduate students, who hear and discuss such papers as the members may present. These papers are not connected by one thread like those which come before the seminaries. They are usually of more general interest, and they often present the results of long continued thought and investigation. BUILDINGS, LIBRARIES, AND COLLECTIONS. The site selected when the University was opened in the heart of Baltimore, near the corner of Howard and Monument streets, has proved so convenient, that from time to time additional property in that neighborhood has been secured and the buildings thus purchased have either been modified so as to meet the academic needs, or have given place to new and commodious edifices. The principal buildings now in use are these: (1). A central administration building, in which are the class-rooms for classical and oriental studies. (2). A library building, in which are also rooms devoted especially to history and political science. (3). A chemical laboratory well equipped for the service of more than a hundred workers. (4). A biological laboratory, with excellent arrangements for physiological and morphological investigations. (5). A physical laboratory--the latest and best of the laboratories--with excellent accommodations for physical research and instruction. (6). A gymnasium for bodily exercise. (7). Two dwelling houses, appropriated to the collections in mineralogy and geology until a suitable museum and laboratory can be constructed. (8). Levering Hall, constructed for the uses of the Young Men's Christian Association, and containing a large hall which may be used for general purpeses. (9). Smaller buildings used for the smaller classes. (10). An official residence of the President, which came to the University as a part of the bequest of the late John W. McCoy, Esq. The library of the university numbers nearly 45,000 well selected volumes,--including "the McCoy library" not yet incorporated with the other books, and numbering 8,000 volumes. Not far from 1,000 periodicals are received, from every part of the civilized world. Quite near to the university is the Library of the Peabody Institute, a large, well-chosen, well-arranged, and well-catalogued collection. It numbers more than one hundred thousand volumes. The university has extensive collections of minerals and fossils, a select zoological and botanical museum, a valuable collection of ancient coins, a remarkable collection of Egyptian antiquities (formed by Col. Mendes I. Cohen, of Baltimore), a bureau of maps and charts, a number of noteworthy autographs and literary manuscripts of modern date, and a large amount of the latest and best scientific apparatus--astronomical, physical, chemical, biological, photographical, and petrographical. STATISTICS. _Summary of Attendance_, 1876-90. Total Enrolled Years. Teachers. Students. Graduates. Matriculates. Special. 1876-77 29 89 54 12 23 1877-78 34 104 58 24 22 1878-79 25 123 63 25 35 1879-80 33 159 79 32 48 1880-81 39 176 102 37 37 1881-82 43 175 99 45 31 1882-83 41 204 125 49 30 1883-84 49 249 159 53 37 1884-85 52 290 174 69 47 1885-86 49 314 184 96 34 1886-87 51 378 228 108 42 1887-88 57 420 231 127 62 1888-89 55 394 216 129 49 1889-90 58 404 229 130 45 1890-91 64 427 231 142 54 _Summary of Attendance_, 1876-90 (continued). Degrees Conferred. Years. A.B. Ph.D. 1876-77 -- -- 1877-78 -- 4 1878-79 3 6 1879-80 16 5 1880-81 12 9 1881-82 15 9 1882-83 10 6 1883-84 23 15 1884-85 9 13 1885-86 31 17 1886-87 24 20 1887-88 34 27 1888-89 36 20 1889-90 37 33 1890-91 -- -- TRUSTEES. It should never be forgotten in considering the history of such a foundation that the ultimate responsibility for its organization and government rests upon the Board of Trustees. If they are enlightened and high-minded men, devoted to the advancement of education, their influence will be felt in every department of instruction. The Johns Hopkins University has been exceptionally favored in this respect. Mr. Hopkins chose the original body with the same sagacity that he showed in all his career as a business man; and as, one by one, vacancies have occurred, men of the same type have been selected, by coöptation, for these important positions. The names of the Trustees from the beginning are as follows: *1867 GEORGE WILLIAM BROWN. *1867 GALLOWAY CHESTON. 1867 GEORGE W. DOBBIN. *1867 JOHN FONERDEN. *1867 JOHN W. GARRETT. 1867 CHARLES J.M. GWINN. 1867 LEWIS N. HOPKINS. *1867 WILLIAM HOPKINS. 1867 REVERDY JOHNSON, JR. 1867 FRANCIS T. KING. *1867 THOMAS M. SMITH. 1867 FRANCIS WHITE. 1870 JAMES CAREY THOMAS. 1878 C. MORTON STEWART. 1881 JOSEPH P. ELLIOTT. 1881 J. HALL PLEASANTS. 1881 ALAN P. SMITH. 1886 ROBERT GARRETT. 1891 JAMES L. McLANE. * Deceased. Notes supplementary to the Johns Hopkins University Studies in Historical and Political Science, 1891, No. 1. UNIVERSITY EXTENSION AND THE UNIVERSITY OF THE FUTURE. THE SUBSTANCE OF ADDRESSES DELIVERED BEFORE THE JOHNS HOPKINS AND OTHER UNIVERSITY AUDIENCES. BY RICHARD G. MOULTON, A.M., _Of Cambridge University, England_. I am requested to furnish information with reference to the University Extension Movement in England. It will be desirable that side by side with the facts I should put the ideas of the movement, for, in matters like these, the ideas are the inspiration of the work; the ideas, moreover, are the same for all, whereas the detailed methods must vary with different localities. The idea of the movement is its soul; the practical working is no more than the body. But body and soul alike are subject to growth, and so it has been in the present case. The English University Extension Movement was in no sense a carefully planned scheme, put forward as a feat of institutional symmetry; it was the product of a simple purpose pursued through many years, amid varying external conditions, in which each modification was suggested by circumstances and tested by experience. And with the complexity of our operations our animating ideas have been striking deeper and growing bolder. Speaking then up to date, I would define the root idea of 'University Extension' in the following simple formula: University Education for the Whole Nation organized on a basis of Itinerant Teachers. But every clause in this defining formula will need explanation and defence. The term 'University' Extension has no doubt grown up from the circumstance that the movement in England was started and directed by the universities, which have controlled its operations by precisely the same machinery by which they manage every other department of university business. I do not know that this is an essential feature of the movement. The London branch presents an example of a flourishing organization directed by a committee formed for the purpose, though this committee at present acts in concert with three universities. I can conceive the new type of education managed apart from any university superintendence; only I should look upon such severance as a far more serious evil for the universities than for the popular movement. But I use the term 'university education' for the further purpose of defining the type of instruction offered. It is thus distinguished from school education, being moulded to meet the wants of adults. It is distinguished from the technical training necessary for the higher handicrafts or for the learned professions. It is no doubt to the busy classes that the movement addresses itself, but we make no secret of the fact that our education will not help them in their business, except that, the mind not being built in water-tight compartments, it is impossible to stimulate one set of faculties without the stimulus reacting upon all the rest. The education that is properly associated with universities is not to be regarded as leading up to anything beyond, but is an end in itself, and applies to life as a whole. And the foundation for university extension is a change, subtle but clear, that may be seen to be coming over the attitude of the public mind to higher education, varying in intensity in different localities, but capable of being encouraged where it is least perceptible,--a change by which education is ceasing to be regarded as a thing proper to particular classes of society or particular periods of life, and is coming to be recognized as one of the permanent interests of life, side by side with such universal interests as religion and politics. For persons of leisure and means such growing demand can be met by increased activity of the universities. University Extension is to be the university of the busy. My definition puts the hope of extending university education in this sense to the whole nation without exception. I am aware that to some minds such indiscriminate extension will seem like an educational communism, on a par with benevolent schemes for redistributing the wealth of society so as to give everybody a comfortable income all round. But it surely ought not to be necessary to explain that in proposing a universal system of education we are not meaning that what each individual draws from the system will be the same in all cases. In this as in every other public benefit that which each person draws from it must depend upon that which he brings to it. University Extension may be conceived as a stream flowing from the high ground of universities through the length and breadth of the country; from this stream each individual helps himself according to his means and his needs; one takes but a cupful, another uses a bucket, a third claims to have a cistern to himself: every one suits his own capacity, while our duty is to see that the stream is pure and that it is kept running. The truth is that the wide-reaching purpose of University Extension will seem visionary or practicable according to the conception formed of education, as to what in education is essential and what accidental. If I am asked whether I think of shop-assistants, porters, factory-hands, miners, dock or agricultural laborers, women with families and constant home duties, as classes of people who can be turned into economists, physicists, literary critics, art connoisseurs,--I admit that I have no such idea. But I do believe, or rather, from my experience in England I know, that all such classes can be _interested_ in economic, scientific, literary and artistic questions. And I say boldly that to interest in intellectual pursuits is the essential of education, in comparison with which all other educational purposes must be called secondary. I do not consider that a child has been taught to read unless he has been made to like reading; I find it difficult to think of a man as having received a classical education if the man, however scholarly, leaves college with no interest in classical literature such as will lead him to go on reading for himself. In education the interest is the life. If a system of instruction gives discipline, method, and even originating power, without rousing a lasting love for the subject studied, the whole process is but a mental galvanism, generating a delusive activity that ceases when the connection between instructor and pupil is broken off. But if a teacher makes it his first business to stir up an interest in the matter of study, the education becomes self-continuing when teacher and pupil have parted, and the subject becomes its own educator. If then it be conceded that the essence of education is to interest, does it not seem a soberly practical purpose that we should open up to the whole nation without exception an interest in intellectual pursuits? I take my stand on the broad moral ground that every human being, from the highest to the lowest, has two sides to his life--his work and his leisure. To be without work in life is selfishness and sloth. But if a man or woman is so entangled in routine duties as never to command leisure, we have a right to say to such persons that they are leading an immoral life. Such an individual has no claim to the title of a working man, he is a slave. It may be cruel circumstances that have thus absorbed him in business, but that does not alter the fact: slavery was a misfortune rather than a fault to those who suffered it, but in any case to be content with slavery is a crime. Once get society to recognize the duty of leisure, and there is immediately a scope for such institutions as University Extension that exist for the purpose of giving intellectual interests for such leisure time. The movement is thus one of the greatest movements for the 'raising of the masses.' With a large section of the people there is, at the present moment, no conception of 'rising' in life, except that of rising out of one social rank into another. This last is of course a perfectly legitimate ambition, but it is outside the present discussion: University Extension knows nothing of social distinctions. It has to do with a far more important mode of 'rising' in life,--that of rising in the rank to which a man happens to belong at the moment, whether it be the rank in which he started or any other. There is a saying that all men are equal after dinner: and it is true that, while in the material wealth we seek in our working hours equality is a chimera, yet in the intellectual pursuits that belong to leisure there is no bar to the equality of all, except the difference of individual capacity and desire. Macaulay tells of the Dutch farmers who worked in the fields all day, and at night read the Georgics in the original. Scotch and American universities are largely attended by students who have had to engage in menial duties all the summer in order to gain funds for their high education during the winter. And every University Extension lecturer, highly trained specialist as he is, will testify how his work has continually brought him into contact with persons of the humblest social condition whom a moment's conversation has made him recognize as his intellectual equals. No one has any difficulty in understanding that in religious intercourse and experience all classes stand upon an equality; and I have spoken of the foundation for the University Extension movement as being the growing recognition of education as a permanent human interest akin to religion. The experience of a few years has sufficiently demonstrated the possibility of arousing such interest: to make it universal is no more than a practical question of time, money and methods. But no doubt when we come to _modus operandi_ the main difficulty of the movement is the diversity of the classes it seeks to approach--diversity in individual capacity, in leisure, means, and previous training. Opposite policies have been urged upon us. Some have said: Whatever you do, you must never lower the standard; let the Extension movement present outside the universities precisely the same education as the universities themselves are giving, however long you may have to wait for its acceptance. On the other hand, it has been urged: You must go first where you are most needed; be content with a makeshift education until the people are ready for something better. The movement has accepted neither of these policies, but has made a distinction between two elements of university training--method and curriculum. So far as method is concerned we have considered that we are bound to be not less thorough, but more thorough, if possible, than the universities themselves, in proportion as our clients work under peculiar difficulties. But in the matter of curriculum we have felt it our first duty to be elastic, and to offer little or much as may in each case be desired. Accordingly, we have elaborated an educational unit--the three months' course of instruction in a single subject: this unit course we have used all the resources we could command for making as thorough in method as possible; where more than this is desired, we arrange that more in a combination or series of such unit courses. The instruction can thus be taken by retail or wholesale: but in all cases it, must be administered on the same rigorous method. The key to the whole system is thus the unit course of three months' instruction in a single subject. The method of such a course is conveyed by the technical terms lecture, syllabus, exercises, class. The lectures are addressed to audiences as miscellaneous as the congregation of a church, or the people in a street car; and it is the duty of the teacher to attract such miscellaneous audiences, as well as to hold and instruct them. Those who do nothing more than simply attend the lectures will at least have gained the education of continuous interest; it is something to have one's attention kept upon the same subject for three months together. But it may be assumed that in every such audience there will be a nucleus of students, by which term we simply mean persons willing to do some work between one lecture and another. The lectures are delivered no oftener than once a week; for the idea is not that the lectures convey the actual instruction--great part of which is better obtained from books, but the office of the lecture is to throw into prominence the salient points of the study, and rouse the hearers to read, for themselves. The course of instruction is laid down in the syllabus--a document of perhaps thirty or forty pages, sold for a trifling sum; by referring for details to the pages of books this pamphlet can be made to serve as a text-book for the whole course, making the teacher independent in his order of exposition of any other text-book. The syllabus assists the general audience in following the lectures without the distraction of taking notes; and guides the reading and thinking of the students during the week. The syllabus contains a set of 'exercises' on each lecture. These exercises, unlike examination questions or 'quizzes,' are not tests of memory, but are intended to train the student to work for himself; they are thus to be done under the freest conditions--at home, with full leisure, and all possible access to books, notes or help from other persons. The written answers are sent to the lecturer for marginal comment, and returned by him at the 'class.' This class is a second meeting for students and others, at which no formal lecture is given, but there is free talk on points suggested to the teacher by the exercises he has received: the usual experience is that it is more interesting than the lecture. This weekly routine of lecture, syllabus-reading, exercise and class goes on for a period of twelve weeks. There is then an 'examination' in the work of the course held for students who desire to take it. Certificates are given by the university, but it is an important arrangement that these certificates are awarded _jointly_ on the result of the weekly exercises and the final examination. The subjects treated have been determined by the demand. Literature stands at the head in popularity, history with economy is but little behind. All the physical sciences have been freely asked for. Art constitutes a department of work; but it is art-appreciation, not art-production; the movement has no function to train artists, but to make audiences and visitors to art-galleries more intelligent. It will be observed that the great study known as 'Classics' is not mentioned in this list. But it is an instructive fact that a considerable number of the courses in literature have been on subjects of Greek and Latin literature treated in English, and some of these have been at once the most successful in numbers and the most technical in treatment. I am not without hope that our English University Extension may react upon our English universities, and correct the vicious conception of classical studies which gives to the great mass of university men a more or less scholarly hold upon ancient languages without any interest whatever in ancient literatures. This university extension method claims to be an advance on existing systems partly because under no circumstances does it ever give lectures unaccompanied by a regular plan of reading and exercises for students. These exercises moreover are designed, not for mental drill, but for stimulus to original work. The association of students with a general audience is a gain to both parties. Many persons follow regularly the instruction of the class who have not participated in the exercises. Moreover, the students, by their connection with the popular audience, are saved from the academic bias which is the besetting sin of teachers: more human interest is drawn into the study. The same effect follows from the miscellaneous character of the students who contribute exercises. High university graduates, experts in special pursuits, deeply cultured individuals who have never before had any field in which to exhibit the fruits of their culture, as well as persons whose spelling and writing would pass muster nowhere else, or casual visitors from the world of business, or young men and women fresh from school, or even children writing in round text,--all these classes may be represented in a single week's work; and the papers sent in will vary in elaborateness from a scrawl on a post-card to a magazine article or treatise. I have received an exercise of such a character that the student considerately furnished me with an index; I remember one longer still, but as this hailed from a lunatic asylum I will quote it only for illustrating the diversity of the spheres reached by the movement. Study participated in by such diverse classes cannot but have an all-roundness which is to teachers and students one of the main attractions of the movement. But we shall be expected to judge our system by results: and, so far as the unit courses are concerned, we have every reason to be satisfied. Very few persons fail in our final examinations, and yet examiners report that the standard in university extension is substantially the same as that in the universities--our pass students being on a par with pass men in the universities, our students of 'distinction' reaching the standard of honors schools. Personally I attach high importance to results which can never be expressed in statistics. We are in a position to assert that a successful course perceptibly influences the _tone_ of a locality for the period it lasts: librarians volunteer reports of an entirely changed demand for books, and we have even assurances that the character of conversation at 'five o'clock teas' has undergone marked alteration. I may be permitted an anecdote illustrating the impression made upon the universities themselves. I once heard a brilliant university lecturer, who had had occasional experience of extension teaching, describe a course of investigation which had interested him. With an eye to business I asked him if he would not give it in an extension course. He became grave. "Well, no," he replied, "I have not thought it out sufficiently for that;" and when he saw my look of surprise he added, "You know, anything goes down in college; but when I have to face your mature classes I must know my ground well." I believe the impression thus suggested is not uncommon amongst experts who really know the movement. Our results are much less satisfactory when we turn to the other side of our system, and enquire as to curriculum. It must be admitted that the larger part of our local centres can only take unit courses; there may be often a considerable interval between one course and another; or where courses are taken regularly the necessity of meeting popular interest involves a distracting variety of subjects; while an appreciable portion of our energies have to be taken up with preliminary half-courses, rather intended to illustrate the working of the movement than as possessing any high educational value. The most important advance from the unit course is the Affiliation system of Cambridge university. By this a town that becomes regularly affiliated, has arranged for it a series of unit courses, put together upon proper sequence of educational topics, and covering some three or four years: students satisfying the lecturers and examiners in this extended course are recognized as 'Students affiliated' (S.A.), and can at any time enter the university with the status of second year's men,--the local work being accepted in place of one year's residence and study. Apart from this, the steps in our educational ladder other than the first are still in the stage of prophecy. But it is universally recognized that this drawback is a matter solely of funds: once let the movement command endowment and the localities will certainly demand the wider curriculum that the universities are only too anxious to supply. The third point in our definition was that the movement was to be organized on a basis of itinerant teachers. This differentiates University Extension from local colleges, from correspondence teaching, and from the systems of which Chautauqua is the type. The chief function of a university is to teach, and University Extension must stand or fall with its teachers. It may or may not be desirable on other grounds to multiply universities; but there is no necessity for it on grounds of popular education, the itinerancy being a sufficient means of bringing any university into touch with the people as a whole. And the adoption of such a system seems to be a natural step in the evolution of universities. In the middle ages the whole body of those who sought a liberal education were to be found crowded into the limits of university towns, where alone were teachers to listen to and manuscripts to copy: the population of such university centres then numbered hundreds where to-day it numbers tens. The first university extension was the invention of printing, which sent the books itinerating through the country, and reduced to a fraction the actual attendance at the university, while it vastly increased the circle of the educated. The time has now come to send teachers to follow the books: the ideas of the university being circulated through the country as a whole, while residence at a university is reserved as the apex only of the university system. An itinerancy implies central and local management, and travelling lecturers who connect the two. The central management is a university, or its equivalent; this is responsible for the educational side of the movement, and negotiates for the supply of its courses of instruction at a fixed price per course.[53] The local management may be in the hands of a committee formed for the purpose, or of some local institution--such as a scientific or literary club or institute--which may care to connect itself with the universities. On the local management devolves the raising funds for the university fee, and for local expenses, as well as the duty of putting the advantages of the course offered before the local community. The widest diversity of practice prevails in reference to modes of raising funds. A considerable part of the cost will be met by the tickets of those attending the lectures, the prices of which I have known to vary from a shilling to a guinea for the unit course, while admission to single lectures has varied from a penny to half a crown. But all experience goes to show that only a part of this cost can be met in this way; individual courses may bring in a handsome profit, but taking account over various terms and various districts, we find that not more than two-thirds of the total cost will be covered by ticket money. And even this is estimated on the assumption that no more than the unit course is aimed at: while even for this the choice of subjects, and the chance of continuity of subject from term to term are seriously limited by the consideration of meeting cost as far as possible from fees. University Extension is a system of higher education, and higher education has no market value, but needs the help of endowment. But the present age is no way behind past ages in the number of generous citizens it exhibits as ready to help good causes. The millionaire who will take up University Extension will leave a greater mark on the history of his country than even the pious founder of university scholarships and chairs. And even if individuals fail us, we have the common purse of the public or the nation to fall back upon. The itinerant lecturers, not less than the university and the local management, have responsibility for the progress of the cause. An extension lecturer must be something more than a good teacher, something more even than an attractive lecturer: he must be imbued with the ideas of the movement, and ever on the watch for opportunities of putting them forward. It is only the lecturer who can maintain in audiences the feeling that they are not simply receiving entertainment or instruction which they have paid for, but that they are taking part in a public work, and are responsible for giving their locality a worthy place in a national scheme of university education. The lecturer again must mediate between the local and the central management, always ready to assist local committees with suggestions from the experience of other places, and equally attentive to bringing the special wants of different centres before the university authorities. The movement is essentially a teaching movement, and it is to the body of teachers I look for the discovery of the further steps in the development of popular education. For such a purpose lecturers and directors alike must be imbued with the missionary spirit. For University Extension is a missionary university, not content with supplying culture, but seeking to stimulate the demand for it. This is just the point in which education in the past has shown badly in comparison with religion or politics. When a man is touched with religious ideas he seeks to make converts, when he has views on political questions he agitates to make his views prevail: culture on the other hand has been only too often cherished as a badge of exclusiveness, instead of the very consciousness of superior education being felt as a responsibility which could only be satisfied by efforts to educate others. To infuse a missionary spirit into culture is not the least purpose of University Extension. I cannot resist the temptation to carry forward this thought from the present into the future. In University Extension so described may we not see a germ for the University of the Future? I have made the foundation of our movement the growing conception of education as a permanent interest of adult life side by side with religion and politics. The change is at best only beginning; it tasks the imagination to conceive all it will imply when it is complete. To me it appears that this expanding view of education is the third of the three great waves of change the succession of which has made up our modern history. There was a time when religion itself was identified with a particular class, the clergy alone thinking out what the rest of the nation simply accepted; then came the series of revolutions popularly summed up as the Reformation, by which the whole adult nation claimed to think for itself in matters of religion, and the special profession of the clergy became no more than a single element in the religious life of the nation. Again, there has been in the past a distinct governing class, to which the rest of society submitted; until a series of political revolutions lifted the whole adult population into self-government, using the services of political experts, but making public progress the interest of all. Before the more quiet changes of the present age the conception of an isolated learned class is giving way before the ideal of a national culture, in which universities will still be centres for educational experts, while University Extension offers liberal education to all, until educationally the whole adult population will be just as much within the university as politically the adult population is within the constitution. It would appear then that the university of such a future would be by no means a repetition of existing types, such as Oxford or Cambridge, Harvard or Johns Hopkins. These institutions would exist and be more flourishing than ever, but they would all be merged in a wider 'University of England,' or 'University of America'; and, just as the state means the whole nation acting in its political capacity through municipal or national institutions, so the university would mean the whole adult nation acting in its educational capacity through whatever institutions might be found desirable. Such a university would never be chartered; no building could ever house it; no royal personage or president of the United States would ever be asked to inaugurate it; the very attempt to found it would imply misconception of its essential character. It would be no more than a floating aggregation of voluntary associations; like the companies of which a nation's commerce is made up such associations would not be organized, but would simply tend to coöperate because of their common object. Each association would have its local and its central side, formed for the purpose of mediating between the wants of a locality and the educational supply offered by universities or similar central institutions. No doubt such a scheme is widely different from the ideal education of European countries, so highly organized from above that the minister of education can look at his watch and know at any moment all that is being done throughout the country. On the contrary the genius of the Anglo-Saxon race leans towards self-help; it has been the mission of the race in the past to develop self-government in religion and politics, it remains to crown this work with the application of the voluntary system to liberal education. In indulging this piece of speculation I have had a practical purpose before me. If what I have described be a reasonable forecast for the University of the Future, does it not follow that University Extension, as the germ of it, presents a field for the very highest academic ambition? To my mind it appears that existing types of university have reached a point where further development in the same direction would mean decline. In English universities the ideal is 'scholarship.' Scholarship is a good thing, and we produce it. But the system which turns out a few good scholars every year passes over the heads of the great mass of university students without having awakened them to any intellectual life; the universities are scholarship-factories producing good articles but with a terrible waste of raw material. The other main type of university enthrones 'research' as its summum bonum. Possibly research is as good a purpose as a man can set before him, but it is not the sole aim in life. And when one contemplates the band of recruits added each year to the army of investigators, and the choice of ever minuter fields--not to say lanes and alleys--of research, one is led to doubt whether research is not one of the disintegrating forces of society, and whether ever increasing specialisation must not mean a perpetual narrowing of human sympathies in the intellectual leaders of mankind. Both types of university appear to me to present the phenomena of a country suffering from the effects of overproduction, where the energies of workers had been concentrated upon adding to the sum of wealth, and all too little attention had been given to the distribution of that wealth through the different ranks of the community. Just at this point the University Extension movement appears to recall academic energy from production to distribution; suggesting that devotion to physics, economics, art, can be just as truly shown by raising new classes of the people to an interest in physical and economic and aesthetic pursuits, as by adding to the discoveries of science, or increasing the mass of art products. To the young graduate, conscious that he has fairly mastered the teaching of the past, and that he has within him powers to make advances, I would suggest the question whether, even for the highest powers, there is any worthier field than to work through University Extension towards the University of the Future. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 53: The Cambridge fee is £45 per course of three months.] 
12402	----	THE POETS AND POETRY OF CECIL COUNTY, MARYLAND COLLECTED AND EDITED BY GEORGE JOHNSTON, AUTHOR OF THE HISTORY OF CECIL COUNTY. A verse may finde him whom a sermon flies, And turn delight into a sacrifice. --Herbert. ELKTON, MD: PUBLISHED BY THE EDITOR. 1887 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1887, by GEORGE JOHNSTON, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D.C. PREFACE. This volume owes its existence to the desire of some of the teachers and pupils of the public schools in the northeastern part of Cecil county, to do honor to the memory of the late School Commissioner David Scott. Shortly after Mr. Scott's death, some of the parties referred to, proposed to collect enough money by voluntary contributions to erect a monument over his grave, in order to perpetuate his memory, and also to show the high regard in which he was held by them. This project being brought to the knowledge of the editor, he ventured to express the opinion that the best monument Mr. Scott could have, would be the collection and publication of his poems in book form. This suggestion met the approbation of the originators of the project, who asked the writer to undertake the work of collecting the poems and editing the book. Subsequent investigation showed that Mr. Scott had not left enough poems to justify their publication in a volume by themselves; and the original plan of the work was changed, so as to include, so far as it has been practicable to do so, the writings of all the native poets of the county, and those who though not natives, have resided and written in it. Owing to causes not necessary to state it was impracticable, in some cases, to make as creditable a selection as could have been made had it been possible to have had access to all the poetry of the different writers. In a few instances the book contains all the poetry of the different writers that it has been practicable to obtain. Herein, it is hoped, will be found sufficient apology, if any apology is needed, for the character of some of the matter in the book. If any apology is needed for the prominence given to the poems of David Scott (of John.) it may be found in the foregoing statement concerning the origin of the book; and in the fact, that, for more than a quarter of a century, the editor was probably his most intimate friend. So intimate indeed were the relations between Mr. Scott and the writer, that the latter had the pleasure of reading many of his friend's poems before they were published. The same may be said in a more extended sense, of the poems of David Scott (of James) to whose example and teaching, as well as to that of the other Mr. Scott--for he was a pupil of each of them--the writer owes much of whatever literary ability he may possess. The editor is also on terms of intimacy with many of the other contemporary writers whose poetry appears in the book, and has striven to do justice to their literary ability, by the selection of such of their poems as are best calculated, in his opinion, to do credit to them, without offending the taste of the most fastidious readers of the book. From the foregoing statement it will be apparent that the object of the editor was not to produce a book of poetical jems, but only to select the poems best adapted to the exemplification of the diversified talents of their authors. The work has been a labor of love; and though conscious that it has been imperfectly performed, the compiler ventures to express the hope that it will be received by a generous and discriminating public, in the same spirit in which it was done. EDITORIAL NOTES It is a remarkable fact that all the native poets of Cecil county except one or two were born in the northern part of it, and within about eight miles of the boundary line between Maryland and Pennsylvania. What effect, if any, the pure atmosphere and picturesque scenery of the country along the banks and romantic hills of the Susquehanna and Octoraro may have had to do with producing or developing poetical genius, cannot be told; but nevertheless it is a fact, that William P., and Edwin E. Ewing, Emma Alice Browne, Alice Coale Simpers, John M. Cooley and Rachel E. Patterson were born and wrote much of their poetry, as did also Mrs. Caroline Hall, in that beautifully diversified and lovely section of the county. It is also worthy of note that Tobias and Zebulon Rudulph were brothers, as are also William P. and Edwin E. Ewing; and that Mrs. Caroline Hall was of the same family; and that Folger McKinsey and William J. Jones are cousins, as are also Mrs. James McCormick and Mrs. Frank J. Darlington, and Emma Alice Browne and George Johnston. Owing to the fact that the size of the book was necessarily limited by the price of it; and to the fact that the poems of three of the writers were not obtained until after a large part of the book had been printed, it was impossible to give some of the writers, whose proper places were in the latter part of the book, as much space as was desirable. For the reason just stated, the editor was compelled to omit a large number of excellent poems, written by David Scott (of James,) and others. CONTENTS. DAVID SCOTT (of John.) Biography Lines Suggested by the Singing of a Bird An Eastern Tale The Market-Man's License Lines on the death of Mrs. Elizabeth Scott My Schoolboy Days The Donation Visit Lines on the death of Miss Mary Hayes Lines on the death of Miss Eleanora Henderson Lines on the death of Mrs. Burnite Stanzas read at the Seventy-second Anniversary of the birthday of Joseph Steele To Mary Impromptu to Mrs. Anna C. Baker Lament for the year 1877 Verses presented to my Daughter Lines on the death of a young lady of Wilmington Youthful Reminiscences Stanzas to a little girl on her birthday To Miss Mary Bain Stanzas addressed to Mr. and Mrs. T. Jefferson Scott Birthday Verses written for a little girl on her ninth birthday Roll Call In Memoriam Rensellaer Biddle Stanzas written on the fly leaf of a child's Bible Christmas Greeting, 1877 Anniversary Poem read at the anniversary of the Seventieth birthday of Mrs. Ann Peterson Lines on the death of Jane Flounders What is Matter? Anniversary Hymn The Intellectual Telegraph Lines on an Indian Arrow-Head Acrostic to Miss Annie Eliza McNamee Minutes of the Jackson Hall Debating Society, Dec. 5, 1877 Retrospection Acrostic to Miss Florence Wilson McNamee The Book of Books The Lesson of the Seasons John A. Calhoun, My Joe John EMMA ALICE BROWNE. Biography My Brother My Father. In Memoriam, 1857 At the Nightfall The Midnight Chime May-Thalia Memories The Old Homestead Gurtha In Memoriam. John B. Abrahams Missive to ---- Chick-A-Dee's Song To My Sister Measuring the Baby The Light of Dreams Ben Hafed's Meed Winter Bound Misled At Milking time The Singer's Song Aunt Betty's Thanksgiving In Hoc Signo Vinces How Katie Saved the Train Off the Skidloe Life's Crosses NATHAN COVINGTON BROOKS. Biography The Mother to her dead boy To a Dove Fall of Superstition The Infant St. John the Baptist Shelley's Obsequies The Fountain Revisited Death of Samson An Infant's prayer JOHN MARCHBORN COOLEY. Biography A Story with a Moral Forty Years After The Past Loved and Lost Death of Henry Clay, Jr. A Valentine Lines suggested on visiting the grave of a dear Friend GEORGE WASHINGTON CRUIKSHANK. Biography Stonewall Jackson In Memoriam New Year Ode My Birthday MRS. ANNIE McCARER DARLINGTON. Biography A Birthday Greeting Murmurings The Old Oak Tree Sweet Florida Evening REV. WILLIAM DUKE. Biography Hymn Hymn Rejoicing in Hope Hymn Remorse Morning EDWIN EVANS EWING. Biography The Cherubim Death and Beauty Take the Harp Death of the Beautiful Asphodel WILLIAM PINKNEY EWING. Biography The Angel Voice Then and Now The Neglected Harp Alone Gone Astray Lay of the Last Indian CHARLES H. EVANS. Biography Influences Musings Lines MRS. SARAH HALL. Biography Sketch of a Landscape With a Rose in January Life MRS. SALLIE W. HARDCASTLE. Biography On Receipt of a Bouquet October Old Letters June Roses Music Lines on the death of a Friend MRS. MARY E. IRELAND. Biography At the Party Mother and Son The Missionary's Story Transition Dorothy Moore Homeward Bound GEORGE JOHNSTON. Biography Here and Hereafter The Turtle's Sermon Skye If You don't believe it, try it Bye and Bye WILLIAM JAMES JONES. Biography Autumn Mary's Grave To Anselmo Flowers Life JOHN HENRY KIMBLE. Biography His Last Tune Advice to an Ambitious Youth Too Late After the Shower Tribute to the Memory of David Scott (of John) Spring JAMES McCAULEY. Biography Henry Clay Virtuous Age Acrostic Work To-day On the death of a Child Spring Hope Autumn MRS. IDA McCORMICK. Biography My Fancy Land With the Tide The Old Fashion My Baby and the Rose FOLGER McKINSKY. Biography Waiting their Crowns Sea Echoes Where Fancy Dwells At Key's Grave The Eternal Life MRS. ROSALIENE R. MURPHY. Biography Woman's Rights Only A Baby To Helen RACHEL E. PATTERSON. Biography Judge Not The Wish The Christian's Anchor CALLANDER PATTERSON. Biography God Is Great TOBIAS RUDULPH. Biography Selection from Tancred ZEBULON RUDULPH. Biography The Surprise Thoughts on the death of my grandchild Fanny The Decree A view from Mount Carmel MRS. ALICE COALE SIMPERS. Biography The Miller's Romance The Last Time Only a Simple Maid The Mystic Clock Rube and Will The Legend of St. Bavon DAVID SCOTT (of James.) Biography The Forced Alliance My Cottage Home The Mighty One The Surviving Thought The Working-Man's Song Ode to Death HENRY VANDERFORD. Biography On the Mountains Progress Winter Lines Written in St. Ann's Cemetery Merry May DAVID SCOTT (of John.) David Scott (of John,) so-called to distinguish him from his first cousin David Scott (of James,) was the grandson of David Scott, who emigrated from Ireland in the latter part of the eighteenth century and settled not far from Cowantown in the Fourth district. His son John, the father of the subject of this sketch, was born in Ireland, but was quite young when his father came to this country. David, the subject of this sketch, was born quite near to what was formerly known as Dysart's Tavern, now Appleton, on the 2nd of September, 1817, and died near Cowantown, on the 14th of November, 1885. All his life was spent within about two miles of the place of his birth, and most of it on the Big Elk creek at what was known while he owned them, as "Scott's Mills." His early life was devoted to farming, but upon reaching the proper age he learned the trade of augermaking, which at that time was one of the leading industries of this county, and at which he soon became an expert workman, as well as a skilful worker in iron and steel. The editor of this book has heard him remark that when he could find no one else capable of making odd pieces of ironwork for the machinery in his mills he would take the hammer and make them himself, and has also seen him make and temper the knives for a spoke machine which he used for a time in his bending mill. He and the late Palmer C. Ricketts were intimate friends in boyhood and remained such during the lifetime of Mr. Ricketts. Mr. Ricketts being of a literary turn of mind, their friendship probably had much to do with forming the literary tastes and shaping the political opinions of Mr. Scott. Mr. Scott was originally a Democrat, and when only about 23 years of age is said to have aspired to a seat in the General Assembly of his native State. But the leaders of the party failed to recognize his claims, and he shortly afterwards was instrumental in the formation of the first politico temperance organization in this county, and ran for the House of Delegates on the first temperance ticket placed before the people in 1845. For a few years afterwards he took no part in politics, his whole time and talents being engrossed in business, but in 1853 at the solicitation of his friend Ricketts, he consented to be a candidate for County Commissioner, and succeeded in carrying the Fourth district in which he lived, which was then known as the Gibraltar of Democracy, by a small majority, and securing his election by a majority of one vote over Griffith M. Eldredge, his highest competitor on the Democratic ticket. In 1855 he ran on the American ticket, with the late Samuel Miller and Dr. Slater B. Stubbs, for the House of Delegates, and was elected by a handsome majority. In 1859 Mr. Scott consented to run on the American ticket for the State Senate. His competitor was the late Joseph J. Heckart, who was elected. This was a memorable campaign on account of the effect produced by the John Brown raid upon the State of Virginia and the capture of Harper's Ferry, which had a disastrous effect upon Mr. Scott's prospects, owing probably to which he was defeated. At the outbreaking of the war of the rebellion he espoused the Union cause and gave it his hearty support during the continuance of the struggle, and remained a consistent Republican until his death. In 1864 he was a delegate to represent Cecil county in the Constitutional Convention, his colleagues being Thomas P. Jones, George Earle and the late Joseph B. Pugh. He was assigned to a place upon the Committee on the Elective Franchise and had more to do with originating that section of the Constitution which provided for the passage of a registration law than any other person on the committee--probably more than any other member of the Convention. He was an intimate friend of Henry H. Goldsborough, whom he had previously nominated in the Republican State Convention for the office of Comptroller of the State Treasury, which office he still held, and whom Mr. Scott also nominated for President of the Constitutional Convention in the Republican caucus, and, as was very natural, was often called upon by Mr. Goldsborough to preside over the Convention in his absence, which he did with that _suaviter in modo_ and _fortiter in re_ for which he was remarkable and with great acceptability to the members of both political parties. During the invasion of the State in July, 1864, he was one of the most active members in urging upon the loyalists of Annapolis and the military authorities in that city and at Camp Parole the necessity of defending the Capital of the State. He held the handles of the plow with which the first furrow that marked the line of the fortifications around the city was made. It may not be out of place to say that the editor of this book, in company with Mr. Scott, walked along the line of the ditch the morning before, and that the former walked ahead of the team attached to the plow so that the person who led the team might know where to go. Mr. Scott was also one of about a dozen members who remained in Annapolis for about two weeks, during much of which time the arrival of the rebel raiders was hourly expected, and kept the Convention alive by adjourning from day to day, without which, by the rules adopted for the government of the Convention, it could not have maintained a legal existence. He was appointed School Commissioner in 1882, which office he filled with great acceptability to the public until incapacitated by the disease which terminated his life. Mr. Scott, though one of the most amiable of men, was fond of argument when properly conducted, and from the time he was twenty years of age until nearly the close of his life was always ready to participate in a debate if he could find any person to oppose him; and thought it no hardship to walk any where within a radius of four or five miles, in the coldest weather, in order to attend a debating society. He was possessed of a large and varied stock of information and a very retentive memory, which enabled him to quote correctly nearly everything of importance with which he had ever been familiar. His ability in this direction, coupled with a keen sense of the ridiculous and satirical, rendered him an opponent with whom few debaters were able to successfully contend. But it was as a companion, a friend and a poet that he was best known among the people of his neighborhood, to which his genial character and kind and amiable disposition greatly endeared him. Mr. Scott began to write poetry when about twenty-one years of age, and continued to do so, though sometimes at long intervals, until a short time before his death. His early poems were printed in "The Cecil Whig," but being published anonymously cannot be identified. Like many others, he did not preserve his writings, and a few of his best poems have been lost. Of his poetic ability and religious belief, we do not care to speak, but prefer that the reader should form his own judgment of them from the data derived from a perusal of his poems. In 1844, Mr. Scott married Miss Agatha R. Fulton, a most estimable lady, who, with their son Howard Scott and daughter Miss Annie Mary Scott, survive him. In conclusion, the editor thinks it not improper to say that he enjoyed the pleasure of Mr. Scott's intimate friendship for nearly thirty years, and esteemed him as his best and most intimate friend. And that while his friend was only mortal, and subject to mortal frailities, he had a kind and generous heart; a soul which shrank from even the semblance of meanness, and was the embodiment of every trait which ennobles and elevates humanity. LINES SUGGESTED BY THE SINGING OF A BIRD EARLY IN MARCH, 1868. Sing on, sweet feathered warbler, sing! Mount higher on thy joyous wing, And let thy morning anthem ring Full on my ear; Thou art the only sign of spring I see or hear. The earth is buried deep in snow; The muffled streams refuse to flow, The rattling mill can scarcely go, For ice and frost: The beauty of the vale below In death is lost. Save thine, no note of joy is heard-- Thy kindred songsters of the wood Have long since gone, and thou, sweet bird, Art left behind-- A faithful friend, whose every word Is sweet and kind. But Spring will come, as thou wilt see, With blooming flower and budding tree, And song of bird and hum of bee Their charms to lend; But I will cherish none like thee, My constant friend. Like the dear friends who ne'er forsake me-- Whatever sorrows overtake me-- In spite of all my faults which make me Myself detest, They still cling to and kindly take me Unto their breast. AN EASTERN TALE ADDRESSED TO MRS. S.C. CHOATE. A Persian lady we're informed-- This happened long, long years before The Christian era ever dawned, A thousand years, it may be more, The date and narrative are so obscure, I have to guess some things that should be sure. I'm puzzled with this history, And rue that I began the tale; It seems a kind of mystery-- I'm very much afraid I'll fail, For want of facts of the sensation kind: I therefore dwell upon the few I find. I like voluminous writing best, That gives the facts dress'd up in style. A handsome woman when she's dressed Looks better than (repress that smile) When she in plainer costume does appear; The more it costs we know she is more _dear_. The story is a Grecian one, The author's name I cannot tell; Perhaps it was old Xenophon Or Aristotle, I can't dwell On trifles; perhaps Plutarch wrote the story: At any rate its years have made it hoary. The Greeks were famous in those days In arts, in letters and in arms; Quite plain and simple in their ways; With their own hands they tilled their farms; Some dressed the vine, some plow'd the ocean's wave; Some wrote, were orators, or teachers grave. They were Republicans, in fact; The Persians might have called them "black Republicans;" they never lacked The power to beat a foeman back. Thermopylæ, so famed in Grecian story Is but another name for martial glory. A busy hive to work or fight, Like our New England bold and strong; A little frantic for the right, As sternly set against the wrong; And when for right they drew the sword, we know, Stopped not to count the number of the foe. To me it is a painful sight To see a nation great and good Reduced to such a sorry plight, And courtiers crawl where freemen stood, And king and priests combine to seize the spoil, While widows weep and beggar'd yeomen toil. The philosophic mind might dwell Upon this subject for an age: The philanthropic heart might swell Till tears as ink would wet the page; The mystery, a myst'ry will remain-- The learning of the learned cannot explain. The Persians were a gaudy race, Much giv'n to dress and grand display; I'm grieved to note this is the case With other people at this day; And folks are judged of from outside attractions, Instead of from good sense and genteel actions. The dame in question was a type Of all her class; handsome and rich And proud, of course, and flashing like A starry constellation, which She was, in fact a moving mass of light From jewels which outshone the stars at night. The tale is somewhat out of joint-- I'm not much given to complain; 'Tis in a most essential point A blank; I've read it oft in vain To find one syllable about her size, The color of her hair, or of her eyes. Or whether she was short or tall, Or if she sung or play'd with grace, If she wore hoops or waterfall I cannot find a single trace Of proof; and as I like to be precise, My disappointment equals my surprise. This Persian belle; (confound the belle) Excuse me, please; I won't be rude; She's in my way, so I can't tell My tale, so much does she intrude; I wish I knew her age, and whether she Was single, married, or engaged to be. These are important facts to know, I wonder how they slipped the pen Of him who wrote the story, so I wonder at the taste of men Who wrote for future ages thus to spoil A tale to save time, paper, ink or oil. Our Persian lady, as I said, Decked out in costly jewels rare, A visit to a Grecian made-- A lady of great worth, and fair To look upon, of great domestic merit Which from a noble race she did inherit. Puffed up with vanity and pride, The Persian flashing like a gem, Displayed her brilliants, glittering wide; The Grecian coldly looked at them: "Have you no jewelry at all, to wear? Your dress and person look so poor and bare." She called her children to her side, Seven stalwart sons of martial mien; "These are my jewels," she replied, "I'm richer far than you, I ween: These are the glory and the strength of Greece, Which all the gems on earth would not increase," Let others shine in diamonds bright, Or hoard their greenbacks, bonds or gold, You have your jewels in your sight, And hearing, like the matron old; And should they still continue to increase, You'll beat the model mother of old Greece. Then hail Columbia, happy land! While California yields her ore, May you increase your jewel band, By adding every year one more; And when you're asked your jewels to display. Point to your score of sons saying "these are they." THE MARKET-MAN'S LICENSE, OR THE FARMER'S APPEAL FROM A JACKASS TO THE MAYOR. The following poem grew out of a misunderstanding between Mr. Scott and the clerk of the Wilmington market. In the winter of 1868, Mr. Scott was in the habit of selling hominy in the market, and the clerk treated him rudely and caused him to leave his usual stand and remove to another one. From this arbitrary exercise of power Mr. Scott appealed to the Mayor, who reinstated him in his old place. Mr. Scott soon afterwards had several hundred of the poems printed and scattered them throughout the market. In an introductory note he says, "the lines referring to Mayor Valentine are intended as a compliment to that officer, as well as a play on his official title of Mayor." I've horses seen of noble blood, And stopped to gaze and stare: But ne'er before to-day I stood In presence of a Mayor. I've talked with rulers, in and ex, With working man and boss; Mayor Valentine! they you unsex-- You surely are a horse. For every blooded horse one meets, Or clever mare he passes, He finds in all the city streets A score of brainless asses. A Jackass, in the days of old, Dress'd in a lion's skin, Went forth to ape the lion bold, And raised a mighty din: His ass-ship's ears he could not hide; His roaring would not pass; The startled beasts his ears descried, And recognized the ass. The moral of this tale you'll meet Each market day in town, With scales in hand, in Market street, Dress'd in the lion's gown: He roars, 'tis true, but scan him well Whene'er you see him pass; Look at his ears and you can tell He's but a braying ass. LINES ON THE DEATH OF MRS. ELIZABETH SCOTT. Ransom'd spirit, spread thy wings, Leave thy broken house of clay; Soar from earth and earthly things, To the realms of endless day. Weary pilgrim, take thy rest, Thine has been a tiresome road; Aching head and tortur'd breast, Added to thy galling load. Patient sufferer, dry thy tears, All thy sorrows now are o'er; Foes without, or inward fears, Never can afflict thee more. Faithful soldier of the cross, All thy conflicts now are done; Earthly triumphs are but loss, Thine is an immortal one. Palms of vict'ry thou shall bear, And a crown of fadeless light Will be given thee to wear, And a robe of spotless white. Thou shalt join the countless throng, Which, through tribulation, came: And repeat the angels' song-- "Worthy! worthy is His name Who hath conquered death and hell; Captive led captivity; Always doing, all things well; Giving us the victory!" MY SCHOOLBOY DAYS. The following poem was read at the forty-fifth anniversary of the marriage of Mr. and Mrs. James Swaney, on January 11th, 1883. Mr. and Mrs. Swaney's residence is not far from the site of the school house where Mr. Scott first went to school. Dear friends and neighbors, one and all, I'm pleased to meet you here; 'Tis fit that we should make this call Thus early in the year. That time flies rapidly along, And hurries us away, Has been the theme of many a song, And it is mine to-day. I stand where in my childhood's days, I often stood before, But nothing meets my altered gaze As in the days of yore. The trees I climbed in youthful glee, Or slept beneath their shade. Have disappeared--no trace I see Of them upon the glade. The school house, too, which stood near by, Has long since ceased to be; To find its site I often try, No trace of it I see. The road I traveled to and fro, With nimble feet and spry, I cannot find, but well I know It must have been hard by. The pond where skating once I fell Upon the ice so hard-- I lost my senses for a spell, And hence became a bard-- Is dry land now where grain or grass Is growing year by year; I see the spot, as oft I pass, No ice nor pond is there. A barn is standing on the spot Where once the school house stood; A dwelling on the playground lot, A cornfield in the wood. I mourn not for these altered scenes, Although it seems so strange That all are changed; I know it means That everything must change. I mourn the loss of early friends, My schoolboy friends so dear; I count upon my fingers' ends The few remaining here. In early youth some found their graves, With friends and kindred by; While some beneath the ocean's waves In dreamless slumbers lie; While many more, in distant lands, No friends nor kindred near, Are laid to rest by strangers' hands, Without one friendly tear. A few survive, both far and near, But O! how changed are they! Like the small band assembled here, Enfeebled, old, and gray. Strange feelings rise within my soul, My eyes o'erflow with tears, As backward I attempt to roll The flood of by-gone years. This honored pair we come to greet, For five-and-forty years Through winter's cold and summer's heat, Have worn the nuptial gears. The heat and burden of the day They honestly have borne, Until their heads are growing gray, Their limbs with toil are worn. In all the ups and downs of life-- Of which they've had their share-- They never knew domestic strife, Or, if at all, 'twas rare. They now seem standing on the verge Of that unfathomed sea, Just waiting for the final surge That opes eternity. When comes that surge, or soon or late, May they in peace depart; And meet within the shining gate, No more to grieve or part. THE DONATION VISIT. The following poem was read upon the occasion of a donation visit by the Head of Christiana congregation to their pastor, Rev. James I. Vallandigham. Fair ladies dear, and gentlemen. I thought not to be here to-day: But I'm a slave, and therefore, when My muse commands, I must obey. I've struggled hard against her power, And dashed her yoke in scorn away, And then returned, within an hour, And meekly bowed and owned her sway. I know the ground on which I stand And tremble like an aspen when I see around, on every hand, Such learned and such gifted men, Who really have been to college, And know the Latin and the Greek; And are so charged with general knowledge That it requires no little cheek In an obscure and modest bard To meet a galaxy so bright,-- Indeed, I find it rather hard To face the music here to-night. Dear friends, we've met, as it is meet That we should meet at such a time, Each other and our host to greet,-- Or guest, 'tis all the same in rhyme. No king nor queen do I revere; The majesty of God I own. An honest man, though poor, is peer To him that sits upon a throne. I long to see the coming day When wicked wars and strifes shall cease, And ignorance and crime give way Before the march of truth and peace. That welcome day is drawing near; I sometimes think I see its dawn; The trampling of the hosts I hear, By science, truth and love led on. I see the murderous cannon fused, With its death-dealing shot and shell, For making railway carwheels used, Or civil railway tracks as well. And small arms, too, will then be wrought Into machines for cutting wheat; While those who used them will be taught To labor for their bread and meat. God speed the day,--'tis bound to come, But not as comes the lightning's stroke; But slowly, as the acorn dumb Expands into the giant oak. Now, reverend sir, I turn to you, To say what all your flock well know; You, as a pastor kind and true, Have led the way we ought to go. You have rejoiced in all our joys, And sympathised with us in trouble; You have baptized our girls and boys-- And often you have made them double. With all your gifts and talents rare, You meekly take the servants place, And guard the sheep with jealous care And hold the lambs in your embrace. In all the ups and downs of life We've found in you a constant friend; You've counselled peace, discouraged strife, And taught us all our ways to mend. For eight-and-twenty years you've stood A watchman on the outer wall; Repressing evil, aiding good, And kindly watching over all. Though age may enervate your frame And dim the lustre of your eye, No lapse of time can soil your name, For names like yours can never die. LINES ON THE DEATH OF MISS MARY HAYES. Another star has left the sky, Another flower has ceased to bloom; The fairest are the first to die, The best go earliest to the tomb. That radiant star, whose cheering ray, Adorn'd her quiet, rural home, Went down, in darkness, at mid-day. And left that quiet home in gloom. That lovely flower, admired so much, In all its loveliness, was lost, It withered at the fatal touch Of death's untimely, killing frost. The mourners go about the street, While children tell their tale of woe To every passer-by they meet, In faltering accents, faint and low. "Dear Mary Hayes is dead," they say, While tears roll down their cheeks like rain, "Her eyes are closed, she's cold as clay," And then their tears gush out again. And stalwart men are dumb with grief, And sorrow pales the sternest cheek, While gentler women find relief, In tears--more eloquent than speech. Surely there is some fairer land, Where friends who love each other here Can dwell, united heart and hand, Nor death nor separation fear. Dear sister, dry thy flowing tears; Fond father, raise thy drooping head; Kind brothers, banish all your fears; Your Mary sleeps--she is not dead, The care-worn casket rests in dust, The fadeless jewel wings its flight To that fair land, we humbly trust, To shine with ever glowing light. For, on that ever-vernal shore, When death's appalling stream is cross'd, Your star will shine forevermore, Your flower will bloom, untouch'd by frost. LINES ON THE DEATH OF MISS ELEANORA HENDERSON. She is not dead, but sleepeth. --Luke 8:52. She is not dead, she's sleeping The dreamless sleep and drear; Her friends are gathered weeping Round her untimely bier. She is not dead, her spirit, Too pure to dwell with clay, Has gone up to inherit The realms of endless day. She is not dead, she's singing With angel bands on high; On golden harp she's singing God's praises in the sky. She is not dead, O mother, Your loss you will deplore; Kind sisters and fond brother, Your Nora is no more! No more, as we have seen her, The light and life of home, Of christian-like demeanor, Which ever brightly shone: Of youth the guide and teacher, Of age the stay and hope-- To all a faithful preacher, To whom we all looked up. She is not dead, she's sleeping, Her loving Saviour said; Then friends repress your weeping, God's will must be obeyed. She is not dead, she's shining In robes of spotless white; Why then are we repining? God's ways are always right. She is not dead--O never Will sorrow cross her track; She's passed Death's darksome river, And who would have her back? Back from the joys of heaven! Back from that world of bliss! Call back the pure, forgiven, To such a world as this? A world of grief and anguish-- A world of sin and strife-- In which the righteous languish, And wickedness is rife, She is not dead, she's shouting, Borne on triumphant wing, "O grave, where is thy vict'ry, O Death, where is thy sting?" LINES ON THE DEATH OF MRS. BURNITE WHO DIED FEBRUARY 2, 1878. Thou, my friend, in dust art sleeping, Closed thine eyes to all below; Round thy grave kind friends are weeping, Ling'ring, loath to let thee go. Husband fond and children dear, Crushed and stricken by the blow, Banish ev'ry anxious fear, While we lay the lov'd one low. For the angel's trump shall sound, And the bands of death will break; Then the pris'ner in this mound Shall to endless life awake. Then the spirit which is gone Will return and claim this dust, And this "mortal will put on Immortality," we trust. When that glorious day shall dawn, And the bridegroom shall descend With a gorgeous angel throng, The glad nuptials to attend, Oh, the rapture of that meeting! We of earth can never know Till we mingle in the greeting, Of our lov'd, lost long ago. Let me like the righteous die, Let my last end be like his; When I close, on earth, my eye, Let me wake in realms of bliss. STANZAS Read at the celebration of the seventy-second anniversary of the birthday of Joseph Steele, Dec. 13, 1884. Dear friends and neighbors, one and all, I'm pleased to meet you here to-day; 'Tis nice for neighbors thus to call, In such a social way. We meet to celebrate a day, Which people seldom see; Time flies so rapidly away 'Tis like a dream to me; Since I, a lad with flaxen hair First met our friend, so gray; We both were free from thought and care, But full of hope and play. Well Joseph Steele, we may be glad That we are here to-day, Although it makes me somewhat sad To think of friends away. Of all our schoolboy friends but few Alas! can now be found, Not many but myself and you Are still above the ground. I count upon my fingers' ends About the half, I know. Of all acquaintances and friends With whom we used to go; To _Humphreys_ and _Montgomery_ To _Cochran_ and to _Dance_, And some, who slip my memory, That used to make us prance, Whene'er we missed a lesson Or placed a crooked pin Just where some one would press on Enough to drive it in. O, it was fun alive, I vow, To see that fellow bounce And hear him howl and make a row And threaten he would trounce The boy that did the mischief, But that boy was seldom found, And so, he had to bear his grief And nurse the unseen wound; But time and rhyme can never tell The half our funny pranks, And that we ever learned to spell, We ought to render thanks. Poor Dance! I always pitied him For he was just from college, And never having learned to swim, Was drowned with all his knowledge. Of Cochran, I but little knew, He was a stranger here, 'Twas always said he would get blue, And acted very queer. Montgomery I knew right well, He was rather kind than cross, He taught the willing how to spell, And always would be boss. He wrote a very pretty hand And could command a school: His appetite got the command, And that he could not rule. One day he took a heavy slug Of something rather hot; He took that something from a jug, And shortly he was not. Who "took" him, though, I never can Nor need I ever say; But when the Lord doth take a man, 'Tis seldom done that way. Poor Humphreys was a sort of crank (Folks said his learning made him mad,) But this I know, he always drank, And that will make the best man, bad. Excuse this rather long digression, My pen has carried me astray; These schoolboy days make an impression From which 'tis hard to get away. Then let me turn, and return too, For I have wandered from my text,-- Well, Mr. Steele, how do you do? I hope you are not vexed. 'Tis pleasant in our riper years To have our children come And bring their children--little dears, They make it seem like home. An old man's children are his crown, And you may well be proud When from your throne you just look down Upon this hopeful crowd. But now my neighbors dear, adieu; "The best of friends must part;" I'll often kindly think of you, And treasure each one in my heart; And if we never meet again On this poor frozen clod, O! may we meet to part no more Around the throne of God. TO MARY. The following lines suggested by the beautiful story of the sisters, Martha and Mary of Bethany, (Luke, 10:38-42,) were addressed to Miss Mary M., of Wilmington, Del. In Bethany there dwelt a maid, And she was young and very fair; 'Twas at her house that Jesus stayed, And loved to stay, when he was there. For Mary seated at his feet, In rapture hung upon His word: His language flow'd in accent sweet, Such language mortal never heard. Her sister, cross in looks and word, (The cares of life have this effect,) Came and accused her, to her Lord, Of idleness and of neglect. "Martha, Martha," He kindly said, Forego thy troubles and thy care-- One needful thing, a crust of bread, Is all I ask with thee to share. "Mary hath chosen that good part, To hear my word and do my will, Which shall not from her trusting heart Be taken." It shall flourish still. Dear Mary, in this picture see Thy own, drawn by a master hand; Name, face and character agree Drawn by Saint Luke, an artist grand. IMPROMPTU TO MRS. ANNA C. BAKER. Composed in the top of a cherry tree when the wind was blowing a gale. In fishing for men, I should judge from your looks You've always had biters enough at your hooks. And whenever you dipp'd your net in the tide You had little need to spread it out wide. To encircle so many you wish'd for no more And like the old fishers sat down on the shore, Casting all the worthless and bad ones away-- Preserving the good and the true to this day. May the promising youth, I saw by your side All blooming and beaming, your hope and your pride, Be a pillar of state, so strong and so tall As to make you rejoice, that you made such a haul. LAMENT FOR THE YEAR 1887. Read before the Jackson Hall Debating Society. My tale to-night is full of woe, I would that it were one of gladness; I would not thrill your hearts, you know, With notes of grief or sadness. My friend and yours is near his end, His pulse is beating faint and low, 'Tis sad to lose so good a friend, His time has come and he must go. His life is ebbing fast away, His mortal race is almost run, He cannot live another day, Nor see another rising sun. While watching round his dying bed, The tears we shed are tears of sorrow, We'll close his eyes for he'll be dead, And carried hence before to-morrow. His frame, so fragile now and weak, Was late the seat of vital power, But now, alas! he cannot speak, He's growing weaker every hour. Old seventy-seven, your friend and mine, Has done his part by you and me, Then friends, let us unite and twine, A bright wreath to his memory. His reign has been a checker'd reign, While some have suffered loss and wrong, We have no reason to complain, So come and join me in my song. He found me in the lowly vale, In poverty with robust health, And sweet contentment in the scale, Outweighing fame and pomp and wealth. Destroying war beneath his reign, Has drench'd the earth with blood and tears, Which ever flow, but flow in vain, As they have done through countless years. When will the reign of peace begin? When will the flood of human woe, That flows from folly, pride, and sin, Subside, and ever cease to flow? God speed the time when war's alarms, Will never more convulse the earth, And love and peace restore the charms Which dwelt in Eden at its birth. Old seventy-seven, again adieu, We'll ne'er again each other see. I've been a constant friend to you, As you have always been to me. "Step down and out" you've had your day, Your young successor's at the gate, Let him be crowned without delay, The royal stranger seventy-eight. VERSES Presented to my daughter with a watch and a locket with a picture of myself. Receive, my child, this gift of love, And wear it ever near thy heart, A pledge of union may it prove, Which time nor distance ne'er can part. I've watched thy infant sleep, and prest My eager lips against thy brow, And lingered near thy couch, and blest, Thy tender form with many a vow. But O! the rapture of that hour, None but a parent's heart can know When first thy intellectual power Began the germ of life to show. I've marked the progress of thy mind, And felt a thrill of joy and pride, To see thy youthful steps inclined To wisdom's ways and virtue's side. And when this fiery restless soul, Has chafed the thread of life away And reached, or high or low, the goal, And fought and won or lost the day,-- Then cherish this bright gift, my dear, And on those features kindly gaze, And bathe them with a filial tear, When I'm beyond all blame or praise. LINES ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY OF WILMINGTON. Chill frost will nip the fairest flower; The sweetest dream is soonest pass'd; The brightest morning in an hour, May be with storm clouds overcast. So Josephine in early bloom, Was blighted by death's cruel blast, While weeping round her early tomb, We joy to know, she is not lost. Fond mother, dry that tearful tide, Your child will not return, you know: She's waiting on the other side And where she is, you too may go. YOUTHFUL REMINISCENCES. Their schoolboy days have form'd a theme, For nearly all the bards I know, But mine are like a fading dream Which happen'd three score years ago. My memory is not the best, While some things I would fain forget Come like an uninvited guest, And often cause me much regret. I see the ghosts of murdered hours, As they flit past in countless throngs, They taunt me with their meager powers, And ridicule my senseless songs. 'Tis useless now to speculate, Or grieve o'er that which might have been, My failures though they have been great, Are not the greatest I have seen. In school I was a quiet child, And gave my teachers little fash, But as I grew I grew more wild, And hasty as the lightning's flash. Of study I was never fond, My school books gave me no delight, I patronized the nearest pond, To fish or swim by day or night. And when the frosts of winter came, And bound the streams in fetters tight, It gave me pleasure all the same To skate upon their bosom bright. I was athletic in my way And on my muscle went it strong, And stood to fight or ran to play, Regardless of the right or wrong. In wrestling I did much excel And lov'd to douse a boasting fop, Nor cared I how or where we fell Provided I fell on the top. I loved my friends with all my might, My foes I hated just as strong, My friends were always in the right, My foes forever in the wrong. A sportsman early I became, A sort of second Daniel Boone, And bagg'd my share of ev'ry game From cony, up or down, to coon. No tawny chieftain's swarthy son, Was ever fonder of the chase, Than I was of my trusty gun, Although I had a paler face. I shot the squirrel near his den. The silly rabbit near her lair; And captured ev'ry now and then, A pheasant in my cunning snare. And many things I think of here, Which time forbids me now to say, That happen'd in my wild career, To me, since that eventful day When my fond mother wash'd my face, And combed my flaxen hair, And started me in learning's race, And breath'd to heav'n a silent prayer, That I might grow to man's estate, And cultivate my opening mind; And not be rich or wise or great, But gentle, true and good and kind. My mother's face, I see it yet, That thoughtful face, with eyes of blue, I trust I never shall forget Her words of counsel, sage and true. She left me, when she pass'd away, More than a royal legacy, I would not for a monarch's sway, Exchange the things she gave to me. She gave me naught of sordid wealth, But that which wealth can never be, Her iron frame and robust health, Are more than diadems to me. She left to me the azure sky, With all its countless orbs of light, Which wonder-strike the thoughtful eye, And beautify the dome of night. The deep blue sea from shore to shore, The boundless rays of solar light, The lightnings flash, the thunders roar-- I hold them all in my own right. And lastly that there be no lack, Of any good thing by her given, She left to me the shining track, Which led her footsteps up to heaven. STANZAS TO A LITTLE GIRL ON HER BIRTHDAY. My dear, the bard his greeting sends, And wishes you and all your friends, A happy birthday meeting. Let social pleasures crown the day, But while you chase dull care away, Remember time is fleeting. Then learn the lesson of this day, Another year has pass'd away, Beyond our reach forever. And as the fleeting moments glide, They bear us on their noiseless tide, Like straws upon the river, Into that vast, unfathomed sea, Marked on the map "eternity," With neither bound nor shore. There may we find some blissful isle Where basking in our Saviour's smile, We'll meet to part no more. TO MISS MARY BAIN. My cousin fair, dear Mary B, Excuse my long neglect I pray, And pardon too, the homely strain, In which I sing this rustic lay. My muse and I are sorted ill, I'm in my yellow leaf and sere; While she is young and ardent still And urges me to persevere. She reads to me the roll of fame, And presses me to join the throng, That surge and struggle for a name, Among the gifted sons of song. Of that vain stuff the world calls fame I've had I think my ample share. At best 'tis but a sounding name An idle puff of empty air. For more than once I've been the choice Of freemen to enact their laws, And patriots cheered me when my voice, I raised to vindicate their cause. And more than this I've brought to pass, For I have made a lot of ground Produce the second blade of grass, Where formerly but one was found. But now I love the calm retreat, Away from tumult, noise and strife, And in the works of nature sweet I learn her laws, the laws of life. The monuments which I erect Will hand my name for ages down, While tombs of kings will meet neglect, Or worse, be greeted with a frown. My trees will bloom and bear their fruit, My carp-pond glitter in the sun; My cherished grape-vines too, though mute, Will tell the world what I have done. Now lest you think that I am vain, And that my trumpeter is dead, I'll drop this graceless, boasting strain, And sing of you, dear Coz, instead. Of all my Cousins, old or new, I love the prairie chicken best, I see the rising sun in you,-- Although you're rising in the west. The picture you are working on, I'd almost give my eyes to see, I know it is a striking one, For it is of the "deep blue sea." But how you ever took the notion To paint a picture of the sea Before you ever saw the ocean, Is something that surprises me. I'm glad you have the skill to paint, And pluck to labor and to wait; And too much sense to pine and faint, Because the world don't call you great. True greatness is achieved by toil, And labor for the public good, 'Tis labor breaks the barren soil, And makes it yield our daily food. Then cultivate your talents rare, And study nature's lovely face, And copy every tint with care; Your work will then have life and grace. When fame and fortune you attain, And more than royal sway is sure, 'Twill be the majesty of brain, A majesty that must endure, Till thrones of kings and queens shall tumble, And monuments of stone and brass, Shall into shapeless ruin crumble, And blow away like withered grass. The world moves on with quickening pace, And those who falter fall behind, Then enter for the mental race, Where mind is pitted against mind. While we are cousins in the flesh, In mind I think we're nearer still, Your genius leads you to the brush, But mine inclines me to the quill. And now, my cousin fair, adieu, My promise I have somehow kept, That I would write a line for you, I hope you will these lines accept. STANZAS Addressed to Mr. and Mrs. T. Jefferson Scott, upon the occasion of the 24th anniversary of their wedding, March 2nd, 1882. Kind gentlemen and ladies fair, I have a word or two to say, If you have got the time to spare, Sit down, and hear my humble lay. No tiresome homily, I bring, To chill your joys and make you sad, I'd rather hear you laugh or sing, Than see you solemn, dull or mad, A bow that's always bent, they say, Will lose its force and wonted spring, And Jack's all work and never play, Makes him a dull and stupid thing. Man's greatest lesson is mankind, A problem difficult to solve, I've turned it over in my mind, And reached, at last, this sage resolve: That when I know myself right well, I have a key to all the race, Thoughts, purposes and aims that tell On me, are but a common case. There is a time to laugh and sing, A time to mourn and grieve as well; Then let your song and laughter ring, This is no time on griefs to dwell. We've met to greet our friend, T.J., And tender our congratulations, Without forgetting Phebe A., In our most heartfelt salutations. For four-and-twenty changeful years They've worn the bright hymenial bands, And shared each other's hopes and fears, And each held up the other's hands. He, like a stately, giant oak, Has spread his branches wide and high, Unscathed by lightning's fatal stroke, Or tempest raving through the sky. She, like a tender, trusting vine, Twines round and through and o'er the tree; Her modesty and worth combine, To hide what roughness there might be, Beneath this cool, refreshing shade, The wretched quite forget their woes, The hungry find the needed bread, The weary wanderer, his repose. Long live this honored, worthy pair! May fortune come at their command! And may their sons and daughter fair, Grow up to grace their native land! And when their earthly toils are o'er, And they repose beneath the sod, Theirs be a home on that bright shore, Illumined by the smile of God. BIRTHDAY VERSES. Written for a little girl on her ninth birthday. In the morning of life's day, All before is bright and gay, All behind is like a dream, Or the morn's uncertain beam, Falling on a misty stream. In the morning of thy youth, Learn this sober, solemn truth; Life is passing like a stream, Or a meteor's sudden gleam; Like the bright aurora's blaze, Disappearing while we gaze; Soon the child becomes a maid, In the pride of youth arrayed, And her mind and form expand To proportions great and grand; Then she changes to a wife, Battling with the ills of life; Thus we come and thus we go, And our cups with joy and woe, Oft are made to overflow. Each returning bright birthday, Like the mile-stones by the way, Will remind you as you go-- Though at first they pass so slow That behind there is one more And, of course, one less before; Watch the moments as they fly, With a never tiring eye-- Since you cannot stop their flow, O! improve them as they go. ROLL CALL. Written on the death of William Sutton, a member of the order of Good Templars. Call the roll! Call the roll of our band, Let each to his name answer clear, There's danger abroad, there's death in the land, Call the roll, see if each one is here. The roll call is through, one answers not, Brother Sutton, so prompt heretofore, Has answered another roll call; the spot Which knew him shall know him no more. He's at rest by the beautiful river, Which flows by the evergreen shore, Where the verdure of spring lasts forever, And sickness and death are no more. O alas! that the righteous should die, While sinners so greatly abound, In the world that's to come we'll know why, The latter incumber the ground. This mystery we'll then comprehend, And all will be plain to our sight, Then dry up the tears which flow for our friend, In full faith that God doeth right. IN MEMORIAM RENSELLAER BIDDLE. A noble heart is sleeping here, Beneath this lowly mound; With reverence let us draw near, For this is holy ground. The mortal frame that rests below This consecrated sward, Was late with heavenly hope aglow, A temple of the Lord. His charity was like a flood, It seemed to have no bound, But reached the evil and the good, Wherever want was found. The poor and needy sought his door, The wretched and distressed, He blessed them from his ample store, With shelter, food and rest. Giving his substance to the poor, He lent it to the Lord; While each returning harvest brought Him back a rich reward. Thus passed his useful life away, Dispensing good to all, Till on the evening of his day, He heard his Master call. "Brave soldier of the cross, well done, You've fought a noble fight; Come up, and claim the victor's crown, And wear it as your right." "For all your works of christian love And heaven-born charity, Are registered in Heaven above As so much done to Me." STANZAS WRITTEN ON THE FLY LEAF OF A CHILD'S BIBLE. Dear Mollie, in thy early days, While treading childhood's dreamy maze, Peruse this book with care: Peruse it by the rising sun; Peruse it when the day is done, Peruse it oft with prayer. Search it for counsel in thy youth, For every page is bright with truth And wisdom from on high. Consult it in thy riper years, When foes without and inward fears Thy utmost powers defy. And when life's sands are well nigh run And all thy work on earth is done, In patience wait and trust, That He whose promises are sure Will number you among the pure, The righteous and the just. CHRISTMAS GREETING, 1877. Read before the Jackson Hall Debating Society. The rolling seasons come and go, As ebbs the tide again to flow, And Christmas which seemed far away A year ago, is near to-day. And day and night in quick succession, Are passing by like a procession. While we like straws upon a stream, Are drifting faster than we deem, To that unknown, that untried shore, Where days and nights will be no more, And where time's surging tide will be, Absorbed in vast eternity. Where then shall we poor mortals go? No man can tell, we only know We are but strangers in the land. Our fathers all have gone before, And shortly we shall be no more. This hall where we so often meet Will soon be trod by other's feet, And where our voices now resound, Will other speakers soon be found. And thus like wave pursuing wave, Between the cradle and the grave The human tide is prone to run, The sire succeeded by the son. May we so spend life's fleeting day, That when it shall have passed away, We all may meet on that blessed shore, Where friends shall meet to part no more. ANNIVERSARY POEM. Read at the anniversary of the seventieth birthday of Mrs. Ann Peterson. No costly gifts have I to bring, To grace your festive board, This humble song, I've brought to sing, Is all I can afford. Then let my humble rhyme be heard In silence, if you please, You'll find it true in ev'ry word, It flows along with ease. We've met in honor of our friend Who seventy years ago, Came to this earth some years to spend, How many none can know. The world is using her so well, I hope she'll tarry long, And ten years hence I hope to tell, "I have another song." THE PETERSON GENEALOGICAL TREE. I'll sing you a song of a wonderful tree, Whose beauty and strength are a marvel to me; Its cloud piercing branches ascend to the sky, While its deep rooted trunk may the tempest defy, Like the tree which the great king of Babylon saw, Which fill'd him with wonder, amazement and awe. This vision the wise men all failed to expound, Till Daniel the Hebrew, its true meaning found. What the king saw in vision, we lit'rally see, In the Peterson genealogical tree; It was feeble at first, and slowly it grew; Its roots being small and its branches but few. The whirlwinds and tempests in fury raved round it, And the rains fell in floods, as if they would drown it. Though slow in its growth it was steady and sure, And like plants of slow growth 'tis bound to endure. While the seasons roll round in their wanted succession, And the ages move on in an endless procession, While the sun in its glory reigns over the day, And the moon rules the night with her gentler sway, While the planets their courses pursue in the sky, And far distant stars light their torches on high, May this family tree grow taller and stronger And its branches increase growing longer and longer. May every branch of this vigorous tree, Increase and spread wider from mountain to sea, And under its shade may the poor and distressed Find shelter and comfort and kindness and rest, And when the great harvest we read of shall come When the angels shall gather and carry it home May this tree root and branch, trunk and fruit all be found, Transplanted from earth into holier ground, Where storms never rise and where frosts never blight, Where day ever shines unsucceeded by night, Where sickness and sorrow and death are no more, And friends never part. On that beautiful shore, May we hope that the friends who have met round this board, And greeted each other in social accord, May each meet the others to part never more. LINES Written on the death of Jane Flounders, a pupil of Cherry Hill public school, and read at her funeral. The mysteries of life and death, Lie hidden from all human ken, We know it is the vital breath Of God, that makes us living men. We also know, _that_ breath withdrawn, And man becomes a lifeless clod, The soul immortal having gone Into the presence of its God. Here knowledge fails and faith appears, And bids us dry the scalding tear, And banish all our anxious fears, Which cluster round the loved ones here. The deep, dark, cold, remorseless grave Has closed o'er lovely Jennie's face, No art, nor skill, nor prayers could save Her from its terrible embrace. Home now is dark and desolate, And friends and schoolmates are in tears, While strangers wonder at the fate, Which crushed her in her tender years. Death never won a brighter prize, Nor friends a richer treasure lost, Another star has left our skies, But heaven is richer at our cost. We mourn but not in hopeless grief, In tears we kiss the chast'ning rod, This sweet reflection brings relief, That all is good that comes from God. Through and beyond this scene of gloom, Faith points the mourner's downcast eyes, While from the portals of the tomb, They see their lost loved one arise, In blooming immortality; As she comes forth they hear her sing O! grave, where is thy victory! O! monster death where is thy sting! WHAT IS MATTER? DEDICATED TO HIS FRIEND GEORGE JOHNSTON. How are you, George, my rhyming brother? We should be kinder to each other, For we are kindred souls at least; I don't mean kindred, like the beast,-- Mere blood and bones and flesh and matter,-- But what this last is makes no matter. Philosophers have tried to teach it, But all their learning cannot reach it; 'Tis matter still, "that's what's the matter" With all their philosophic chatter, And Latin, Greek, and Hebrew clatter, Crucibles, retorts, and receivers, Wedges, inclined planes, and levers, Screws, blow pipes, electricity and light, And fifty other notions, quite Too much to either read or write. Just ask the wisest, What is matter? And notice how he will bespatter The subject, in his vain endeavor, With deep philosophy so clever, To prove you what you knew before, That matter's matter, and no more. Well, this much then, we know at least, That matter's substance, and the beast And bird and fish and creeping thing That moves on foot, with fin or wing, Is matter, just like you and me. Are they our kindred? Must it be That all the fools in all creation, And knaves and thieves of every station In life, can call me their relation? But that's not all--the horse I ride, The ox I yoke, the dog I chide, The flesh and fish and fowl we feed on Are kindred, too; is that agreed on? Then kindred blood I quite disown, Though it descended from a throne, For it connects us down, also, With everything that's mean and low-- Insects and reptiles, foul and clean, And men a thousand times more mean. Let's hear no more of noble blood, For noble brains, or actions good, Are only marks of true nobility. The kindred which I claim with you, Connects us with the just and true, And great in purpose, heart and soul, And makes us parts of that great whole Whose bonds of all embracing love A golden chain will ever prove To bind us to the good above. Then strive to elevate mankind By operating on the mind; The empire of good will extend, A helping hand in trouble lend, Go to thy brother in distress, One kindly word may make it less, A single word, when fitly spoken, May heal a heart with sorrow broken, A smile may overcome your foe, And make his heart with friendship glow, A frown might turn his heart to steel. And all its tendencies congeal, Be it our constant aim to cure The woes our fellow men endure, Teach them to act toward each other As they would act toward a brother. Thus may our circle wider grow, The golden chain still brighter glow; And may our kindred souls, in love United live, here and above, With all the good and wise and pure, While endless ages shall endure. ANNIVERSARY HYMN. Written for the anniversary of the Jackson Sabbath School, Aug. 23rd, 1870. The ever rolling flood of years, Is bearing us, our hopes and fears, With all we are or crave, Into that fathomless abyss-- A world of endless woe or bliss, Beyond the darksome grave. One year of priceless time has passed, Since we in Sabbath school were class'd, To read and sing and pray; To hear the counsels of the good; Have we improved them as we should? How stands the case to-day? How have we used this fleeting year? Have we grown wiser? O, I fear, And tremble to reflect, How sadly it has gone to loss, How I have shunn'd my daily cross, Some idol to erect. To gain some trifling, selfish end, It may be I have wronged a friend, And turned his love to hate; How many idle words I've said; How many broken vows I've made; How shunn'd the narrow gate! O Lord! forgive our wanderings wide, Our oft departures from thy side, And keep us in thy fold; Be thou our Shepherd and our all; Protect these lambs, lest any fall, And perish in the cold. On this our Anniversary, Help us to put our trust in Thee, And lean upon Thy arm; Direct us through the coming year; Protect us, for the wolf is near, And shield us from all harm. Our Superintendent superintend; On him Thy special blessings send, And guide him in the way; Enrich our Treasurer with Thy grace, So that he may adorn the place, He fills so well to-day. Write on our Secretary's heart Thy perfect law; and O, impart, To our Librarian dear, The volume of thy perfect love Which cometh only from above, And casteth out all fear. In pastures green, O lead us still! And help us all to do thy will, And all our wants supply; Help us in every grace to grow, And when we quit thy fold below, Receive us all on high. Then, by life's river broad and bright, Our blissful day will have no night; On that immortal plain May all the Jackson scholars meet, And all their loving teachers greet, And never part again. THE INTELLECTUAL TELEGRAPH. ADDRESSED TO MISS C. CASHO. Dear friend! O, how my blood warms at that word, And thrills and courses through my every vein; My inmost soul, with deep emotion stirr'd-- Friend! Friend! repeats it o'er and o'er again. I'll make a song of that sweet word, and sing It oft, to cheer me in my lonely hours, Till list'ning hills, and dells, and woodlands ring, And echo answers, Friend! with all her powers. 'Tis truly strange, and strangely true; I doubt If any can explain, though all have seen, How kindred spirits find each other out, Though deserts vast or oceans lie between. Some golden sympathetic cords unseen, Unite their souls as if with bands of steel, So finely strung, so sensitively keen, The slightest touch all in the circle feel. Their pulses distance electricity, And leave the struggling solar rays behind, The slightest throb pervades immensity, And instant reaches the remotest mind. 'Tis an inspiring, glorious thought to me, Which raises me above this earthly clod, To think the cords which bind our souls may be Connected some way with the throne of God. I sometimes think my wild and strange desires, And longings after something yet unknown, Are currents passing on those hidden wires To lead me on and upward to that throne. These visions often do I entertain, And, if they are but visions, and the birth Of fancy, still they are not all in vain; They lift the soul above the things of earth. They teach her how to use her wings though weak, And all unequal to the upward flight-- The eaglet flaps upon the mountain peak, Then cleaves the heavens beyond our utmost sight. LINES ON AN INDIAN ARROW-HEAD. Rude relic of a lost and savage race! Memento of a people proud and cold! Sole lasting monument to mark the place Where the red tide of Indian valor rolled. Cold is the hand that fashion'd thee, rude dart! Cold the strong arm that drew the elastic bow! And cold the dust of the heroic heart, Whence, cleft by thee, the crimson tide did flow. Unnumbered years have o'er their ashes flown; Their unrecovered names and deeds are gone; All that remains is this rude pointed stone, To tell of nations mighty as our own. Such is earth's pregnant lesson: through all time Kingdom succeeds to kingdom--empires fall; From out their ashes, others rise and climb, Then flash through radiant greatness, to their fall. ACROSTIC TO MISS ANNIE ELIZA M'NAMEE. My much respected, fair young friend In youth's bright sunshine glowing: Some friendly token I would send, Some trifle, worth your knowing. A lovely bird; the garden's pride; Nurs'd with the utmost care, No flow'r, in all the gardens wide; Incited hopes so rare: Each passing day develops more Each beauty, than the day before. Lovely in form, in features mild; In thy deportment pure: Zealous for right, e'en from a child, A friend, both true and sure. May thy maturer years be bright, Cloudless and fair thy skies; No storms to fright, nor frosts to blight, And cause thy fears to rise. May thy last days, in peace go past, Each being better than the last; Eternally thy joys grow brighter-- So prays D. Scott the humble writer. MINUTES OF THE JACKSON HALL DEBATING SOCIETY, DEC. 5, 1877. My muse inspire me, while I tell The weighty matters that befell On Monday night at Jackson Hall December fifth. I'll tell it all, Day and year I'll tell you even, 'Twas eighteen hundred seventy-seven. The Jacksonites were out in force, No common thing was up of course, But something rare and rich and great, 'Twas nothing short of a debate; What was the question? Let me see, Yes; "Can Christians consistently Engage in war against a brother And at the same time love each other?" But first and foremost let me say, My muse has taken me astray, So I'll return to the beginning Digression is my common sinning For which your pardon I implore, If granted, I will sin no more, That is no more till the next time, For when I'm forging out a rhyme, The narrative which I would fix up, I somehow rather oddly mix up. A president must first be got, So they elected James M. Scott, He said he'd serve; (and that was clever,) A little while, but not forever. A paper called a "constitution," Was read and on some person's motion, Was all adopted, at a word, A thing that seemed to me absurd. Then instantly to work they went, And filled the chair of president, And William Henderson they took, They knew their man just like a book. A scribe was wanted next to keep, A record of their doings deep. On looking round they cast the lot, And so it fell on David Scott. A treasurer was next in order When looking up and down the border, For one to hoard the gold and silver, The mantle fell on Joseph Miller. The executive committee Was now to fill and here we see A piece of work I apprehend, May lead to trouble in the end, For while they only wanted five, Yet six they got, as I'm alive, First they installed Peter Jaquett, Then John Creswell, two men well met, James Law, but they were not enough, And so they added William Tuft. One more was wanted that was plain, That one was found in John McKane, But when the five were call'd to meet There were but four came to the seat; There are but four, said one so racy, So they elected William Gracy. Now you perceive this grave committee Which numbers five both wise and witty, Has got into a pretty fix With but five seats and numbers six. The question for the next debate Was then selected, which I'll state If I have only got the gumption To make some word rhyme with resumption, "Should Congress now repeal the act To pay all debts in gold in fact." The speakers now were trotted out Their sides to choose and take a bout Upon the question, which I stated As having been so well debated, Namely, "Can christians go to war," The very devil might abhor To contemplate this proposition Offspring of pride and superstition That brothers by a second birth, Should make a very hell of earth. The war of words waxed loud and long, Each side was right, the other wrong; The speakers eager for the fray, Wished their ten minutes half a day; But time and tide will wait for none, So glibly did the gabble run, That nine o'clock soon spoiled the fun, And all that rising tide of words, Was smothered never to be heard. The fight is o'er, the race is run, And soon we'll know which side has won, But this is not so easy done; Indeed I have a world of pity For the executive committee Who hear in silence all this clatter And then decide upon the matter; To give each speaker justice due, And sift the error from the true, Is not an easy thing to do. To decide what facts have any bearing Upon the question they are hearing, And generally keep in hand The arguments, so strong and grand, And draw from them a just conclusion Without a mixture of confusion; The negative got the decision Unanimous, without division. The speakers then took their position, Upon the doubtful proposition Of the repeal of gold resumption, Upon the plausible presumption, That those who pay must have the money, That laws of Congress, (that seems funny,) Are not above the laws of trade, And therefore cannot be obeyed. Here now my muse, poor worthless jade, Deserted, as I was afraid From the beginning she would do; So I must say good-night to you, And these long rambling minutes close, In just the dullest kind of prose. RETROSPECTION. The phantoms have flown which I cherished; The dreams which delighted have passed; My castles in air have all perished-- I grieved o'er the fall of the last. 'Twas bright, but as frail as a shadow; It passed like a vapor away-- As the mist which hangs over the meadow Dissolves in the sun's burning ray. The joys of my youth are all shattered; My hopes lie in wrecks on the shore; The friends of my childhood are scattered; Their faces I'll see never more. Some are estranged, some have gone under; The battle of life is severe. When I stand by their graves, the wonder, The mystery, seems to be clear: They were vet'rans more noble than I; And placed in the van of the fight, They fell where the hero would die, When he bleeds for truth and the right. The battle of life is proceeding-- The rear will advance to the van; I'll follow where duty is leading, And fall at my post like a man. ACROSTIC TO MISS FLORENCE WILSON M'NAMEE. Maiden, lovely, young and gay, In the bloom of life's young May! Sweet perfumes are in the air; Songs of gladness ev'rywhere! Flowers are springing round thy way, Lovely flowers, bright and gay: Over head and all about Rings one constant joyous shout! Earth is carpeted with green, Nature greets you as her queen. Call the trees and flow'rs your own, Each will bow before your throne. While in youth's enchanting maze, Incline thy steps to wisdom's ways! Lead a quiet peaceful life; Swiftly fly from noise and strife; Own thy Lord before mankind; 'Neath his banner you will find More than all this world can give; Contentment while on earth you live, Nearer to your journey's end, All your aspirations tend: May you end your days in peace; Earthly ties in joy release; Eternally thy joys increase; That this may be thy joyous lot Ever prays thy friend D. Scott. THE BOOK OF BOOKS. Written on a blank leaf of a Bible presented to Martha Cowan, June 1st, 1868. Esteemed young friend This book I send, I know full well thou wilt receive; For thou canst read Its shining creed, And understand it and believe. Oh could I say As much to-day, What joys would thrill this heart of grief,-- I do believe. Oh Lord, receive My prayer--help THOU mine unbelief! This book though small, Is more than all The wealth of India to thee; Oh priceless treasure! Rich beyond measure Are all who build their hopes on thee. THE LESSON OF THE SEASONS. Written for a little girl on her eleventh birthday. Fleeting time is on the wing-- Surely Winter, joyous Spring, Glowing Summer, Autumn sere, Mark the changes of the year. Late the earth was green and fair, Flowers were blooming everywhere; Birds were singing in the trees, While the balmy healthful breeze, Laden with perfume and song, Health and beauty flowed along. But a change comes o'er the scene; Still the fields and trees are green, And the birds keep singing on, Though the early flowers are gone; And the melting noon-day heat, Strips the shoes from little feet, And the coats from little backs; While the paddling bare-foot tracks, In the brooklet which I see, Tell of youthful sports and glee. Hay is rip'ning on the plain, Fields are rich in golden grain, Mowers rattle sharp and shrill, Reapers echo from the hill, Farmer, dark and brown with heat, Push your labor--it is sweet, For the hope, in which you plow, And sow, you are reaping now. Corn, which late, was scarcely seen, Struggling slowly into green, 'Neath the Summer's torrid glow-- How like magic it does grow; Rising to majestic height, Drinks the sunbeams with delight, Sends its rootlets through the soil, Foraging for hidden spoil; Riches more than golden ore, Silent workers they explore: With their apparatus small, Noiselessly they gather all. When their work is done, behold Treasures, richer far than gold, Fill the farmers store-house wide-- And his grateful soul beside. But the scene must change again, Hill and dell and spreading plain, Speak so all can comprehend Summer's reign is at an end. Forests, gorgeously arrayed, (Queens such dresses ne'er displayed) Grace the coronation scene Of the lovely Autumn queen. Birds, with multifarious notes, Ringing from ten thousand throats, Shout aloud that Summer's dead, And Autumn reigns in her stead. Now another change behold-- All the varied tints of gold, Purple, crimson, orange, green-- Every hue and shade between, That bedecked the forest trees, Now lie scattered by the breeze. The birds have flown. Faithless friends Love the most when they're best fed; And when they have gained their ends, Shamefully have turned and fled. Winter claims his wide domain, And begins his frigid reign. Thus the seasons come and go: Spring gives place to Summer's glow; Then comes mellow Autumn's sway, Rip'ning fruits and short'ning day; Gorgeous woods in crimson dress, Surpassing queens in loveliness. Then the Frost King mounts the throne, Claims the empire for his own; Hail and rain and sleet and snow Are his ministers that go On the swift wings of the blast, At his bidding, fierce and fast. Like the seasons of the year, Your young life will change, my dear. Now you're in your early Spring, Hope and joy are on the wing; Flow'rets blooming fresh and gay, Shed their fragrance round your way. Summer's heat is coming fast, And your Spring will soon be past; For, where you are, I have been; All that you see, I have seen. Hopes that beamed around my way, Cast their light on yours to-day. All that you do, I have done; All your childish ways I've run, All your joys and pangs I've had-- All that make you gay or sad; I have sported in the brook, Truant from my work or book; Chased the butterfly and bee, Robb'd the bird's nest on the tree; Damm'd the brook and built my mill; Flew my kite from hill to hill; Sported with my top and ball-- Childish joys, I know them all. Childish sorrows, too I've felt-- Anguish that my heart would melt; Tears have wet my burning cheek, Caused by thoughts I could not speak. Mysteries then confused my brain, Which have since become more plain; Much that then seemed plain and clear Has grown darker year by year; When my artless prayers I said, Skies were near--just over head; And the angels seemed so near, I could whisper in their ear. All that I have learned since then, I would give, if once again, Those bright visions would return. For I find, the more I learn, Further off the skies appear, And the angels come not near. Though in better words I pray, Heaven seems so far away, That I wish, but wish in vain, That the skies were near again; That no other words I knew, But those simple ones and few, That the angels used to hear, When I whispered in their ear. I would barter all the fame, Wealth and learning that I claim, Which a life of toil have cost, For those priceless seasons lost. JOHN A. CALHOUN, MY JOE JOHN. A PARODY. This poem was the outgrowth of a newspaper controversy between John A. Calhoun, a school teacher of this county, and one of the trustees of Jackson Hall, who wrote above the signature of "Turkey," in which Mr. Calhoun said some rather hard things about the school trustees of the county. The poem was written at the request of the trustee, who was the other party engaged in the controversy. John A. Calhoun, my Joe John, "I wonder what you mean?" You're always getting in some scrape and getting off your spleen; Keep cooler, John, and do not fret, however things may go; You'll longer last and have more friends, John A. Calhoun, my Joe. John A. Calhoun, my Joe John, don't pout about your name; It never will disgrace you, John, but you may it defame By doing silly things, John, and things, you ought to know, Will but recoil upon yourself, John A. Calhoun, my Joe. John A. Calhoun, my Joe John, the "Turkey" let alone; My name is very humble, John, but then it is my own. "There's nothing in a name," John, and this you ought to know, That actions are the cards that win, John A. Calhoun, my Joe. John A. Calhoun, my Joe John; your temper must be sour; Your scholars pester you, John; you flog them every hour. But leave the rod behind you, John, when from the school you go, Or else you may get flogged yourself, John A. Calhoun, my Joe. John A. Calhoun, my Joe John, the terror of your name Does not extend beyond the walls which for your own you claim; So drop your haughty airs, John, and lay your wattle low, And people will esteem you more, John A. Calhoun, my Joe. John A. Calhoun, my Joe John, just take a friend's advice; And drop your pedagogic ways (you know they are not nice;) And treat grown people with respect, and they the same will show, And use those "open eyes" of yours, John A. Calhoun, my Joe. John A. Calhoun, my Joe John, the trustees of our schools Are not so smart as you, John, but then they're not all fools; And you have made yourself, John, appear a little low, By your abuse of these poor men, John A. Calhoun, my Joe. John A. Calhoun, my Joe John, now let us part in peace, And may your honest name, John, so mightily increase, That half a score of sons, John, may like their father grow-- But just a little modester, John A. Calhoun, my Joe. EMMA ALICE BROWNE. Emma Alice Browne was born about forty-five years ago, in an unpretentious cottage, which is still standing near the northeast corner of the cross-roads, on the top of Mount Pleasant, or Vinegar Hill, as it was then called, about a mile west of Colora. She is the oldest child of William A. Browne and Hester A. Touchstone, sister of the late James Touchstone. Her father was the youngest son of William Brown, who married Ann Spear, of Chester county, and settled a few yards north of the State Line, in what is now Lewisville, Chester county, Pennsylvania, where his son William was born, early in the present century. He was a stonemason by trade, and though comparatively uneducated, was possessed of a brilliant imagination, and so highly endowed by nature with poetic ability that he frequently amused and delighted his fellow-workmen by singing songs which he extemporized while at his work. There is no doubt that his granddaughter, the subject of this sketch, inherited much of her poetic talent from him; though her family is connected with that of Mrs. Felicia Hemans, the English poetess, whom though in some respects she resembles, we hesitate not to say she greatly surpasses in grandeur of conception and beauty of expression. William Brown was a half-brother of the mother of the editor of this book; consequently Emma and he are cousins. If, therefore, this sketch should seem to exceed or fall short of the truth, the reader must attribute its imperfections to the inability of the writer to do justice to the subject, or to the great, but he hopes pardonable, admiration which he has long entertained for his relative's literary productions. The Brown family are of Scotch-Irish extraction, and trace their lineage away back through a long line of ancestors to the time when the name was spelled Brawn, because of the great muscular development of the rugged old Scotch Highlander who founded it. William Brown's early education was obtained at the common schools of the neighborhood where he was born. He was endowed by nature with a logical mind, a vivid imagination and great practical common sense; and a memory so tenacious as to enable him to repeat a sermon almost, if not quite, verbatim, a year after he had heard it delivered. Early in life he became an exemplary member of the Methodist Church, and was ordained as a Local Preacher in the Methodist Protestant persuasion, by the Rev. John G. Wilson, very early in the history of that denomination, in the old Harmony Church, not far south of Rowlandville. Subsequently he was admitted to the Conference as a traveling minister and sent to southeastern Pennsylvania, where he continued to preach the gospel with much success until his death, which occurred when his daughter Emma was a child about eight years of age. Emma's education began on her father's knee, when she was little if any more than three years old. Before she was four years old she could repeat Anacreon's Ode to a Grasshopper, which her father had learned from a quaint old volume of heathen mythology, and taught his little daughter to repeat, by reciting it aloud to her, as she sat upon his knee. Subsequently, and before she had learned to read, he taught her in the same manner "Byron's Apostrophe to the Ocean," Campbell's "Battle of Hohenlinden," and Byron's "Destruction of Sennacherib," all of which seem to have made a deep impression upon her infantile mind, particularly the latter, in speaking of which she characterizes it as "a poem whose barbaric glitter and splendor captivated my imagination even at that early period, and fired my fancy with wild visions of Oriental magnificence and sublimity, so that I believe all my after life caught color and warmth and form from those early impressions of the gorgeous word-painting of the East." Emma's subsequent education was limited to a few weeks' attendance at a young ladies' seminary at West Chester, Pennsylvania, and a like experience of a few weeks in Wilmington, Delaware, when she was about sixteen years old. But her mind was so full of poesy that there was no room in it for ordinary matters and things, and the duties of a student soon became so irksome that she left both the institutions in disgust. Of her it may be truly said, "she lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came," for she composed verses at four years of age, and published poems at ten. Her first effusions appeared in a local paper at Reading, Pa. Being a born poetess, her success as a writer was assured from the first, and her warmth of expression and richness of imagery, combined with a curious quaintness, the outgrowth of the deep vein of mysticism that pervades her nature, soon attracted the attention of the _literati_ of this country, one of the most distinguished of whom, the late George D. Prentice, did not hesitate to pronounce her the most extraordinary woman of America; "for," said he, "if she can't find a word to suit her purpose, she makes one." While some of her earlier poems may have lacked the artistic finish and depth of meaning of those of mature years, they had a beauty and freshness peculiar to themselves, which captivated the minds and rarely failed to make a deep impression upon the hearts of those who read them. In 1855, the family came to Port Deposit, where they remained about two years, and then went West, Emma having secured a good paying position on the _Missouri Republican_, for which she wrote her only continued story, "Not Wanted." For the last twenty years she has been a regular contributor to the _New York Ledger_. In 1864, Emma came East and was married to Captain J. Lewis Beaver, of Carroll county, Maryland, whose acquaintance she made while he was a wounded invalid in the Naval School Hospital at Annapolis. After her marriage, she continued to write under her maiden name, and has always been known in the literary world as Emma Alice Browne, though all the rest of the family spell the name without the final vowel. Her marriage was not a fortunate one, and the writer in deference to the wishes of his relative, will only say she is now a widow, with three sons, the youngest of whom seems to have inherited much of his mother's poetic talent, and who, though only about ten years of age, has written some very creditable verses, which have been published. Within a year or two, Emma has developed a talent for painting, which seems to have been overshadowed and dwarfed by her poetic faculty, but which now bids fair to make her as famous as an artist as she has long been as a poetess. She resides in Danville, Illinois, and is about publishing a volume of poems, which will be the first book from her pen. The following selections have been made with the view of showing the versatility, rather than the poetic beauty and power of their author. Most, if not all, of those designated as earlier poems were written more than thirty years ago. EARLIER POEMS. MY BROTHER. Oh, brier rose clamber; And cover the chamber-- The chamber, so dreary and lone-- Where with meekly-closed lips, And eyes in eclipse, My brother lies under the stone. Oh, violets, cover, The narrow roof over, Oh, cover the window and door! For never the lights, Through the long days and nights, Make shadows across the floor! The lilies are blooming, The lilies are white, Where his play haunts used to be; And the sweet cherry blossoms Blow over the bosoms Of birds in the old roof tree. When I hear on the hills The shout of the storm, In the valley the roar of the river; I shiver and shake, On the hearth stone warm, As I think of his cold "forever." His white hands are folded, And never again, With the song of the robin or plover, When the Summer has come, With her bees and her grain, Will he play in the meadow clover. Oh, dear little brother, My sweet little brother, In the palace above the sun, Oh, pray the good angels, The glorious evangels, To take me--when life is done. MY FATHER. IN MEMORIAM, 1857. The late George D. Prentice in speaking of this poem used the following language: "To our minds there is nothing in all the In Memoriam of Tennyson more beautiful than the following holy tribute to a dead father from our young correspondent at Pleasant Grove." The poem was first published in the "Louisville Journal" of which Mr. Prentice was the editor. [Transcriber's note: The original text referred to the "Louirville Journal" (clearly an erratum).] My Father! Orphan lips unknown To love's sweet uses sob the word My father! dim with anguish, heard In Heaven between a storm of moan And the white calm that faith hath fixed For solace, far beyond the world, Where, all our starry dreams unfurled, We drink the wine of peace unmixed. Mine! folded in the awful trust That draws the world's face down in awe, Holding her breath, as if she saw God's secret written in the dust-- My father! oh, the dreary years The dreary winds have wailed across Since his path, from the hills of loss, Wound, shining, o'er the golden spheres. What time the Angel at our door Said soft, between our orphan-moan-- Arise! oh, soul! the night is done And day hath bloomed forevermore! I locked my icy hand across My sobbing heart and sadly cried-- I lose thee in the glorified-- The world is darkened with my loss! Oh, Angel! cried I--wrath complete! With awful brows and eyes intense! (For faith's white robe of reverence Slid noiseless to my sorrow's feet) Oh, Angel, help me out of strife! I could have borne all mortal pain-- I could have lived my life in vain-- But this hath touched my inner life! And eighteen hundred fifty-seven Hath filled a decade of slow years Since first my orphan cries and tears Broke wild across the walls of Heaven. This eve his grave is winter-white! And 'twixt the snow-wind's stormy thrills I hear across the Northern hills The solemn footsteps of the night! Blow wind! Oh, wind, blow wild and high! Blow o'er the dismal space of woods-- Blow down the roaring Northern floods And let the dreary day go by! Blow, wind, from out the shining West, And wrap the hazy world in glow-- Blow wind and drift about my snow The summer of his endless rest! For he has fallen fast asleep And cannot give me moan for moan-- My heart is heavy as a stone And there is no one left to weep! My _soul_ is heavy and doth lie Reaching up from my wretchedness-- Reaching up blindly for redress The stern gray walls of entity! Once in the golden spring-time hours, In the sweet garden of my youth, There fell a seed of bitter truth That sprang and shadowed all the flowers-- Alone! The roses died apace And pale the mournful violet blew-- Only the royal lily grew And glorified the lonesome place! In me the growth of human ills Than human love had reached no higher, But Seraphim with lips of fire Have won me to the shining hills-- I cannot hide my soul in art-- I cannot mend my life's defect-- This thunderous space of intellect God gave me for a peaceful heart! Hush! oh, my mournful heart, be still, The heavy night is coming on, But heavier lie the shadows drawn About his grave so low and chill-- From out the awful sphere of God, Oh, deathly wind, blow soft and low! My soul is weary and would go Where never foot of mortal trod! AT THE NIGHTFALL. I muse alone in the fading light, Where the mournful winds forever Sweep down from the dim old hills of night, Like the wail of a haunted river. Alone! by the grave of a buried love, The ghostly mist is parted, Where the stars shine faint in the blue above, Like the smile of the broken-hearted. The living turn from my fond embrace, As if no love were needed; The tears I wept on thy young dead face Were never more unheeded Than my wild prayer for peace unwon-- One pure affection only, One faithful heart to lean upon, When life is sad and lonely. The low grassy roof, my glorious dead, Is bright with the buttercup's blossom, And the night-blooming roses burn dimly and red On the green sod that covers thy bosom. Thy pale hands are folded, oh beautiful saint, Like lily-buds chilly and dew-wet, And the smile on thy lip is as solemn and faint As the beams of a norland sunset. The angel that won thee a long time ago To the shore of the glorious immortals, In the sphere of the starland shall wed us, I know, When I pass through the beautiful portals. THE MIDNIGHT CHIME. Suggested by the tolling of the bell on the sash factory in Port Deposit on a stormy night in January, 1856. The rain is the loudest and wildest Of rains that ever fell; And the winds like an army of chanters Through the desolate pine-woods swell, And hark! through the shout of the tempest, The sound of the midnight bell. Now close on the storm it rises, Now sadly it sinks with a moan-- Like a human heart in its anguish, Crushing a fruitless groan-- Like a soul that goes wailing and pining, Thro' the motherless world, alone. Is it hung in an ancient turret? Is it swung by a mortal hand? Is it chiming in woe or gladness, Its symphonies sweet and grand? Is it rung for a shadowy sorrow, In the shadowy phantom land? Alas for the beautiful guesses That live in a poet's rhyme-- 'Tis only the bell of the factory Tolling its woe sublime; And the wind is the ghostly ringer, Ringing the midnight chime. Toll, mournful bell of the tempest, Through my dreams by sleep unblest; My bosom is throbbing as madly To surges of wild unrest-- E'en as thy heart of iron Is beating thy brazen breast! MAY-THALIA. TO THOMAS HEMPSTEAD. Thy lay--a sweet sung bridal hymn, Wedding the Old year to the New, 'Mid starry buds, and silver dew, And brooks, and birds in woodlands dim-- That touched the hidden veins of thought With the electric force of strife, Thrilled the dumb marble of my life Unto a perfect beauty wrought. And straight, unclasping from my brow The thorny crown of lost delight, The solemn grandeur of the night Flashed on me from old years, as now. The budding of my days is past! And May sits weeping in the shade The weeds on April's grave have made, Blown slantwise in the sobbing blast. Ah me! but in the Poet's heart Some pools of troubled water lie! The hidden founts of agony, That keep the better springs apart. What comfort is there in the Earth! What height, or depth, where we may hide Our life long anguish, and abide The ripening unto newer birth! But Poet, in thy song is power To lift the flood gates of my woe, And bid its solemn surging flow Far from the triumph of this hour. Yea, rising from life's evil things, My soul, long blinded from the light, Starlit across the purple night Sweeps the red lightning of her wings! I will be free! there is a strength In the full blowing of our youth To climb the rosied hills of truth From the dry desert's burning length. From far a voice shouts to my fate As shout the choiring Angels, when The fiery cross of suffering men Falls broken at the narrow gate! Be brave! be noble, and sublime Thyself unto a higher aim-- Keeping thy nature white of blame In all the dreary walks of time! Oh musty creeds in mouldy books! Blind teachers of the blind are ye-- A plainer wisdom talks with me In God's full psalmody of brooks. The rustling of a leaf hath force To wake the currents of my blood, That sweep, a wild Niagara-flood, Hurled headlong in its fiery course. The moaning of the wind hath power To stir the anthem of my soul, Unto a mightier thunder roll Than ever shook a triumph hour. Betwixt the gorgeous twilight bars Rare truths flow from melodious lips-- God's all-sublime Apocalypse-- His awful poem writ in stars! Each ray that spends its burning might In the alembic of the morn, Is, in the Triune splendors, born Of the great uncreated light! To me the meanest creeping thing Speaks with a loud Evangel tongue, Of the far climes forever young In His all-glorious blossoming. And thus, oh Poet! hath thy lay-- Woven of brightest buds and flowers Blowing, in breezy South-land bowers, Against the blushing face of May-- A passion, and a power, that thrills My hidden nature unto strife, To battle bravely, for the life Across the dim Eternal hills! MEMORIES. While the wild north hills are reddening In the sunset's fiery glow, And along the dreary moorlands, Shine the stormy drifts of snow, Sit I in my voiceless chamber From the household ones apart, And again is Memory lighting The pale ruins of my heart. And again are white hands sweeping, Wildly, its invisible chords, With the burden of a sorrow That I may not wed to words. Vainly I this day have striven, List'ning to the snow-wind's roll, To forget the haunting music That is throbbing in my soul. Not my pleasant household duties, Nor the rosied light of Morn, Nor the banners of the sunset On the wintry hills forlorn, Could unclasp the starry yearning From my mortal, weary breast, Nor interpret the weird meaning Of the phantom's wild unrest. All last night I heard the crickets Chirping on the lonely hearth, And I thought of him that lieth In the embraces of the earth; Till the lights died in the village, And the armies of the snow, In the bitter woods of midnight Tracked the wild winds to and fro. Oh my lover, safely folded In the shadow of the grave, While about my low-roofed dwelling Moaning gusts of winter rave. Well I know thy pale hands, folded In the silence of long years, Cannot give me back caresses For my sacrifice of tears. Oh ye dark and vexing phantoms-- Ghostly memories that arise, Keeping ever 'twixt my spirit And the beauty of the skies-- Memories of a faded splendor, And a lost hope, long ago, Ere my April grew to blushing And my heavy heart to woe. Saw ye in your solemn marches From the citadel of death, In our bridal halls of beauty Burning still the lamp of faith? Doth a watcher, pale and patient, Folded from the tempest's wrath, Wait the coming of my footsteps Down the grave's long, lonesome path? No reply!--the dreary shadows Lengthen from the silent hills, And a heavy boding sorrow Still my aching bosom fills. Now the moon is up in beauty, Walking on a starry hight, While her trailing vesture brightens The gray hollows of the night. Things of evil go out from me, Leave this silence-haunted room, Full enough of darkness keepeth In the chamber of his tomb. Full enough of shadow lieth In that dim futurity-- In that wedding night, where, meekly, My beloved waits for me! THE OLD HOMESTEAD. I remember the dear little cabin That stood by the weather-brown mill, And the beautiful wavelets of sunshine That flowed down the slope of the hill, And way down the winding green valley, And over the meadow--smooth shorn,-- How the dew-drops lay flashing and gleaming On the pale rosy robes of the morn. How the blush-blossoms shook on the upland, Like a red-cloud of sunset afar, And the lilies gleamed up from the marsh pond Like the pale silver rim of a star; How the brook chimed a beautiful chorus, With the birds that sang high in the trees; And how the bright shadows of sunset Trailed goldenly down on the breeze. I remember the mossy-rimmed springlet, That gushed in the shade of the oaks, And how the white buds of the mistletoe, Fell down at the woodman's strokes, On the morning when cruel Sir Spencer Came down with his haughty train, To uproot the old kings of the greenwood That shadowed his golden grain. For he dwelt in a lordly castle That towered half-way up the hill, And we in a poor little cabin In the shade of the weather-brown mill, Therefore the haughty Earl Spencer Came down with his knightly train, And uprooted our beautiful roof-trees That shadowed his golden grain. Ah! wearily sighed our mother, When the mistletoe boughs lay shed; But never the curse of the orphan Was breathed on the rich man's head; And when again the gentle summer Had gladdened the earth once more, No branches of gnarled oaks olden Made shadows across the floor. GURTHA. The lone winds creep with a snakish hiss Among the dwarfish bushes, And with deep sighing sadly kiss The wild brook's border rushes; The woods are dark, save here and there The glow-worm shineth faintly, And o'er the hills one lonely star That trembles white and saintly. Ah! well I know this mournful eve So like an evening olden; With many a goodly harvest sheaf The upland fields were golden; The lily moon in bridal white Leaned o'er the sea, her lover, And stars with beauty filled the Night-- The wind sang in the clover. The halls were bright with revelry, The beakers red with wassail; And music's grandest symphony Rung thro' the ancient castle; And she, the brightest of the throng, With wedding-veil and roses, Seemed like the beauty of a song Between the organ's pauses. My memory paints her sweetly meek, With her long sunny tresses, And how the blushes on her cheek Kissed back their warm caresses; But like an angry cloud that cleaves Down thro' the mists of glory, I see the flowers a pale hand weaves Around a forehead gory. The road was lone that lay between His, and her father's castle, And many a stirrup-cup, I ween, Quaffed he of generous wassail. My soul drank in a larger draught From the burning well of hate, The hand that sped the murderous shaft Was guided by my fate. Red shadows lay upon the sward That night, instead of golden-- And long the bride's maids wait the lord In the bridal-chamber olden; Ah, well! pale hands unwove the flowers That bound the milk-white forehead-- The star has sunk, the red moon glowers Down slopes of blackness horrid. IN MEMORIAM. JOHN B. ABRAHAMS, OF PORT DEPOSIT, AGED 22 YEARS. He giveth His beloved sleep. --Psalms 127:2 From heaven's blue walls the splendid light Of signal-stars gleams far and bright Down the abyssmal deeps of night. Against the dim, dilating skies Orion's radiant mysteries Of belt, and plume, and helmet rise-- I see--with flashing sword in hand, With eyes sublime, and forehead grand-- The conquering constellation stand! And on one purple tower the moon Hangs her white lamp--the night wind's rune Floats faint o'er holt and black lagoon. Far down the dimly shining bay The drifting sea-fog, cold and gray, Wraps all the golden ships away-- The fair-sailed ships, that in the glow Of ghostly moon and vapor go, Like wandering phantoms, to and fro! With mournful thought I sit alone-- My heart is heavy as a stone, And hath no utterance but a moan. I think of him, who, being blest, With pale hands crossed on silent breast, Taketh his long unending rest; While lone winds chant a funeral stave, And pallid church-yard daisies wave About his new unsodded grave. The skies are solemn with their throng Of choiring stars--and deep and strong The river moans an undersong. Oh mournful wind! Oh moaning river, Oh golden planets, pausing never! His lips have lost your song forever! His lips, that done with pleadings vain-- And human sighing, born of pain-- Are hymning heav'ns triumphal strain. The ages tragic Rhythm of change Clashing on projects new and strange-- The tireless nations forward range-- Can ne'er disturb the perfect rest Wherein he lieth--being blest, With chill hands cross'd on silent breast. Oh mourning heart! whose heavy plaint Drifts down the deathly shadows faint, Why weep ye for this risen saint? His life's pale ashes, under foot That cling about the daisies' root Will bear at last most glorious fruit! 'Tis but the casket hid away Neath roof of stone and burial clay; The jewel shines in endless day! And thus I gather for my tears Sweet hope from faith in after years; And far across the glimmering spheres Height over height the heavens expand-- I see him in God's Eden land, With palms of vict'ry in his hand; O'er brows of solemn breadth profound, With fadeless wreaths of glory wound, He stands a seraph, robed and crowned. Aye! in a vision, see I now; Christ's symbol written on his brow-- Found worthy unto death art thou! And ever in this heart of mine, So won to glorious peace, divine This vision of our lost shall shine; Not with pale forehead in eclipse With close-sealed lids and silent lips, But grand in Life's Apocalypse! For very truly hath been said-- For the pale living--not the dead-- Should mourning's bitterest tears be shed! MISSIVE TO ----. Purple shafts of sunset fire Glory-crown the passionate sea, Throbbing with a fierce desire For the blue immensity. Floods of pale and scarlet flame Sweep the bases of the hills, With a blushing unto shame Thro' their rosy bridal-thrills. Slowly to the gorgeous West Twilight paces from the East, Like a dark, unbidden guest Going to a marriage feast. Dian--palaced in the blue-- O'er the eve-star, newly born, Shakes a sweet baptismal dew From her pearly drinking-horn. Not the Ocean's fiery soul Throbbing up thro' all his deeps-- Not the sunset tides that roll Gloriously against the steeps Of the hills, that to the stars Lift their regal wedded brows, Glittering, through the golden bars Clasping close their nuptial snows. Not the palace lights of Hesper In the Queendom of the Moon, Win me from that lovely vesper-- The last one of our last June. Oh the golden-tressed minutes! Oh the silver-footed hours! Oh the thoughts that sang like linnets, In a woodland full of flowers! When my wild heart beat so lightly It forgot its mortal shroud; And an Angel trembled brightly In the fold of every cloud. Wo! That storms of sorrow-strife Hold the pitying light apart, And the golden waves of life Beat against a breaking heart. Saddest fate that e'er has been Woven in the loom of years, Our sworn faith has come between, Heavy with the wine of tears. Broken vow and slighted trust-- Hope's white garments soiled and torn-- Passion trampled in the dust By the iron heel of scorn. Thou art dead, to me, as those Folded safe from mortal strife; Dead! as tho' the grave-mould froze The red rivers of thy life! Oh! My Sweet! My Light! My Love! With my grief co-heir sublime! Storms and sorrows ever prove True inheritors of Time. Hush! An Angel holds my heart From its breaking--tho' I stand, From the happy world apart, On a broad and barren sand. I will love thee tho' I die! Love thee, with my ancient faith! For immortal voices cry: Love is mightier than Death! CHICK-A-DEE'S SONG. Sweet, sweet, sweet! High up in the budding vine I've woven and hidden a dainty retreat For this little brown darling of mine! Along the garden borders, Out of the rich dark mold, The daffodils and jonquils Are pushing their heads of gold; And high in her bower-chamber The little brown mother sits, While to and fro, as the west winds blow, Her pretty shadow flits. Weet, weet, weet! Safe in the branching vine, Pillowed on woven grasses sweet, Our pearly treasures shine; And all day long in the sunlight, By vernal breezes fanned, The daffodil and the jonquil Their jeweled discs expand; And two and fro, as the west winds blow, In the airy house a-swing, The feeble life in the pearly eggs She warms with brooding wing! Sweet, sweet, sweet! Under a flowery spray Downy heads and little pink feet Are cunningly tucked away! Along the shining furrows, The rows of sprouting corn Flash in the sun, and the orchards Are blushing red as morn; And the time o' the year for toil is here, And idle song and play With the jonquils, and the daffodils, Must wait for another May. LATER POEMS. TO MY SISTER. M.A. KENNON. "God's dear love is over all." Dear, the random words you said Once, as we two walked apart, Still keep ringing in my head, Still keep singing in my heart: Like the lone pipe of a bird, Like a tuneful waterfall Far in desert places heard-- "God's dear love is over all!" Thro' the ceaseless toil and strife They have taught me to be strong! Fashioned all my narrow life To the measure of a song! They have kept me brave and true-- Saved my feet from many a fall, Since, what ever fate may do, God's dear love is over all! Lying in your chamber low, Neath the daisies and the dew, Can you hear me? Can you know All the good I owe to you? You, whose spirit dwells alway Free from earthly taint and thrall! You who taught me that sweet day God's dear love is over all! From your holy, far off Heaven, When the beams of twilight wane, Thro' the jasper gates of even Breathe those trustful words again; They shall aid and cheer me still, What-so-ever fate befall, Since thro' every good and ill God's dear love is over all! MEASURING THE BABY. We measured the riotous baby Against the cottage wall: A lily grew at the threshold, And the boy was just so tall; A royal tiger lily, With spots of purple and gold, And a heart like a jeweled chalice, The fragrant dews to hold. Without the blue birds whistled, High up in the old roof trees; And to and fro at the window The red rose rocked her bees; And the wee pink fists of the baby Were never a moment still, Snatching at shine and shadow, That danced on the lattice sill! His eyes were wide as blue-bells, His mouth like a flower unblown, Two little barefeet, like funny white mice, Peept out from his snowy gown; And we thought, with a thrill of rapture. That yet had a touch of pain-- When June rolls around with her roses We'll measure the boy again! Ah me! In a darkened chamber, With the sunshine shut away, Thro' tears that fell like a bitter rain We measured the Boy to-day! And the little bare feet, that were dimpled, And sweet as a budding rose, Lay side by side together, In the hush of a long repose! Up from the dainty pillow, White as the rising dawn, The fair little face lay smiling With the light of Heaven thereon! And the dear little hands, like rose leaves Dropt from a rose, lay still, Never to snatch at the sunshine, That crept to the shrouded sill! We measured the sleeping baby With ribbons white as snow, For the shining rose-wood casket That waited him below; And out of the darkened chamber We crept with a childless moan: To the height of the sinless Angels Our little one had grown! THE LIGHT OF DREAMS. Last night I walked in happy dreams, The paths I used to know; I heard a sound of running streams, And saw the violets blow; I breathed a scent of daffodils; And faint and far withdrawn, A light upon the distant hills, Like morning, led me on. And childish hands clung fast to mine, And little pattering feet Trod with me thro' the still sunshine Of by-ways green and sweet; The flax-flower eyes of tender blue, The locks of palest gold, Were just the eyes and locks I knew And loved, and lost--of old! By many a green familiar lane Our pathway seemed to run Between long fields of waving grain, And slopes of dew and sun; And still we seemed to breathe alway A scent of daffodils, And that soft light of breaking day Shone on the distant hills. And out of slumber suddenly I seemed to wake, and know The little feet, that followed me, Were ashes long ago! And in a burst of rapturous tears I clung to her and said: "Dear Pitty-pat! The lonesome years They told me you were dead! "O, when the mother drew, of old, About her loving knee The little heads of dusk and gold, I know that we were three! And then there was an empty chair-- A stillness, strange and new: We could not find you anywhere-- And we were only two!" She pointed where serenely bright The hills yet glowed afar: "Sweet sister, yon ineffable light Is but the gates ajar! And evermore, by night and day, We children still are three, Tho' I have gone a little way To open the gates," said she. Then all in colors faint and fine The morning round me shone, The little hands slipt out of mine, And I was left alone; But still I smelled the daffodils, I heard the running streams; And that far glory on the hills-- Was it the light of dreams? BEN HAFED'S MEED. Ben Hafed, when the vernal rain Warmed the chill heart of earth again, Tilled the dull plot of sterile ground, Within the dank and narrow round That compassed his obscure domain; With earnest zeal, thro' heat and cold, He wrought and turned the sluggish mold, And all in furrows straight and fair He sowed the yellow seed with care, Trusting the harvest--as of old. Soft fell the rains, the suns shone bright, The long days melted into night, And beautiful, on either hand, Outspread the shining summer land, And all his neighbor's fields were white. Long drawn, beneath the genial skies, He saw deep-fruited vineyards rise; On every hill the bladed corn Flashed like the falchions of the morn Before Ben Hafed's wistful eyes. But in the garden, dull and bare, Where he had wrought with patient care, No cluster purpled on the vine, No blossom made the furrows shine With hints of harvest anywhere! Ben Hafed, scorning to complain, Bent to his thankless toil again: "I slight no task I find to do, Dear Lord, and if my sheaves be few, Thou wilt not count my labor vain?" His neighbors, rich in flocks and lands, Stood by and mocked his empty hands: "Why wage with ceaseless fret and toil The grim warfare that yields no spoil? Why spend thy zest on barren sands? The circling seasons come and go, And others garner as they sow; But year by year, in sun and rain, Thou till'st these fields with toil and pain, Where only tares and thistles grow!" With quiet mien Ben Hafed heard, And answered not by sign or word, Tho' some divine, all-trustful sense Of loss made sweet thro' recompense, In God's good time, within him stirred. With no vain protest or lament, Low to the stubborn glebe he bent: "I till the fields Thou gavest me, And leave the harvest, Lord, to thee," He said--and plodded on, content. And ever, with the golden seeds, He sowed an hundred gracious deeds-- Some act of helpful charity, A saving word of cheer, may be, To some poor soul in bitter need! And life wore on from gold to gray; The world went by, another way: "Tho' long and wearisome my task, Dear Lord, 'tis but a tithe I ask, And Thou will grant me that, some day!" One morn upon his humble bed, They found Ben Hafed lying dead, God's light upon his worn old face, And God's ineffable peace and grace Folding him round from feet to head. And lo! in cloudless sunshine rolled The glebe but late so bare and cold, Between fair rows of tree and vine Rich clustered, sweating oil and wine, Shone all in glorious harvest gold! And One whose face was strangely bright With loving ruth--whose garments white Were spotless as the lilies sweet That sprang beneath His shining feet-- Moved slowly thro' those fields of light; "Blest be Ben Hafed's work--thrice blest!" He said, and gathered to His breast The harvest sown in toil and tears: "Henceforth, thro' Mine eternal years, Thou, faithful servant, cease and rest!" WINTER BOUND. If I could live to see beyond the night, The first spring morning break with fiery thrills, And tremble into rose and violet light Along the distant hills! If I could hear the first wild note that swells The blue bird's silvery throat when spring is here, And all the sweet, wind ruffled lily bells Ring out the joyous matins of the year! Only to smell the budding lilac blooms The balmy airs from sprouting brake and wold, Rich with the strange ineffable perfumes Of growing grass and newly furrowed mold! If I could hear the rushing waters call In the wild exultation of release, Dear, I might turn my face unto the wall And fall asleep in peace! MISLED. Thro' moss, and bracken, and purple bloom, With a glitter of gorses here and there, Shoulder deep in the dewy bloom, My love, I follow you everywhere! By faint sweet signs my soul divines, Dear heart, at dawning you came this way, By the jangled bells of the columbines, And the ruffled gold of the gorses gay. By hill and hollow, by mead and lawn, Thro' shine and shade of dingle and glade, Fast and far as I hurry on My eager seeking you still evade. But, were you shod with the errant breeze, Spirit of shadow and fire and dew, O'er trackless deserts of lands and seas Still would I follow and find out you. Like a dazzle of sparks from a glowing brand, 'Mid the tender green of the feathery fern And nodding sedge, by the light gale fanned, The Indian pinks in the sunlight burn; And the wide, cool cups of the corn flower brim With the sapphire's splendor of heaven's own blue, In sylvan hollows and dingles dim, Still sweet with a hint of the morn--and you! For here is the print of your slender foot, And the rose that fell from your braided hair, In the lush deep moss at the bilberry's root-- And the scent of lilacs is in the air! Do lilacs bloom in the wild green wood? Do roses drop from the bilberry bough? Answer me, little Red Riding Hood! You are hiding there in the bracken, now! Come out of your covert, my Bonny Belle-- I see the glint of your eyes sweet blue-- Your yellow locks--ah, you know full well Your scarlet mantle has told on you; Come out this minute, you laughing minx! --By all the dryads of wood and wold! 'Tis only a cluster of Indian pinks And corn flowers, under the gorses' gold. AT MILKING-TIME. "Coe, Berry-brown! Hie, Thistledown! Make haste; the milking-time is come! The bells are ringing in the town, Tho' all the green hillside is dumb, And Morn's white curtain, half withdrawn, Just shows a rosy glimpse of dawn." Tinkle, tinkle in the pail: "Ah! my heart, if Tom should fail! See the vapors, white as curd, By the waking winds are stirred, And the east is brightening slow Tom is long a-field, I know! "Coe, Bell! Come Bright! Miss Lilywhite, I see you hiding in the croft! By yon steep stair of ruddy light The sun is climbing fast aloft; What makes the stealthy, creeping chill That hangs about the morning still?" Tinkle, tinkle in the pail: "Some one saunters up the vale, Pauses at the brook awhile, Dawdles at the meadow stile-- Well! if loitering be a crime, Some one takes his own sweet time! "So! Berry, so! Now, cherry-blow, Keep your pink nose out of the pail! How dull the morning is--how low The churning vapors coil and trail! How dim the sky, and far away! What ails the sunshine and the day?" Tinkle, tinkle in the pail: "But for that preposterous tale Nancy Mixer brought from town, 'Tom is courting Kitty Brown,' I'd not walked with Willie Snow, Just to tease my Tom, you know! "So! stand still, my thistledown! Tom is coming thro' the gate, But his forehead wears a frown, And he never was so late! Till that vexing demon, Doubt, Angered us, and we fell out!" Tinkle, tinkle in the pail: "Tom roosts on the topmost rail, Chewing straws, and looking grim When I choose to peep at him; Wonder if he's sulking still, All about my walk with Will? "Cherry, Berry, Lilywhite, Hasten fieldward, every one; All the heavens are growing bright, And the milking time is done; I will speak to him, and see If his lordship answers me: 'Tom!' He tumbles off the rail, Stoops to lift the brimming pail; With a mutual pleading glance Lip meets lip--mayhap by chance-- And--but need I whisper why?-- Tom is happy--and so am I!" THE SINGER'S SONG O weary heart of mine, Keep still, and make no sign! The world hath learned a newer joy-- A sweeter song than thine! Tho' all the brooks of June Should lilt and pipe in tune. The music by and by would cloy-- The world forgets so soon! So thou mayest put away Thy little broken lay; Perhaps some wistful, loving soul May take it up some day-- Take up the broken thread, Dear heart, when thou art dead, And weave into diviner song The things thou wouldst have said! Rest thou, and make no sign, The world, O, heart of mine, Is listening for the hand that smites A grander chord than thine! The loftier strains that teach Great truths beyond thy reach; Whose far faint echo they have heard In thy poor stammering speech. Thy little broken bars, That wailing discord mars, To vast triumphal harmonies Shall swell beyond the stars. So rest thee, heart, and cease; Awhile, in glad release, Keep silence here, with God, amid The lilies of His peace. AUNT PATTY'S THANKSGIVING. [Transcriber's note: The original text titled this poem here as "Aunt Patty's Thanksgiving" and in the table of contents as "Aunt Betty's Thanksgiving." This discrepancy is intentionally preserved.] Now Cleo, fly round! Father's going to town With a load o' red russets, to meet Captain Brown; The mortgage is due, and it's got to be paid, And father is troubled to raise it, I'm 'fraid! We've had a bad year, with the drouth and the blight The harvest was short, and the apple crop light; The early hay cutting scarce balanced the cost, And the heft o' the after-math's ruined with frost; A gloomy Thanksgiving to-morrow will be-- But the ways o' the Lord are not our ways, ah me! But His dear will be done! If we jest do our best, And trust Him, I guess He'll take care o' the rest; I'd not mind the worry, nor stop to repine, Could I take father's share o' the burden with mine! He is grieving, I know, tho' he says not a word, But, last night, 'twixt the waking and dreaming, I heard The long, sobbing sighs of a strong man in pain, And I knew he was fretting for Robert again! Our Robert, our first-born: the comfort and stay Of our age, when we two should grow feeble and gray; What a baby he was! with his bright locks, and eyes Just as blue as a bit o' the midsummer skies! And in youth--why, it made one's heart lightsome and glad Like a glimpse o' the sun, just to look at the lad! But the curse came upon him--the spell of unrest-- Like a voice calling out of the infinite West-- And Archibald Grace, he was going--and so We gave Rob our blessing, and jest let him go! There, Cleo, your father is out at the gate: Be spry as a cricket; he don't like to wait! Here's the firkin o' butter, as yellow as gold-- And the eggs, in this basket--ten dozen all told. Tell father be sure and remember the tea-- And the spice and the yard o' green gingham for me; And the sugar for baking:--and ask him to go To the office--there might be a letter, you know! May Providence go with your father to town, And soften the heart o' this rich Captain Brown. He's the stranger that's buying the Sunnyside place, We all thought was willed to poor Archibald Grace, Along with the mortgage that's jest falling due, And that father allowed Archie Grace would renew; And, Cleo, I reckon that father will sell The Croft, and the little real Alderney, Bel. You raised her, I know; and it's hard she must go; But father will pay every dollar we owe; It's his way, to be honest and fair as the day; And he always was dreadfully set in his way. I try to find comfort in thinking, my dear, That things would be different if Robert was here; I guess he'd a stayed but for Archibald Grace. And helped with the chores and looked after the place; But Archie, he heard from that Eben Carew, And went wild to go off to the gold-diggings, too; And so they must up and meander out West, And now they are murdered--or missing, at best-- Surprised by that bloody, marauding "Red Wing," 'Way out in the Yellowstone country, last spring. No wonder, Cleora, I'm getting so gray! I grieve for my lost darling day after day; And, Cleo, my daughter, don't mind if it's true, But I reckon I've guessed about Archie and you! And the Lord knows our burdens are grievous to bear, But there's still a bright edge to my cloud of despair, And somehow I hear, like a tune in my head: "The boys are coming! The boys aren't dead!" So to-morrow, for dear father's sake, we will try To make the day seem like Thanksgivings gone by; And tho' we mayn't see where Thanksgiving comes in, Things were never so bad yet as things might a-been. But it's nigh time the kettle was hung on the crane, And somebody's driving full tilt up the lane-- For the land's sake! Cleora, you're dropping that tray O' blue willow tea-cups! What startled you? Hey? You're white as a ghost--Why, here's father from town! And who are those men, daughter, helping him down? Run! open the door! There's a whirr in my head, And the tune's getting louder--"The boys aren't dead!" Cleora! That voice--it is Robert!--O, Lord! I have leaned on Thy promise, and trusted Thy word, And out of the midst of great darkness and night Thy mercy has led me again to the light! IN HOC SIGNO VINCES! (UNDER THIS SIGN THOU SHALT CONQUER.) Beneath the solemn stars that light The dread infinitudes of night, Mid wintry solitudes that lie Where lonely Hecla's toweling pyre Reddens an awful space of sky With Thor's eternal altar fire! Worn with the fever of unrest, And spent with years of eager quest, Beneath the vaulted heaven they stood, Pale, haggard eyed, of garb uncouth, The seekers of the Hidden Good, The searchers for Eternal Truth! From fiery Afric's burning sands, From Asia's hoary templed lands, From the pale borders of the North, From the far South--the fruitful West, O, long ago each journeyed forth, Led hither by one glorious quest! And each, with pilgrim staff and shoon, Bore on his scrip a mystic rune, Some maxim of his chosen creed, By which, with swerveless rule and line, He shaped his life in word and deed To ends heroic and divine! Around their dreary winter world The great ice-kraken dimly curled The white seas of the frozen zone; And like a mighty lifted shield The hollow heavens forever shone On gleaming fiord and pathless field! Behind them, in the nether deep, The central fires, that never sleep, Grappled and rose, and fell again; And with colossal shock and throe The shuddering mountain rent in twain Her garments of perpetual snow! Then Aba Seyd, grave-eyed and grand, Stood forth with lifted brow and hand; Kingly of height, of mien sublime, Like glorious Saul among his peers, With matchless wisdom for all time Gleaned from the treasure house of years; His locks rose like an eagle's crest, His gray beard stormed on cheek and breast, His silvery voice sonorous rang, As when, exulting in the fray, Where lances hissed and trumpets sang, He held the Bedouin hordes at bay. "Lo! Here we part: henceforth alone We journey to the goal unknown; But whatsoever paths we find, The ties of fellowship shall bind Our constant souls; and soon or late-- We laboring still in harmony-- The grand results for which we wait Shall crown the mighty years to be! Now scoffed at, baffled, and beset, We grope in twilight darkness yet, We who would found the age of gold, Based on the universal good, And forge the links that yet shall hold The world in common Brotherhood! "O, comrades of the Mystic Quest! Who seek the Highest and the Best! Where'er the goal for which we strive-- Whate'er the knowledge we may win-- This truth supreme shall live and thrive, 'Tis love that makes the whole world kin! The love sublime and purified, That puts all dross of self aside To live for others--to uphold Before our own a brother's cause: This is the master power shall mould The nobler customs, higher laws! "Then shall all wars, all discords cease, And, rounded to perpetual peace, The bounteous years shall come and go Unvexed; and all humanity, Nursed to a loftier type, shall grow Like to that image undefiled, That fair reflex of Deity, Who, first, beneath the morning skies And glowing palms of paradise, A God-like man, awoke and smiled!" * * * * Like some weird strain of music, spent In one full chord, the sweet voice ceased; A faint white glow smote up the east, Like wings uplifting--and a cry Of winds went forth, as if the night Beneath the brightening firmament Had voiced, in hollow prophecy, The affirmation: "By and by!" HOW KATIE SAVED THE TRAIN. The floods were out. Far as the bound Of sight was one stupendous round Of flat and sluggish crawling water! As, from a slowly drowning rise, She looked abroad with startled eyes, The engineer's intrepid daughter. Far as her straining eyes could see, The seething, swoolen Tombigbee Outspread his turbulent yellow tide; His angry currents swirled and surged O'er leagues of fertile lands submerged, And ruined hamlets, far and wide. Along a swell of higher ground, Still, like a gleaming serpent, wound The heavy graded iron trail; But, inch by inch, the overflow Dragged down the road bed, till the slow Back-water crept across the rail. And where the ghostly trestle spanned A stretch of marshy bottom-land, The stealthy under current gnawed At sunken pile, and massive pier, And the stout bridge hung airily where She sullen dyke lay deep and broad. Above the hollow, droning sound Of waves that filled the watery round, She heard a distant shout and din-- The levees of the upper land Had crumbled like a wall of sand, And the wild floods were pouring in! She saw the straining dyke give way-- The quaking trestle reel and sway. Yet hold together, bravely, still! She saw the rushing waters drown The piers, while ever sucking down The undermined and treacherous "fill!" Her strong heart hammered in her breast, As o'er a distant woody crest A dim gray plume of vapor trailed; And nearer, clearer, by and by, Like the faint echo of a cry, A warning whistle shrilled and wailed! Her frightened gelding reared and plunged, As the doomed trestle rocked and lunged-- The keen lash scored his silken hide: "Come, Bayard! We must reach the bridge And cross to yonder higher ridge-- For thrice an hundred lives we ride!" She stooped and kissed his tawny mane, Sodden with flecks of froth and rain; Then put him at the surging flood! Girth deep the dauntless gelding sank, The tide hissed round his smoking flank, But straight for life or death she rode! The wide black heavens yawned again, Down came the torrent rushing rain-- The icy river clutched her! Shrill in her ears the waters sang, Strange fires from the abysses sprang, The sharp sleet stung like whip and spur! Her yellow hair, blown wild and wide, Streamed like a meteor o'er the tide; Her set white face yet whiter grew, As lashed by furious flood and rain, Still for the bridge, with might and main, Her gallant horse swam, straight and true! They gained the track, and slowly crept Timber by timber, torrents swept, Across the boiling hell of water-- Till past the torn and shuddering bridge He bore her to the safer ridge, The engineer's intrepid daughter! The night was falling wild and black, The waters blotted out the track; She gave her flying horse free rein, For full a dreadful mile away The lonely wayside station lay, And hoarse above his startled neigh She heard the thunder of the train! "What if they meet this side the goal?" She thought with sick and shuddering soul; For well she knew what doom awaited A fell mischance--a step belated-- The grinding wheels, the yawning dyke-- Sure death for her--for them--alike! Like danger-lamps her blue eyes glowed, As thro' the whirling gloom she rode, Her laboring breath drawn sharply in; Pitted against yon rushing wheels Were tireless grit and trusty heels, And with God's favor they might win! And soon along the perilous line Flamed out the lurid warning sign, While round her staggering horse the crowd Surged with wild cheers and plaudits loud.-- And this is how, thro' flood and rain, Brave Kate McCarthy saved the train! OFF THE SKIDLOE. With leagues of wasteful water ringed about, And wrapped in sheeted foam from base to peak, A sheer, stupendous monolith, wrought out By the slow, ceaseless labor of the deeps, In awful isolation, old as Time, The gray, forbidding Rock of Skidloe stands-- Breasting the wild incursions of the North-- The grim antagonist of a thousand waves! Far to the leeward, faintly drawn against A dim perspective of perpetual storms, A frowning line of black basaltic cliffs Baffles the savage onset of the surf. But, rolled in cloud and foam, old Skidloe lifts His dark, defiant head forever mid The shock and thunder of contending tides, And fixed, immovable as fate, hurls back The rude, eternal protest of the sea! Colossal waters coil about his feet, Deep rooted in the awful gulfs between The measureless walls of mountain chains submerged; An infinite hoarse murmur wells from all His dim mysterious crypts and corridors: The inarticulate mutterings that voice The ancient secret of the mighty main. In all the troubled round of sea and air, No glimpse of brightness lends the vivid zest Of life and light to the harsh monotone Of gray tumultuous flood and spectral sky; Far off the black basaltic crags are heaved Against the desolate emptiness of space; But no sweet beam of sunset ever falls Athwart old Skidloe's cloudy crest--no soft And wistful glory of awakened dawn Lays on his haggard brows a touch of grace. Sometimes a lonely curlew skims across The seething torment of the dread abyss, And, shrieking, dips into the mist beyond; But, solitary and unchanged for aye, He towers amid the rude revolt of waves, His stony face seamed by a thousand years, And wrinkled with a million furrows, worn By the slow drip of briny tears, that creep Along his hollow cheek. His hidden hands Drag down the drowned and tossing wrecks that drive Before the fury of the Northern gales, And mute, inscrutable as destiny, He keeps his sombre secrets as of yore. The slow years come and go; the seasons dawn And fade, and pass to swell the solemn ranks Of august ages in the march of Time. But changeless still, amid eternal change, Old Skidloe bears the furious brunt of all The warring elements that grapple mid The mighty insurrections of the sea! Gray desolation, ancient solitude, Brood o'er his wide, unrestful water world, While grim, unmoved, forbidding as of yore, He wraps his kingly altitudes about With the fierce blazon of the thunder cloud; And on his awful and uplifted brows The red phylactery of the lightning shines; And throned amid eternal wars, he dwells, His dread regality hedged round by all The weird magnificence of exultant storms! LIFE'S CROSSES. "O life! O, vailed destiny!" She cried--"within thy hidden hands What recompense is waiting me Beyond these naked wintry sands? For lo! The ancient legend saith: 'Take ye a rose at Christmas tide, And pin thereto your loving faith, And cast it to the waters wide; Whate'er the wished-for guerdon be, God's hand will guide it safe to thee!' "I pace the river's icy brink, This dreary Christmas Eve," she said, "And watch the dying sunset sink From pallid gold to ashen red. My eyes are hot with weary tears, I heed not how the winds may blow, While thinking of the vanished years Beyond the stormy heave and throe Of yon far sea-line, dimly curled Around my lonely island-world. "The winds make melancholy moan; I hear the river flowing by, As, heavy-hearted and alone, Beneath the wild December sky, I take the roses from my breast-- White roses of the Holy Rood-- And, filled with passionate unrest, I cast them to the darkening flood. O, roses, drifting out to sea, Bring my lost treasures back to me! "Bring back the joyous hopes of youth! The faith that knew no flaw of doubt! The spotless innocence and truth That clothed my maiden soul about! Bring back the grace of girlhood gone, The rapturous zest of other days! The dew and freshness of the dawn, That lay on life's untrodden ways-- The glory that will shine no more For me on earthly sea or shore! "Call back the sweet home-joys of old That gladdened many a Christmas-tide-- The faces hidden in the mould, The dear lost loves that changed or died! O, gentle spirits, gone before, Come, from the undiscovered lands, And bring the precious things of yore To aching heart and empty hands; Keep all the wealth of earth and sea, But give my lost ones back to me. "Vain are my tears, my pleadings vain! O, roses, drifting with the tide, To me shall never come again The glory of the years that died! Thro' gloom and night, sweet flowers, drift on-- Drift out upon the unknown sea; Into the holy Christmas dawn Bear this impassioned prayer for me: O, turn, dear Lord, my heart away From things that are but for a day; Teach me to trust thy loving will, And bear life's heavy crosses still." NATHAN COVINGTON BROOKS, A.M., LL.D. The following sketch is principally from the Third Volume of Biographical Sketches of Eminent Americans. "Nathan Covington Brooks, the youngest son of John and Mary Brooks, was born in West Nottingham, Cecil county, Maryland, on the 12th of August, 1809. His education was commenced at the West Nottingham Academy, then under the charge of Rev. James Magraw, D.D., and subsequently he graduated as Master of Arts, at St. John's College, Annapolis, Md. His thesis was a poem on the World's Changes. Diligent and persevering in his studies, his rapid progress and high attainments won the regard of his teachers, while his amiable manners endeared him to his classmates. While his principal delight was in the study of the Classics, he devoted much attention to mathematics and other studies. Like many other writers, some of his earliest efforts were in verse. Indeed it may be said of him, as of Pope, that he 'lisped in rhyme.' Though we have no Shakespeares, or Miltons, or Byrons, there is no scarcity of literary amateurs who, in their hours of recreation and dalliance with letters, betake themselves to poetry as an amusement for their leisure hours or a solace amid the rude trials of life. High in the rank of these writers of occasional poetry stands Dr. Brooks. Nature, in all her forms, he has made the subject of close observation and profound reflection, and in looking at Nature, he has used his own eyes and not the spectacles of other writers. He has a keen relish for the beautiful, and a deep sympathy with the truthful and the good. His taste, formed on the finest models, has been ripened and chastened by a patient study of the great monuments of antiquity. His thoughts seem to be the natural development of his mind; and his words the unstudied expression of his thoughts. The music of his verse reminds us sometimes of the soft cadences of Hemans, and not unfrequently of the mournful harp of Byron." In his eighteenth year he was a contributor of prose and poetry to the _Minerva and Emerald_, and _Saturday Post_, of Baltimore; subsequently contributed to _The Wreath_, _Monument_, _Athenæum_, and _Protestant_, of the same city. In 1830 he edited _The Amethyst_, an annual and soon after became a contributor of prose and poetry to _Atkinson's Casket_, and _The Lady's Book_, of which latter he was the first paid contributor; wrote for _Burton's Magazine_, and _Graham's_, _The New York Mirror_, _The Ladies' Companion_, and the _Home Journal_; and the following annuals, _The Gift_, _The Christian Keepsake_, and _The Religious Souvenir_. He contributed also prose and poetry to _The Southern Literary Messenger_, _The Southern Quarterly_ of New Orleans, _The London Literary Gazette_, and _The London Court Journal_. In 1837 Marshall, of Philadelphia, published a volume of his religious poems, entitled "Scriptural Anthology." In 1840, Kay Brothers, of Philadelphia, published a volume of his prose and poetry, under the name of "The Literary Amaranth." Besides these Dr. Brooks has edited a series of Greek and Latin classics, has written four volumes on religious subjects, one on "Holy Week," just issued from the press, "The History of the Mexican War," which was translated into German, "Battles of the Revolution," etc. In his literary career he has won three prizes that will be cherished as heirlooms in the family, a silver pitcher, for the best prose tale, entitled "The Power of Truth," and two silver goblets, one a prize for the poem entitled "The Fall of Superstition," the other a prize for a poem, "The South-sea Islander," for which fifteen of our leading poets were competitors. Though in his leisure moments Dr. Brooks has achieved so much in literature, his profession has been that of an educator, in which he has had the mental training of males and females to the number of five or six thousand. In 1824, he was appointed to the village school in Charlestown, Cecil county, in 1826, established a private school in Baltimore city; in 1831 was elected principal of the Franklin Academy, Reistertown, and in 1834 principal of the Brookesville Academy, Montgomery county, both endowed by the State; in 1839, he was unanimously elected over forty-five applicants as principal of the Baltimore City High School which position he held for nine years, until asked by the Trustees of the Baltimore Female College, in 1848, to accept the organization of the institution. The College is chartered and endowed by the State of Maryland, has graduated over three hundred young ladies, and trained and sent forth two hundred teachers. Emory College, Oxford, Georgia, conferred the degree of LL.D., on Professor Brooks in 1859, and in 1863 his name was presented, with others, for the presidency of Girard College. Though Major Smith, a Philadelphian of an influential family, was elected president, Professor Brooks received more votes than any of the other competitors. In 1827, he married Mary Elizabeth, eldest daughter of William Gobright, a lady of great beauty and excellence, and in 1867, married Christiana Octavia, youngest daughter of Dr. William Crump, of Virginia. Of the former union four sons and two daughters are living; of the latter union a son. The following poems are selected as specimens of his style. THE MOTHER TO HER DEAD BOY. The flowers you reared repose in sleep With folded bells where the night-dews weep, And the passing wind, like a spirit, grieves In a gentle dirge through the sighing leaves. The sun will kiss the dew from the rose, Its crimson petals again unclose, And the violet ope the soft blue ray Of its modest eye to the gaze of day; But when will the dews and shades that lie So cold and damp on thy shrouded eye, Be chased from the folded lids, my child, And thy glance break forth so sweetly wild? The fawn, thy partner in sportive play, Has ceased his gambols at close of day, And his weary limbs are relaxed and free In gentle sleep by his favorite tree. He will wake ere long, and the rosy dawn Will call him forth to the dewy lawn, And his sprightly gambols be seen again, Through the parted boughs and upon the plain; But oh! when will slumber cease to hold The limbs that lie so still and cold? When wilt thou come with thy tiny feet That bounded my glad embrace to meet? The birds you tended have ceased to sing, And shaded their eyes with the velvet wing, And, nestled among the leaves of the trees, They are rocked to rest by the cool night breeze. The morn will the chains of sleep unbind, And spread their plumes to the freshening wind; And music from many a warbler's mouth Will honey the grove, like the breath of the south; But when shall the lips, whose lightest word Was sweeter far than the warbling bird, Their rich wild strain of melody pour? They are mute! they are cold! they will ope no more! When heaven's great bell in a tone sublime Shall sound the knell of departed Time, And its echoes pierce with a voice profound Through the liquid sea and the solid ground, Thou wilt wake, my child, from the dreamless sleep Whose oblivious dews thy senses steep, And then will the eye, now dim, grow bright In the glorious rays of Heaven's own light, The limbs, that an angel's semblance bore, Bloom 'neath living trees on the golden shore, And the voice that's hushed, God's praises hymn 'Mid the bands of the harping seraphim. TO A DOVE. MOURNING AMID THE RUINS OF AN ANCIENT CHURCH. The fields have faded, the groves look dead, The summer is gone, its beauty has fled, And there breathes a low and plaintive sound From each stream and solemn wood around. In unison with their tone, my breast With a spirit of kindred gloom is opprest, And the sighs burst forth as I gaze, the while, On the crumbling stone of the reverend pile, And list to the sounds of the moaning wind As it stirs the old ivy-boughs entwined,-- Sighs mournful along through chancel and nave, And shakes the loose panel and architrave, While the mouldering branches and withered leaves Are rustling around the moss-grown eaves. But sadder than these, thou emblem of love, Thy moanings fall, disconsolate dove, In the solemn eve on my pensive ear, As the wailing sounds of a requiem drear, As coming from crumbling altar stone They are borne on the winds in a dirge-like tone, Like the plaintive voice of the broken-hearted O'er hopes betrayed and joys departed. Why dost thou pour thy sad complaint On the evening winds from a bosom faint? As if thou hadst come from the shoreless main Of a world submerged to the ark again, With a weary heart to lament and brood O'er the wide and voiceless solitude. Dost thou mourn that the gray and mouldering door Swings back to the reverent crowd no more? That the tall and waving grass defiles The well-worn flags of the crowdless aisles? That the wild fox barks, and the owlet screams Where the organ and choir pealed out their themes? Dost thou mourn, that from sacred desk the word Of life and truth is no longer heard? That the gentle shepherd, who to pasture bore His flock, has gone, to return no more? Dost thou mourn for the hoary-headed sage Who has sunk to the grave 'neath the weight of age? For the vanquished pride of manhood's bloom? For the light of youth quenched in the tomb? For the bridegroom's fall? For the bride's decay? That pastor and people have passed away, And the tears of night their graves bedew By the funeral cypress and solemn yew? Or dost thou mourn that the house of God Has ceased to be a divine abode? That the Holy Spirit, which erst did brood O'er the Son of Man by Jordan's flood, In thine own pure form to the eye of sense, From its resting place has departed hence, And twitters the swallow, and wheels the bat O'er the mercy-seat where its presence sat? I have marked thy trembling breast, and heard With a heart responsive thy tones, sweet bird, And have mourned, like thee, of earth's fairest things The blight and the loss--Oh! had I thy wings, From a world of woe to the realms of the blest I would flee away, and would be at rest. FALL OF SUPERSTITION. A PRIZE POEM. The star of Bethlehem rose, and truth and light Burst on the nations that reposed in night, And chased the Stygian shades with rosy smile That spread from Error's home, the land of Nile. No more with harp and sistrum Music calls To wanton rites within Astarte's halls, The priests forget to mourn their Apis slain, And bear Osiris' ark with pompous train; Gone is Serapis, and Anubis fled, And Neitha's unraised vail shrouds Isis' prostrate head. Where Jove shook heaven when the red bolt was hurled, Neptune the sea--and Phoebus lit the world; Where fair-haired naiads held each silver flood, A fawn each field--a dryad every wood-- The myriad gods have fled, and God alone Above their ruined fanes has reared his throne.[A] No more the augur stands in snowy shroud To watch each flitting wing and rolling cloud, Nor Superstition in dim twilight weaves Her wizard song among Dodona's leaves; Phoebus is dumb, and votaries crowd no more The Delphian mountain and the Delian shore, And lone and still the Lybian Ammon stands, His utterance stifled by the desert sands. No more in Cnydian bower, or Cyprian grove The golden censers flame with gifts to Love; The pale-eyed Vestal bends no more and prays Where the eternal fire sends up its blaze; Cybele hears no more the cymbal's sound, The Lares shiver the fireless hearthstone round; And shatter'd shrine and altar lie o'erthrown, Inscriptionless, save where Oblivion lone Has dimly traced his name upon the mouldering stone. Medina's sceptre is despoiled of might-- Once stretched o'er realms that bowed in pale affright; The Moon that rose, as waved the scimetar Where sunk the Cross amid the storm of war, Now pale and dim, is hastening to its wane, The sword is broke that spread the Koran's reign, And soon will minaret and swelling dome Fall, like the fanes of Egypt, Greece, and Rome. On other lands has dawned immortal day, And Superstition's clouds have rolled away; O'er Gallia's mounts and on Iona's shore The Runic altars roll their smoke no more; Fled is the Druid from his ancient oak, His harp is mute--his magic circle broke; And Desolation mopes in Odin's cells Where spirit-voices called to join the feast of shells. O'er Indian plains and ocean-girdled isles With brow of beauty Truth serenely smiles; The nations bow, as light is shed abroad, And break their idols for the living God. Where purple streams from human victims run And votive flesh hangs quivering in the sun, Quenched are the pyres, as shines salvation's star-- Grim Juggernaut is trembling on his car And cries less frequent come from Ganges' waves Where infant forms sink into watery graves. Where heathen prayers flamed by the cocoa tree They supplicate the Christians' Deity And chant in living aisles the vesper hymn Where giant god-trees rear their temples dim. Still speed thy truth!--still wave thy spirit sword, Till every land acknowledge Thee the Lord, And the broad banner of the Cross, unfurled In triumph, wave above a subject world. And here O God! where feuds thy church divide-- The sectary's rancor, and the bigot's pride-- Melt every heart, till all our breasts enshrine One faith, one hope, one love, one zeal divine, And, with one voice, adoring nations call Upon the Father and the God of all. [Footnote A: The Pantheon that was built to all the gods was transformed into a Christian temple.] THE INFANT ST. JOHN, THE BAPTIST. O sweeter than the breath of southern wind With all its perfumes is the whisper'd prayer From infant lips, and gentler than the hind, The feet that bear The heaven-directed youth in wisdom's pathway fair. And thou, the early consecrate, like flowers Didst shed thy incense breath to heaven abroad; And prayer and praise the measure of thy hours, The desert trod Companionless, alone, save of the mighty God. As Phosphor leads the kindling glory on, And fades, lost in the day-god's bright excess, So didst thou in Redemption's coming dawn, Grow lustreless, The fading herald of the Sun of Righteousness. But when the book of life shall be unsealed, And stars of glory round the throne divine In all their light and beauty be revealed, The brightest thine Of all the hosts of earth with heavenly light shall shine. SHELLEY'S OBSEQUIES. Ibi tu calentem Debita sparges lacryma favillam Vatis amici. --Horace. Percy Bysshe Shelley, an eminent English poet, while sailing in the Mediterranean sea, in 1822, was drowned off the coast of Tuscany in a squall which wrecked the boat in which he had embarked. Two weeks afterwards his body was washed ashore. The Tuscan quarantine regulations at that time required that whatever came ashore from the sea should be burned. Shelley's body was accordingly placed on a pyre and reduced to ashes, in the presence of Lord Byron and Leigh Hunt, who are the "brother bards" referred to in the last stanza of the poem. Beneath the axle of departing day The weary waters on the horizon's verge Blush'd like the cheek of children tired in play, As bore the surge The poet's wasted form with slow and mournful dirge. On Via Reggio's surf-beaten strand The late-relenting sea, with hollow moan Gave back the storm-tossed body to the land, As if in tone Of sorrow it bewailed the deed itself had done. There laid upon his bed of shells--around The moon and stars their lonely vigils kept; While in their pall-like shades the mountains bound And night bewept The bard of nature as in death's cold arms he slept. The tuneful morn arose with locks of light-- The ear that drank her music's call was chill; The eye that shone was sealed in endless night, And cold and still The pulses stood that 'neath her gaze were wont to thrill. With trees e'en like the sleeper's honors sered And prows of galleys, like his bosom riven, The melancholy pile of death was reared Aloft to heaven, And on its pillared height the corpse to torches given. From his meridian throne the eye of day Beheld the kindlings of the funeral fire, Where, like a war-worn Roman chieftain, lay Upon his pyre The poet of the broken heart and broken lyre. On scented wings the sorrowing breezes came And fanned the blaze, until the smoke that rushed In dusky volumes upward, lit with flame All redly blushed Like Melancholy's sombre cheek by weeping flushed. And brother bards upon that lonely shore Were standing by, and wept as brightly burned The pyre, till all the form they loved before, To ashes turned, With incense, wine, and tears was sprinkled and inurned. THE FOUNTAIN REVISITED. Let the classic pilgrim rove, By Egeria's fount to stand, Or sit in Vancluse's grot of love, Afar from his native land; Let him drink of the crystal tides Of the far-famed Hippocrene, Or list to the waves where Peneus glides His storied mounts between: But dearer than aught 'neath a foreign sky Is the fount of my native dell, It has fairer charms for my musing eye For my heart a deeper spell. Dear fount! what memories rush Through the heart and wildered brain, As beneath the old beech I list to the gush Of thy sparkling waves again; For here in a fairy dream With friends, my childhood's hours Glided on like the flow of thy beautiful stream, And like it were wreathed with flowers: Here we saw on thy waves, from the shade, The dance of the sunbeams at noon; Or heard, half-afraid, the deep murmurings made In thy cavernous depths, 'neath the moon. I have heard thy waves away From thy scenes, dear fount, apart; And have felt the play, in life's fevered day, Of thy waters through my heart; But oh! thou art not the same: Youth's friends are gone--I am lone-- Thy beeches are carved with many a name Now graved on the funeral stone. As I stand and muse, my tears Are troubling the stream whose waves The lullaby sang to their infantile years, And now murmur around their graves. DEATH OF SAMSON. Within Philistia's princely hall Is held a glorious festival, And on the fluctuant ether floats The music of the timbrel's notes, While living waves of voices gush, Echoing among the distant hills, Like an impetuous torrent's rush When swollen by a thousand rills. The stripling and the man of years, Warriors with twice ten thousand spears, Peasants and slaves and husbandmen,-- The shepherd from his mountain glen, Vassal, and chief arrayed in gold And purple robes--Philistines all Are drawn together to behold Their mighty foeman held in thrall. Loud pealed the accents of the horn Upon the air of the clear morn, And deafening rose the mingled shout, Cleaving the air from that wild rout, As, guarded by a cavalcade The illustrious prisoner appeared And, 'mid the grove the dense spears made, His forehead like a tall oak reared. He stood with brawny shoulders bare, And tossed his nervous arms in air-- Chains, leathern thongs, and brazen bands Parted like wool within his hands; And giant trunks of gnarled oak, Splintered and into ribbons rent, Or by his iron sinews broke, Increased the people's wonderment. The amphitheatre, where stood Spell-bound the mighty multitude, Rested its long and gilded walls Upon two pillars' capitals: His brawny arms, with labor spent, He threw around the pillars there, And to the deep blue firmament Lifted his sightless orbs in prayer. Anon the columns move--they shake, Totter, and vacillate, and shake, And wrenched by giant force, come down Like a disrupted mountain's crown, With cornice, frieze, and chapiter, Girder, and spangled dome, and wall, Ceiling of gold, and roof of fir, Crumbled in mighty ruin all. Down came the structure--on the air Uprose in wildest shrieks despair, Rolling in echoes loud and long Ascending from the myriad throng: And Samson, with the heaps of dead Priest, vassal, chief, in ruin blent, Piled over his victorious head His sepulchre and monument. AN INFANT'S PRAYER. The day is spent, on the calm evening hours, Like whispered prayer, come nature's sounds abroad, And with bowed heads the pure and gentle flowers Shake from their censers perfume to their God; Thus would I bow the head and bend the knee, And pour my soul's pure incense, Lord, to Thee. Creator of my body, I adore, Redeemer of my soul, I worship Thee, Preserver of my being, I implore Thy light and power to guide and shelter me; Be Thou my sun, as life's dark vale I tread, Be thou my shield to guard my infant head. And when these eyes in dewy sleep shall close, Uplifted now in love to Thy great throne, In the defenceless hours of my repose, Father and God, oh! leave me not alone, But send thy angel minister's to keep With hovering wings their vigils while I sleep. JOHN MARCHBORN COOLEY. John Marchborn Cooley, the eldest son of the late Corbin Cooley, was born at the Cooley homestead, on the Susquehanna river, in Cecil county, a short distance below the junction of that stream and the Octoraro creek, on the first of March, 1827; and died at Darlington, Harford county, Maryland, April 13th, 1878. In childhood he showed a taste for learning, and in early youth was sent to West Nottingham Academy, where he received his education. While at the Academy he is said to have been always willing to write the compositions of his fellow students, and to help them with any literary work in which they were engaged. Mr. Cooley studied law in the office of the late Col. John C. Groome, and was admitted to the Elkton bar on the 4th of April, 1850. He practiced his profession in Elkton for a short time, during a part of which he was counsel to the County Commissioners, but removed to Warsaw, Illinois, where he continued to practice his profession for six years, after which he came to Harford county, where he resided until the outbreaking of the war of the rebellion, when he joined the Union army and continued to serve his country until the close of the war. In 1866, he married Miss Hattie Lord, of Manchester, New Hampshire, and settled in Darlington, Harford county, Maryland, where he was engaged in teaching a classical school until the time of his death. Mr. Cooley was born within a few miles of the birthplace of William P. and E.E. Ewing, and Emma Alice Brown and almost within sight of the mansion in which Mrs. Hall wrote the poems which are published in this book. Mr. Cooley was a born poet, a voluminous and beautiful writer, and the author of several poems of considerable length and great merit. Mr. Cooley's widow and son, Marvin L. Cooley, still survive, and at present reside in Darlington. A STORY WITH A MORAL. One ev'ning, as some children play'd Beneath an oak tree's summer shade, A stranger, travel-stained and gray, Beside them halted on his way. As if a spell, upon them thrown, Had changed their agile limbs to stone, Each in the spot where it first view'd Th' approaching wand'rer mutely stood. Ere silence had oppressive grown The old man's voice thus found a tone; "I too was once as blithe and gay-- My days as lightly flew away As if I counted all their hours Upon a dial-plate of flowers; And gentle slumber oft renew'd The joyance of my waking mood, As if my soul in slumber caught The radiance of expiring thought; As if perception's farewell beam Could tinge my bosom with a dream-- That twilight of the mind which throws Such mystic splendor o'er repose. Contrasted with a youth so bright My manhood seems one dreary night, A chilling, cheerless night, like those Which over Arctic regions close. I married one, to my fond eyes An angel draped in human guise. Alas! she had one failing; No secret could she keep In spite of all my railing, And curses loud and deep. No matter what the danger Of gossiping might be, She'd gossip with a stranger As quickly as with me. One can't be always serious, And talking just for show, For that is deleterious To fellowship, and so I oft with her would chatter, Just as I felt inclined, Of any little matter I chanced to call to mind. Alas! on one ill-fated day, I heard an angry neighbor say, 'Don't tell John Jones of your affairs, Don't tell him for your life, Without you wish the world to know, For he will tell his wife.' 'For he will tell his wife' did ring All day through heart and brain; In sleep a nightmare stole his voice, And shouted it again. I spent whole days in meditating How I should break the spell, Which made my wife keep prating Of things she shouldn't tell. Some awful crime I'll improvise, Which I'll to her confide, Upon the instant home I rushed, My hands in blood were dyed. 'Now, Catharine, by your love for me, My secret closely hide.' Her quiet tongue, for full three days, The secret kept so well, I almost grew to hope that she This secret wouldn't tell. Alas! upon the following day She had revealed it, for I found Some surly men with warrants arm'd Were slyly lurking round. They took me to the county jail My tristful Kate pursuing, And all the way she sobb'd and cried 'Oh! what have I been doing?' Before the judge I was arraigned, Who sternly frowning gazed on me, And by his clerk straightway inquired, What was the felon's plea. May't please your honor, I exclaim'd This case you may dismiss-- Now hearken all assembled here, My whole defence is this: I killed a dog--a thievish wretch-- His body may be found, Beneath an apple tree of mine, A few feet under ground, This simple plot I laid in hope To cure my tattling wife; I find, alas! that she must talk, Though talking risk my life. So from her presence then I fled, In spite of all the tears she shed, And since, a wand'ring life I've led, And told the tale where'er I sped." FORTY YEARS AFTER. For twenty guests the feast is laid With luscious wines and viands rare, And perfumes such as might persuade The very gods to revel there. A youthful company gathered here, Just two score years ago to-day, Agreed to meet once ev'ry year Until the last one passed away. And when the group might fewer grow The vacant chairs should still be placed Around the board whereon should glow The glories of the earliest feast. One guest was there, with sunken eye And mem'ry busy with the past-- Could he have chosen the time to die, Some earlier feast had been his last. "But thrice we met" the old man said, But thrice in youthful joy and pride, When all for whom this board was spread Were seated gaily at my side. Then first we placed an empty chair And ev'ry breast was filled with gloom, For he we knew, who should be there, That hour was absent in the tomb. The jest and song were check'd awhile, But quickly we forgot the dead, And o'er each face th' arrested smile In all its former freedom spread. For still our circle seem'd intact. The lofty chorus rose as well As when our numbers had not lack'd That voice the more in mirth to swell. But we parted with a sadder mien And hands were clasped more kindly then, For each one knew where death had been We might expect him o'er again. Ah! wondrous soon our feast before A lessening group was yearly spread, And all our joys were ruffled o'er With somber mem'ries of the dead. The song and jest less rude became, Our voices low and looks more kind, Each toast recall'd some cherish'd name Or brought a buried friend to mind. At length, alas! we were but two With features shrivel'd, shrunk, and changed, Whose faded eyes could scarcely view The vacant seats around us ranged. But fancy, as we passed the bowl, Fill'd ev'ry empty chair again. Inform'd the silent air with soul And shaped the shadowy void to men. The breezy air around us stirr'd With snatches of familiar song, Nor cared we then how fancy err'd Since her delusion made us strong. But now, I am the only guest, The grave--the grave now covers all Who joined me at the annual feast We kept in this deserted hall. He paused and then his goblet fill'd, But never touch'd his lips the brim, His arm was stay'd, his pulses still'd, And ah! his glazing eyes grew dim. The farther objects in the room Have vanish'd from his failing sight; One broad horizon spreads in gloom Around a lessening disc of light. And then he seem'd like one who kept A vigil with suspended breath-- So kindly to his breast had crept Some gentlest messenger of death. THE PAST. Still--still the Earth each primal grace renews, And blooms, or brightens with Creation's hues: Repeats the sun the glories of the sky, Which upward lured the earliest watcher's eye; Yet bids his beams the glowing clouds adorn With all the charms of Earth's initial morn, And duplicates at eve the splendors yet That fixed the glance, that first beheld him set. LOVED AND LOST. Love cannot call her back again, But oh! it may presume With ceaseless accents to complain, All wildly near her tomb. A madd'ning mirage of the mind Still bids her image rise, That form my heart can never find Yet haunts my wearied eyes. Since Earth received its earliest dead, Man's sorrow has been vain; Though useless were the tears they shed, Still I will weep again. The breast, that may its pangs conceal, Is not from torture freed, For still the wound, that will not heal, Alas! must inly bleed. Vain Sophist! ask no reason why The love that cannot save, Will hover with despairing cry Around the dear ones grave. Mine is not frenzy's sudden gust, The passion of an hour, Which sprinkles o'er beloved dust Its brief though burning shower. Then bid not me my tears to check, The effort would but fail, The face, I hid at custom's beck, Would weep behind its veil. The tree its blighted trunk will rear, With sap and verdure gone, And hearts may break, yet many a year All brokenly live on. Earth has no terror like the tomb Which hides my darling's head, Yet seeking her amid its gloom, I grope among the dead. And oh! could love restore that form To its recovered grace, How soon would it again grow warm Within my wild embrace. DEATH OF HENRY CLAY, JR. KILLED IN ONE OF THE BATTLES OF THE MEXICAN WAR. Fierce as the sword upon his thigh, Doth gleam the panting soldier's eye, But nerveless hangs the arm that swayed So proudly that terrific blade. The feeble bosom scarce can give A throb to show he yet doth live, And in his eye the light which glows, Is but the stare, that death bestows. The filmy veins that circling thread The cooling balls are turning red; And every pang that racks him now, Starts the cold sweat up to his brow, But yet his smile not even death Could from his boyish face unwreath, Or in convulsive writhing show The pangs, that wring the brain below. To the far fight he seeks to gaze, Where battling arms yet madly blaze, And with a gush of manly pride, Weeps as his banner is descried Above the piling smoke-clouds borne, Like the first dubious streaks of morn That o'er the mountains misty height Will kindle in a lovely sight. "A foreign soil my blood doth stain, And the few drops that yet remain Add but still longer to my pain. Land of my birth! thy hills no more May these fast glazing eyes explore, Yet oh! may not my body rest Beneath that sod my heart loves best? My father--home! Joys most adored Dwell in that simple English word-- Go, comrades! Till your field is won Forget me--father, I die thy son." Hark the wild cry rolls on his ear! The foe approach who hovered near; Rings the harsh clang of bick'ring steel In blows his arm no more may deal. "Beside me now no longer be, Ye need not seek to die with me; Go, friends"--his manly bosom swell'd With life the stiff'ning wounds withheld; And struggling to his knees, he shook The sword his hand had not forsook, But to his arm it was denied To slay the foe his heart defied. The faintly wielded steel was left In the slight wound it barely cleft. Borne to the earth by the same thrust, That smote his en'my to the dust, His breast receiv'd their cowardly blows-- The fluttering eye-lids slowly close, Then parting, show the eye beneath White with the searching touch of Death. The last thick drops congeal around The jagged edge of many a wound; See breaking through the marble skin The clammy dews that lurk within, The lip still quivers, but no breath Seeks the unmoving heart beneath. Thou gallant Clay--thy name doth cast A halo o'er the glorious past; For in the brightness of such blaze Even Alexander fame decays, Yes--yes, Columbia's noble son Died! Monarchs could no more have done. A VALENTINE. Oh! for a brief poetic mood In which to write a merry line-- A line, which might, could, would or should Do duty as a Valentine. Then to the woods the birds repair In pairs, prepared to woo A mate whose breast shall fondly share This world's huge load of ceaseless care Which grows so light when borne by two. But ah! such language will not suit, I'd better far have still been mute. My mate is dead or else she's flown And I am left to brood alone, To think of joys of vanish'd years And banish thus some present tears; But then our life is but a dream And things are not what they seem. LINES SUGGESTED ON VISITING THE GRAVE OF A DEAR FRIEND. Like him who mourns a jewel lost In some unfathomable sea, The precious gem he cherish'd most-- So, dearest, do I mourn for thee. For oh! the future is as dark As is the ocean's barren plain, Whose restless waters wear no mark To guide his eyes, who seeks in vain. True, reckless Fancy dares invade The realm of time's uncounted hours, As fondly gay, as if she stray'd In safety through a land of flowers. And still doth hope shine bright and warm-- But oh! the light with which it cheers, My darling one, but glows to form A rainbow o'er a vale of tears. GEORGE WASHINGTON CRUIKSHANK. George W. Cruikshank was born in Fredericktown, Cecil county, Md., May 11th, 1838. He received his early education in the common school of Cecilton, and was afterwards sent to a military academy at Brandywine Springs, in New Castle county, Delaware, and graduated at Delaware College in 1858. He is among the very best classical and literary scholars that his native county has produced. Mr. Cruikshank studied law for about a year in the office of Charles J.M. Gwinn, of Baltimore, but was compelled by the threatened loss of sight to relinquish study until 1865, when he completed the prescribed course of reading in the office of Colonel John C. Groome, in Elkton, and was admitted to the Elkton Bar on September 18th, 1865, and on the same day purchased an interest in _The Cecil Democrat_, and became its editor, a position he still continues to fill. In 1883 Mr. Cruikshank became connected with the Baltimore _Day_, which he edited while that journal existed. Mr. Cruikshank, in 1869, married his cousin Sarah Elizabeth Cruikshank. They are the parents of five children--three of whom survive. Mr. Cruikshank is one of the most forcible and brilliant editorial writers in the State, and the author of a number of chaste and erudite poems written in early manhood, only two or three of which have been published. STONEWALL JACKSON. [1863.] AN IMPROMPTU ON HEARING OF HIS DEATH. Bury the mighty dead-- Long, long to live in story! Bury the mighty dead In his own shroud of glory. Question not his purpose; Sully not his name, Nor think that adventitious aid Can build or blight his fame, Nor hope, by obloquizing what He strove for, glory's laws Can be gainsaid, or he defiled Who'd honor any cause. Question not his motives, Ye who have felt his might! Who doubts, that ever saw him strike, He aimed to strike for right? His was no base ambition;-- No angry thirst for blood. Naught could avail to lift his arm, But love of common good. Yet, when he deigned to raise it, Who could resist its power? Or who shall hope, or friend, or foe, E'er to forget that hour? His life he held as nothing. His country claimed his all. Ah! what shall dry that country's tears Fast falling o'er his fall? His life he held as nothing, As through the flame he trod; To duty gave he all of earth And all beyond to God. The justness of his effort He never lent to doubt. His aim, his arm, his all was fix'd To put the foe to rout. Mistrusting earth's tribunals, Scorning the tyrant's rod, He chose the fittest Arbiter, 'Twixt foe and sword, his God. And doubted not, a moment, That, when the fight was won, Who rules the fate of nations Would bid His own:--Well done! And doubted not, a moment, As fiercest flashed the fire, The bullet's fatal blast would call:-- Glad summons!--Come up higher! And who would hence recall thee?-- Thy work so nobly done! Enough for mortal brow to wear The crown thy prowess won:-- Grim warrior, grand in battle! Rapt christian, meek in prayer!-- Vain age! that fain would reproduce A character as rare! The world has owned its heroes;-- Its martyrs, great and good, Who rode the storm of power, Or swam the sea of blood:-- Napoleons, Cæsars, Cromwells, Melancthons, Luthers brave! But, who than Jackson ever yet Has filled a prouder grave? The cause for which he struggled, May fall before the foe: Stout hearts, devoted to their trust, All moulder, cold and low. The land may prove a charnel-house For millions of the slain, And blood and carnage mark the track Where madmen march amain,-- Fanatic heels may scourge it, Black demons blight the sod; And hell's foul desolation Mock Liberty's fair God.-- The future leave no record, Of mighty struggle there, Save hollowness, and helplessness, And bitter, bald despair.-- Proud cities lose their names e'en; Tall towers fall to earth.-- Mount Vernon fade, and Westmoreland Forget illustrious birth;-- And yet, upon tradition, Will float the name of him Whose virtues time may tarnish not, Eternity not dim. Whose life on earth was only, So grand, so free, so pure, For brighter realms and sunnier skies, A preparation sure. And whose sweet faith, so child-like, Nor blast, nor surge nor rod, One moment could avert from The bosom of his God. Bury the mighty dead! Long, long to live in story! Bury the hero dead In his own shroud of glory! IN MEMORIAM. FRANK M. CRUIKSHANK, DIED 1862. Frank is dead! The mournful message Comes gushing from the ocean's roar. Frank is dead! His mortal passage Has ended on the heavenly shore. In earthly agony he died To join his Saviour crucified. Frank is dead! Time's bitter trials Drove him a wanderer from home, To meet life's lot, share its denials, Or gain a rest where cares ne'er come. His frail form sinking, his grand spirit Careered to realms the blest inherit. Frank is dead! In life's young morning, When heavenly promise lit his day, His smitten spirit, homeward turning, Forsook its tenement of clay. No more to battle here with sin; No more to suffer mid earth's din. Frank is dead! By fever stricken, How long he suffered, and how deep! With none to feel his hot blood quicken, No loved one near to calm his sleep. No mother's presence him to gladden: Naught, naught to cheer--all, all to sadden. Frank is dead! His pangs are over. His gentle spirit hence has flown. Strangers, with earth, his body cover, Strangers attend his dying moan. On stranger forms his eyes last close, To meet A FRIEND in their repose. Frank is dead! Aye! weep, fond mourner! The grand, the beautiful is lost. Too pure for earth, the meek sojourner, On passion's billows tempest-tossed, Has found a source of sweeter bliss In realms that sunder wide from this. Frank is dead! Yes, dead to sorrow, Dead to sadness, dead to pain. Dead! Dead to all save the tomorrow Whose light eternally shall reign. He's dead to young ambition's vow And the big thought that stamped his brow. Frank is dead! Dead to the labors He'd staked his life to triumph in:-- To win his friends, his dying neighbors, And fellows all from death and sin. With steady faith he toiled to fit Christ's armor on and honor it. Frank is dead! Omniscient pleasure Has closed his bright career too soon To realize how rich a treasure The ranks had entered ere high noon. His brilliant promise, dashed in youth, One less is left to fight for truth. Frank is dead! Yes, dead to mortals. No more we'll see his noble brow Or flashing eye; but in the portals Above, by faith I see him now With gladden'd step and fluttering heart, Marching to share the better part. Frank is dead!! No, never, never! Not dead but only gone before. Back,--back! Thou tear-drop, rising ever; Nor Heaven's fiat now deplore. Wail not the sorrows earth can lend To banish spirits that ascend. And fare thee well, my noble brother! 'Tis hard to think that thou art not; To realize that never other Footstep like thine shall share my cot, And think of all thy heart endured, By sore besetments often tried. But,--Heaven be thanked,--all now is cured And thou, fair boy, art glorified. NEW-YEAR ODE. [1863.] Let the bier move onward.--Let no tear be shed. The midnight watch is ended: The grim old year is dead. His life was full of turmoil. In death he ends his woes. As fraught with toil his pilgrimage, may peaceful be its close. Let the bier move onward.--Let no tear drop fall. The couch of birth is waiting the egress of the pall. Haste! Hasten the obsequies:--the natal hour is nigh. Waste not a moment weeping when expectation's high. * * * * * Draw back the veil; the curtain lift. Ho! Thirsting hearts, rejoice! The new-born is no puny gift:-- Time's latest, grandest choice. Nurseling and giant! Infant grown! Majestic even now! 'Tis well that such a restless throne Descends to such as thou. * * * * * Dame nature's travail bore thee; Her pangs a world upheaved. A world now bending o'er thee Awaits those pangs relieved. A world is waiting for thee: And shall it be deceived? Ah no! Such pangs were never To mother giv'n in vain. Rise, new-born! Rise and sever Tyranny's clanking chain. Rise, Virtue! Rise forever! The New-Year comes amain! O! Give him welcome ever! Can bleeding hearts refrain? * * * * * All hail! Oh beautiful New-Year! Full, full of promise fraught with cheer. Bright promise of the glad return Of glowing fires that erst did burn On hearths long desolate! Hail! Great deliverer from wrath, Brave pioneer upon the path That leads to better fate! Joy be to thee thy natal day, As dawns Aurora's earliest ray, While youth is fresh and faith is clear And hope is bright with coming cheer! Thou promisest eventful life As, giant-like, thou leap'st to earth, Robed in full majesty at birth; With power to do and will to dare And arm to shield from threat'ning care, And eye to ken the dead past's strife. Thy young life's hand knows yet no stain Of blood, or greed, or guilt, or gain. But, know, Oh Friend! thou'rt ushered in To feel the jar and note the din Of war-blast's rude alarms. Thy elder brother, gone before, Has left upon this nether shore A burden for thine arms. 'Tis thine to choose the part thou'lt take, Oh giant mighty! Thine to make An early choice; lose not an hour. 'Tis crime to waste prodigious power. Great, vast, appalling, is the task By fate assigned to thee. No mask Of indecision now is given. The bolt of Mars the rock has riven. The hour is dark:--the danger nigh. The ravens caw: the eagles cry. The breakers dash--the chasm yawns: The skies are lurid:--chaos dawns. Thunder with thunder-peal is riven As if to shake earth's faith in heaven! All, all is wild! No sun! No moon! Earth, air and sky, in dire commune, Demand--what hand shall guide them now? New-Year, stand forth and bide the call To thee address'd. We stand or fall As thou decree'st. Frown, and we perish. Smile, we rise To joys that savor of the skies. Bid lethargy depart thy brow And strike for right and truth. Young, thou; but hast no youth. No hours are thine for sportive mirth. Minerva-like, mature from birth, Great deeds and valiant thine must be, In wisdom guided, fair and free.-- Deeds that no year hath known before; Fraught not with strife;--drenched not in gore. Free from old taint of fell disease And ancient forms of party strife. Rich in the gentler modes of life With sweeter manners, purer laws, Forerunner of those years of ease That token a sublimer cause! What say'st thou? Giant, young and strong, What impulse heaves thy throbbing breast? Shall warrior plumes bedeck thy crest? Wilt whisper peace? Or shout for war? Wilt plead for right, or bleed for wrong? Wilt peal the bugle-blast afar And urge the cannon's madd'ning roar? Or wing the note through vale and glen:-- Hail! Peace on earth! Good-will to men! Reason return:--let strife be o'er? Thou speak'st not, giant, but I feel Hope's roseate flush upon my brow. Thy deeds will seal thy silent vow. New aims thy glory will reveal. Thou heed'st the anguished bosom's smart, And thou wilt choose the better part. Thou'lt live on hist'ry's brightest page A monarch mighty, gentle sage: Great, great for what thou wilt have done And blest in all the course thou'lt run:-- Thy crown not carved in brass or wood, To crumble or decay; But be in endless day, Emblem of grandeur, shrined in good. And truth and peace will round thee weave An amaranthyne wreath of love, Its blessed motto ... trust--believe. And thou wilt share the realm above, Where bleeding hearts shall triumph meet, Around one common mercy-seat. All hail, then, beautiful New-Year! Hero of promise, fraught with cheer! Bright promise of the glad return Of glowing fires that erst did burn On hearths long desolate! Thy stainless youth supports our faith That thou wilt break the bonds of death And snap the web of hate. * * * * * And thou farewell, grim tyrant old! Who, who would call thee back! Thou cam'st with bloody footstep, bold; Thou leav'st a blood-stained track. Go! Find a grave in the billowy surge That ne'er can wash thee clean; The wail of millions be thy dirge-- Thy judge--the Great Unseen! And when the resurrection morn Shall seek thy name to blot, Ho! Heed the voice that asks in scorn,-- Thou liv'dst and reign'dst for what? Passion unbridled, stubborn pride, Avengers, thine to rue, Of outraged virtue, truth defied, Shall 'balm in blood thy due, Lost eighteen sixty-two. MY BIRTHDAY. TO S---- 1864. The night is strangely, wildly dark; The thunders fiercely roll, And lightnings flash their angry spark; But thou absorb'st my soul. I have no care for storm-king's cloud, How black soe'er it be;-- No truant thought for earth's dark shroud: I'm thinking, love, of thee. To-night the God of battles views, With deprecating eye, A scene where demons wild infuse A thirst for victory. 'Tis His, not mine to guide the storm; 'Tis His to calm the sea: My spirit hovers 'round thy form. I'm thinking, love, of thee. Time's cycle once again has wrought Its round:--I'm twenty six. Another mile-stone's gained--sad thought-- Toward deep, silent Styx. I count no laurels I have won; Years bring no joy to me, While yet alone I wander on In timid thought of thee. Years six and twenty have been mine To journey on alone: Shall I as many more repine, Before I am undone? Or shall the journey henceforth take A brighter phaze for me? Shall I next six-and-twenty make My journey, love, with thee? If so, good-bye grim doubt and fear: Adieu to arid sand. All Hail! Oh prospect bright and clear! All Hail, oasis grand! Hand joined in hand, heart linked with heart, Come joy, come hope, come glee! United, ne'er on earth to part, I'll always think of thee. If not, Good-bye! The spirit breaks; The fountain soon must dry. If not, good God! The temple shakes; It totters! What am I? A wreck of hope!--An aimless thing! A helmless ship at sea To whose last spar love still must cling, And sigh:--Alas!--for thee. MRS. ANNIE McCARER DARLINGTON. Annie McCarer Darlington, the daughter of Charles Biles and Catharine Ross Biles, was born July 20th, 1836, at Willow Grove, in Cecil county, about four miles east of the village of Brick Meeting House, and near the old Blue Ball Tavern. She is a cousin of Mrs. Ida McCormick, whose poetry may be found in this book, their mothers being sisters. Miss Biles was married November 20th, 1860, to Francis James Darlington, of West Chester, Pa., and spent the next five years of her life on a farm near Unionville, formerly the property of the sculptor, Marshall Swayne. The family then removed to their present residence near Westtown Friends' Boarding School, where they spend the Summer season. The Winters are spent with their seven children, in a quiet little home in the town of Melrose, on the banks of the beautiful Lake Santa Fe, in Florida. Miss Biles began to write poetry when about eighteen years of age, and for the ensuing five years was a frequent contributor to _The Cecil Democrat_, under the _nom de plume_ of "Gertrude St. Orme." A BIRTHDAY GREETING TO MY LITTLE NEPHEW. [JULY 4TH, 1886.] I know a happy little boy, They call him Charlie Gray, Whose face is bright, because you know, He's six years old to-day. I scarce can think six years have passed Since Charlie really came, I well remember long ago, We never heard his name. But here he is, almost a man, With knickerbockers on, And baby dresses packed away, You'll find them, every one. And every year as time rolls on, And Charlie's birthdays come, The world goes out to celebrate With banner, fife, and drum. At sunrise on those happy days The cannon's deaf'ning roar, Reminded us that Charlie Gray Was two, or three, or four. But now those landmarks all are passed, He's getting fast away, The boy's a man, no baby now, He's six years old to-day. Just think of it, ye many friends Who wish him worlds of joy, That Charlie Gray is six to-day, A patriotic boy. And if he sometimes noisy grows, What matter, if he's right? Give me the boys that make a noise And play with all their might. I know 'tis whispered far and near, That Charlie loves his way, But I can tell of grown up men, Who do the same to-day. Who never yield or quit the field, Can you blame Charlie then? For most small boys will imitate What's seen in grown up men. And now good friends, I give you leave To find him if you can, Another boy, more glad with joy, Than this brave little man. Heigh ho! I still am in a maze, To think he's six to-day, Some other time I'll tell you more, If--Charlie says I may. MURMURINGS. Falling, falling--gently falling, Pattering on the window pane, Like a weird spirit calling Come the heavy drops of rain. Sweeping by the crazy casement, Where the creeping ivy clings, Sounds the wind in gustful musings Loudly speaking bitter things. Hush! the tones are sinking lower, Sweetest strains of music roll; Like Aeolian harps in Heaven, Pouring incense o'er the soul. But 'tis gone! a wilder wailing Fills the air where music reigned, Hoarsely groans the wild storm-demon, Drowning all those sweeter strains. And the tall pines shake and quiver As the monarch rideth by; Onward where the troubled river Dashes spray-drops towards the sky. But he pauses not to listen, Onward with demoniac will; Till Aeolian harps in Heaven Softly whisper, "Peace, be still." THE OLD OAK TREE. Woodman, spare that tree! Touch not a single bough: In youth it sheltered me, And I'd protect it now. --George P. Morris. 'Tis living yet! Time has not dared To mark it, as his own, Nor claimed one bough, but kindly spared This giant, firm and lone. It stands, as stood in years gone by, The chieftain in its shade, And breathed the warning, ere the cry Of war went through the glade. The Council tires then brightly burned Beneath its spreading bough, But oh, alas! the scene has turned, Where burn those fires now? The old oak stands where it did then, The same fresh violets bloom, But far down in the narrow glen, They deck the Indian's tomb. Life then seemed bright and free from care; When this old tree was young The Indian maiden twined her hair, And to her chieftain sung A song, low, gentle, and sincere, In pathos rich and rare; The warrior-lover brushed a tear, For thought was busy there. Yes, busy was the fertile brain, That bid him onward flee, The Indian moon was on the wane And drooped the hawthorne tree. The light canoe of rounded bark Scarce dared to skim the flood, For they had come with meaning dark To ravage lake and wood. * * * * * The conflict ended! but the bow Which twanged across the plain. Dealt its proud owner death's cold blow, And laid him with the slain. But to a better, happier home, Have gone the Indian braves; Where cruel white men cannot come, To call their brothers--slaves. Then let it stand, that aged oak, Among its kindred trees; Tho' now, no more the wigwam smoke Will curl upon the breeze. 'Tis left alone--the last sad thing That marks a nation vast, Then spare it, that its boughs may sing A requiem to the Past. SWEET FLORIDA. Beautiful Florida! land of the flowers, Home of the mocking bird, saucy and bold, Sweet are the roses that perfume thy bowers, And brilliant thy sunshine like burnished gold. Soft are thy rivulets, gentle thy water-falls, Rippling so merrily toward the broad sea; Fringed with bright daisies, which bloom on thy borders, E'en Nature herself pays a tribute to thee. Sweeter and lovelier than all thy fair sisters, Thy gentleness surely hath fame for thee won, While thy star, not forgotten, shines forth in a glory That crowns the best flag that waves under the sun. Thy name brings a scent of the dogwood and myrtle, The jessamine, too, comes in for a share, With great yellow petals so heavy with perfume, That can with the tube-rose's only compare. Tho' large be the family, there's room for the fairest; No house is too small for a family with love: So Florida, thou who art brightest and dearest, The "Pet of the Household" forever shall prove. Thy rivers are broad and thy lakes fringed with grasses, The glint of the waves of the bright Santa Fe, With her edging of cypress and long-floating mosses, Forever are murmuring a sonnet to thee. While high on a hill sits the Queen of the Villas, Sweet Melrose! whose name is the least of her charms, Waves a welcome to all, to come over the billows And find a safe home 'neath her sheltering arms. And so they are coming, the weak and the weary, From near and from far, the strong and the brave, All ready to drink of the life giving breezes, The only Elixir that truly can save. EVENING. 'Tis Evening! soul enchanting hour, And queenly silence reigns supreme; A shade is cast o'er lake and bower, All nature sinks beneath the power Of sweet oblivion's dream. The Sun--the hero-god of day, Has from this happier half of earth, Passed on with sweet life-giving ray, To smile on millions glad and gay, In sorrow or in mirth. While in his stead, the Heavens above Are shaded with a silver light, So soft, so pure--that angels rove, To guard from evil those who love The God, who made all bright. Then soon that planetary sea Is studded o'er with diadems, Shining alike on land and sea. High, high above the loftiest tree; Proud Nature's priceless gems. Who would not leave the crowded room, The grand, but cold musician's art; To wander 'neath the calm still moon. When nature speaks 'mid wild perfume, So sweetly to the heart. Who would not shun proud Fashion's hall, Escape her cold and torturings ways, To calmly rest where dew-drops fall; Perfumes that mind and soul enthrall, Beneath fair Luna's rays. Who would exchange a home of flowers, Down in a pure and modest dell, For palaces 'mid art-reared bowers, Washed o'er by artificial showers, Where naught but sorrows dwell. Blest hour of thought! to thy pure scene A mild and soothing charm is given, When hearts to hearts in love convene, And roses deck the silvered green Of mingled Earth and Heaven. The truth--that plainly proves a God, Not chance, performed the better part Which teaches us His Heavenly Word: Breathes magic for the singing bird, And links us heart to heart. REV. WILLIAM DUKE. The Rev. William Duke was born in the southern part of what is now Harford county, but was at the time of his birth included in Baltimore county, on the 15th of September, 1757, and died in Elkton on the 31st of May, 1840. He became enamoured of the doctrines of Methodism in early youth, and allied himself with that denomination before its separation from the Protestant Episcopal Church, and was licensed to preach by Rev. Francis Asbury when he was only seventeen years old. Mr. Duke's name appears upon the minutes of the first Conference, held in Philadelphia in 1774, as one of the seven ministers who were that year taken on trial. The next year he was admitted to full membership, and remained in connection with the Conference as a traveling preacher until 1779, when he ceased to travel, and subsequently took orders in the Protestant Episcopal Church; being impelled to do so by his opposition to the erection of the Methodist Society into an independent Church. Mr. Duke became Rector of North Elk Parish in 1793, but resigned the charge three years later, and removed to Anne Arundel county, but returned to Elkton about a year afterwards; soon after he removed to Kent county, where he taught a parochial school for a short time, but returned to Elkton again in 1799 and opened a school, and preached during the three following years at North East, Elkton, and at the Episcopal Church near New London, Pa. In 1803 he was appointed Professor of Languages in St. John's College, Annapolis, and had charge of St. Ann's Church, in that city, until 1806, when he returned to Elkton, and the next year took charge of the Elkton Academy. Mr. Duke remained in Cecil county until 1812, when he took charge of Charlotte Hall, in St. Mary's county, and continued in charge of the school at that place until 1814, when he returned to Elkton, where he officiated as aforetime until the Spring of 1818, when he was appointed Principal of the Academy. He continued to reside in Elkton until the time of his death. In 1793 Mr. Duke married Hetty Coudon, the daughter of the Rev. Joseph Coudon, a former Rector of North Elk Parish, and the ancestor of the Coudon family of this county. Mr. and Mrs. Duke were the parents of Miss Hetty Duke, who was their only child, and who died in Elkton, February 19th, 1875. Mr. Duke was a very learned man, and is said by the Rev. Ethan Allan, the Historian of "The Old Parishes of Maryland," to have been more of the student than the preacher. He was the author of a pamphlet published in Elkton in 1795, entitled "Observations on the Present State of Religion in Maryland," which is now of great rarity and value. He also published a small volume entitled "Hymns and Poems on Various Occasions," which was printed by Samuel and John Adams, of Baltimore, in 1790; and several other poems of considerable length, the most popular of which was entitled "A View of the Woods," which was descriptive of the adventures and experience of Western emigrants in the latter part of the last century. The following selections have been made from "Hymns and Poems on Various Occasions." HYMN. And truly if they had been mindful of that country from whence they came out, they might have had opportunity to have returned; but now they desire a better country, that is, an heavenly. --Hebrews 11:15,16. Abr'am, the father of the Jews, The servant, and the friend of God, When call'd from heaven, did not refuse To leave his Syrian abode. His father's house and kindred dear Plead, and dissuaded him in vain; Neither could earthly hope nor fear The noble enterprise restrain. Nor he alone; a host of saints Renounced the world, and nobly chose That heavenly inheritance Which neither death nor sorrow knows. No intervening dangers check Their ardent progress to the skies, Well may they venture, who expect An heavenly and immortal prize. When faith to their delighted view Their future blissful portion brings, They, firm and cheerful, bid adieu To sin, and self, and earthly things. Happy to leave the world behind, Their conduct speaks a noble aim; They seek a city, and shall find The promised new Jerusalem. Nor yet does impotence or fear Their sense of earthly bliss restrain, Did they not heaven to earth prefer, They soon might wed the world again. In heaven their treasure is laid up Beyond the reach of accident, There shall their lively glorious hope Receive its full accomplishment. HYMN. But yield yourselves unto God as those that are alive from the dead; and your members as instruments of righteousness unto God. --Romans 6:13. My heart, the world forsake, And every earthly toy; The Lord of all thy portion make, And in Him all enjoy. May sensible delight, Corrected and refined, A thirst of nobler joys excite, And urge the lingering mind. Should ardent love impel And actuate my soul, Still may celestial fires prevail, And every thought control. Should glory stimulate, And daring deeds propose, That only fame I'd emulate, To triumph in the cross. Or should my yielding powers Acknowledge pleasure's sway, I'd think of sacred streams and bowers, And sweets that ne'er decay. Should soaring science me Her votary avow, My only excellence should be Christ crucified to know. Should wealth my mind impress, With the desire of more, In Christ the fullness I possess, Of Heaven's exhaustless store. With all that nature craves, Fully from thence supplied, No aching want my bosom heaves No wish unsatisfied. REJOICING IN HOPE. Tost on the troubled sea of life, On every side assailed, Involved in passion's stormy strife, In irksome suff'rance held. The faithful word of promise cheers And bears my spirits up, Dispels my dark desponding fears And stablishes my hope. Hope that shall every toil survive, That smoothes the rugged path, That mitigates the ills of life, And soothes the hour of death. And when the storms of life are o'er, And all our conflicts cease, When landed on the heavenly shore To enjoy eternal peace. Hope at the last, her charge resigned, Securely we dismiss, And an abundant entrance find, To the abodes of bliss. Till then our progress she attends To solace and relieve: And waits till every conflict ends To take her final leave. Possessed of all we hoped below, Our utmost wish attained, Our happiness complete, we know Our full perfection gained. Thus may I cheerfully endure, Till thus my warfare past;-- Suffice for me the promise sure, I shall be crowned at last. HYMN. There remaineth therefore a rest to the people of God. --Hebrews 4:9. Oh how I languish to possess, A safe and permanent abode! To rest in unmolested peace, And cast my care on thee, my God. In thee I joy, in thee I rest, Though all inferior comforts fail; No hopeless anguish heaves my breast, And no tormenting fears assail. To thee with confidence I look, And calmly wait thy promised aid; I rest securely on that Rock, On which Almighty help is laid. Oh may I on His firmness stand, The ground of my immortal hope; Or nobly rise, at his command, To Pisgah's heaven-aspiring top. That I may with ecstatic view, My future heritage descry, Where pleasures spring forever new, And perfect love shall never die. REMORSE. What racking fear, what painful grief Ensue a pleasant sin! In vain the world proffers relief For maladies within. Its blandishments and smooth deceit No real succor bring; Its remedies but irritate And pleasure leaves a sting. Confusion, shame, and slavish fear O'erwhelm a guilty mind; A burden more than I can bear, My sins upon me bind. Oh had I weighed the matter well Ere my consent was given! Avoided then the gates of hell And urged my way to heaven! Lord, give me strength now to resume My former confidence; Remove my terrors, bid me come With hopeful penitence. In mercy hear my humble cry, Redeem my soul from sin, My guilty conscience pacify And speak the peace serene. MORNING. But now the dawn of day appears, And now the dappled East declares Ambrosial morn again arrived, And nature's slumbering powers revived, And while they into action spring The infant breeze with odorous wing, Perfumes of sweetest scent exhales, And the enlivened sense regales, With sweets exempt from all alloy Which neither irritate nor cloy. Nor less the calmly gladdened sight Enjoys the milder forms of light, Reflected soft in twinkling beams, From numberless translucent gems. But now Aurora dries her tears, And with a gayer mien appears, With cheerful aspect smiles serene, And ushers in the splendid scene Of golden day: while feeble night Precipitates his dreary flight Dispelled by the all cheering sway Of the resplendent God of day, Who, mounted in his royal car, And all arrayed in golden glare With arduous career drives on Ascending his meridian throne: From thence a Sovereign of the day, His full-grown glories to display. EDWIN EVANS EWING. Edwin Evans Ewing, son of Patrick Ewing and brother of William Pinkney Ewing, was born on his father's farm on the Octoraro creek, not far from Rowlandville, in this county, on the 9th of January, 1824. His family is of Scotch-Irish extraction, and settled on the Octoraro more than a century ago. The family has long been distinguished for the intellectuality and literary ability of its members, among whom were the Rev. John Ewing, one of the most eminent scientists and Presbyterian divines of his time, and his daughter Sarah, who became the wife of John Hall, and whose biography is published in this volume. The subject of this sketch spent his youth and early manhood, on his father's farm. Recently when asked for a sketch of his life Mr. Ewing replied: "I didn't have any life. I just growed like Topsy. I didn't have any educating. I just picked it up; and as for poetry, I never wrote any, only rhyme." Notwithstanding this assertion, Mr. Ewing being unable to resist the prompting of the "divinity which stirred within him," when quite young, began to write poetry. There seems to be a subtle influence pervading the romantic Octoraro hills, which if not the direct cause of poetic inspiration seems to encourage its growth, Mr. Ewing being one of five poets who claim that region as their birthplace, or who have profited by a residence therein. When quite young Mr. Ewing wrote poetry which was published in the local journals of Cecil and Lancaster counties, and subsequently contributed poetry to the Philadelphia _Dollar Newspaper_, being a contemporary contributor to that journal with his brother, William P. Ewing, and the late David Scott (of James.) In 1856 Mr. Ewing made a trip to the Southwest, traveling extensively on horseback in Texas. He gave an account of his travels and a description of the country through which he passed in a series of letters published in the _Cecil Whig_, which were much admired. In 1861, Mr. Ewing became the proprietor and editor of the _Cecil Whig_, which was the Union organ of the county. Being a man of decided convictions, and unflinching courage, he never lost an opportunity to advocate the cause of the Union, to which he adhered with great devotion, through evil and through good report. In 1876 he disposed of the _Whig_ and the next year bought an interest in the _Kansas Farmer_ and the _Juvenile Magazine_, published in Topeka, Kansas. He subsequently became connected with the _Daily Capital_, and eventually became sole proprietor of the _Kansas Farmer_. The climate of Kansas not agreeing with him, he removed to Highlands, Macon county, N.C., where in 1882 he established the _Blue Ridge Enterprise_ which he soon afterwards disposed of, and in 1885 became the proprietor of the _Midland Journal_, published in the village of Rising Sun, in this county. Mr. Ewing is a brilliant and forcible writer. Like many others Mr. Ewing kept none of his poems except one which is too lengthy to be given a place in this volume. In consequence of this the compiler has only been able to obtain the following specimens of his poetry after great labor and trouble. THE CHERUBIM--A VISION. 'Twas at that season, when the gloom Of cheerless Winter's pass'd away, And flowers spring up, with sweet perfume, To scent the breeze and cheer our way, Where'er we saunter--o'er the hill, Or through the valley--warm and still, Or broken only by the sound Of tinkling rills, which softly flow, And busy bees, that hum around The flowers which on their borders grow, That I, from life's turmoil had strayed To spend an hour in solitude; And where a sparkling fountain played, I laid me down, in pensive mood, To ponder o'er the fleeting day Of youth, that hies so fast away In golden dreams which quickly fly, Like tints that deck a Summer sky. Soon Fancy, on her airy wing, Was sporting mid Elysian bowers, Where flowers of sweetest odor spring, And birds of golden plumage sing, And wanton thro' the sylvan bowers. There lakelets sparkled in the glow, Wreathed round with flowers of many a hue, And golden pebbles shone below The wave that bore the swan of snow, Reflecting, in its mirror true, The flowers which o'er its surface grew, The tints of earth--the hues of sky-- That in its limpid bosom lie. And groups of happy children played Around the verge of each cascade; Or gambol'd o'er the flowery lea In wanton mirth and joyous glee; Pursuing, o'er the sparkling lawn, The insect in its airy flight, Which still eludes, but tempting on From flower to flower, with plumage bright, The hand that woos to stay its flight-- Till soaring high, on pinions wild It leaves the charm'd and tearful child. One maid there was, divinely fair, Whose cheeks, beneath her peerless eyes, Bloomed like the roses, rich and rare, That yield perfume to summer skies; Her shining locks of silky hair Hung round her neck like grapes of gold, And o'er her snowy bosom roll'd, Hiding the blush that mantled there. The brightest of the fairy throng, She led the dancing group along Through tangled brakes and fretted bowers, Where grew the richest, rarest flowers, That wooed the bee to banquet there, Or yielded sweets to Summer air. But she who moved with elfin pace, And taught the infant throng to play, Raised to heaven her cherub face, While that bright celestial ray, Which halos the throne of glory round, Illumed her azure, orient eye, That seemed to penetrate the sky. Bending her gaze upon the ground, Her gentle bosom heaved a sigh, And anxious faces press around, While pearls of pity dim each eye, As tho' they'd weep again to rest The troubled spirit of that breast. "Weep not for me!" the cherub said, While o'er her seraph beauty played A smile like evening's parting beam, That sparkles o'er the glassy stream, Or lingers on a lucid lake-- Whose dimpling wave the zephyrs break. "Far thro' yon skies, where orient day Is shedding his last lingering ray, Bright angels beckon me away;-- I go--I go--a last farewell!" And as she spoke around her fell, From heaven, a bright celestial ray, Whose lustre dimm'd the light of day; And 'mid that heavenly blaze unfold Her glittering pinions tipp'd with gold. While strains of sweet unearthly sound Awoke their dulcet chime around, She soared away on wings of light, Like sparkling meteor of the night; Still lessening, as she further drew Amid the ether of heavenly blue, Till lost within a blazing star That above the horizon shown-- As if from Paradise a car 'Twere sent to bear the cherub home. No more that happy throng is rending, With gladsome shouts the summer air, Nor songs of love to heaven ascending, From hearts that know no guile nor care; But on each peerless infant brow The gloom of care is settling now; While passion madly fires each eye, And swells each bosom beating high; And tongues that lisped an infant name, Now speak in haughty tones of Fame! While some, in senatorial pride, With scorn their fellow-man deride; And others, more sanguinary still, From words of ire appeal to brands, Nor scruple a brother's blood to spill-- Cain-like!--with ensanguined hands Polluting the flowers which smile--in vain Wooing the heart to love again. Long o'er this painful scene I sighed, Where licentious passion, unrestrained, Was left to riot in her pride-- Spreading destruction where'er she reigned. "And was this bright--this fair domain-- With all its beauty, formed in vain? Where Nature, a paradise to grace, Hath loved her every charm to trace, That man, enamored of distress Should mar it into wilderness?" I raised my arm while thus I spoke, And o'er Beauty's broken bowers sighed; But with the effort I awoke, And found myself by Hela's side. DEATH AND BEAUTY. On a lone sequestered mead, Where silver-streamlets flow, I saw a rose and lily twine, And in love and beauty grow; Again to that lone, peaceful spot, From worldly cares I hied-- But the flowers that lately bloom'd so fair, Had wither'd, drooped, and died! Like love's young dream, they passed away, With all their vernal bloom, And they, who lately shone so fair, Now moulder in the tomb! But ere the minstrels left the bowers, And to summer climes had fled, They sang the dirge o'er fading flowers, That by their stems lay dead. Slumbering on its mother's breast A beauteous infant lay, The blush upon its dimpled cheek, Was like a rose in May: But the glow that tinged that cheek so fair, Was but the transient bloom, That brightens with the flitting breath-- A flow'ret of the tomb. The infant oped its azure eyes, And sweetly smiling, said, "Mamma," its gentle spirit ebbing, Was numbered with the dead; It laid its throbbing temples on The mother's heaving breast, And its gentle spirit pass'd to Heaven, With angels bright to rest! Lovely as the morning flowers, That bloom so fresh and gay, I saw a beauteous fair one decked In the bridal's bright array; But she, who had, at morning rise, Exulted in her bloom, Was doom'd ere evening's sun had set, To grace the silent tomb. Alas! that things so beautiful, So soon must pass away, And all of earth that's loveliest Must moulder in the clay; But well we know those charms so bright, Which Heaven hath form'd in love, Tho' ravaged by death's icy hand, Shall bloom again above! TAKE THE HARP. TO KATE. 'Tis supposed the muses hang a harp by every stream, where it remains till some lady arises to take it and sing the "loves and joys, the rural scenes and pleasures," the beauty and grandeur of the place. Take the harp, nor longer leave it Sighing on the willow tree; Pass thy gentle fingers o'er it, And awake its melody; The streams tho' icy chains may bind them, Still will murmur back thy trill, And the roses wild, though blasted, On thy cheeks are blooming still. Then touch the harp, till its wild numbers The lone groves and valleys fill; And tho' winter's frosts have sear'd them, Thou canst dream they're beauteous still-- Thou canst clothe their banks with verdure, And wild flowers above them rise; What tho' chilly blasts have strewn them, Their fragrance lingers on thy sighs! Take the harp, nor on it dirges Longer let Eolus play; Touch it, and those notes of sadness Change to joyous rhapsody! And tho' the grape, the gift of Autumn, Has been prest to crown the bowl-- Still in thy tresses shine its clusters, While down thy snowy neck they roll. Take the harp, and wake its numbers To thy sister planet's praise, As up the eastern sky she blazes, Followed by the morning rays; Queen of starry heaven beaming, From her azure realm afar; So thou dost shine midst beauty's daughters, Love's bright and glorious morning star. DEATH OF THE BEAUTIFUL. The following poem was written in 1850 on the death of Miss Sarah E. McCullough, of Pleasant Grove, Lancaster county, Pennsylvania. Miss McCullough was a cousin of Mr. Ewing. I saw thy form in youthful prime, Nor thought that pale Decay Would steal before the steps of Time, And waste its bloom away. --Moore. And thou art dead, The gifted, the beautiful, Thy spirit's fled! Thou, the fairest 'mong ten thousand, art no more! Death culls the sweetest flowers to grace the tomb-- He hath touched thee--thou hast left us in thy bloom! How oft amid the virgin throng, I've seen thee, fairest, dance along; And thine eyes, so brightly dark, Gleaming like the diamond's spark; But now how dim Those orbs are left-- By Death bereft Of their brightness, And that neck of its whiteness, Where once the curling tress descended, Where once the rose and lily blended, As the warm blush came and flew; Now o'er all hath Death extended His pallid hue-- Sallow and blue; And sunken 'neath the purple lid, Those eyes are hid, Once so bright; And the shroud, as thine own pure spirit white, All that remains of what was once so lovely, holds! In its snowy folds-- Then fare thee well, sweet one, Thy bright, thy fleeting race is run, And with the flowers thou art sleeping, And o'er thy grave the friends are weeping Of thine early day. Thou wert lovely--aye, as Spring, When birds and blossoms bloom and sing, The happy, happy hours welcoming Of gentle May. In the past I see thee shining, Like the star of tender morning, A day of love and peace divining, And the sky of Hope adorning. Smiles--that dimpled mouth are wreathing; Music--those rosy lips are breathing, Like morn glancing through the sky, Like the zephyr's softest sigh. Ah, then, who'd dream that aught so fair, Was fleeting as the Summer air? Yet in that hour Disease, so deceitful, stole upon thee, As blight upon a flower; And thou art dead! And thy spirit's past away. Like a dew-drop from the spray, Like a sunbeam from the mountain, Like a bubble from the fountain; And thou art now at rest, In thy damp, narrow cell, With the clod heap'd o'er thy breast; Fare thee well! ASPHODEL. I'll think of thee, I'll think of thee, When raging tempests wildly blow, Mid storm and darkness--wond'rous powers! Heaping the stainless, virgin snow Above thy fragile form, that bowed Beneath the blighting frost that fell, Scattering o'er earth those gorgeous hues, Thy grace and pride, sweet Asphodel. I'll think of thee, I'll think of thee, When dreary winter leaves the plain, And smiling spring leads forth in state, With vestal pride, her flow'ry train, And vernal songs of love and hope, In one harmonious concert swell-- Amid the floral throng I'll turn To thee, alone, sweet Asphodel. I'll think of thee, I'll think of thee, When morning dawns upon the world, And through the golden gates of Heaven, Like fiery cars his beams are hurled, Driving the shades of somber night, Back to their caverned haunts to dwell-- Thou'lt come to me with charms renewed, My peerless flower, sweet Asphodel. WILLIAM PINKNEY EWING. William Pinkney Ewing, son of Patrick Ewing, was born May 28, 1828, on his father's farm near Rowlandville. He is a brother of Edwin E. Ewing, a sketch of whose life is published in this book, and to which the reader is referred for other information respecting the family. Mr. Ewing's early life was spent on his father's farm. When about eighteen years of age he commenced to write poetry, the first of which was published in the Philadelphia _Dollar Newspaper_. He was subsequently a frequent contributor to the _Ladies' Garland_, the _Cecil Whig_ and _Cecil Democrat_. In 1848, Mr. Ewing commenced the study of the law in the office of the late John C. Groome in Elkton, and was admitted to the Elkton Bar, April 10, 1851. In 1853 he removed to Cincinnati, and became connected with the editorial department of the _Daily Atlas_ of that city, and contributed editorially and otherwise to several other papers in Cincinnati, until the _Atlas_ was merged into the _Gazette_. He then accepted a position on the _Southern Lady's Book_, published in New Orleans and remained in that city until the magazine changed proprietors. Mr. Ewing returned to Elkton in 1855, and resumed the practice of his profession, but continued to write poetry occasionally for some years afterwards. In 1871 Mr. Ewing removed to Ashtabula, Ohio, and has since been connected with newspapers in Chicago, Topeka and other western cities; and has corresponded occasionally with the New York _Tribune_, New York _Evening Post_ and _Chicago Tribune_. In politics Mr. Ewing was originally a Democrat, but in 1850 became a member of the Free Soil party, and an elector on the Free Soil ticket in 1856. He was a delegate to the Chicago convention that nominated Lincoln in 1860, and also an elector for the State of Maryland on the Lincoln ticket the same year. In 186l Mr. Ewing was appointed United States Naval Agent for the port of Baltimore, and held the position until the office was abolished in 1865. In September 1863 he married Mrs. Emma P. Smith, a lady of fine literary taste and ability who is at this time the head of the cooking school of the State Agricultural College of Iowa. Like many other writers Mr. Ewing took no pains to preserve his poems and it was only after the expenditure of great labor and much trouble that the following meagre selection was made, which it is feared will not do full justice to the ability of their author. THE ANGEL VOICE. "Oh mother, dear mother, As calmly last night I lay on my pallet An angel in white Hover'd o'er me, and softly Said--'come, brother, come, Away from this world, To a heavenly home!'" "Then let me die, mother-- Tho' sweet birds are singing, And flowers in brightness And beauty are springing On hillside and mountain, O'er meadow and lea, They no longer possess Any sweetness for me." "For that angelic voice, Ringing still in my ear, Has attuned my heart To a holier sphere; And like a caged eagle, My soul pines to stay So long from its home-- Its redeemer away." O, pale grew that mother, And heavy her heart, For she knew her dear boy From her sight must depart, And be laid, cold and stiff, In the earth's humid breast, Where the wicked cease troubling, The weary have rest; But she smoothed down his pillow, And murmured a prayer, For the Giver of mercies Her loved one to spare; But ere she had finished Her pious request, His spirit had flown To the realms of the blest! THEN AND NOW. [MIDNIGHT.] I love thee, Maude, as I ne'er loved before, And as I feel I cannot love again; And though that love has cost me much of pain, Of agony intense, I would live o'er Most willingly, each bitter hour I've known Since first we met, to claim thee as my own. But mine thou will not be: thy wayward heart On one by thee deemed worthier is set, And I must bear the keen and deathless smart, Of passion unrequited, or forget That which is of my very life a part. To cherish it may lead to madness, yet I will brood over it: for oh, The joy its memory brings, surpasses far the woe. [DAYDAWN.] "I love thee, Maude, as I ne'er loved before, And as I feel I cannot love again;" Thus wrote I many moons ago, and more Devotedly I love thee now, than when Those lines were written. But avails it aught? Have I return? Hold I the slightest part Within the boundless realm of thy confiding heart? Or dost thou ever give to me one thought? I dare believe so:--nor will soon resign The dream I've cherished long, that some day thou'lt be mine. THE NEGLECTED HARP. I touch not that harp, Let it slumber alone; For its notes but awaken Sad memories of one Whose hand often swept The soft wires along, And aroused them to music, To love, and to song. But Death, the destroyer, Ere grief threw a ray O'er her flowery path, Snatched her rudely away; And the harp that resounded, With loveliest tone, To her delicate touch, Has since slumbered alone. Then awake not a strain-- Let it still repose there, And be breathed on alone By the sweet summer air; For its numbers though lively, Though joyous and light, But cast o'er my spirits A wildering blight. ALONE. Never, no nevermore, Shall thy soft hand be pressed in mine, Or on my breast thy weary head recline, As oft of yore. And though thou wert to me Life's only charm, I yet can bear A little while, since thou art free from care, Alone to be. For to my heart is given, The cheering hope, that soon, where pain And partings are unknown, we'll meet again-- In yonder heaven. GONE ASTRAY. Leila, thou art resting well, In thy lonely, narrow cell-- Dark and lonely, narrow cell,-- And I would with thee had died, And was sleeping by thy side,-- In the graveyard by thy side,-- She who gave thee being, she Who made life a joy to me,-- A blessing and a joy to me. Were she with thee, I could bear All life's agony and care,-- Bitter agony and care,-- But alas, she went astray From the straight and narrow way,-- Virtue's straight and narrow way-- And, O misery, became To her sex a thing of shame,-- A thing of infamy and shame. Now, of her and thee bereft, Naught have I to live for left,-- Naught on earth to live for left;-- And with bleeding heart I roam, From a desecrated home,-- A broken, desecrated home,-- Looking, longing for the day When my life shall ebb away,-- To its giver, ebb away. For I feel, a God of love, In the better land above,-- Brighter, better land above,-- To these yearning arms again, With a soul all free from stain,-- Free from every earthly stain,-- Will the wanderer restore, To be tempted nevermore-- Passion-tempted nevermore. LAY OF THE LAST INDIAN. They are gone--They are gone, From their green mountain homes, Where the antelope sports, And the buffalo roams; For the pale faces came, With insidious art, And the red men were forced From their homes to depart! In the land Manitou Bestowed on their sires, Oh! never again Round their bright council-fires, Will they gather, to talk Of the feats they have done, Or, to boast of the scalps By their prowess they've won. For they've gone--they have passed, Like the dew from the spray, And their name to remembrance Grows fainter each day; But for this were they forced From their ancestors' graves; They dared to be freemen, They scorned to be slaves. CHARLES H. EVANS. Charles H. Evans was born in Philadelphia, March 17, 1851, and was educated in the public schools of that city. In 1866 his father David Z. Evans, purchased a farm at Town Point in Cecil county, and removed to that place taking his son with him. Shortly after coming to Town Point Mr. Evans began to write poetry, much of which was published in one of the local newspapers under the signature of _Agricola_. In 1873 Mr. Evans married Isabell R. Southgate, since deceased, of Christiana, Delaware. For some years Mr. Evans has been engaged in business in Philadelphia, but occasionally finds time to cultivate his acquaintance with the Muses. INFLUENCES. Drop follows drop and swells, With rain, the sweeping river; Word follows word, and tells A truth that lasts forever. Flake follows flake, like sprites, Whose wings the winds dissever; Thought follows thought, and lights The realms of mind forever. Beam follows beam, to cheer The cloud a bolt would shiver; Dream follows dream, and fear Gives way to joy forever. The drop, the flake, the beam, Teach us a lesson ever; The word, the thought, the dream, Impress the heart forever. MUSINGS. Few the joys--oh! few and scattered-- That from fleeting life we borrow; And we're paying, ever paying, With an usury of sorrow! If a bright emotion, passing, Casts a sun-ray o'er our faces, Plodding Time--the envious plowman-- Soon a shadowy furrow traces! If a hope--ambition-nurtured-- Gilds our future, ere we've won it, Vaunting Time--the hoary jailor-- Shuts his somber gates upon it! If a heart our bosom seeking, With a fond affection woos it, Heartless Time--remorseless reaper-- Sweeps his ruthless sickle through it! Things of earth, all, all, are shadows! And while we in vain pursue them, Time unclasps his withered fingers-- And our wasted life slips through them. LINES. WRITTEN ON VIEWING TURKEY POINT FROM A DISTANCE. Thou gray old cliff, like turret raised on high, With light-house mingling with the summer sky, How long in lonely grandeur hast thou stood, Braving alike the wild winds and the flood? What howling gales have swept those shores along, What tempests dire have piped their dismal song. And lightnings glared those towering trees among? And oft, as now, the summer sun has shed His golden glories round thy mountain head, And tarried there with late and lingering hues, While all below was steeped in twilight dews, And night's proud queen, in ages past, as now, Hung her pale crescent o'er thy beetling brow. Soft lamp--that lights the happy to their rest, But wakes fresh anguish in the hapless breast, And calls it forth a restless ghost, to glide In lonely sadness up the mountain side; And couldst not thou, oh! giant of the past, Some far off knowledge o'er my senses cast, Sigh in the hollow moanings of the gale, And of past ages tell mysterious tale-- Speak of those ages of primeval worth, And all the hidden wonders of thy birth-- Convulsions strange that heaved thy mighty breast, And raised the stately masses of thy crest? Perchance the Indian climbed thy rugged side, Ere the pale face subdued his warlike pride, And bent him down to kneel, to serve, to toil, To alien shrines upon his native soil. It needs not thee, O mount! to tell the story That stained the wreath of many a hero's glory; But Nature's mysteries must ever rest Within the gloomy confines of thy breast, Where wealth, uncounted, hapless lies concealed, Locked in thine inmost temple unrevealed. MRS. SARAH HALL. Mrs. Sarah Hall was born in Philadelphia October 30th, 1761, and died in that city April 8th, 1830. She was the daughter of the Rev. John Ewing, D.D., a member of the Ewing family of the Eighth district of this county, and one of the most distinguished scholars and divines of his time, and who was for many years Provost of the University of Pennsylvania and pastor of the First Presbyterian Church of Philadelphia. Miss Ewing's early education was confined to learning to read and write, and in acquiring a thorough knowledge of housewifery. In 1782 she married John Hall, a member of the Hall family of the Eighth district, and the newly wedded pair came to reside in the house near Rowlandville, formerly owned by the late Commodore Conner, and now occupied by his son P.S.P. Conner. It was while residing in this old mansion, surrounded by the picturesque scenery of the Octoraro hills, that she wrote the poem entitled "Sketch of a Landscape," which no doubt was inspired by the beauty of the surrounding scenery and the fine view of the "Modest Octoraro," which may be had from the porch of the old historic mansion in which she resided. After a residence of about eight years in Cecil county the family removed to Philadelphia, where Mr. Hall successively filled the offices of Secretary of the Land Office, and United States Marshal for the District of Pennsylvania. The family returned to Maryland in 1805, and resided on Mr. Hall's paternal estate for about six years. Mrs. Hall's literary career commenced with the publication of her writings in the _Port Folio_, a literary magazine published in Philadelphia about the beginning of this century, and of which her son, John E. Hall, subsequently became the editor. She soon attained high rank as a magazine writer, and, until the time of her death, occupied a position second to none of the female writers of this country. Mrs. Hall is best known in the literary world by her book entitled "Conversations on the Bible." It was written after she was fifty years of age and the mother of eleven children, and was so popular as to astonish its author by the rapidity of its sale. SKETCH OF A LANDSCAPE In Cecil county, Maryland, at the junction of the Octoraro creek with the Susquehanna, suggested by hearing the birds sing during the remarkably warm weather in February, 1806. What joyous notes are those, so soft, so sweet, That unexpected, strike my charmed ear! They are the Robin's song! This genial morn Deceives the feathered tribe: for yet the sun In Pisces holds his course; nor yet has Spring Advanc'd one legal claim; but though oblique So mild, so warm, descend his cheering rays, Impris'ning winter seems subdued. No dread Of change retards their wing; but off they soar Triumphing in the fancied dawn of Spring. Advent'rous birds, and rash! ye little think, Though lilacs bud, and early willows burst. How soon the blasts of March--the snowy sleets, May turn your hasty flight, to seek again Your wonted warm abodes. Thus prone is youth, Thus easily allured, to put his trust In fair appearance; and with hope elate, And naught suspecting, thus he sallies forth, To earn experience in the storms of life! But why thus chide--why not with gratitude Receive and cherish ev'ry gleam of joy? For many an hour can witness, that not oft, My solitude is cheered by feelings such, So blithe--so pleasurable as thy song Sweet Robin, gives. Yet on thy graceful banks, Majestic Susquehanna--joy might dwell! For whether bounteous Summer sport her stores, Or niggard Winter bind them--still the forms Most grand, most elegant, that Nature wears Beneath Columbia's skies, are here combin'd. The wide extended landscape glows with more Than common beauty. Hills rise on hills-- An amphitheater, whose lofty top, The spreading oak, or stately poplar crowns-- Whose ever-varying sides present such scenes Smooth or precipitous--harmonious still-- Mild or sublime,--as wake the poet's lay; Nor aught is wanting to delight the sense; The gifts of Ceres, or Diana's shades. The eye enraptur'd roves o'er woods and dells, Or dwells complacent on the numerous signs Of cultivated life. The laborer's decent cot, Marks the clear spring, or bubbling rill. The lowlier hut hard by the river's edge, The boat, the seine suspended, tell the place Where in his season hardy fishers toil. More elevated on the grassy slope, The farmer's mansion rises mid his trees; Thence, o'er his fields the master's watchful eye Surveys the whole. He sees his flocks, his herds Excluded from the grain-built cone; all else, While rigid winter reigns, their free domain! Range through the pastures, crop the tender root, Or climbing heights abrupt, search careful out, The welcome herb,--now prematurely sprung Through half-thawed earth. Beside him spreading elms, His friendly barrier from th' invading north, Contrast their shields defensive with the willow Whose flexile drapery sweeps his rustic lawn. Before him lie his vegetable stores, His garden, orchards, meadows--all his hopes-- Now bound in icy chains: but ripening suns Shall bring their treasures to his plenteous board. Soon too, the hum of busy man shall wake Th' adjacent shores. The baited hook, the net, Drawn skilful round the wat'ry cove, shall bring Their prize delicious to the rural feast. Here blooms the laurel on the rugged breaks, Umbrageous, verdant, through the circling year His bushy mantle scorning winds or snows-- While there--two ample streams confluent grace-- Complete the picture--animate the whole! Broad o'er the plain the Susquehanna rolls, His rapid waves far sounding as he comes. Through many a distant clime and verdant vale, A thousand springy caverns yield their rills, Augmenting still his force. The torrent grows, Spreads deep and wide, till braving all restraint Ev'n mountain ridges feel the imperious press; Forced from their ancient rock-bound base--they leave Their monumental sides, erect, to guard The pass--and tell to future days, and years, The wond'rous tale! Meanwhile, The conqueror flood holds on his course, Resistless ever--sinuous, or direct. Unconscious tribes beneath his surface play, Nor heed the laden barques, his surface bear; Now gliding swiftly by the threat'ning rocks, Now swimming smoothly to the distant bay. To meet and bring his liberal tribute too, The modest Octoraro winds his way-- Not ostentatious like a boasting world Their little charities proclaiming loud-- But silent through the glade retir'd and wild, Between the shaded banks on either hand, Till circling yonder meed--he yields his name. Nor proudly, Susquehanna! boast thy gain, For thence, not far, thou too, like him shall give Thy congregated waters, title--all, To swell the nobler name of Chesapeake! And is not such a scene as this the spell, That lulls the restless passions into peace? Yes. Cold must be the sordid heart, unmov'd By Nature's bounties: but they cannot fill, That ardent craving in the mind of man, For social intercourse,--the healthful play-- The moral gem--the light of intellect-- Communion sweet with those we love! WITH A ROSE IN JANUARY. Will you accept this bud my dear, Fit emblem of the coming year: The bud expands, the flower blooms, And gives awhile its rich perfumes: Its strength decays, its leaf descends, Its sweets are gone--its beauty ends, Such is the year.--The morning brings The bud of pleasure in its wings: Hope, health, and fortune, smile their day, And charm each threat'ning cloud away: But gathering ills increase their force, And though concealed--make sure their course. They come--they press--they stand confest, And disappointment tells the rest. LIFE. SUGGESTED BY A SUMMER EVENING. 'Tis early eve--the sun's last trembling glance, Still hovers o'er and gilds the western wild, And slowly leaves the haunts of solitude. Venus, bright mistress of the musing hour, Above the horizon lifts her beck'ning torch; Stars, in their order, follow one by one The graceful movement of their brilliant queen, Obedient to the hand that fix'd them all, And said to each--Be this thy place. Refreshing airs revive man's sinking strength, And hallowed thoughts come rushing to the heart! Now from her eastern clime the golden Moon, Set in a frame of azure, lifts her shield, And all creation wakes to life renewed! Not long she holds supreme her joyous course; Her foes in sullen vapors fitful rise, And envious, hovering over her splendid path, Now thin--now dense, impede her kindly ray. In hasty, partial gleams, of light and shade, She holds her purposed way.--Now darker clouds Collect, combine, advance--she falls--'twould seem To rise no more--sudden they break--they pass, Once more she shines--bright sovereign of the skies! Thus 'tis with life--it is not dubious hope In early youth--'tis joy--joy unalloy'd; Joy blooms within, all objects take the tint, And glowing colors paint the vista's length. Not long, life dances on the plastic scene, Care's haggard form invades each flow'ry path; Disease, with pallid hue, leads on her train, And Sorrow sheds her tears in wasting showers! But Pain and Grief pass on, and harrowing Care Awhile put on some pleasing, treacherous shape; Then hope revives, health blooms! love smiles-- And wealth and honors crown the distant day. How long? Envenom'd ills collect all 'round, And while short-sighted man his fragile schemes Pursues--not grasps--blow after blow fall swift, Fall reckless--and he sinks beneath their weight! To rise no more? Like yon triumphant Moon, That "walks in brightness" now, beyond the clouds, Through patient suffering, man shall surely rise To dwell above that orb, in light ineffable, Where pain--where sin--where sorrows, never come! MRS. SALLIE WILLIAMS HARDCASTLE. Mrs. Hardcastle's maiden name was Sallie Williams Minter. She was born in Bedford county, Virginia, June 19, 1841. Reared in the shadow of the Peaks of Otter, whose lofty summits tower in magnificent grandeur far above the wooded heights and billowy green hills of the surrounding country, it is little wonder that the subject of this sketch should have been early imbued with the spirit of poesy, and led to the cultivation of tastes and the selection of themes which the grand and picturesque in nature are apt to suggest. But in addition to these favorable surroundings, a literary and thoughtful turn of mind was inherited from her father and grandfather--the latter having been eminent in his day as the author of a religious work, replete with keen arguments and logical conclusions. The former also was a writer of ability, and having a thorough knowledge of the politics of his State, frequently discussed them in the local journals with a ready and trenchant pen. Mrs. Hardcastle was educated at Bedford Female College, but is indebted to her father for her best and earliest tuition. At the age of fourteen her first verses, written on the death of a little friend of her own age, were published in the _Virginia Sentinel_. She was an occasional contributor to the _Literacy Companion_, _Magnolia Weekly_, and other Southern periodicals. Mrs. Hardcastle was married in 1863 to Dr. Jerome H. Hardcastle, then a surgeon in the hospital at Liberty, Va. After the war they came to Maryland, and subsequently, in 1876, to Cecilton, in this county, where they have since resided. They are the parents of five daughters and one son. Like many other persons, Mrs. Hardcastle neglected to carefully preserve her poetical writings. And was so unfortunate as to lose most of the few in her possession at the time of the evacuation of Richmond, in consequence of which the following poems are all it has been practicable to obtain, which is a matter of regret, inasmuch as they are by no means the best of her writings. ON RECEIPT OF A BOUQUET. I thank thee, my friend, for thy delicate gift, These fair and beautiful flowers, They come to me now, like a boon from above, To gladden my pensive hours. All the brilliant bloom, of the summer days, These lovely flowers restore; And my childhood's home, with its fields and flowers, Comes back to me once more. How fragile and fair!--some pale, some blushing, All breathing rarest perfume-- But brighter and fairer they seem, my friend, Because from thee they come. I know that this beauty is frail and brief-- That their fragrance and bloom must depart, But like the mem'ry of thee, these flowers will live Forever enshrined in my heart. OCTOBER. Oh, days of the lovely October, How dear thou art to me; Words are weak, when my soul would speak, In language taught by thee. Not alone do thy glorious sunsets, Nor thy trees of a thousand dyes, But all touch my heart with thy sweet spell, Oh, earth, and air, and skies. In the gardens that shone with beauty, The flowers have faded, I know, And here, by my favorite pathway, The roses no longer may blow. But the leaves are burning with splendor, And I'll weave them in garlands bright, As I did in the sweet days of childhood, When my heart was aglow with delight. I've ruby and sapphire, blended with gold, And here's an emerald green, A parting gift, for my coronet, From summer's dying queen. Oh, loveliest month of the year, Too soon will thy glories depart, But not the sweet faith thou'st wakened, Within this worshiping heart. For though, like all beauty of earth, Thou'rt trammeled by earthly decay, Yet my soul is lifted by thine, To glories that fade not away. OLD LETTERS. TO MRS. ANNIE P----. "Burn my old letters"--ah! for you These words are easy to say, For you, who know not the light they brought To many a darksome day. And, then, old letters to me are links To those days forever gone; For we cling to the past as age would cling To youth, in its rosy dawn. But the wintry air is chill without, And the fire is faint and low, So I'll gather them up--the page of to-day With the date of long ago. Gather them up and cast them in Like trash, to the greedy flame; And I marvel not that the world hath said, "Friendship is only a name!" For the human heart's a changeful thing, And sometime we would borrow The light, that other days have given, To cheer us on the morrow. And so, as I sit in the merry light Of the blaze that upward flashes, I think, like these, our dearest hopes May come to dust and ashes. JUNE ROSES. What marvelous new-born glory Is flushing the garden and lawn! Hath the queen of all blossoming beauty Come forth with the early dawn? Like the first faint flush of morn, To the watchers, aweary with night,-- Like treasures long hidden away, Ye burst on my joyous sight. Not e'en the "first rose of Summer," Could yesterday be seen-- Only a tint like the sea-shell, Deep in a prison of green. Did the lover-like kiss of the south wind, While wand'ring o'er forest and lake, Bid thee start in thy slumbering beauty, And crimson with blushes awake? 'Tis long since the fragrant lilac Flourished and drooped at thy side, While many a frail young flow'ret since Hath quietly blossomed and died. And for days the pale, proud lily In regal beauty hath shown, Catching the sun's warm glances Ere the young roses had blown. But perfumed breezes are whispering: "To-day the roses have come," And the cottage will rival the palace, Decked in thy radiant bloom. MUSIC. The spirit is often enraptured With sweet tokens of love divine, But seldom in language so plain As spoken through music, to mine. Then my soul flings wide her portals, And visions of Paradise throng, While I bow, in silent devotion, To the Author of genius and song. The pleasures of earth are but few, And scarce for our sorrows repay, But we catch, in sweet moments like this, A glimpse of the perfect day. When I reach the Celestial City And gaze from her golden tower, Methinks my freed spirit would turn Far back, to this rapturous hour. And as angels are harping their songs-- Sweet songs of a heavenly birth-- I'll listen to hear the same touch That played us this prelude on earth. LINES ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND. We loved thee--yes, we loved thee, But the angels loved thee too; And so thou now art sleeping 'Neath the sky so bright and blue. Sleeping now thy last long slumber, In the low and quiet tomb, Where life's ills can ne'er disturb thee-- Where sorrow ne'er can come. What tho' our hearts are bleeding, And our lonely spirits mourn, That thou with Spring's sweet flow'rets Wilt never more return, We would not call thee back, dear friend, To life's dull path again; Where thorns amid the flowers, Would often give thee pain; But sweetly rest thee, dear one, In thy long and dreamless sleep, Nor heed the sighs above thee, And the blinding tears we weep. MRS. MARY ELIZA IRELAND. Mrs. Mary Eliza Ireland, the daughter of Joseph Haines and Harriet (Kirk) Haines, was born in the village of Brick Meeting House, now called Calvert, January 9, 1834. In early life she married John M. Ireland, son of Colonel Joseph Ireland, of Kent county, Md. They are the parents of three children, one of whom died in infancy. They now reside in Baltimore, where Mr. Ireland holds the position of United States storekeeper in the Internal Revenue Department. Until the past few years Mrs. Ireland has always lived in the old homestead where she was born and married, and from whence her parents were removed by death. Her first literary effort was a short story written when quite a young girl, entitled "Ellen Linwood," and published in the _Cecil Whig_, then edited by the late Palmer C. Ricketts, under the _nom de plume_ of "Marie Norman." For several years after the publication of "Ellen Linwood" Mrs. Ireland occasionally contributed to the _Cecil Whig_ and Oxford _Press_. Some years ago she wrote a story for _Arthur's Magazine_, and being in Philadelphia soon after it was written, she took it to the publishing house, and there met for the first time T.S. Arthur, whom she had known from childhood through his books. He received her kindly, promised to read her story, and to let her know his decision the next day. That decision was, that though entertaining and well written, it was scarcely suited to his magazine. He suggested another periodical where it would likely meet with favor. He also asked for another story, and presented her with a set of the magazines that she might see the style of writing that he desired. Her next story for _Arthur's_ was a success, and from that time until his death he remained the candid critic of all she sent him for publication, as well as of some stories published elsewhere, and the kind literary adviser and friend. She retained her first story (which he had declined) for three years, made some changes in it, and he accepted and published it. Since then she has been an acceptable contributor to _Cottage Hearth_, _Household_, and other domestic magazines, besides the _Literary World_, _Ladies' Cabinet_, _Woman's Journal_, and several church papers; and has written two prize stories, which took first prizes. In 1882 her short stories were collected and connected into a continued story, which was accepted and published by J.B. Lippincott & Co., under the title of "Timothy; His Neighbors and His Friends." Many letters of appreciation from distant parts of the Union testified to the merit of the book, and she was encouraged to accede to the request of the Presbyterian Observer Company of Baltimore to write a serial for their paper. It was entitled "Ivandale," and was warmly commended by judges of literary work. Wishing to read German literature in the original, she undertook the study of German, and as she had no time which she was willing to devote to regular lessons, she obtained a German pronouncing reader, and without instruction from any one she succeeded in learning to read and translate, pronouncing correctly enough to be understood by any German. This knowledge of the language has been a well-spring of pleasure to her, and well repays her for the few moments' attention she daily bestowed upon it. She has translated several books, two of which were published as serials in the _Oxford Press_, and the Lutheran Board of Publication have published one of her translations, entitled "Betty's Decision." Many beautiful short stories have found their way into our language and periodicals through the medium of her pen. Her time is well filled with her household duties, her missionary and church work, and in reviewing new books for the press. She has no specified time for writing, nor does she neglect her household or social duties for the sake of it, always having looked upon her literary work as a recreation. She leads a busy life, yet is rarely hurried; and, although she enjoys the companionship of many people noted in literature, it is powerless to weaken her attachment for friends who have no inclination in that way. All have a warm place in her heart, and a cordial welcome to her cheerful and happy home. Mrs. Ireland, contrary to the experience of most writers, never wrote any poetry until she had attained distinction as a writer of prose. AT THE PARTY. I gave her a rose, so sweet, so fair; She picked it to pieces while standing there. I praised the deep blue of her starry eyes; She turned them upon me in cold surprise. Her white hand I kissed in a transport of love; My kiss she effaced with her snowy glove. I touched a soft ringlet of golden brown; She rebuked my daring with a haughty frown. I asked her to dance in most penitent tone; On the arm of a rival she left me alone. This gave me a hint; I veered from my track, And waltzed with an heiress, to win my love back. I carried her fan, and indulged in a sigh, And whispered sweet nothings when my loved one was nigh. It worked like a charm; oh, joy of my life! This stratagem wins me a sweet little wife. MOTHER AND SON. Postman, good postman, halt I pray, And leave a letter for me to-day; If it's only a line from over the sea To say that my Sandy remembers me. I have waited and hoped by day and by night; I'll watch--if spared--till my locks grow white; Have prayed--yet repent that my faith waxed dim, When passing, you left no message from him. My proud arms cradled his infant head, My prayers arose by his boyhood's bed; To better our fortunes, he traversed the main; God guard him, and bring him to me again. The postman has passed midst the beating rain, And my heart is bowed with its weight of pain; This dark, dark day, I am tortured with dread That Sandy, my boy, may be ill or dead. But hark! there's a step! my heart be still! A step at the gate, in the path, on the sill; Did the postman return? my letter forget? Oh 'tis Sandy! Thank God, he loves me yet! THE MISSIONARY'S STORY. Hard were her hands, and brown; Coarsest of stuff her gown: Sod hut her home. Pale was her care-worn face, Beauty and youth and grace Long since have flown. Stern was her lot in life; She was a drunkard's wife; And forests drear Shut not temptation out; Strong drink was sold and bought; Poor pioneer! Slave he to demon rum; Houses and lands all gone; Want came by stealth. Yet her scant fare she shared With me, who worse have fared In homes of wealth. Stranger was I to her Save as Christ's messenger; And for His sake She, all her little store Wishing it were but more,-- Bade me to take. Oh like the widow's mite, Given for love of right, May it be blest. When her last hour has come, May angels bear her home, Ever to rest. TRANSITION. She is lying in state, this fair June day, While the bee from the rose its sweetness sips; Her heart thrills not at the lark's clear lay, Though a smile illumines her pallid lips. What glorified form did the Angel of Death Assume to her view, that it left the bright trace Of a jubilant welcome, whose icy breath Froze the sunny smile on her fair young face? Did angels with snow-white wings come down And hover about her dying bed? Did they bear a white robe, and a starry crown To place on their sainted comrade's head? Did her gaze rest on valleys and pastures green, Where roses in beauty supernal, bloom? Where lilies in snowy and golden sheen Fill the air with their heavenly, rare perfume? Did strains of sweet music her senses entrance While Earth, with her loved ones, receded in air? Did friends who had left it, to greet her, advance And joyfully lead her to dwell with them, there? Did she cross the deep Jordan without any fears For all were now calmed on her dear Saviour's breast? On pinions of light did she mount to the spheres Where all is contentment, and pleasure, and rest? All this we may humbly and truly believe, For Christ to the Bethany sisters did give The comforting promise, which all may receive: "He that believeth, though dead, yet shall live." DOROTHY MOORE. A bachelor gray, was Valentine Brown; He lived in a mansion just out of the town, A mansion spacious and grand; He was wealthy as Vanderbilt, Astor or Tome, Had money invested abroad and at home, And thousands of acres of land. A friend of his boyhood was Archibald Gray; And to prove what queer antics Dame Fortune will play When she sets about trying to plan, She heaped all her favors on Valentine, bold, And always left Archibald out of her fold, The harmless, and weak-minded man. So, while Valentine reigned like a king on his throne, Poor Archibald ne'er had a home of his own, Yet never was known to complain; Year in and year out, he wandered around, In mansion and farmhouse a welcome he found As long as he chose to remain. The lilacs and snowballs which guarded the door Of the ivy-decked cottage of good Parson Moore, Were waking from out their long sleep; For the last month of winter was hastening by, The last hours of Valentine's day had drawn nigh, When Archibald's travel-worn feet Were heard on the door-step; he entered and smiled, Then sat down and slept like a play-weary child, Woke, and told them how long he would stay; Then slumbered again, while sweet Dorothy Moore, The motherless daughter, who loved all God's poor, Made him welcome around the tea-tray. And archly she said as she gave him his tea, "Where's the valentine Archy, you promised to me? All maidens expect one to-day;" Then forgot it; nor noticed when supper was done, And her father had gone to his study alone, That Archie had stolen away. But, drawing the curtains on darkness and night! She sat down to spin by the cheery fire-light, While before it, so cozy and warm, Slept the kitten,--a snowy white ball of content-- And her wheel, with its humming activity, lent To the hour, a picturesque charm. No scene more enchanting could artist dream know, Than this peaceful, calm spot, in the ruby-red glow Of the pine knots aflame on the hearth; But Dorothy thought, "Were he but there with me And loved me as I love, a desert would be The happiest place upon earth." "Oh were he but poor, and forsaken;" she sighed, "He then a poor maiden might seek for his bride, But his love will some great lady crown; Since all is so hopeless, dear Father above Oh help me to cast out my unreturned love! And forget the proud Valentine Brown." In his elegant library, sat Valentine Brown, The argand burned brightly, the rich curtains down, Luxurious home of repose;-- Yet his handsome face saddened, his heart was oppressed; He sighed, and his spirit was full of unrest, For his love he should never disclose. He had roamed over Europe, and Countesses fair Had graciously smiled on the great millionaire. Yet his heart had turned coldly away; "From her childhood, I've loved her, sweet Dorothy Moore," Just then the latch clicked--through the half opened door Crept humbly, poor Archibald Gray. "I want you!" he whispered; "I promised her, come!" And Valentine followed, till reaching the home Where Dorothy spun by the hearth; And when he had entered with Archibald Gray And courteously waited, commands to obey, Knew no lovelier picture on earth. But the tact which had piloted Valentine there Deserted poor Archie; then Dorothy fair, Blushing deeply, yet smilingly said: "Why, Archibald, why did you leave us I pray? You said till to-morrow at noon, you would stay, And in less than an hour you had fled." The memory of Archibald took up the clew Thus kindly supplied, and eager he grew; "Yes, yes; Archie promised he would; I have brought you a valentine, Valentine Brown," (Here he smoothed his gray beard, and looked helplessly down), "He's so good to poor Archie, so good!" The three stood in silence, two wondering no doubt How this intricate problem would ever turn out, And Valentine, thoughtful and kind,-- Felt pity for Archie, who meant for the best; And for Dorothy--flushing like clouds in the west And fearing he thought it designed. He looked at the maiden--modest and sweet; At her lovely blue eyes, her peach-blossom cheek And sighed for his youth which had fled; "She never could love me, good Archibald Gray, Her beauty and youthfulness stand in the way, Just look at my frost-covered head." "Please tell him, good Archie," said Dorothy fair, "That I love nothing better than silvery hair When it crowns one so noble and true; His heart all men say is exalted and grand, He is known for his good deeds all over the land, Loved by every one, equalled by few." "That heart, my good Archie, I lay at her feet To spurn or to thrill with an ecstasy sweet;" (And he reverently took her white hand,) "That hand is his, Archie, and so is my heart To have and to keep until death do us part To meet in the Heavenly land." Good friends new and old, should you journey that way And should anything happen, to cause a delay, And you call upon Valentine Brown: In the coziest nook, you'll see Archibald Gray, Awaiting with patience the dallying day, Till the sickle of Time mows him down. And Fortune still favors her Valentine dear, She winters and summers there year after year; To thank her he never forgets; With his rosy-cheeked children and beautiful wife The heart of his heart, and the life of his life, The sun of his peace never sets. HOMEWARD BOUND. We grow in grace if day by day We keep in mind to watch and pray, Thus walking in the Heavenward way. But, drifting from the guiding hand Of Him who rules the sea and land, We wreck ourselves on barren strand, In name of Him who for us died, We cry for help, when deeply tried, Receive it, whatso'er betide. Of good we sow some scattered seed, We help to shield the bruised reed, Supply to want, the urgent need. Then once more hope to reach the goal, For faith with works will save a soul, Though hostile billows round it roll. Thus tempest-tost, we struggle on; Now sad, now cheered, till life is gone, And trust to hear the bless'd, well done! GEORGE JOHNSTON. [The editor is indebted to his friend, George A. Blake, Esq., of the Elkton Bar, for the following sketch of his life.] George Johnston, the editor and compiler of this book, was born in Philadelphia, May 15, 1829, the place of his birth being on Penn street, one door south of the southeast corner of Penn and Lombard streets. He is the oldest son of Isaac Johnston, and was named for his grandfather, George Johnston, the youngest son of Isaac Johnson, who lived on his farm, one mile west of the east end of Mason and Dixon's line, as early as 1755. There is reason to believe that the earliest member of the family who lived in that neighborhood was Samuel Johnston, who resided there as early as 1708. Mr. Johnston's mother, Susan Curry, was a cousin of his father, she being the daughter of Ann Spear, the grandmother of Emma Alice Browne, a sketch of whose life appears in this Volume. When about two years of age, the subject of this sketch was placed in charge of his paternal grandmother and his uncle, George Johnston, who resided on the homestead, in Cecil county. Here he was carefully nurtured and trained, and here were planted the seeds which have since sprung up and brought forth fruit in his intellectual and moral life. The family being Presbyterian in training, and of the type from which sprang those who in earlier years drafted the Mecklenberg Declaration, the lad was early imbued with those religious principles which ever serve as the true basis of mental growth and moral purpose. The educational advantages of a half century ago were not such as are enjoyed by the youth of to-day; but such as the neighborhood provided and his uncle's means afforded, were placed at the disposal of the boy, who soon manifested an aptitude to learn. When but five years of age he was sent to what was then called a "Subscription School," kept in the neighborhood. This he attended during the next seven years, and in the Winter time until the year 1849, when he took charge as teacher of a school, in the Center School House, situated near Fair Hill, in Cecil county. In the Spring of 1847 Mr. Johnston spent three months in Chesapeake City (in this county) as an apprentice to the carpenter business. He completed his trade in the neighborhood in which he had been raised, and from the year 1851 to 1864 spent his time about equally in teaching school and working at his trade. When the war of the rebellion broke out in 1861, Mr. Johnston, without hesitation, took the side of the Union, and was, during all those dark days, an ardent supporter of the Government, the intensity of his convictions being no doubt increased by the result of his observations during a business trip to Texas and through the South in the Winter of eighteen hundred and sixty and sixty-one. In the Constitutional Convention of this State in 1864 he served with ability as committee clerk, having accepted the position at the solicitation of the late David Scott (of John), who was a member of that body. While acting as committee clerk, Mr. Johnston had the honor of engrossing that section of the Constitution which abolished slavery in the State of Maryland. Many years afterwards he presented the pen used on that occasion to Frederick Douglass, then United States Marshal of the District of Columbia. Mr. Johnston's health, which had always been precarious, became so bad in 1875 that he was obliged to abandon his trade and turn his attention to another occupation. Accordingly, two years later he became connected with _The Cecil Whig_, and for about three years had charge of its local columns. While associated with that journal, his attention was attracted to the mine of wealth offered to the investigator by the early history of Cecil county. Prompted by a love of historical investigation, he was led to make researches into this mine--a task hitherto largely unattempted or ineffectually prosecuted. The results of these studies enriched the columns of _The Cecil Whig_ during a period of three years, and attracted wide attention. In 1881 he published the "History of Cecil County, Md., and the Early Settlements Around the Head of the Chesapeake Bay and on the Delaware River, with Sketches of Some of the Old Families of Cecil County." This work, which embodied the results of the author's investigations during a period of some years, is one of rare value. To those who have given but little thought to the subject, it is ever a matter of surprise to learn how closely the history of Cecil and the surrounding counties is interwoven with that of our common country, and how valuable as data of the past are the materials which invited the lover of truth to their discovery. One can scarcely estimate the laborious research involved in the task of gathering the component parts of a history which stretched over a period of nearly two hundred and seventy-five years. Old volumes, musty records, masses of court documents, correspondence (official and otherwise), previous historical attempts, personal knowledge, tradition and personal interviews, were all laid under contribution by the author, and served as sources of his authority. These he has woven together with such judgment in selection, skill in arrangement and force of style and diction, that just as "Gray's Elegy" alone has placed him in the front rank of poets, so this one work has given the author a high and permanent place among the historians of our country. The work attempted is so well done, and withal so accurate and reliable as one of reference and authority, that in recognition of its merits Mr. Johnston has been elected a member of the Historical Societies of Pennsylvania, Delaware, Maryland and Wisconsin. On January 1, 1883, he became local editor of _The Cecil Democrat_, and was in such capacity connected with that newspaper for three years and a half. Early in life Mr. Johnston was a pupil of David Scott (of James), who then taught a school in the Fourth district of Cecil county, and whose sister, Miss Hannah F. Scott, he subsequently married. The scholar being advanced in studies beyond the other pupils of the school, naturally a close intimacy was formed between him and his teacher. This afterwards deepened into a friendship which continued without interruption until Mr. Scott's death, and was the means of creating in Mr. Johnston an ardent love of poetry. Since 1851 he has written a number of poems, some of which have appeared in print. These have been so well received by the public that the author, in deference to the wishes of some of his friends, has ventured to include the following rhymes in this work: HERE AND HEREAFTER. Sad echoes of unequal strife, Go sighing through the aftermath, That skirts the dark uncertain path, That leads me to the close of life;-- And years ago dark shadows fell Athwart the amber sky of youth, Blighting the bloom of hope and truth, That erst had blossom'd all too well. The world's great heart beats wild and high, With wealth of bliss and love untold-- While I with unblanch'd eye behold Its fading phantoms wane and die. Without a sigh I mark their flight; A stranger to the world unknown, Amid its mazes all alone, I wander in Egyptian night. I worship not at its cold shrine, Nor fear the terror of its frown, It cannot chain my spirit down, The soaring of my soul confine. For ah! we parted at the tomb, Where buried hopes of youthful years, Embalm'd in sorrow's bitter tears, Lie mouldering within the gloom. Ah! few and dim the lights that gleam Around me in life's dismal maze, Scarce seen amid the somber haze That shrouds me in life's dismal dream. I never drank the wine of bliss, Made sweeter by the wealth of joy; My cup is mix'd with griefs alloy, And I have tasted only this. Life's problem oft to solve, I try, And hope I have not lived in vain, And borne this galling fetter chain Through all its years without a sigh. Some tears, perhaps, I may have dried-- My own in sympathy I shed O'er joys and hopes of others dead, By sorrow's legions crucified. Earthly joys, alas! are fleeting, Shadowy and evanescent, Scarce full orb'd before the crescent Tells us of their final setting. And soon our starry dreams are wreck'd, And all our earthly hopes sublime Lie stranded on the shores of Time, In drapery of woe bedeck'd, Yet I know 'tis vain repining;-- Though to-day the sky with sorrow May be overcast, to-morrow All the love-lights may be shining, Made brighter by the long eclipse; And shadows of earth's dreary night, That shrouded from my spirit's sight, Life's glorious Apocalypse. To tread this weary round of Toil Is not the whole of mortal life;-- There is an unseen inner strife, Where battling for the victor's spoil, The wrong contendeth with the right,-- Passion and pride with gentleness Pity with sorrow and distress-- And faith with sin's deep with'ring blight. And truth my spirit oft beguiles, While her dear face is wreath'd in smiles, By whisp'ring sweetly unto me; As thou hast measured, it shall be In justice meted out to thee, When thou hast reached the blissful isles Beyond the misty veil of Time; Thou'lt find a rest from earthly wars, And healing for thy earthly scars, Within that sweet supernal clime. THE TURTLE'S SERMON. An old and crafty terrapin, Who lately found his speech, Like many another simple lout, Concluded he could preach. And so he waddled to the shore, And thus address'd his friends-- The bullfrogs and the snappers bold, About their latter ends. And told them all how they must be Made into soup at last; And how the serpent sharp can see When last year's hide is cast. And how the wary pickerel Enjoys the minnow sweet, Which he doth never fail to catch, When it goes out to skate; And how the beaver builds his house Within his winter dam; And how the oyster lays its egg, And hatches out a clam; And how the busy bumble bee, Doth blow his little horn, Whene'er he goes in quest of food, Amid the standin' corn: And how the gentle butterfly Sings many a merry tune Because he's glad he has escaped From out the old cocoon; And how the rabbit flies his kite, When he can find a string; And how the owl sits up all night, To hear the squirrel sing; And many other curious things That did his hearers good,-- Of cats that did a swimmin' go And eels that chew'd the cud; And toads that dance upon their ears When they a courtin' go; And moles that stand upon their heads, That they may see the show. His sermon, as you see, was queer, And muchly out of joint;-- And 'cause the preacher took no text, He failed to make his point. And soon his hearers all grew tired, And mortified and vex'd, Because he chose to play the fool, And preach without a text. And so they left him there alone-- And this is what befel-- He grew so mad it broke his heart, And almost burst his shell. MORAL. If you successfully would preach, Be sure a text to take, And stick unto it like a leech Until your point you make. SKYE. THE DOG WITH THE BEAUTIFUL EYE. Someone has written a song about "Tray," But no one has courage to write about Skye; So methinks I will rhyme, in my own rugged way, Of the queer little dog with the beautiful eye. The land that he came from is said to be cold, And nature has dress'd him its storms to defy-- In the ugliest coat that ever was seen-- But giv'n him a charming and beautiful eye. His coat is so ugly it makes him look old And scrawny and poor and most ready to die; But you'd change your opinion, I think, if you saw The life and the beauty that beams from his eye. 'Twere hard to conceive of an uglier thing Than this queer little dog from the island of Skye-- Grotesque and uncouth, and ugly as sin-- Yet bless'd with a mild and a beautiful eye. Among dogs, like the heathen Chinee among men, His civilization is not very high; But then his dark ways we can always excuse On account of his lovely and charming bright eye. He is sad and forlorn, yet so gentle and kind, You could not but love him I'm sure it you'd try-- This dog so demure and so kindly inclined-- This dog with the mild and the beautiful eye. Sometimes he will follow his master to church; Tho' his piety's weak, I must say with a sigh, Perhaps he's as good as some other ones there Whose piety seems to be all in their eye. He's full of strange antics--most little dogs are-- And tho' he's forlorn, he can mischief descry; Indeed--I'm strongly impress'd with the fact-- It eternally lurks in his beautiful eye. His hair is the queerest that dog ever wore; Tho' kind to his master, of strangers he's shy; He is wise in his way; deeply learned in dog lore; Intelligence beams from his beautiful eye. He's patient and faithful, affectionate too; My love for his virtues time's lapse will defy; I'm sure, if you knew him, you'd love him, like me, This dog with the mild and the beautiful eye. IF YOU DON'T BELIEVE IT, TRY IT. 'Tis better far to wear away In honest strong endeavor, Than idly rust in slow decay And work and labor never; By honest toil to earn your bread, Or wherewithal to buy it; 'Tis very well, and truly said-- If you don't believe it, try it. Ye idle loafers in the streets, The honest workman spurning, Know this--a living to be sweet Is better for the earning. To loaf and lounge and lie about, On others' toil to riot, Is only practiced by a lout; No honest man will try it. Oh! him that earns his daily bread! Despise and spurn him never, A thousand blessings on his head 'Tis he that feeds you ever. Should others work no more than you Quite spare would be your diet, Your gills would turn a livid hue If they would stop and try it. Then go to work with hands or head, You'll surely profit by it; And strive to earn some honest bread-- You can, if you will try it. Ye sweeter ones of gentler sex, Who tread the pavement hourly, I do not wish your hearts to vex, Then pray don't take it sourly-- Methinks sometimes 'tis no disgrace Tho' seldom you are nigh it, To be at home, your proper place,-- If you don't believe it, try it. Are there no duties there to do? If so "be up and doing!" No clothes to mend, that you could sew, No beer that's worth the brewing? Then stay at home, sometimes, at least, My counsel, don't defy it, A little rest's as good's a feast, If you don't believe it, try it. 'Tis easy quite to do the right, And in it there is beauty, What e'er you do, do with your might, But always do your duty. Be true unto yourself, and then-- Wise counsel--don't decry it, You can't be false to other men-- If you don't believe it, try it. BYE AND BYE. Shadowy, dreamy phantoms ever rising Up before wild Fancy's eyes, With their untold and beauteous splendor, Make us present things despise. And procrastination whispers softly, Wait a little longer yet; Rashness will defeat your purpose, mortal, And be cause of deep regret. Wait with patience just a moment longer, Then with safety clutch them fast-- Thus the spirit of delay beguiles us, Till the lucky time is past. Moments freighted deep with joy ecstatic All unheeded pass away; While we musing scan the misty future, Hoping they will ever stay. Bye and bye! may gaily point us forward, Unto scenes with joy o'ercast-- Only mirage of Life's barren desert, They are found to be at last. Bye and bye! with all its artful scheming, Though it may seem most sublime, Wisdom horror-stricken spurneth from her, Knowing only present time. Reason tells us now's the time for action, And this truth will ever last, Written as it is throughout all nature, On the pages of the Past. WILLIAM JAMES JONES. William James Jones was born in Elkton, August 25, 1829, and received his education at the common school and Academy in that town. His youth and early manhood was spent in mechanical pursuits and in the improvement of his mind by a desultory course of reading, and in perfecting himself in the knowledge of the Latin language. In 1852, Mr. Jones purchased a half interest in the _Cecil Whig_ and became the editor of that journal for a short time, and until its founder P.C. Ricketts, who was then editing the _Daily News_, of Baltimore, returned from that city and resumed the duties of editor of the _Whig_. In 1853, Mr. Jones commenced the study of the law in the office of John C. Groome, Esq., in Elkton and was admitted to the Bar, September 21, 1855. In politics Mr. Jones was a Whig, but allied himself with the American party when it was in course of formation and continued to be an active member as long as the party lasted. In 1857 he was appointed State's Attorney for Cecil county, to fill a vacancy, and in 1859 was elected to the same office for the term of four years. At the outbreak of the war of the rebellion Mr. Jones allied himself with the Union cause and was elected to the House of Delegates by the Union party in 1863, and was appointed two years afterwards, United States' District Attorney for the district of Maryland, and held the office for about a year, and until he was removed by President Andrew Johnson for opposing his policy of reconstruction. In 1858 he married Miss Mary Jane Smith, of Connecticut. They are the parents of one son and two daughters, the eldest of whom is the wife of Rev. Walter E. Avery, of the Wilmington Conference. Mr. Jones is one of the most earnest and successful members of the Elkton Bar, and though not a voluminous writer, in early life contributed poetry to the columns of the _Cecil Whig_, of which the following poems are specimens. AUTUMN. The autumn winds are moaning round And through the branches sighing, And autumn leaves upon the ground All seared and dead are lying. The summer flowers have ceased to bloom For autumn frosts have blighted, And laid them in a cheerless tomb By summer sun unlighted. Thus all our "fondest hopes decay" Beneath the chill of sorrow, The joys that brightest seem to-day Are withered by the morrow. But there are flowers that bloom enshrin'd In hearts by love united, Unscathed by the autumn wind, By autumn frost unblighted. And there are hearts that ever thrill With friendship warm and glowing, And joys unseared by sorrow's chill With hallowed truth o'erflowing. MARY'S GRAVE. In a quiet country churchyard From the city far away, Where no marble stands in mockery Above the mould'ring clay; Where rears no sculptured monument-- There grass and flowers wave 'Round a spot where mem'ry lingers-- My once-loved Mary's grave. They laid her down to slumber In this lonely quiet spot, They raised no stone above her, No epitaph they wrote; They pressed the fresh mould o'er her As earth to earth they gave-- Their hearts with anguish bursting, They turned from Mary's grave. She knew not much of grief or care Ere yet by Death's cold hand, Her soul was snatched from earth away To join the spirit band: Her mild blue eye hath lost its gleam, No more her sufferings crave The hand of pity, but the tear Falls oft o'er Mary's grave. I too would pay my tribute there, I who have loved her well. And drop one silent, sorrowing tear This storm of grief to quell; 'Tis all the hope I dare indulge, 'Tis all the boon I crave, To pay the tribute of a tear, Loved Mary, o'er thy grave. TO ANSELMO. Anselmo was the nom de plume of David Scott, of James. I know thee not, and yet I fain Would call thee brother, friend; I know that friendship, virtue, truth, All in thy nature blend. I know by thee the formal bow, The half deceitful smile Are valued not; they ill become The man that's free from guile. I know thee not, and yet my breast Thrills ever at thy song, And bleeds to know, that thou hast felt The weight of "woe and wrong." 'Tis said the soul with care opprest Grows patient 'neath the weight, And after years can bear it well E'en though the load be great. And, that the heart oft stung by grief Is senseless to the pain, And bleeding bares it to the barb, To bid it strike again. I care not if the heart has borne All that the world can give, Of "disappointment, hate and scorn;" In hope 'twill ever live, And feel the barb'd and poison'd stings Of anguish, grief and care, As keenly as in years gone by, When first they entered there. The weary soul by care opprest May utter no complaints, But loaths the weight it cannot bear And weakens till it faints. FLOWERS. Bring flowers for the youthful throng, Of variegated glow, And twine of them a gaudy wreath Around each childish brow. Bring flowers for the maiden gay, Bring flowers rich and rare, And weave the buds of brightest hue Among her waving hair. Bring flowers to the man of grief-- They hold the syren art, To charm the care-look from his brow, The sorrow from his heart. Bring flowers for the sick girl's couch; 'Twill cheer her languid eye To know the flowers have bloomed again, And see them ere she die. Bring flowers when her soul has fled, And place them on her breast, Tho' ere their blooming freshness fade We lay her down to rest. LIFE. Life at best is but a dream, We're launched upon a rapid stream, Gushing from some unknown source, Rushing swiftly on its course, Save when amid some painful scene, And then it flows calm and serene, That we may gaze in mute despair On every hated object there. Fortune our bark and hope our chart, With childish glee on our voy'ge we start, The boat glides merrily o'er the wave. But ah! there's many a storm to brave, And many a dang'rous reef to clear, And rushing rapid o'er which to steer. Anon the stream grows wide and deep, While here and there wild breakers leap, O'er rocks half hidden by the flood, Where for ages they have stood, Upon whose bleak and rugged crest, Many a proud form sank to rest, And many a heart untouched by care Laid its unstained offering there. Ah! they have met a happier lot, Whose bark was wrecked ere they forgot The pleasing scenes of childhood's years, 'Mid that tempestuous vale of tears Which farther on begirts the stream, Where phantom hopes like lightning gleam Through the murky air, and flit around The brain with hellish shrieking sound Conjuring up each mad'ning thought, With black despair or malice fraught. Swiftly, on in our course we go To where sweetest flow'rs are hanging low We stretch our hand their stems to clasp But ah! they're crush'd within our grasp, While forward th' rushing stream flows fast And soon the beauteous scene is past. At last we view another sight, The shore with drifted snow is white, The stream grows dark and soon we feel An icy coldness o'er us steal, We cast our eyes ahead and see The ocean of Eternity. When once amid its peaceful waves No holier joy the bosom craves-- Ten thousand stars are shining bright Yet one reflects a purer light-- No sooner does its glowing blaze Attract the spirit's wand'ring gaze, Than all is turned to joy we see-- That star is Immortality. JOHN HENRY KIMBLE. John Henry Kimble was born in Buckingham township, Bucks county, Pennsylvania, September 8, 1850. He is the second son of Henry H. Kimble, and is descended on his father's side from English stock, being a lineal descendant from Governor John Carver, who came to this country in the Mayflower in 1620. On his mother's side, his grandfather, Seruch Titus, was a prominent citizen of Bucks county, and, as his name indicates, was of Italian descent. Mr. Kimble moved with his parents to the Fourth Election district of Cecil county, in the Spring of 1855, and has been engaged in farming all his life, except two years spent in teaching in our public schools. He is a popular music teacher and performer on musical instruments, and has won local distinction as a debater. In 1870 his first verses were published in the _Morris Scholastic_ a newspaper published in Grundy county, Illinois. He afterwards wrote for the _Cecil Whig_. In 1875 he wrote "The Patrons of Husbandry," a serial poem, which was published by the Grange organ of the State of Pennsylvania, in seven parts, with illustrations. It was pronounced by competent critics to be one of the "best and most natural descriptions of farm life ever written." It attracted wide attention and received favorable comment from the N.Y. _World_ and other leading papers. He wrote another serial in 1876, entitled "Two Granges." Mr. Kimble makes no pretensions as a writer and has never allowed his love of literature to interfere with his farm work. In the Winters of 1872, '73 and '74 he taught in the public schools of this county with satisfaction to his patrons. In December, 1873, he was married to Miss Sarah Teresa Gallagher, daughter of John E. Gallagher, of the Fourth district. They have five children, three daughters and two sons. In 1880, Mr. Kimble moved from the farm near Fair Hill, where he had spent twenty-five years, to Appleton, where he still resides. He is now a frequent and popular contributor to the _Cecil Democrat_. HIS LAST TUNE. The shade of death had haunted him Through many a weary day; With dread disease his youthful frame Was wasting slow away. He took his violin and sighed,-- "I am too weak to play." But, rising in his cushioned chair, He grasps, with trembling hand, The neck and bow, and tunes the strings And thinks of concerts grand; And hears the crowd applauding loud As when he led the band. Inspired with supernatural power He plays a melody, Forgetting all the terrors of His mortal malady; And, as of yore, his soul once more Is with the gay and free. Something responsive in the soul Wakes with melodious sound A lively melody that makes The languid pulse rebound, While recollection takes the mind Through many a happy round. Now fast, now slow, he draws the bow To suit his changing will; A march, a waltz, a polka, and An intricate quadrille, Each in its turn is rendered with An artist's ready skill. With failing strength he strikes at length His favorite--"Home, Sweet Home;" His dreamy spirit ceases with The pleasing past to roam, And, through the future, seems to rise Up, up to Heaven's high dome. And mingling with his violin He hears the joyful strains That vibrate o'er angelic hosts, Where song supernal reigns! Oh! glimpse of glory! lifting him Above all mortal pains. The last sweet note of that sweet tune Within the room has died-- And now he's playing on the harp Upon the other side Of death's dark river, safe and free, Among the glorified. ADVICE TO AN AMBITIOUS YOUTH. You look with joy to-day along life's vista clear, And great will be your deeds through many a happy year, And smiling friends will come to crown with glad acclaim A hero, when you reach the glittering heights of fame. Your life will be above the common herd, I trow, You will not toil and drudge as they are doing now: Success attend your steps; a word I would not say To chill your warmest hopes, or shade your sunny way. Your mark is high, my child, then aim your arrow straight, The world has need to-day, of heroes good and great, You feel so strong; and wish life's battle would begin, You'll find a chance ere long, to do your best and win. But may be you will fail, 'tis ten to one you will, And men will laugh, to see your lack of pluck and skill, Perhaps you will not have one mighty thing to do; But many little things will prove if you are true. To carry brick and stone for someone else's wall, To do the hardest part and get no praise at all, To see a weaker man upheld by circumstance, And find the path hedged high, just when you would advance; Or, in the jostling crowd, to slip, and fall, and see, How many men will scoff at your adversity, And though your heart may ache, you must not shed a tear, But plan, and push, and work, and smother all your fear. No darling mother then can sympathize with you,-- No father when you stick, will kindly pull you through; Through years of grasping toil the wealth you gain, and fame, May vanish all, and leave you poverty and shame. But you need not be lost, all people are not bad, The Lord has servants good, as He has ever had; They'll find you in your grief, and lend a helping hand, And point the road that leads up to the "Better Land." Remember this, my child, wherever you may go, That God rules over all, though it may not seem so; And what you sow, you'll reap, with joy or misery, If not in time, O, surely in eternity. TOO LATE. A dear old friend of mine is very ill, I hear, I have not seen his face for many a weary year. Ah, many toilsome days we've spent with little train, And he was poor and weak, but never would complain. I knew his fears and hopes, he knew my hopes and fears. We shared each other's joys and wept each other's tears! He had his faults, and I oft sinned in word and deed; But through our troubles all, we seldom disagreed. And when we did, we soon were truly reconciled; So, while we might have quarrelled, we compromised and smiled. But fortune bade us part; we bid good-bye at last, Each toiled as bravely on as both had in the past. I've written him, and he has answered prompt and true; But we have never met as we had promised to. For he was busy there and I was busy here, And so our lots were cast apart from year to year. But when a mutual friend told me this afternoon That he was very sick and wished to see me soon, I left my home at once and on the earliest train I'm speeding to his home across the distant plain. He looks for me! and I, to reach him scarce can wait, O, for the lightning's speed! that I may not be late. The fields seem spinning round, the trees seem flying past, The engine thunders on, the station's reached at last. And to my friend I haste, to greet him as of yore, Rejoicing in his thrift, I pause beside his door. A servant asks me in, and there upon his bed, Behold my dear old friend, who sent for me--just dead! I speak his name once more, and check the rising tears, And kiss his honest face, changed little through the years. "He asked for you," they said, but could no longer wait; Alas! alas! to be but fifteen minutes late. AFTER THE SHOWER. After the shower the fields are green, The winds are hushed, the air is cool, The merry children now are seen Barefoot wading the wayside pool, Loitering on their way to school, After the morning shower. After the shower the farmers walk Around their homes with thanks sincere. The shower is foremost in their talk, See! how it makes their crops appear, The finest seen for many a year. Thanks for the gentle shower. Westward the dark clouds roll away To vanish in the ether blue, Eastward the curtains light and gay Exclude the glorious sun from view Till, as they shift, he flashes through And lights the charming scene. Against the melting clouds, behold The lofty arch, the beauteous bow, The sacred sign to saints of old, As bright as when first seen below, How fair the matchless colors glow After the cooling shower. Washed by the countless, crystal drops, Awhile from swarming insects free, The cattle clip the clover tops Forth wandering o'er the fertile lea, The birds sing with unusual glee After the drenching shower. Over the hills and valleys green Wild flowers are blooming fresh and fair, In cottage lawns and yards are seen The good results of woman's care, Tulips and pinks and lillies rare Fresh from the timely shower. A TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF DAVID SCOTT (OF JOHN.) I weep for the loss of a leader in thought, Whose lessons of truth, with simplicity taught, Have bless'd and encouraged the humble and poor, Who always were welcomed with joy at his door. How happy the hours when we gathered around, To hear his solutions of problems profound; And bright through my mem'ry what pleasure returns When I think of his rendering of Byron and Burns. The "Saturday Night," and "To Mary in Heaven," With true Scottish accent were touchingly given, And reckless "Don Juan's" most comical plight,-- And pathos of "Harold" he gave with delight. The pages of Hebraic sages divine, Made vocal by him with new beauties did shine; His choice conversation with children and men, Was often enriched with a song from his pen. In public debate, whosoever arose, His well-grounded argument firm to oppose, Though sharp the contention, was forced to declare, That he was an honorable champion there. And, those he offended, as everyone must, Whose thoughts are progressive, whose actions are just, With kindness he reasoned all errors to show, And made a staunch friend of a bickering foe. He owned like a hero the penalty dread-- "By the sweat of thy brow shalt thou earn thy bread," And his toil through summer, and mid-winter snows, Has made the wild wilderness bloom as the rose. The choicest of fruits in profusion appeared, On trees that he planted, and vines that he reared; And few things delighted him more than to send, A rare little treat to an invalid friend. He scorned false pretences and arrogant pride, The follies of fashion he loved to deride; But acknowledged true merit wherever 'twas shown, By a serf in his hut, or a king on his throne. His faults be forgotten, we've all gone astray, Lord, show us in mercy, the straight, narrow way, Peace, peace to his ashes, and sweet be his rest, With angels of light, in the home of the blest. SPRING. Rosy morn is brightly breaking, Cheerful birds melodious sing, Earth with thankful songs awaking Hails with joy the merry Spring, Silver clouds in sunlight glowing Slowly float the azure dome, Tender flowers are sweetly blowing Round each cozy cottage home. Dreary winter's icy fingers Have released the bending tree, Genial life reviving, lingers O'er the cold and sterile lea. From the rocky, snow-clad mountains, Where the breath of sunny Spring Has unfettered muffled fountains, Hear the songs of gladness ring. In the morn of playful childhood, With dear friends 'mid sylvan bowers, O'er the fields and through the wildwood, Culling all the choicest flow'rs; Twining wreaths, each other crowning, Dew-drops bright for royal gems, Ne'er a thought of worldly frowning On the precious diadems. Marched we on with true devotion, While the scenes of after years, Stirr'd the spirits deep emotion, With alternate hopes and fears. While before us lay life's prizes, Dazzling in the sunlight gleam,-- How we gazed with sad surprises, When they vanished like a dream. Many happy hearts grew weary, Rosy cheeks grew pale and white, Pleasant paths grew dark and dreary, Swept by storms of withering blight; How the changing years have fleeted, Strewing wrecks on either side, Cherished schemes have been defeated, And the cares of age abide. But when cheery Spring advances, Crowned with gems of beauty rare, Pleasure like a fairy, dances O'er the landscape everywhere, And the tide of life flows higher, Gloom's dark curtains are withdrawn, And again youth's hidden fire, Thrills me as in life's fresh dawn. JAMES McCAULEY. James McCauley was born August 23, 1809, near Mechanics Valley, in Cecil county, and received his education in the log schoolhouse in that neighborhood known as Maffit's schoolhouse. He learned the trade of a cooper with his father John McCauley. After coming of age he taught school for a few years, and then commenced making threshing machines and horse powers, doing the wood and iron work himself. In 1836 he removed to New Leeds, where he has since resided. In 1841, Mr. McCauley was appointed County Surveyor by Governor Pratt, and served in that capacity for several years and has ever since practiced land surveying with much success in all parts of Cecil county. In 1857 he was elected Register of Wills and served until the Fall of 1863. In 1864 he was elected a delegate to the General Assembly of the State, and served in the session of 1865, and the special session of 1866. Mr. McCauley has always been deeply interested in the cause of education and was chairman of the committee on that subject in the House of Delegates. While in the Legislature he was instrumental in securing the passage of the law prohibiting the sale of intoxicating liquors in Cecil county on election day. In the early part of 1868 Mr. McCauley was appointed School Commissioner, and soon afterwards Chief Judge of the Orphan's Court, to fill the vacancy caused by the death of the late Levi H. Evans, which he did with so much acceptability that he has since been elected for four terms of four years each. In 1834, Mr. McCauley married Sarah, the youngest daughter of Hugh Beard, a well-known surveyor of this county. His first wife died in 1846, leaving five children. In 1849 he married Millicent, daughter of Jacob Price, of Sassafras Neck. Mr. McCauley commenced to write poetry when a young man and has contributed poetry, but much more prose, to the newspapers of this county during the last half century. HENRY CLAY. He needs no monument, no marble pile, 'Tis vain thus to commemorate a name That must endure in noble grandeur while His country lives,--the temple of his fame. VIRTUOUS AGE. As early youth in brightness vies, With advent of the day, When Sol first opes his golden eyes, And chases night away. So may the virtuous man compare, In his declining day, With setting sun, in ev'ning fair, Passing from earth away. And though his face no more we see, He still reflects his light, And shines with glorious majesty, In other realms more bright. And still his light doth ne'er decline, But gath'ring up fresh store, Through ages yet to come, shall shine, And shine, forever more. ACROSTIC. Enraptured thoughts intuitive, Make haste to greet thy page. Melodious with sweet accord, And classic too with age. And ever may the sacred nine, Lead thee to their embrace, Inspire thy song with themes divine, Choice gems select from nature's mine, Enriched with matchless grace. Be thine a life of social joy, Removed from care and pain, On earth thy early years employ, With prospect of that gain No mortal here can realize, Eternal bliss beyond the skies. WORK TO-DAY. Youth's the time; Youth's the season! Learn and labor while you may, Hear the voice of age and reason,-- Work to-day. Labor hard in morning's prime, Hasten on without delay, Make the most of early time-- Work to-day. Up betimes, nor let the sun Find you sleeping or at play, Sleep enough when life is done-- Work to-day. Cull the sweets from ev'ry flower, Seize the moments while you may, Nor idly pass one sunny hour-- Work to-day. ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD. Dear sister, has thy little son, Been snatched from thy embrace, Thy fav'rite child, thy darling one, Has left a vacant place. His father oft with little John Beguil'd the hours away, To watch his little fav'rite son, Enjoy his childish play; For there was laughter in his eye, And health was on his cheek, I fancy that he's standing by, And almost hear him speak. The patt'ring of his little feet, In fancy's ear is heard, The music of his voice as sweet, As singing of a bird. The objects that we fondly prize, How soon they pass away, And we are left to realize, The emblems of decay. Dear sister, be resigned then, Nor let your faith grow dim, He cannot come to you again, But you can go to him. SPRING. Awake and sing, for early Spring Comes forth with beauty gay, With joy elate, both small and great Now bless the happy day. Through all the earth comes beauty forth, So sweet, so fresh and fair, And ev'ry sound that echoes round, Comes with a gladsome air. While from the hill the little rill, Comes trickling down so clear, Its bubbling voice made me rejoice, In many an early year. Along the mead where'er we tread, Will little flow'rets spring, And through the air in colors rare, Waves many a tiny wing. Back to their home, the songsters come, And gaily, blithely sing, The sun looks gay, I love the day, The sweet and early spring. HOPE. When storms arise, and tumults jar, And wreck this mortal form, There is a bright, a lovely star, That shines above the storm. 'Tis hope that buoys our spirits up, Along the chequer'd way, And when we drain the bitter cup It points a brighter day. Though all the ills of life stand by, It proffers still to save; And when the shades of death are nigh, It looks beyond the grave. AUTUMN. How sad the breath of autumn sighs, With mourning and decay; The woods are clothed in varying dyes, Of funeral array. Where beauty bloomed of late around, On mountain top and vale, Now wither'd foliage strews the ground, And tells a piteous tale. And summer birds are on the wing, Bound for a warmer sky, They greeted us in early spring-- They bid us now good bye. So pass away our early years, Youth sinks into decay, And age, like autumn soon appears, And quick we pass away. MRS. IDA McCORMICK. Mrs. Ida McCormick was born at Cameron Park, the family homestead, one mile south of the pleasant little village of Zion, Cecil county, Maryland, December 31, 1850. She is the daughter of William Cameron (of Robert,) and a cousin of Annie M. Biles; her mother Anna M. Oldham, being a sister of Catherine R. Oldham, the mother of Annie M. Darlington, whose biography may be found in this volume. She was educated at the Church-side Seminary, at Zion, and at an early age engaged in teaching in the public schools of her native county. She commenced to write poetry when quite young, and for some years occasionally contributed to the columns of the _Cecil Whig_. On the 7th of August, 1873, she married James McCormick, of Woodlawn, and for about a year after her marriage resided with her husband near that place. In 1876 the family removed to Philadelphia where they have since resided, except short intervals when traveling. MY FANCY LAND. I'm roaming to-day in a far-away land Where the roses and violets grow, Where white waves break on a silvery strand, And are lost on the cliffs below. High up in a palace of sparkling gold Where voices are hushed and still, Where lips are silent and hearts are cold, And the days are rich with a glory untold, And no one disputes my will. The walls are rich with an amber light, And waters in fountains fall, There are landscapes which vie with Italy bright, And servants within my call; There are sounds of music, bewitchingly sweet, With tender, plaintive chords, Like the patter of tiny innocent feet, Or the voices of joy when loved ones meet And their hearts speak out, their words. All day from my turret I watch the sails That fleck the sweep of the tide,-- Whose passengers all are joyous and hale, As into the harbor they ride. They enter my golden castle gate,-- They roam thro' my stately halls,-- They rest in chambers furnished in state, Then close by my glory-throne they wait, Until I shall answer their call. There are faces bright with a merry light And the music of long ago; And others dark as Lethe's night And as cold as the winter's snow. Hands that meet mine in a trusty clasp With blushes that come and go, Strangers to pain in this world so vast, With its pleasure now and sorrow at last, In the land we do not know. They are bound for this strangely mystical land So shadowy, lone and so dim, And my castle's a port on the ocean strand, Where they wait for the ferryman grim, To row them away from the silvery beach Beyond the foam of the tide, Where a palace looms far away from their reach, Whose gates are closed with a clang to each Who have chosen the pathway wide. They tell me I'm treading with careless feet This thorny, deceitful path, When the Master cometh my face to greet He will open his vials of wrath. But I turn again to the world so real, And my "Fancy Land" grows dim, Time's hand has taught me not to feel The wounds which sympathy cannot heal, And I anchor my faith in Him. WITH THE TIDE. Beneath the bright sun's dazzling ray, She watched his vessel sail away To distant, far-famed lands. Her heart was gone,--upon her hand Sparkled a diamond fair and grand, Telling in silent jubilee "His love is all the world to me." Time goes by wings,--the years flew on, The days had come,--the summers gone, And still no loved one came To feed the burning passion flame Still glowing in her heart. They told her "in another land He captive held a heart and hand And graced Dame Fashion's mart." She listened to love's second tale That came with Autumn's misty gale, And hid her heart within the fold Of satins rare, and lustrous gold, Sadness so deep, must live untold Shut in her marble palace high, Reared almost up to touch the sky. Haughty and cold her heart had grown, For wealth and glory she lived alone, Yet as oft she watched an out bound ship Its prow in foamy waters dip, The day came back when lip to lip Her heart met his in a sad farewell. Murmuring this sad and low refrain, As cold and chill as winter rain-- "He's falser than human tongue can tell." * * * * * September's sun with yellow heat, Fell burning where the waves had beat With restless motion, against the shore, And music like unto that of yore, When a tiny speck in the clouds she saw, Moving and nearing the pleasant land Quietly, swiftly, as by a law. Screening her brown eyes with her hand, She saw it strike the pebbled sand, And heard a glad shout cleave the air, And saw a noble, manly form, With locks of silvered raven hair, And a heart with love and passion warm. She held her breath in silent dread, The crimson from her soft cheek fled, Low at her feet he knelt;-- "No welcome for the leal and true? Speak, darling, speak! it is my due, Back through the years I've come to you Faithful as when I went!" "No answer still? my love, oh, why No answer to my pleading cry?" Thou'rt dead! Why have I lived for this? To gain a life of shipwrecked bliss? To distant lands to roam and then Dead lips to welcome me again? * * * * * A funeral train,--all mourners great, Pall-bearers clothed in robes of state, The form they love more fair in death Than when 'twas warmed by living breath, A haughty man with silvered hair, Among the strangers gathered there;-- A rose dropped by an unknown hand With perfume from a foreign land, Upon the casket lid,-- A ship at anchor in the bay, That in the evening bore away A form that landed yesterday. THE OLD FASHION. "The old, old fashion,--Death! Oh, thank God, all who see it, for that older fashion yet, of Immortality!" --Dickens. Despite all human passion, And all that we can do,-- There is an old, old fashion That comes to me and you. It has come to me so often That I know its meaning well, Nothing its pain can soften Nothing its power can quell. When the battle-field was silent, Gone to their final rest, Dead in their last encampment Lay the ones I loved the best. And then, when my heart was lightest, It came with a snake-like tread, And darkened the day that was brightest, Then left me with my dead. It came in the wild March weather With bluster of storm and sleet, And stilled in our home forever The patter of boyish feet. And then,--God pity my treason, When life again had smiled, It came in the holiday season And took from me my child. "Give thanks for the old, old fashion," No, that can never be. Where is the Divine compassion That God has shown to me? Fling wide each shining portal,-- Let me--a sinner through,-- Thank God for the immortal Is all that I can do. No prayer of love or passion Can give my dead to me, But I bless the old, old fashion, Of immortality. MY BABY AND THE ROSE. A rose tree grew by the garden wall, And its highest blossom was just as tall As my baby's curly head; A lovely, fragrant, perfect rose,-- But sweeter from head to dimpled toes, Was the baby I fondly led. Now summer is over and winter gone, And the winds of March are whistling on Where the rose its petals shed; No trace of rose perfumed and rare, No baby face as seraph fair, My baby sweet is dead. The summer sun will shine again, And 'neath the pattering, warm June rain, Again the rose will bloom, And so beyond these lowering skies My baby dear, with smiling eyes, Shall peer through earthly gloom, And guide me with her angel hand Through Heaven's gates,--and with me stand Away from worldly woes,-- Where Heaven's flowers, divinely sweet, Soften the path for weary feet With perfume of the rose. FOLGER McKINSEY. Folger McKinsey was born in Elkton, on the 29th of August, 1866, in the cottage on Bow street now occupied by Thomas W. Green. His early life was spent in Elkton, except a few years in childhood when his parents resided in the West and South, until 1879, when they removed to Philadelphia, taking their son with them. His paternal grandfather was a Scotchman, and his grand parents on his mother's side were Germans, from the country bordering on the Rhine. Through the marriage of his maternal great grandmother he is distantly related to Daniel Defoe, the author of Robinson Crusoe. Both his parents are persons of intellectual ability, and have written verse, his mother having been a contributor to the local newspapers of this county, and to several western journals. Mr. McKinsey received his education at the primary school of Miss Tabitha Jones, on Main street, in Elkton, where he was sent when seven years of age. Except an attendance of eight months at the public school of Elkton, he never attended any other schools. In early childhood he showed a great desire to read, and is indebted to his relative, William J. Jones, and to L. Marshall Haines and E.E. Ewing for the means of gratifying his early thirst for information. Shortly after removing to Philadelphia Mr. McKinsey entered a mercantile establishment as clerk, but soon afterwards accepted a position in the office of a publishing house, and subsequently entered the office of the Philadelphia and Reading railroad company as clerk in the record department. While in the office of the railroad company he wrote and published his first poem. It is called "Satana Victo" and is written in blank verse. Since that time he has been a prolific writer of both poetry and prose, much of which has been published. In October, 1884, Mr. McKinsey accepted the position of editor of the _Shore Gazette_, a weekly journal published at Ocean Beach, N.J., which he continued to fill for some months, when he returned to Philadelphia and accepted a position as special writer on a prominent daily journal of that city. In October, 1885, Mr. McKinsey accepted the position of associate editor of the _Cecil Whig_, which he continued to fill until the following March when he became editor of the _Daily_ and _Weekly News_, of Frederick City, Maryland. During the time he was connected with the _Whig_ he began the publication of a journal in Darby, called the _Delaware County Independent_. In January, 1886, Mr. McKinsey married Miss Fannie Holenrake Dungan, an estimable young English lady of Camden, N.J. Mr. McKinsey is a great admirer of Joaquin Miller and Walt Whitman, and a warm personal friend of the latter. Though young in years he writes with as much fluency and ease as if he had been writing poetry for half an ordinary lifetime, and gives promise of a brilliant career that will be creditable to his native town, and beneficial to the human race. WAITING THEIR CROWNS. They wait, the forest monarchs tall, In naked beauty on the hills, Until the snows of Winter fall, And icy arms embrace the rills. The golden glory of the days, When Indian Summer fills the land, Descends in gleams and dreamful haze, Like blessings from the Lord's right hand. No matin call of tardy bird, Long stayed by sunshine in the north, Above the fluttering clouds is heard. A moment's pause, then bursting forth In all the glorious sweets of song That thrill from soul to soul aflame, And die the barren hills among From whence the summer carols came. All day the leafless monarchs wave Their hoary branches high in air, And white-winged spirits guard the grave Where late they laid the Autumn fair. A sterner nature marks the land, The soft blue airs of spring-time sleep, The Summer trips it, hand in hand, With Autumn o'er the distant deep. Where lift the dim, perpetual isles Their purple ensigns of the youth That ever dimples, romps and smiles Beyond the wrinkled pale of ruth. And deep within the wooded lane The oak and pine, in plaintive call, Unto the wintry tide complain, As leaves and brown nuts constant fall. They wait their crowns, the naked kings! And down the avenues of night The frosty god, December, brings Them glistening diadems of white. White petals of the virgin snow, With sprigs of ivy here and there, They deck the forest monarch's brow, While breezes whistle through his hair. A sterner nature marks the soul, Men's lips draw near the cup of life, They wait to hear the centuries' roll That bring the kingly crowns of strife. The spring-time months and summer years Beside the Autumn days are laid, Beneath the grave of conquered fears, Beneath the sloping hill-side's shade. And deeper joy, serener faith, Spring forth the golden crowns to grasp, While death, the monarch, gently lay'th Upon their brows a kinglier clasp. They wait no more the golden crown; Men, trees, the careless days of strife, Drift onward to the far, sweet town,-- God's kingdom of eternal life. SEA ECHOES. I walk not by the sounding sea; I dwell full many leagues from shore And still an echo drifts to me Of the eternal, constant roar Of waves, that beetle past the crags And moan in weary flights of song Where wet sea moss and coral drags The shiny lengths of sand along. I see beyond the friendly vales, And grand old hills that guard my home, To where the seaward petrel sails And storm winds of the Northland moan. I live again in brighter days, New-born from dreams of the dead past, When she and I stood there to gaze At sparkling hull, and spar, and mast Of some staunch sea-craft bound amain At will of wayward wind and fate, Deep plunging in the waves to gain Some northern isle, or rich estate Of palm and pine in southward clime, Where all day long the playful air Pranks with the grizzled beard of time And paints his hoary visage fair. Within the dim, old forests here, I wander now long leagues from shore, And still the old song haunts my ear, The century singing ocean's roar; And now I know, fond soul of love; Why still the murmurous echoes live, And sound for aye the hills above That back to earth the music give; She, too, walked there in dreams with me, In love's sweet unity we trod The moon-bathed sands, and swore to be Forever true before our God. I see it still, her pale, calm face, With angel love-light in her eyes, And ever there, beside such grace, A dim, sweet token of surprise. Oh, tender touch of one soft hand! I held it then in simple trust, Alas, ye waves that lick the sand! How long has that hand lain in dust? I see her soul in yonder star, I see the soft lines of her face, And could God so unkindly mar That angel beauty and its grace? Roll, murmuring echoes of the sea! Repeat thy sweet, immortal moan, Drift ever inland unto me Within my sunny Southern home; And it shall be a tender dream-- Thy plaintive music thrilling me, And her star face above--shall seem Like other days beside the sea When our lips touched eternally. WHERE FANCY DWELLS. The sea winds blow from western isles, From isles where fancy dwells and peace. Where summer sunshine softly smiles And perfumes of the far off east Float over waves white-capped with foam That glisten in the pale sweet light Shed from the far eternal dome Where fair star faces paint the night. Life must have rest sometime, somewhere, On land or wave its peace shall be, And I have found my life's fond share In yon fair isle of Hebride; In yon fair isle where all day long The sunlight shadows drift and float And all the world seems bathed in song Borne trembling from the skylark's throat. O! isle of peace, the waves that kiss Thy beaches all the centuries through, Flow from mysterious founts of bliss From founts o'er run with sunny dew, And o'er thy tree-tops lazily The perfumed breezes come and go With odors from that far countree Where eglantine and jessamine grow. Fair isle of summer, isle of love, Where souls forget their bitter strife And mingled sadnesses that move In tempests o'er the sea of life; I kiss thy fair shore with my knee, And lift a thankful heart to God, For perfect joy comes unto me Where thy trees' blossomed branches nod. Thy long sea waves float in beyond The dim blue lines of sunlit sky, Where films of cloudy lacework frond The billows tumbling mountain high; And shoreward in the still sweet eve The low songs of the mermaids drift, As in some coral grot they weave Their seaweed robes, and sometimes lift Their long, strong, tangled lengths of hair Above the bosom of the wave, While 'mid its golden meshes fair The distant sunbeams stoop to lave. Sweet isle of fancy, far beyond The dark dim vales of human woe, My bark of love sails o'er the fond Blue waves that ever shoreward flow. My bark sails on the unknown sea Led by a large, pale star alone, That star wherein her face may be, Who to that better land hath gone. O, never turn, brave white-sailed ship, Again towards that barren shore But bear me on the waves that dip And kiss yon isle forevermore. Sweet day of rest when toil is past, When hearts can lay their burdens by And feel the peace God's angels cast In isleward flights from his fair sky! Sweet isle of love where fancy dwells, And nature knows no pang of care, I hear the music of its bells Far floating on the evening air. I hear the lonely shepherd's song Flow down the green and mossy vale, And westward all the calm night long The restless sea gulls sail. I sometimes turn towards the stars With sudden shock of glad surprise, And half believe these island bars Are but the gates to Paradise. AT KEY'S GRAVE. I stood one summer, friend, beside The foam waves of a distant sea That muttered all the summer through A low sweet threnody. A mournful song was ever on The lips that it were death to kiss, A song for those who died as died The brave at ancient Salamis. A thousand graves lay in the trough Of that great ocean of the East, A thousand souls fled through its foam Towards the starlit land of peace. And for each ship-wrecked soul that slept Beneath the dark inconstant waves The wind gave songs in memory Of men true-hearted, pure and brave. But I have stood, sweet-singer, by Thy lonely, unmarked grave to-day, And all the songs thy memory got Came from the branches in their sway. Ah, peace! ah, love! ah, friendship true! No wreath rests here wove by your hands To mark the Poet's silent tomb. As tombs are marked in other lands. But in my noon-day dream there came From the fair bosom of the hills The voice of some sweet psalmist, thus-- "'Tis so God wills, 'tis so God wills." THE ETERNAL LIFE. I care not for the life that is, I think not of the things that are; I live, oh! soul of tenderness, Beneath an angel blessedness That draws its light from one small star. I know not if the world be ill, I care not for its throb of pain, I live, oh heart, in fellowship With other hearts that rise and dip In the great sea that floods the main From east to west with tides of love-- The ocean of Eternal Life, Whose waves flow ever free and warm From land of snow to land of palm And heal the naked wounds of strife. I only know God's law is just, And that is all we need to know, I live down creeds of hate and spite, I build the nobler creeds of right That beautify our beings so. The days are brief that come apace, When morn wakes up and night sinks down, But far beyond the hills of jet The glory of the sweet sunset Lights all the steeples of the town Within whose walls no sadness lives, No broken hearts, no simple strife, For that I live, oh soul of faith, For that whereof the Master saith "Here find eternal love and life." MRS. ROSALIENE ROMULA MURPHY. Mrs. Rosaliene Romula Murphy, daughter of John and Hannah Mooney, was born in Philadelphia, May, 1, 1838, and married Thomas H.P. Murphy, son of John C. and Ann Rothwell Murphy, and grandson of Hyland Price, of Cecil county, on the 18th of May, 1858. Her education was obtained at a school taught by the Sisters of Mercy, and at the public schools of her native city. Immediately after her marriage Mrs. Murphy came to Cecil county, and for ten years resided near the head of Bohemia river; subsequently she has resided in Middletown, Delaware, in Chester county, Pennsylvania, and for the last ten years in Philadelphia. Mr. and Mrs. Murphy are the parents of eight children, four of whom are now living. From early childhood Mrs. Murphy has shown a remarkable aptitude for literary work, and when quite a little girl at school, frequently took the highest average for composition. She commenced to write for the press at an early age and while in this county contributed poetry to the columns of the local newspapers and some of the journals of Wilmington and Philadelphia. WOMAN'S RIGHTS. Woman has certain rights I own, That none will dare deny; No king nor senate can destroy Her claims,--nor will they try. 'Tis hers to smooth the homeward path Of age,--her strength their stay; To guide their feeble footsteps here,-- To brush life's thorns away. 'Tis hers to make a sunny home, To cherish and support With love, the one who claims her heart, Through good and bad report. To watch the tiny sleeping babe, Just nestling in her breast, To shield it with her mother-love, And guard it in its rest. To watch in vigils of the night, The fever-tossed frame; To cool the dry, and parched lips, And ease the racking pain. To close the eyes when all is o'er, To weep with those who weep; To help the weary in their task, Keep guard whilst others sleep. To love and cherish, guard, protect, Make home a sunny spot-- Keep ever pure her mother name, A name not soon forgot! To win and wear her husband's love, As an honored, cherished crest; To hold her children's hearts, so "they Will rise and call her bless'd." To nobly share the widow's woe, To dry the orphan's tears, To pray for strength for hearts oppress'd, And help allay their fears; To reach a helping, loving hand, To those who go astray, And woo them back again to God, As they faint along the way. She claims but loving trusting hearts!-- Let all their wealth be shown!-- No law can take, nor ballot give The jewels of her crown! These, these, are all a woman's rights-- Quite easy to attain-- For most she governs, it is said, "When least she seems to reign." ONLY A BABY. My way was stopped, as I hurried on, A carriage pass'd--and again 'twas clear, But my glance took in the tiny box, And the mourners bending near. "Only a baby"--was lightly said-- As I safely crossed the street, But my heart went with the little group, With their darling at their feet. "Only a baby,"--God but knows The mother's bleeding heart; And the father's white, sad face would tell, How hard it is to part. "Only a baby!" what a void, In a merry, cheery home; An empty cradle, a half worn shoe; And a mother's broken tone. "Only a baby!" the aching eyes Look out on the busy street, And fall on other laughing babes, And the silent form at her feet. "Only a baby!" a desolate home, Those stricken hearts will know, When they lay their darling down to rest, 'Neath the willows bending low. "Only a baby!" how cold it seemed To speak of the angel near,-- My heart went after the snowy form. For its parents I breathed a prayer: "Only a baby!" ah, the weary day And the sleepless night, The feverish longing--the aching heart-- For the baby gone from sight! "Only a baby!" the heart sobs out, What hopes lie shatter'd here, The broken bud--the tiny frame, An angel hovering near. "Only a baby!"--the years creep by-- 'Twill ever be, tho' locks be gray; Growing no older--only their babe; As years before it passed away. TO HELEN, ON WRITING A SECOND TIME IN HER ALBUM. You plucked a grey hair from my head, To-day, as you stood near me: There's plenty more, that are deftly hid By wavy crimps,--I fear me. 'Tis many years since last I wrote, With fun, and spirits plenty; But now my fourth son has a vote, And my babe's not far from twenty. Ah! so it goes; old time strides on, Nor cares for years, and worries, But knocks us here; and hits us there, As past us quick he hurries; We still are friends, and have our fun, In spite of years, and trouble; We've planted, reaped, and had our day. And now we're in the stubble. RACHEL ELIZABETH PATTERSON. Rachel Elizabeth Patterson, better known as Lizzie Patterson, is the daughter of William Patterson and Sarah (Catts) Patterson, and was born in Port Deposit, February 2, 1820. She is also the granddaughter of an Englishman who settled on Taylor's Island, in Chesapeake Bay, where he owned considerable property, which by some means seems to have been lost by his family. Her father at one time kept a clothing store in Port Deposit, where he died when the subject of this sketch was quite young, leaving a family of helpless children, who were soon scattered among strangers. Elizabeth was placed in a family residing a short distance south of the village of Rising Sun. While in this family she was seized with a violent illness, which confined her to bed for many months and from which she arose a cripple and a sufferer for life. Her poetic talent began to manifest itself in those early days of suffering, and during subsequent years of confinement she found solace and recreation by composing her "Songs in Affliction," which about thirty years ago, in accordance with the advice of her friends, she published in a small volume bearing that name. The first edition consisted of eight hundred, and was so well received as to warrant the publication of another one of five hundred copies. In 1872 she published another small volume, entitled "The Little Streamlet," which contained some poems written since the publication of the first volume. Miss Patterson at present and for many years past has resided in Baltimore. "JUDGE NOT!" How, poor frail and erring mortal, Darest thou judge thy fellow-man And with bitter words and feelings, All his faults and frailties scan? Why rake out from time's dull ashes, And before the world display Deeds, it may be, long repented And forgiven, ere this day? Canst thou search his secret feelings? Canst thou read his inmost soul? Canst thou tell the hidden motives Which his actions here control? Is he erring? seek in kindness, Then, to win him back to peace; Is he weak? oh try to strengthen; Sad? then bid his sorrows cease! Lay thou not a heavier burden By an unkind look or word, On a heart which may by anguish To its inmost depths be stirred. O! forbear thy hasty judging! Should thy righteous God demand Half the justice which thy brother Is receiving from thy hand, What, oh what would be thy portion, Though more righteous thou than he, Would not the glad gates of mercy Soon their portals close on thee? THE WISH. I do not wish thee worldly wealth-- For it may flee away; I do not wish thee beauty's charms-- For they will soon decay. I do not wish for thee the joys Which from earth's pleasures spring; These give at best a fleeting bliss, And leave a lasting sting. I do not wish thee mortal fame-- This, like a meteor bright, Gleams but a moment on the sky, And leaves behind no light. I wish for thee that richer wealth, No earthly mines reveal, "Which moth and rust cannot corrupt, And thief can never steal." I wish for thee the sweeter joys, Which from religion flow; These have the power to soothe and bless, In hours of deepest woe. I wish for thee the honor pure, Descending from on high; To lift thy soul away from earth, And raise it to the sky. I wish that peace through all thy life, May on each step attend; May rapture crown its closing hour, And perfect bliss its end. THE CHRISTIAN'S ANCHOR. How oft when youthful skies are clear, And joy's sweet breezes round us play, We dream that as through life we steer, The morrow shall be like to-day. We paint each scene with rainbow hues, And gaily sail on stormless seas, While hope, through life's bright future, views The port she thinks to make with ease. But ah! how soon dark clouds of woe Spread o'er those skies a deepening shade, And waves of sorrow overflow, And all the rainbow glories fade. 'Tis thus earth's hopes, however bright, Expire and vanish, one by one, E'en as the shore recedes from sight, When glides the free bark swiftly on. Yet the redeemed, with anchor firm, Time's swelling billows shall outride, And far beyond the raging storm Shall make the port on Canaan's side. Oh, may this bright and blissful hope Fill my poor heart with joy and peace, Bid me 'mid all life's storms look up To yon blest land, where storms shall cease. And when with life's last gale I've striven, And all its raging waves have pass'd, Oh, may I, in the port of heaven, My anchor Hope securely cast. CALLANDER PATTERSON. Callander Patterson was born near Perryville, Cecil county, May 6, 1820. His education was obtained at the common schools of the neighborhood. Many years ago he went to Philadelphia, where he studied dentistry, which he has since practiced in that city. Mr. Patterson commenced writing poetry when quite young, but published nothing until upwards of forty years of age. His poetry--of which he has written much--seems to have been of a religious character. Owing to causes beyond our control, the following poem is the only one, adapted to this book, that we have been able to obtain. GOD IS GREAT. Our God is great! and to his arm I'll trust my destiny; For what in life or death can harm The soul that leans on thee? Thine arm supports the universe, For by thy might alone The blazing comets speed their course, Revolving round thy throne. They go and come at thy command To do thy sovereign will; Each one supported by thy hand, Its mission to fulfill. Through boundless space, 'mid shining spheres, Those wingless heralds fly; Proclaiming through the lapse of years That God still reigns on high. And all those burning suns of night That light the distant space, Declare thy power infinite, Thy wisdom and thy grace. We try to scan those regions far Till vision fades away, And yet beyond the utmost star Are plains of endless day. And when we earthward turn our gaze, With wonder and delight, We marvel at the lightning's blaze And tremble at its might. And yet, thy hand is in it all, For there thy love is seen: By it the rain is made to fall, And earth is robed in green. The cyclone on its path of death That rises in an hour, The fierce tornadoes' wildest breath, But faintly show thy power. And though the laws are yet unknown That guide them in their path, They are the agents of thy throne For mercy, or for wrath. Thus I behold thy wondrous arm And own thy works divine: Then what in life or death can harm So long as thou art mine? TOBIAS RUDULPH. Tobias Rudulph, the subject of this sketch, was the third person of that name and was the grandson of the Tobias Rudulph, who was one of four brothers who emigrated from Prussia and settled in Cecil county early in the eighteenth century. For many years the family took a conspicuous part in public affairs. Tobias Rudulph's uncle and his uncle's cousin Michael, the son of Jacob, and the uncle of Mrs. Lucretia Garfield, very early in the Revolutionary war joined a company of Light Horsemen, which was recruited in this county and served with great bravery and distinction in Light Horse Harry Lee's Legion in his Southern campaigns. They were called the Lions of the Legion. John Rudulph won the title of "Fighting Jack" by his courage and audacity, both of which essential requisites of a good soldier he seems to have possessed in a superabundant degree. Tobias, the subject of this sketch, was born in Elkton, in the old brick mansion two doors east of the court house, on December 8, 1787. He was the oldest of four children, namely: Zebulon, a sketch of whose life appears in this volume; Anna Maria, who married James Sewell; and Martha, who married the Reverend William Torbert. Anna Maria is said to have been a poetess of no mean ability, but owing to the state of literature in this county at the time she wrote, none of her poetry, so far as we have been able to learn was published, and after diligent search we have been unable to find any of her manuscript. Tobias studied law with his mother's brother, James Milner, who resided in Philadelphia, where he practiced law,--but who subsequently became a distinguished Presbyterian minister and Doctor of Divinity--and was admitted to the Elkton Bar and practiced his profession successfully until the time of his death which occurred in the Fall of 1828. He was a man of fine ability and amused himself when he had leisure in courting the Muses, but owing to his excessive modesty published nothing now extant except "Tancred, or The Siege of Antioch," a drama in three acts, which was printed in Philadelphia, in 1827. Owing to the fact that simultaneously with its publication, a drama of the same name by another author appeared as a candidate for literary favor, Mr. Rudulph--though his work was highly commended by Joseph Jefferson the elder, then in the height of his dramatic career, through the foolish fear that he might he accused of plagiarism--suppressed his drama and never allowed it to be introduced upon the stage. Mr. Rudulph married Maria Hayes. They were the parents of four children, Amelia, James, Anna Maria and Tobias. The two first mentioned are dead, the others reside in Elkton. Until a very recent period the family spelled the name Rudulph, which spelling has been followed in this work, though the name is now generally spelled Rudolph. SELECTION FROM TANCRED. Tancred was the son of the Marquis of Odo, surnamed the good, and Emma, the sister of Robert Guiscard who figured conspicuously in the wars which distracted Europe just previous to the first Crusade, which occurred under the leadership of Peter, the Hermit, and Walter, the Penniless, in A.D. 1096. The scene of the drama is laid at Antioch in 1097. A historian of the Crusades in speaking of the siege of Antioch, says that the wealth of the harvest and the vintage spread before them its irresistible temptations, and the herds feeding in the rich pastures seemed to promise an endless feast. The cattle, the corn and the wine were alike wasted with besotted folly, while the Turks within the walls received tidings of all that passed in the crusading camps from some Greek and Armenian christians to whom they allowed free egress and ingress. Of this knowledge they availed themselves in planing sallies by which they caused great distress to the Crusaders. The following extract comprises the third scene of the first act and is laid in the camp of the Crusaders--the chiefs being in council. DRAMATIS PERSONAE. _Godfrey_ of Bouillon, Duke of Lorraine. _Alexius_, Emperor of Greece. _Bohemond_, Prince of Tarentum. _Tancred_. _Raymond_, Count of Thoulouse. Alex. The truce being ended, I propose, my friends, To-morrow we should storm the walls of Antioch-- What say my worthy allies?-- Boh. If any here so base and cowardly, As to give other counsel, let him speak.-- Ray. I have known those, who foremost to advise, Were yet the last to venture on the battle.-- Boh. What means the Count of Thoulouse?-- Ray. Simply this;-- That some men thoughtlessly sit down to eat, Without having first obtained an appetite.-- Boh. By the Holy Sepulchre I swear, That knight must have some stomach who maintains, What you have just now utter'd-- [Throws down his gauntlet.] There lays my guage-- If you will wear my glove, choose with what arms We shall decide this quarrel.-- [Raymond advances to take up the glove.] God. Hold, Thoulouse, let it lay.-- I do impeach Bohemond of Tarentum of base wiles, And treachery most foul, to knighthood's cause-- Boh. Why then take you the glove.-- God. In mine own cause I do accept the challenge.-- [Takes up the glove.] Alex. Is our league dissolv'd, and shall the holy cause For which embattled Europe is in arms, Be idly given to the scorn of men, To gratify our passions and vile feuds?-- But speak Lorraine, for you have heretofore Been held the mediator in these jars-- Upon what quarrel do you thus arraign Bohemond of Tarentum?-- God. A gorgeous canopy, a present from The gov'nor of Armenia I have lost-- By what base means, Bohemond best can tell.-- Boh. True he can tell--and briefly thus it is-- I won the silken bauble in a fight, And claim it as my spoil.-- God. You basely stole The treasure of a friend--Pancrates had The conduct of the present to my camp; You coward-like surprised him on the way, And robb'd him of my prize.-- Boh. (Contemptuously) Well be it so-- I stole it, and will keep it-- You may keep the glove.-- Alex. Christians, forbear, the Infidels will laugh, To know a silken toy has broke our league, And sav'd the Sepulchre--It must not be, My friends, that private discord shall cut short The work we have begun--Bohemond, no-- Restore the treasure to its rightful Lord, And my pavilion shall replace the spoil.-- Boh. I do consent--provided Godfrey will Return my glove to the brave Count of Thoulouse-- Alex. That's nobly done Bohemond--but the war 'Twixt you and Thoulouse, is a war of words-- Like two pert game cocks picking at a straw, You doubt each other's courage--then make proof Upon the Paynim forces if you please, Which is the braver man--To-morrow's field Will afford ample scope to try your blades Upon the common enemy of each, And leave unscathed his ally--I propose, That he who first shall scale the citadel, And plant the Red-Cross banner on the walls, Shall be rewarded with the victor's prize, And hold the government of Antioch-- What says the council?-- All the Chiefs. We are all agreed.-- (Bohemond and Raymond advance and shake hands in apparent token of agreement.) [Enter a Greek Messenger.] Mes. The Persian succors are but one day's march, Beyond the Orontes.-- God. Why let them come and help to bury then, Their Paynim brothers.--Friends, I give you joy-- Curse on my fortune, I do much regret The iv'ry tushes of that ruthless boar, Will keep me from the contest for fair fame.-- Bohemond, you shall lead my Frisons on-- And doubt not but you'll win the prize from Thoulouse.-- Boh. I thank your grace. ZEBULON RUDULPH. Zebulon Rudulph was the second son of Tobias Rudulph, an account of whose family is given elsewhere in this volume. He was born in Elkton, June 28, 1794. Though well remembered by some of the older residents of the place of his nativity who knew him when they were young, but little is known of his early life except that he was possessed of a kind heart and an affable disposition; and appears to have been more given to the cultivation of his literary tastes, than to the practice of those utilitarian traits which had they been more highly developed, would have enabled him to have reaped a richer pecuniary harvest than fell to his lot from the cultivation of the others. For a time in early manhood Mr. Rudulph was engaged in merchandising in Elkton, and subsequently became the first agent of the Philadelphia, Wilmington and Baltimore Railroad Company in that town, which office he held from the time the company commenced business in 1837, until 1840 or '41, when he removed to Memphis, Tennessee, where in 1847 he published a small volume of 247 pages entitled "Every Man's Book; or, the Road to Heaven Staked Out; being a Collection of Holy Proofs Alphabetically Arranged as a Text Book for Preachers and Laymen of all Denominations." Mr. Rudulph was a Universalist, and the object of the book was to inculcate the tenets of that denomination. Mr. Rudulph remained in Memphis for a few years and subsequently removed to Izard county, Arkansas, where he died a short time before the commencement of the war of the rebellion. He was a voluminous writer, and the author of a large number of fugitive poems, many of which are said to have been quite humorous and possessed of much literary merit. Very few of his poems have been preserved, which is much regretted for the reason that it is highly probable that those extant do not fully set forth the poetical ability of their author. The following poems except the one entitled "Thoughts on the Death of his grandchild Fanny," were published in _The Elkton Courier_ nearly half a century ago. THE SURPRISE. At twilight one ev'ning, a poor old man, Whose tattered cloak had once seen better days, (That now were dwindled to the shortest span:) Whose rimless, crownless hat provoked the gaze Of saucy urchins and of grown-up boys: Whose hoary locks should e'er protect from scorn, One who had ceased to court earth's fading joys,-- Knock'd at a door, thus lonely and forlorn. A pilgrim's staff supported his frail form, Whilst tremblingly he waited at the door; And feeble tho' he seemed, he feared not harm, For 'neath his cloak a trusty sword he bore. A menial came, and thus he spoke:--'Away! Old man, away! seek not to enter here: We feed none such as you: so hence! I say:-- Perhaps across the street you'll better fare.' In broken accents now the pilgrim plead-- 'Friend, I have journeyed far; from lands abroad; And bear a message from the absent dead, To one who dwells in this august abode. Thy mistress,--fair Beatrice,--dwells she here? If so, quick, bring me to her instantly; For I have speech that fits her private ear Forthwith: none else my words shall hear but she.' Now, ushered thro' the spacious hall, he passed Into a gorgeous room, where sat alone, Beatrice fair; who, on the pilgrim cast Inquiring looks, and scarce suppressed a groan. 'Be seated, aged father;' thus she said: 'And tell me whence you are, and why you seek A private conf'rence with a lonely maid Whose sorrows chase the color from her cheek. 'If true it is, from distant lands you come, Mayhap from Palestine you wend your way; If so, be silent, be forever dumb, Or else, in joyful accents, quickly say, That all is well with one most dear to me, Who, two long years ago, forsook his home, And now forgets his vows of constancy, For bloody wars in distant lands to roam.' As if to dash a tear, he bends his head, And sighing, thus the weary pilgrim speaks: 'Alas! my words are few,--thy friend is dead!'-- As monumental marble pale, she shrieks, And falls into the aged pilgrim's arms; Who, justly filled with terror and dismay, In speechless wonder, gazed upon her charms, As, inwardly he seemed to curse the day. But, slowly she revives--when, quick as light, His cloak and wig are instantly thrown by-- And what is that that greets her 'wildered sight? Ah! whose fond gaze now meets her longing eye?-- Her own dear Alfred, from the wars returned, Had chosen thus to steal upon his love:-- And whilst his kisses on her cheek now burned, He vow'd to her, he never more would rove. THOUGHTS, ON THE DEATH OF MY GRANDCHILD FANNY. And all wept and bewailed her: but He said, weep not; she is not dead, but sleepeth. --Luke 8:52. Oh true, "she is not dead, but sleepeth--" Her dust alone is here; The spirit pure that Heavenward leapeth, Hath gone to bliss fore'er. 'Twas but a fragile flower that lent Its sweets to earth a day; From Heaven's parterre 'twas kindly sent, But 'twas not here to stay. Weep not, fond mother, that lost one; 'Tis clasped in angel's arms-- From earth's dread trials passed and gone, 'Tis decked in seraph's charms. See how it beckons thee to come, And taste its rapture there;-- No longer linger o'er that tomb-- To join it let's prepare. THE DECREE. And the king said, bring me a sword. And they brought a sword before the king. And the king said, divide the living child in two, and give half to the one, and half to the other. Then spake the woman whose the living child was unto the king, for her bowels yearned upon her son, and she said, O my lord give her the living child, and in no wise slay it. --I Kings 3:24-36. Hark! did you not hear that loud shriek? Ah! do you not see that wild eye? List--do you hear that mother speak For her son that is doom'd to die? Behold the eloquence of love! A mother for her child distress'd: A gush of feeling from above Invades and fills her yearning breast. That flood of tears,--those wringing hands, Mark her abandonment of soul, As, list'ning to the king's commands, Her grief refuses all control. My child! my child!--(tho' she betray it,) "The living child" give to my foe! 'Where is my child?--Oh! do not slay it! Let me my arms around it throw!' Thus nature's impulse bursting forth, Reveals the mother's kindred blood, And stamps upon her claim the truth: Whilst foil'd the guilty claimant stood. Such love breathes not in courts, where meet Soft, studied ease and pamper'd vice: As soon you'll find the genial heat Of nature's sun in fields of ice! And that fond soul was one like she Who bathed the Saviour's feet with tears: And hers, like Mary's ecstasy, Flows from the influence of prayers: For, Solomon had sought of God Not hoards of wealth, nor "length of days:" But holy unction from His rod, The bright indwelling of Truth's rays. A VIEW FROM MOUNT CARMEL. And Elijah went up to the top of Carmel; and he cast himself down upon the earth, and put his face between his knees. And said to his servant, 'Go up now, look towards the sea.' And he went up, and looked, and said, 'There is nothing.' And he said, Go again seven times. And it came to pass at the seventh time, that he said, behold, there ariseth a little cloud out of the sea, like a man's hand. --I Kings 18:42,41. Up Carmel's wood-clad height an aged prophet slowly creeps, And sadly drags his weary limbs o'er rocks and mossgrown steeps. He bows himself upon the earth, "his face between his knees," And thus he to his servant speaks, beneath the lofty trees. "Go further up this craggy steep, and seaward look, I pray--" His faithful servant goes, and strains his vision towards that way, But says "there's nothing."--"Go sev'n times," the prophet says "for me,--" And on the seventh time, behold! arising from the sea, A little cloud, as 'twere, no bigger than a human hand,-- But swiftly, darkly spreading o'er the parched, thirsty land, It widely displays its threatening armies thro' the sky, Its lurid lightnings flash in forked streaks upon the eye. Like countless fiery serpents thro' the troubled air, Whilst loud the roaring thunder bursts amid the flaming glare; And rage the winds, uprooting mountain oaks before the view,-- Refreshing show'rs descend, and quick the fainting earth renew. Scarcely could Israel's monarch in his chariot reach his court, Ere nature's pent up elements broke forth in airy sport, And to earth (which for three long years had known nor rain nor dew,) The long desired drops, their welcome downward course pursue. Once more Samaria's people gladly tune their harps and sing The praises of Jehovah, God, the everlasting King:-- Once more, the voice of gladness sounds where naught but anguish dwelt; There, once again, the gush of rapture, absent long, is felt! MRS. ALICE COALE SIMPERS. Mrs. Alice Coale Simpers was born in the old brick mansion known as "Traveler's Repose," a short distance south of Harrisville, in the Sixth district of Cecil county, on the first day of December, 1843. The Coale family of which Mrs. Simpers is a member, trace their descent from Sir Philip Blodgett, a distinguished Englishman, who settled in Baltimore shortly after its foundation, and are related to the Matthews, Worthingtons, Jewetts, and other leading families of Harford county. On her mother's side she is related to the Jacksons, Puseys, and other well-known Friends of Chester county, Pennsylvania, and Wilmington, Delaware. Mrs. Simpers' early education was received at Waring's Friends' School, near the village of Colora, which was kept up by a few families of Friends in the neighborhood. She also attended the State Normal School in Baltimore, and qualified herself for teaching in the public schools of the State, in which she taught for about ten years in Cecil county, and also in Dorchester county. She also taught school in the State of Illinois with great acceptability and success. When Mrs. Simpers was quite young her father removed his family to the banks of the romantic Octoraro, near Rowlandville, and within less than two miles of the birth-place of the two poetic Ewings and the late John Cooley, and the romantic spot where Mrs. Hall lived when she wrote the poems which are published in this volume. The soul-inspiring beauty of this romantic region seems to have had the same effect upon her mind as it had upon the other persons composing the illustrious quintette, of which she is a distinguished member, and when only seventeen years of age she began to write poetry. At the solicitation of her friend, E.E. Ewing, she sent the first poem she published to him, who gave it a place in _The Cecil Whig_, of which he was the editor and proprietor. In 1875 Mrs. Simpers began to write for the New York _Mercury_, which then numbered among its contributors Ned Buntline, Harriet Prescott, George Marshall, George Arnold, Bayard Taylor, W. Scott Way, and many other distinguished writers with whom she ranked as an equal in many respects, and many of whom she excelled as a brilliant satirist and pathetic painter of the quaint and the beautiful. For ten years she continued to contribute letters, essays, stories and poems to the _Mercury_, and to advocate the claims of her sex to the right of suffrage, in which she still continues to be a firm believer. Mrs. Simpers has also contributed largely to the _Woman's Journal_ and other periodicals. Though possessed of a brilliant poetic genius, Mrs. Simpers is best known as a writer of prose; and, in addition to the large quantity of matter she has contributed to the newspaper press, is the author of a story of about two hundred pages illustrative of the principles and practices and exemplifying the social life of the Friends, for which she received a prize of two hundred dollars. This story was highly spoken of by Dr. Shelton McKenzie, with whom she was on terms of intimacy for some years immediately before his death, and also by many other distinguished writers. On the 22d of February, 1879, the subject of this sketch married Captain John G. Simpers, who served with distinction in the Second Regiment Delaware Volunteers in the war of the rebellion. They, at the time of writing this sketch, reside near the summit of Mount Pleasant, and within a short distance of the birth-place of Emma Alice Browne. THE MILLER'S ROMANCE. The miller leaned o'er the oaken door, Quaint shadows swung on the dusty floor, The spider toiled in the dust o'erhead, With restless haste, and noiseless speed, Like one who toils for sorest need-- Like one who toils for bread. "Ha!" says the miller, "does he pause to hark-- Hark! Hark! Hark! To the voice of the waters, down in the dark-- Dark! Dark! Dark! Turning the lumbering, mumbling wheel; Which moans and groans as tho't could feel?" "Ha!" laughed the miller, "he pauses not and why-- In the sunshine pausing and musing I? When the spiteful waves seem to repeat-- Repeat! Repeat! Repeat! The hateful word deceit-- Deceit! Deceit! Deceit" "Nay," mused the miller, "their musical drip-- Drip! Drip! Drip! Is like to naught but the trip-- Trip! Trip! Trip! In the dance of her fairy feet, Or her rippling-laughter cool and sweet!" * * * * * Once more, The miller leans o'er the oaken door. Still play the shadows upon the floor, Still toils the spider overhead; Like one who toils for daily bread-- "Since the red lips unto me have lied The spell hath lost its power, For never a false heart brings my bride Whatever else her dower!" And louder yet the waves repeat Their burthen old, deceit, deceit! * * * * * In flocks of brown, the leaves haste down, And floods, in the wild March weather; While the mill, the miller, and the miller's love dream, Have all grown old together! THE LAST TIME. We shall see the daylight breaking, Watch the rosy dawn awaking; We shall see the twilight fading-- Adown the path the elms are shading, For the last, last time. We shall see the blossoms swelling, Watch the spring-bird build his dwelling, See the dead leaves downward sailing, While the Autumn winds are wailing, For the last, last time. We shall hear the song of pleasure, Join the dance's merry measure; Shrink and dread the form of sorrow, Which may meet us on the morrow, For the last, last time. We shall feel hates' venomed dart Aimed to pierce the inmost heart; We shall know love's sweet caressing, Breathed from lips our own are pressing, For the last, last time. But in that land where we are going, Where the skies are ever glowing; In that fair and fadeless clime, Never comes the last, last time. ONLY A SIMPLE MAID! And this is the end of it all! It rounds the years completeness, Though only a walk to the stile Through fields a-foam with sweetness. Only the sunset light, Purple and red on the river, Only a calm "good night," That means good bye forever! I can only go back to my simple ways-- To my homely household cares; And yet,--and yet--in after days I shall think of you in my prayers. We can bear so much in youth; Who cares for a swift sharp pain? The two-edged sword of truth Cuts deep, but leaves no stain, And over the ways we have trod together, My foot shall fall as lightly, As though my heart were a feather. Only a woman's heart, strong to have and to keep; Patient when children cry, Soft to lull them to sleep; Glad when another delving hand Finds a gem to wear on the breast, While hers found only sand; Good bye, but as oft as the blossoms come, The peach with its waxen pink, The waving snow of the plum; I shall think how I used to wait And watch--so happy to see you pass, I could almost kiss your shadow As it fell on the dewy grass. A love is but half a love, That contents itself with less Than love's utmost faith and truth And love's unwavering tenderness. Only this walk to the stile-- This parting word by the river; It seems to me whatever shall go or come-- Memory shall hold forever! Sweetheart, good bye, good bye, After all--drear poverty and toil For the rich, red flower of love to grow, Were but a cold and barren soil: And so, good bye, good bye! THE MYSTIC CLOCK. A NEW YEAR'S POEM. "Warden, wind the clock again! Mighty years are going on Through the shadows, joy and pain, And the happy hearted dawn." High within Time's temple hoar Doth this mystic timepiece stand, And when'er twelve moons have vanished The clock is wound by unseen hand; But we hear the pinions rushing Through the storied air o'erhead, And our hearts grow sick and silent With throbs of fear and dread; For the temple seemeth crowded With still forms all white and shrouded, Like the pale, uncoffined dead; Stirs the startled soul within With a grief too deep for tears, Bowing with a mighty anguish-- O'er our dead and wasted years. * * * * * "Warden, wind the clock again!" O'er the horologe's mystic dial, Watch the sweep of shadowy ages Ere the pens of seers and sages Wrote men's deeds on fadeless pages. But lo! the warden winds again-- And see yon radiant star arise Flaming in the Orient skies; Hear the grand, glad, chorus ringing, Which the joyous hosts are singing, To the humble shepherds, keeping Patient watch, while kings are sleeping! See the wise men in the manger, Bow before the Heavenly stranger! Lowliest born beneath the sun! Yet He the jeweled throne shall banish, And the sword and sceptre vanish, Ere His given work be done! * * * * * "Warden, wind the clock again!" But in vain the charge is given, For see the mighty Angel stand, One foot on sea, and one on land, Swearing with uplifted hand, Nevermore in earth or heaven Shall the mystic key be found Or the mighty clock be wound! "RUBE" AND "WILL." AN EPISODE RELATED BY AUNT SHEBA. He'ah dat ole gray sinna H's jes brimful o' gas, Singin' dat tomfool ditty As he goes hobblin' pas'! He betta be prayin' and mebbe H'll git in de fold at las'! Yes, he's gwine to de grabe up yonder By de trees dar on de hill, Where all alone by hisself one day He buried po' massa Will! You see dey war boys togedder; To-day dey'd cuss an' fight; But dey'd make it up to-morrow And hunt fur coons at night. It wasn't much ob a massa, Ole missus made you see! Folks sed, "dem Walden niggas Mought about as well be free." Once dey went fur de turkeys, Dat's Rube and Massa Will, Wid roastin' ears fur stuffin', Made a barbecue behind de mill! But dey couln'd keep it secret, Ole missus found 'm out, An' she vow'd to sell dat nigga-- He was a thievin' lazy lout, He was a ruinin' Massa Willum; Dat fac', she said, was plain; She'd sell him! On her plantation He'd never set his foot again. An' suah befo' de sun next day went down. To take dat nigga Reuben A trader had cum from town. I guess she was glad to sell 'm Fur she needed de money bad, An' meant to spen' it mos'ly In de schoolin' ob her lad! But jes as dat ole trader Had slipt de han'cuffs on, We sees young massa cumin' Ridin' cross de lawn; He stopped right dar afore 'm, His face was pale as death, With all his might he shouted, Soon as he got his bref: "Take dem right off dat nigga! (and jerkin' his pistol out) Take 'em off I tell you! An' min' what you're about; Or I'll send you to de debil Faster dan you 'spec to go." Den massa trader dusted And he didn't trabbel slow. * * * * * Ah me! dem times seems like a dream, It was so long ago! Ole missus died next year, De war cum'd on at last And all de Souf lan' echoed With de joyful freedom blast. We lef' de ole plantation, We trabbled de Norf lan' thro; Chilled by de winds in Winter, In Summer drenched wid dew; But we neber cum to Canaan, Nor found de promised lan', And back to de ole plantation We cum a broken ban'. But Rube had stayed heah faithful, Stayed by his massa's side, And nussed him in de fever Till in his arms he died; But de freedum star in Hebben, It brightens year by year, An' our chillun has foun' de Canaan, Oh yes! des foun' it here; So I don't care what you call us, De tribes ob Sham or Hem, Dat blessed lan' o' promise, Has come right home to dem. THE LEGEND OF ST. BAVON! Shaded lights were burning low-- Muffled bells swung to and fro-- Solemn monks were chanting slow-- Chanting of the Crucified; When the good St. Bavon died. Oft had he trod the jeering street, With bare and bleeding feet; Leaving crimson-flecked the snow In memory of his Master's woe; With grief closed lips, sat he apart, The comrade of the dead man's heart; At last the chanting throng were gone And he was with th' dead alone; When the bare uncurtained room Grew still and ghastly like a tomb, On the icy neck he fell And begged the death-sealed lips to tell If one deed were left undone,-- That in that radiance like the sun Didst shade with grief the spirit flown, Or dim the brightness of his crown! Then heard his spirit's inmost ear A voice that he alone could hear, "A shadow walks with me akin to pain, I seek to shun it, but in vain, "For as I left the life of time, And journeyed toward th' blessed clime, I passed along that darkened shore. Where wail the lost forevermore. "As on that awful gulf I walked, A black-robed demon with me talked: 'Behold yon spirit lost!' I heard him cry, ''Tis one we strove o'er, thou and I. "'I, with the tempter's gilded snare, Thou, with the pleading voice of prayer; Hadst thou but prayed till set of sun, My power had vanished; thou hadst won.' "Above the harps and angel's songs I hear, The demon's laugh, and taunting jeer; Oh, comrade! brother! saint! Pray for the tempted; oh, pray and do not faint!" DAVID SCOTT (of James.) DAVID SCOTT (of James,) so called to distinguish him from his first cousin, David Scott (of John)--to a sketch of whose life the reader is referred for other information respecting the family--was born on his father's farm, called "Scott's Adventure," on the road leading from Cowantown to Newark and about two miles from the former place, on January 7, 1824 and died at Elkton, May 13, 1879. His early life was spent on the farm, and in learning the trade of auger making, at which his father was an expert workman. His education was obtained at the common schools of the neighborhood, except that which he obtained by attending Newark Academy for a few months in early manhood. In early life he became enamoured of learning, and commenced teaching a private school in the family mansion in the winter of 1840, when only seventeen years old, and continued to teach in the neighborhood until 1851, when he was appointed Clerk to the County Commissioners and removed to Elkton. Mr. Scott was a Democrat, and from early life took an active part in the politics of his native country. After serving as Clerk to the Commissioners for one term of two years, Mr. Scott started a general warehouse business at the Elkton depot, in which he continued as head of the firm of D. Scott & Bro. until the time of his death. In 1867 he was elected Clerk of the Circuit Court for Cecil county, and served six years with great acceptability. In 1876 Mr. Scott was appointed Chief Weigher, and continued to have charge of the State Cattle Scales in the city of Baltimore, until the time of his death. In 1852 Mr. Scott was married to Miss Mary Jane Wilson, of Newark. They were the parents of three children, two of whom are now living. His first wife died in 1858, and he subsequently married Miss Annie Elizabeth Craig, who, with their four children, still survives him. In early life Mr. Scott began to write poetry, and continued to write for the local newspapers under the nom de plume of "Anselmo," and the Philadelphia _Dollar Newspaper_ during the time he was engaged in teaching school, and occasionally for the county papers until the close of his life. For many years Mr. Scott enjoyed the friendship of the literati of Newark, Delaware, and was one of a large number of poetical writers who contributed to the columns of the Philadelphia _Dollar Newspaper_, with several of whom he enjoyed a personal acquaintance, and with several others of whom he carried on a literary correspondence for several years. Mr. Scott, though not a voluminous writer, was the author of a considerable number of poems, all of which were of a highly intellectual character. THE FORCED ALLIANCE. Can earthly commerce hush the music of the heart, and shut the door of memory on a friend? --Miss Whittlesey. Ah, that our natural wants and best affections Should thus in fierce, unnatural conflict struggle! Ah, that the spirit and its dear connections, Whose derelictions merit such corrections, Must bear the illicit smuggle! We would it were not so. This compromising, Which cold, severe necessity hath bidden, Of higher natures, with the wants arising From poor humanity--'tis a sympathizing That may not all be hidden. We both have learned there is a high soul feeling, That lifts the heart towards the stars and Heaven; And one of us, there is a sad congealing Of sweet affection!--a veil the rock concealing, Where hearts are rent and riven. Ah, sorrow, change and death hold sad dominion; And arbitrary fate is earth's arbiter; The adverse elements of a marvelous union, With counter-currents vex the spirit's pinion, When high intents invite her. It is a truth, the sad, unwelcome hearing May wring the spirit with a quivering pain; Our hearts are half of earth, and the careering Of highest thoughts in its divinest daring, Is but a momentary, blissful sharing, That flutters back again. It may be ours to tread the vale of sorrow, Or wander withering in the maze of doubt, Anticipating scarce a joy to-morrow, Save what from the pale lamp of Song we borrow-- That will not all go out. Yes! there are bosom-chords--thanks to the Giver! The sad, low whisperings of which can never Be all subdued, though they may shake and shiver With death and coldness, if we brave the river With wise and strong endeavor. O Song! O fount of sweetest nectar welling! Of thy refreshings let my sad heart drink; 'Tis past!--too late--too late, vain trump, your swelling; My spirit ear hath heard a surer knelling-- 'Tis passing sweet, what these mule wires are telling-- O what a joy to think! MY COTTAGE HOME. A VESPER HYMN. Awake, my harp! a song for thee, While the mellow tinge of sunset lingers; 'Tis an eve of June! and the sweets are free-- Wilt thou trill to the touch of outwearied fingers? For the day's well spent, And I'm content, Tho' weary and worn, and worn and weary; 'Tis a heaven below, The joys to know-- The joys of a Cottage Home so cheery. The world's all beauteous now and bright, And calm as a cradled infant sleeping, And the chords of love are attuned aright, Far joyous thoughts in the heart are leaping As free and sweet As a brother's greet In a foreign land all strange and dreary; And halls more bright Have less delight, I ween, than my Cottage Home so cheery. My Cottage Home! My Cottage Home! With its trellised vines around the casement clinging, And the happy strain of that sweet refrain, The gentle tones of loved ones ringing, When the day's well spent, And all content. What though the o'er-labored limbs are weary? Our hearts are free And merry, and we Rejoice in a Cottage Home so cheery. With wants so few, while hearts so true, With a fond concern, are beating near us; We'll cheerfully toil while we meet the smile. The approving smile of Him to cheer us, Who makes us to know The poor and the low. Tho' weary and worn, and worn and weary, At last will rest With the truly blest-- O! this makes a Cottage Home so cheery. THE MIGHTY ONE. You have felt his power--you have felt his power-- For a mighty one is he: He is found in the field and is known in the bower And hid in the cup of the tenderest flower, He lurks where you may not see. He's a sleepless sprite, and at dead of night He'll come with his feathery tread, And dally with fancy, and play with your dreams, And light up your vision with silver beams, Though he leaves you an aching head. Away, and away, like a thought, he flies, His home in the air and sea; Of all that is earth he claims a birth, And he speaks in the wind, and his voice goes forth On the breeze's back, unceasingly. In the sea's great deeps, where the mermaid sleeps, In chambers of coral and gold-- Where the Sirocco sweeps and Loneliness weeps O'er temples all silent, where dark ivy creeps, And places that never were told-- He is everywhere, and very well known In palace, in court, and cot; Though ages have crumbled, and centuries flown, He is youthful and strong, and is still on his throne, And his chains are spells of thought. The maiden has murmured in 'plaint so low, While the tear trickled over a smile, That scarcely a wo could be uttered, till "no," Was the heart's quick response, "I would not have him go-- The 'Annoyer' may linger awhile." He shadows the pages of classic lore In the student's loneliest hour, And wakes up a thought that had slept before-- An image is born that can die no more-- The student feels his power. A voice on the hill-top, a voice in the river, A voice in the song of birds; It hangs on the zephyr, it comes from the quiver Of oak, beech and fir-leaf--it speaketh forever In thrilling, mysterious words; 'Tis the voice of the strong one! Know ye well, His presence you may not shun; For he thrones in the heart, and he rules with a spell, And poets may sing us and sages may tell That Love is a mighty one! THE SURVIVING THOUGHT. How long, ah me! this weary heart hath striven With vanity, and with a wild desire! How long, and yet how long, must this frail bark be driven, While these unsteady, fitful hope-lights given, One after one expire? These earthly visions prove, alas! unstable; And we are all too prone to clutch them fast, Though false, aye, falser than the veriest fable, To which a "thread of gossamer is cable--" They cannot--cannot last! Our eye must soon behold the appalling writing-- The settlement of proud Belshazzar's doom! These timely buds must early feel a blighting-- This earthly strife--ah, 'tis a sorry fighting! The victory--the Tomb! The dreams fond youth in years agone had cherished; The hopes that wove a rainbow tissue bright-- Are they all gone--forever gone, and perished-- Ev'n the last bud my silent tears had nourished-- Have all been Death's delight? And will he come and mock me with his booty, And twirl my visions round his bony finger? And will he tell my heart no other beauty Upon the earth is mine--no other duty, Than for his mandate linger? Up, rise, thou vital spark! not yet extinguished, Assert thy heritage--exert thy might; Though in the sloughs of sorrow thou hast languished, And pain and wrong's envenomed part out-anguished, One ray breaks through the night. There is, there is one blessed thought surviving; The heart's sure fulcrum in the saddest strait-- An overture to this unequal striving-- A hope, a home, a last and blest arriving! Bear up, my heart, and wait. Bear up, poor heart! be patient, and be meekful; A calm must follow each untoward blast; With steady eye look forward to the sequel; The common road will then seem less unequal, That brings us home "at last." Come trial, pain, and disappointment's shiver, Ye are my kindsmen--brothers of this clay; We must abide and I must bear the quiver A little while, and we shall part forever-- Beyond the surges of that shoreless river Ye cannot "come away." THE WORKING MAN'S SONG. Toil, toil, toil, Ever, unceasingly; The sun gets up, and the sun goes down, Alike in the city, in field or town, He brings fresh toil to me, And I ply my hard, rough hands With a heart as light and free As the birds that greet my early plow, Or the wind that fans my sunburnt brow In gusts of song and glee. Toil, toil, toil, Early, and on, and late: They may call it mean and of low degree, But I smile to know that I'm strong and free, And the good alone are great. 'Tis nature's great command, And a pleasing task to me, For true life is action and usefulness; And I know an approving God will bless The toiler abundantly. Toil, toil, toil-- Glory awaits that word; My arm is strong and my heart is whole, And exult as I toil with manly soul That the voice of Truth is heard. On, Comrades! faint not now-- Ours is a manly part! Toil, for a glorious meed is ours-- The fulcrum of all earthly powers Is in our hands and heart. Toil, toil, toil-- Life is labor and love: Live, love and labor is then our song, Till we lay down our toils for the resting throng, With our Architect above. Then monuments will stand That need no polish'd rhyme-- Firm as the everlasting hills, High as the clarion note that swells The "praises of all time." ODE TO DEATH. I do not fear thee, Death! I have a bantering thought!--though I am told Thou art inflexible, and stern, and bold; And that thy upas breath Rides on the vital air; Monarch and Prince of universal clime, Executor of the decrees of Time-- Sin's dark, eternal heir. Over the land and sea Is felt the swooping of thy ebon wings, And on my ear thy demon-chuckle rings, Over the feast the panting summer brings, "For me--'tis all for me!" All seasons and all climes-- In city crowded, and in solitude, Ye gather your unsatisfying food; Ev'n through the rosy gates of joy intrude Thy deep, sepulchral chimes. I know thee well, though young; Thrice, ruthlessly, this little circle broke Hast thou. A brother, sister--then the Oak, (Ah, hadst thou spared that last and hardest stroke,) Round which our young hopes clung! Ye wantonly have crush'd, By your untimely and avenging frost, The buds of hope which bid to promise most; Oh! had ye known the heart-consuming cost, Could ye, O! Death have hush'd The music that endears, And makes this chill'd existence tolerable? Yet will I not such selfishness--'tis well; I hear, I hear a happier, holier swell From out the eternal spheres! I do defy thee, Death! Why flee me, like a debtor in arrears? To weary out the agony of years, With nothing but the bitter brine of tears, And scarcer existing breath. My soul is growing strong, And somewhat fretful with its house of clay, And waiting quite impatiently to lay It off, and soar in light away, To hymn th' "eternal song." This is a cowardice Perhaps--a deep, mean selfishness withal. That whets our longings in the spirit's thrall To lay aside these trials, and forestall The hours of Paradise. Thou wise, Eternal God! Oh, let me not offend Thy great design! Teach thou thy erring mortal to resign, Make me be patient, let me not repine Beneath this chast'ning rod; Though storm and tempest whelm, And beat upon this naked barque, 'tis well; And I shall smile upon their heaviest swell-- Hush, rebel thoughts!--my heart be calm and still, The Master's at the helm! HENRY VANDERFORD. Henry Vanderford, editor and journalist, was born at Hillsborough, Caroline county, Md., December 23, 1811. His maternal ancestors were from Wales, his paternal from Holland. He was educated at Hillsborough Academy, a celebrated institution at that time, having pupils from the adjoining counties of Queen Anne's and Talbot. He acquired a knowledge of the art of printing in the office of the _Easton Star_, Thomas Perrin Smith, proprietor. From 1835 to 1837 he published the _Caroline Advocate_, Denton, Md., the only paper in the county, and neutral in politics, though the editor was always a decided Democrat, and took an active part in the reform movement of 1836, which resulted in the election of the "Glorious Nineteen" and the Twenty-one Electors. The press and type of the _Advocate_ were transferred in 1837 to Centreville, Queen Anne's county, where he founded the _Sentinel_, the first Democratic paper published in that county, in January, 1838. He was appointed for three successive years by Governor Grason chief judge of the Magistrate's Court, but declined the office. In 1840 he was appointed Deputy Marshal for Queen Anne's, and took the census of that county in that year. In 1842 he sold the _Sentinel_ and removed to Baltimore, where, three years later, he resumed his profession and founded _The Ray_, a weekly literary and educational journal, and the subsequent year published the _Baltimore Daily News_, and the _Weekly Statesman_, in company with Messrs. Adams and Brown, under the firm of Adams, Vanderford & Brown. The _News_ and _Statesman_ were Democratic papers. In February, 1848, he bought _The Cecil Democrat_ of Thomas M. Coleman, enlarged the paper, quadrupled its circulation, and refitted it with new material. In 1865 he sold out the _Democrat_ to Albert Constable and Judge Frederick Stump, and bought a farm in St. Mary's county, Md., and engaged in agriculture. Three years later, failing health of himself and family, induced him to sell his farm and remove to Middletown, Del., where he founded the _Transcript_, and resumed the business of a printer and publisher. The _Transcript_ was the first paper published in that town, and was a success from the start. It was transferred in 1870 to his youngest son, Charles H. Vanderford. From 1870 to 1878 he was associated with his eldest son, William H. Vanderford, in the publication of _The Democratic Advocate_, Westminster, Md. In 1873 he was elected to the House of Delegates from Carroll county, and in 1879 to the Senate, in which body he held the important position of Chairman of the Committee on Finance, and was a member of the Committee on Engrossed Bills and the Committee on Printing. On the 6th of June, 1839, he married Angelina, the daughter of Henry Vanderford, of Queen Anne's county, a distant relative of his father. Mr. Vanderford is a member of the Masonic Order, and he and his wife are both communicants of the Protestant Episcopal Church, the Church of their ancestors, as far back as the history of the Church can be traced in the Eastern part of Maryland. Charles Vanderford, great grandfather of the subject of this sketch, was a vestryman of St. Paul's Parish, Centreville, Md., in 1719. Charles Wrench Vanderford was his grandfather, and a member of the Old Maryland Line, in the Revolutionary war. William Vanderford, his father, was a native of Queen Anne's county, where the family held a grant of land of one thousand acres from the crown, located between Wye Mills and Hall's Cross Roads, on which the old mansion was built of brick imported from England. Mr. Vanderford is now in retiracy, in the 76th year of his age, but still active, and in the possession of good health and as genial and cheerful as in the days of his prime. ON THE MOUNTAINS. Written after a visit to Rawley Springs, in the mountains of Virginia. On the mountains! Oh, how sweet! The busy world beneath my feet! Outspread before my raptur'd eyes The wide unbounded prospect lies; The panoramic vision glows In beauty, grandeur and repose. I gaze into the vaulted blue And on the em'rald fields below; The genial sunlight shimmers down Upon the mountain's rugged crown, The eye sweeps round the horizon Until its utmost verge is won. The hoary peaks, with forests crown'd, Spread their vast solitudes around, And intervening rocks and rills The eye with very transport fills. The bosom wells with joy serene While viewing all the lovely scene, The spirit soars on airy wings Above all sublunary things. I peer into the depths profound Of the cerulean around, And ether's far-off heights I scan, As if, to feeble finite man, The power of vision here were given To view the battlements of heaven. But, though I gaze and gaze intent, Close scanning all the firmament, No Mount of Vision unto me Does this bold summit prove to be. Though in elysian wrapt the while, Where sublimated thoughts beguile, Icarian pinions, all too frail, Were sure my fancy's flight to fail. Confined within this mortal clod, Vain man would yet ascend to God, Presumptuous, as of yore, to be The heir of immortality. But, from those fair, celestial heights Of fervid fancy's loftiest flights, My airy visions topple down To where cool reason's realm is found, And fancy folds her weary wings, Content, the while, with earthly things. PROGRESS. "Man hath sought out many inventions." The planets, forced by Nature's law, Within their orbits ceaseless roll, And man the lesson thence may draw-- By industry to reach his goal. Hail! industry's all-conquering might! Hail! engineering's giant skill! That clambers up the mountain height, And intervening valleys fill. The enterprise of man shall know No bounds upon this mundane sphere, Whate'er his hands may find to do He executes with skill and care. His genius Nature's self subdues, And all her powers subservient lie At his command, and pleas'd he views His great resources multiply. He mines the earth and skims the air, He plows the main, descends the deep, And through its silent chambers there, Electric forces flash and leap. He flies, upon the wings of steam, Mounts up with ærostatic pow'r, He paints with every solar beam-- Unfolds new wonders ev'ry hour! Not in material things alone Does Progress mark its high career, Fair science builds her regal throne, And morals her triumphal car. Man stands erect--his image fair In God's own likeness first was cast, His high prerogatives appear, He seeks his destiny at last. Upward and onward is his course, In mental and in moral life, With higher purpose, now, perforce, With loftier aspirations rife. In matters both of Church and State, A high ambition spurs him on, With buoyancy and hope elate, He plies his task till it be done. WINTER. Written in the month of January, the ground covered with snow. 'Tis winter, drear winter, and cold the winds blow, The ground is all cover'd with ice and with snow, The trees are all gemm'd with a crystalline sheen, No birdling or blossom are now to be seen. The landscape is wearing a mantle of white, Its verdure lies wither'd and hidden from sight, Rude Borean blasts bleakly blow o'er the hills, 'Till the life-current, coursing, his icy-breath chills. The rills in their ice-fetters firmly are bound As the frost-spirit breathes o'er the face of the ground The icicles pendant hang over the eaves, And the wind whirls in eddies the rustling leaves. It shrieks through the casement and in at the door-- All through the long night hear it fitfully roar, The mitre ethereal silently flies So keen and so cutting through storm-troubled skies. The dark leaden clouds dim the light of the sun, And the dull dreary hours drone slothfully on, Euroclydon forges the cold biting sleet, And the snow-drifts he piles at the traveler's feet. The wealthy, at ease in their mansions so warm, Heed not the rude blast of the pitiless storm-- The loud-roaring tempest, the elements din, Serve only to heighten their comforts within. The poor, in their hovels, feel keenly the blast, And shudder and shake as the storm-sprite goes past; Oh! pity the poor, in their lowly estate, And turn them not empty away from your gate. LINES ON WITNESSING THREE SISTERS DEPOSITING FLOWERS ON THE GRAVE OF A FRIEND, IN ST. ANN'S CEMETERY, MIDDLETOWN, DELAWARE. At an early hour of the Sabbath morn, Beside the ancient, sacred pile, I stood Of old St. Ann's. The ivy careless clamber'd Along its moss-grown, antique walls; The sun-light bathed in golden glory The calm, sequester'd scene, and silence Reigned through all the leafy grove, Save where the warbling songster pour'd His wood-notes wild, or where "the gray old trunks That high in heaven mingled their mossy boughs," Murmur'd with sound of "the invisible breath That played among their giant branches," And "bowed the wrapt spirit with the thought Of boundless power and inaccessible majesty." Within the lone church no loitering footfall O'er threshold, aisle, or chancel echoed, No sound intruded on the hush profound Of that ancient temple. The pale sleepers In the weird city of the dead lay mute, Their mouldering ashes mingling with the dust, While sculptured tablets with memorial brief, Their memories from oblivion rescued. As thus upon the scene around I gazed, The fresh-turned earth upon a new-made grave, Within its marble confines neat enclosed, My vision steadfast fixed, and I beheld Three maidens, bearing each a rich bouquet, Approach the tomb, and softly by its side Stoop down and place thereon their floral gems In token of the love they bore the friend So late inurned, whom yet they fondly cherish'd. Full preparation one had duly made To stand beside her at the bridal altar; But now, beside her early grave she stood, With floral tokens of unfailing love For the fair young wither'd flower beneath. Touching and beautiful the lovely sight Of such devotion deep at friendship's shrine. My sterner heart, in welling sympathy, Throbb'd its response to this ennobling act Of these fair sisters, and did them homage Deep down within its silent recesses. Oh, when with them life's fitful fever ends May ne'er be wanted hand of sympathy To strew affection's token o'er their graves. MERRY MAY. Ethereal mildness, gentle showers. Springing verdure, opening flowers, Apple blossoms, bobolinks, Budding roses, blushing pinks, Cherries snowy, peach buds sleek, Rivaling a maiden's cheek, Balmy zephyrs, halcyon hours, Song of birds and scent of flowers, Vernal season, swelling spray, All belong to Merry May. 
17826	----	MEMOIR OF OLD ELIZABETH, A COLOURED WOMAN. * * * * * "There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither bond nor free, there is neither male nor female, for ye are all one in Christ Jesus." GAL. iii. 25. * * * * * PHILADELPHIA: COLLINS, PRINTER, 705 JAYNE STREET. 1863. MEMOIR, &C. In the following Narrative of "Old Elizabeth," which was taken mainly from her own lips in her 97th year, her simple language has been adhered to as strictly as was consistent with perspicuity and propriety. I was born in Maryland in the year 1766. My parents were slaves. Both my father and mother were religious people, and belonged to the Methodist Society. It was my father's practice to read in the Bible aloud to his children every sabbath morning. At these seasons, when I was but five years old, I often felt the overshadowing of the Lord's Spirit, without at all understanding what it meant; and these incomes and influences continued to attend me until I was eleven years old, particularly when I was alone, by which I was preserved from doing anything that I thought was wrong. In the eleventh year of my age, my master sent me to another farm, several miles from my parents, brothers, and sisters, which was a great trouble to me. At last I grew so lonely and sad I thought I should die, if I did not see my mother. I asked the overseer if I might go, but being positively denied, I concluded to go without his knowledge. When I reached home my mother was away. I set off and walked twenty miles before I found her. I staid with her for several days, and we returned together. Next day I was sent back to my new place, which renewed my sorrow. At parting, my mother told me that I had "nobody in the wide world to look to but God." These words fell upon my heart with ponderous weight, and seemed to add to my grief. I went back repeating as I went, "none but God in the wide world." On reaching the farm, I found the overseer was displeased at me for going without his liberty. He tied me with a rope, and gave me some stripes of which I carried the marks for weeks. After this time, finding as my mother said, I had none in the world to look to but God, I betook myself to prayer, and in every lonely place I found an altar. I mourned sore like a dove and chattered forth my sorrow, moaning in the corners of the field, and under the fences. I continued in this state for about six months, feeling as though my head were waters, and I could do nothing but weep. I lost my appetite, and not being able to take enough food to sustain nature, I became so weak I had but little strength to work; still I was required to do all my duty. One evening, after the duties of the day were ended, I thought I could not live over the night, so threw myself on a bench, expecting to die, and without being prepared to meet my Maker; and my spirit cried within me, must I die in this state, and be banished from Thy presence forever? I own I am a sinner in Thy sight, and not fit to live where thou art. Still it was my fervent desire that the Lord would pardon me. Just at this season, I saw with my spiritual eye, an awful gulf of misery. As I thought I was about to plunge into it, I heard a voice saying, "rise up and pray," which strengthened me. I fell on my knees and prayed the best I could the Lord's prayer. Knowing no more to say, I halted, but continued on my knees. My spirit was then _taught_ to pray, "Lord, have mercy on me--Christ save me." Immediately there appeared a director, clothed in white raiment. I thought he took me by the hand and said, "come with me." He led me down a long journey to a fiery gulf, and left me standing upon the brink of this awful pit. I began to scream for mercy, thinking I was about to be plunged to the belly of hell, and believed I should sink to endless ruin. Although I prayed and wrestled with all my might, it seemed in vain. Still, I felt all the while that I was sustained by some invisible power. At this solemn moment, I thought I saw a hand from which hung, as it were, a silver hair, and a voice told me that all the hope I had of being saved was no more than a hair; still, pray, and it will be sufficient. I then renewed my struggle, crying for mercy and salvation, until I found that every cry raised me higher and higher, and my head was quite above the fiery pillars. Then I thought I was permitted to look straight forward, and saw the Saviour standing with His hand stretched out to receive me. An indescribably glorious light was _in_ Him, and He said, "peace, peace, come unto me." At this moment I felt that my sins were forgiven me, and the time of my deliverance was at hand. I sprang forward and fell at his feet, giving Him all the thanks and highest praises, crying, Thou hast redeemed me--Thou hast redeemed me to thyself. I felt filled with light and love. At this moment I thought my former guide took me again by the hand and led me upward, till I came to the celestial world and to heaven's door, which I saw was open, and while I stood there, a power surrounded me which drew me in, and I saw millions of glorified spirits in white robes. After I had this view, I thought I heard a voice saying, "Art thou willing to be saved?" I said, Yes Lord. Again I was asked, "Art thou willing to be saved in my way?" I stood speechless until he asked me again, "Art thou willing to be saved in my way?" Then I heard a whispering voice say, "If thou art not saved in the Lord's way, thou canst not be saved at all;" at which I exclaimed, "Yes Lord, in thy own way." Immediately a light fell upon my head, and I was filled with light, and I was shown the world lying in wickedness, and was told I must go there, and call the people to repentance, for the day of the Lord was at hand; and this message was as a heavy yoke upon me, so that I wept bitterly at the thought of what I should have to pass through. While I wept, I heard a voice say, "weep not, some will laugh at thee, some will scoff at thee, and the dogs will bark at thee, but while thou doest my will, I will be with thee to the ends of the earth." I was at this time not yet thirteen years old. The next day, when I had come to myself, I felt like a new creature in Christ, and all my desire was to see the Saviour. I lived in a place where there was no preaching, and no religious instruction; but every day I went out amongst the hay-stacks, where the presence of the Lord overshadowed me, and I was filled with sweetness and joy, and was as a vessel filled with holy oil. In this way I continued for about a year; many times while my hands were at my work, my spirit was carried away to spiritual things. One day as I was going to my old place behind the hay-stacks to pray, I was assailed with this language, "Are you going there to weep and pray? what a fool! there are older professors than you are, and they do not take that way to get to heaven; people whose sins are forgiven ought to be joyful and lively, and not be struggling and praying." With this I halted and concluded I would not go, but do as other professors did, and so went off to play; but at this moment the light that was in me became darkened, and the peace and joy that I once had, departed from me. About this time I was moved back to the farm where my mother lived, and then sold to a stranger. Here I had deep sorrows and plungings, not having experienced a return of that sweet evidence and light with which I had been favoured formerly; but by watching unto prayer, and wrestling mightily with the Lord, my peace gradually returned, and with it a great exercise and weight upon my heart for the salvation of my fellow-creatures; and I was often carried to distant lands and shown places where I should have to travel and deliver the Lord's message. Years afterwards, I found myself visiting those towns and countries that I had seen in the light as I sat at home at my sewing,--places of which I had never heard. Some years from this time I was sold to a Presbyterian for a term of years, as he did not think it right to hold slaves for life. Having served him faithfully my time out, he gave me my liberty, which was about the thirtieth year of my age. As I now lived in a neighborhood where I could attend religious meetings, occasionally I felt moved to speak a few words therein; but I shrank from it--so great was the cross to my nature. I did not speak much till I had reached my forty-second year, when it was revealed to me that the message which had been given to me I had not yet delivered, and the time had come. As I could read but little, I questioned within myself how it would be possible for me to deliver the message, when I did not understand the Scriptures. Whereupon I was moved to open a Bible that was near me, which I did, and my eyes fell upon this passage, "Gird up thy loins now like a man, and answer thou me. Obey God rather than man," &c. Here I fell into a great exercise of spirit, and was plunged very low. I went from one religious professor to another, enquiring of them what ailed me; but of all these I could find none who could throw any light upon such impressions. They all told me there was nothing in Scripture that would sanction such exercises. It was hard for men to travel, and what would women do? These things greatly discouraged me, and shut up my way, and caused me to resist the Spirit. After going to all that were accounted pious, and receiving no help, I returned to the Lord, feeling that I was nothing, and knew nothing, and wrestled and prayed to the Lord that He would fully reveal His will, and make the way plain. Whilst I thus struggled, there seemed a light from heaven to fall upon me, which banished all my desponding fears, and I was enabled to form a new resolution to go on to prison and to death, if it might be my portion: and the Lord showed me that it was His will I should be resigned to die any death that might be my lot, in carrying his message, and be entirely crucified to the world, and sacrifice _all_ to His glory that was then in my possession, which His witnesses, the holy Apostles, had done before me. It was then revealed to me that the Lord had given me the evidence of a clean heart, in which I could rejoice day and night, and I walked and talked with God, and my soul was illuminated with heavenly light, and I knew nothing but Jesus Christ, and him crucified. One day, after these things, while I was at my work, the Spirit directed me to go to a poor widow, and ask her if I might have a meeting at her house, which was situated in one of the lowest and worst streets in Baltimore. With great joy she gave notice, and at the time appointed I appeared there among a few coloured sisters. When they had all prayed, they called upon me to close the meeting, and I felt an impression that I must say a few words; and while I was speaking, the house seemed filled with light; and when I was about to close the meeting, and was kneeling, a man came in and stood till I arose. It proved to be a watchman. The sisters became so frightened, they all went away except the one who lived in the house, and an old woman; they both appeared to be much frightened, fearing they should receive some personal injury, or be put out of the house. A feeling of weakness came over me for a short time, but I soon grew warm and courageous in the Spirit. The man then said to me, "I was sent here to break up your meeting. Complaint has been made to me that the people round here cannot sleep for the racket." I replied, "a good racket is better than a bad racket. How do they rest when the ungodly are dancing and fiddling till midnight? Why are not they molested by the watchmen? and why should we be for praising God, our Maker? Are we worthy of greater punishment for praying to Him? and are we to be prohibited from doing so, that sinners may remain slumbering in their sins?" While speaking these few words I grew warm with _heavenly_ zeal, and laid my hand upon him and addressed him with gospel truth, "how do sinners sleep in hell, after slumbering in their sins here, and crying, 'let me rest, let me rest,' while sporting on the very brink of hell? Is the cause of God to be destroyed for this purpose?" Speaking several words more to this amount, he turned pale and trembled, and begged my pardon, acknowledging that it was not his wish to interrupt us, and that he would never disturb a religious assembly again. He then took leave of me in a comely manner and wished us success. After he was gone, I turned to the old sisters who by this time were quite cheered up. You see, said I, if the sisters had not fled, what a victory we might have had on the Lord's side; for the man seemed ready to give up under conviction. If it had not been for their cowardice, we might have all bowed in prayer, and a shout of victory had been heard amongst us. Our meeting gave great offence, and we were forbid holding any more assemblies. Even the elders of our meeting joined with the wicked people, and said such meetings must be stopped, and that woman quieted. But I was not afraid of any of them, and continued to go, and burnt with a zeal not my own. The old sisters were zealous sometimes, and at other times would sink under the cross. Thus they grew cold, at which I was much grieved. I proposed to them to ask the elders to send a brother, which was concluded upon. We went on for several years, and the Lord was with us with great power it proved, to the conversion of many souls, and we continued to grow stronger. I felt at times that I must exercise in the ministry, but when I rose upon my feet I felt ashamed, and so I went under a cloud for some time, and endeavoured to keep silence; but I could not quench the Spirit. I was rejected by the elders and rulers, as Christ was rejected by the Jews before me, and while others were excused in crimes of the darkest dye, I was hunted down in every place where I appointed a meeting. Wading through many sorrows, I thought at times I might as well be banished from this life, as to feel the Almighty drawing me one way, and man another; so that I was tempted to cast myself into the dock. But contemplating the length of eternity, and how long my sufferings would be in that unchangeable world, compared with this, if I endured a little longer, the Lord was pleased to deliver me from this gloomy, melancholy state in his own time; though while this temptation lasted I roved up and down, and talked and prayed. I often felt that I was unfit to assemble with the congregation with whom I had gathered, and had sometimes been made to rejoice in the Lord. I felt that I was despised on account of this gracious calling, and was looked upon as a speckled bird by the ministers to whom I looked for instruction, and to whom I resorted every opportunity for the same; but when I would converse with them, some would cry out, "You are an enthusiast;" and others said, "the Discipline did not allow of any such division of the work;" until I began to think I surely must be wrong. Under this reflection, I had another gloomy cloud to struggle through; but after awhile I felt much moved upon by the Spirit of the Lord, and meeting with an aged sister, I found upon conversing with her that she could sympathize with me in this spiritual work. She was the first one I had met with, who could fully understand my exercises. She offered to open her house for a meeting, and run the risk of all the church would do to her for it. Many were afraid to open their houses in this way, lest they should be turned out of the church. I persevered, notwithstanding the opposition of those who were looked upon as higher and wiser. The meeting was appointed, and but few came. I felt much backwardness, and as though I could not pray, but a pressure upon me to arise and express myself by way of exhortation. After hesitating for some time whether I would take up the cross or no, I arose, and after expressing a few words, the Spirit came upon me with life, and a victory was gained over the power of darkness, and we could rejoice together in His love. As for myself, I was so full I hardly knew whether I was in the body, or out of the body--so great was my joy for the victory on the Lord's side. But the persecution against me increased, and a complaint was carried forward, as was done formerly against Daniel, the servant of God, and the elders came out with indignation for my holding meetings contrary to discipline--being a woman. Thus we see when the heart is not inspired, and the inward eye enlightened by the Spirit, we are incapable of discerning the mystery of God in these things. Individuals creep into the church that are unregenerate, and after they have been there awhile, they fancy that they have got the grace of God, while they are destitute of it. They may have a degree of light in their heads, but evil in their hearts; which makes them think they are qualified to be judges of the ministry, and their conceit makes them very busy in matters of religion, judging of the revelations that are given to others, while they have received none themselves. Being thus mistaken, they are calculated to make a great deal of confusion in the church, and clog the true ministry. These are they who eat their own bread, and wear their own apparel, having the form of godliness, but are destitute of the power. Again I felt encouraged to attend another and another appointment. At one of these meetings, some of the class-leaders were present, who were constrained to cry out, "Surely the Lord has _revealed_ these things to her" and asked one another if they ever heard the like? I look upon man as a very selfish being, when placed in a religious office, to presume to resist the work of the Almighty; because He does not work by man's authority. I did not faint under discouragement, but pressed on. Under the contemplation of these things, I slept but little, being much engaged in receiving the revelations of the Divine will concerning this work, and the mysterious call thereto. I felt very unworthy and small, notwithstanding the Lord had shown himself with great power, insomuch that conjecturers and critics were constrained to join in praise to his great name; for truly, we had times of refreshing from the presence of the Lord. At one of the meetings, a vast number of the white inhabitants of the place, and many coloured people, attended--many no doubt from curiosity to hear what the old coloured woman had to say. One, a great scripturian, fixed himself behind the door with pen and ink, in order to take down the discourse in short-hand; but the Almighty Being anointed me with such a portion of his Spirit, that he cast away his paper and pen, and heard the discourse with patience, and was much affected, for the Lord wrought powerfully on his heart. After meeting, he came forward and offered me his hand with solemnity on his countenance, and handed me something to pay for my conveyance home. I returned, much strengthened by the Lord's power, to go on to the fulfilment of His work, although I was again pressed by the authorities of the church to which I belonged, for imprudency; and so much condemned, that I was sorely tempted by the enemy to turn aside into the wilderness. I was so embarrassed and encompassed, I wondered within myself whether all that were called to be mouth piece for the Lord, suffered such deep wadings as I experienced. I now found I had to travel still more extensively in the work of the ministry, and I applied to the Lord for direction. I was often _invited_ to go hither and thither, but felt that I must wait for the dictates of His Spirit. At a meeting which I held in Maryland, I was led to speak from the passage, "Woe to the rebellious city," &c. After the meeting, the people came where I was, to take me before the squire; but the Lord delivered me from their hands. I also held meetings in Virginia. The people there would not believe that a coloured woman could preach. And moreover, as she had no learning, they strove to imprison me because I spoke against slavery: and being brought up, they asked by what authority I spake? and if I had been ordained? I answered, not by the commission of men's hands: if the Lord had ordained me, I needed nothing better. As I travelled along through the land, I was led at different times to converse with white men who were by profession ministers of the gospel. Many of them, up and down, confessed they did not believe in revelation, which gave me to see that men were sent forth as ministers without Christ's authority. In a conversation with one of these, he said, "You think you have these things by revelation, but there has been no such thing as revelation since Christ's ascension." I asked him where the apostle John got his revelation while he was in the Isle of Patmos. With this, he rose up and left me, and I said in my spirit, get thee behind me Satan. I visited many remote places, where there were no meeting houses, and held many glorious meetings, for the Lord poured out his Spirit in sweet effusions. I also travelled in Canada, and visited several settlements of coloured people, and felt an open door amongst them. I may here remark, that while journeying through the different states of the Union, I met with many of the Quaker Friends, and visited them in their families. I received much kindness and sympathy, and no opposition from them, in the prosecution of my labours. On one occasion, in a thinly settled part of the country, seeing a Friend's meeting house open, I went in; at the same time a Friend and his little daughter followed me. We three composed the meeting. As we sat there in silence, I felt a remarkable overshadowing of the Divine presence, as much so as I ever experienced any where. Toward the close, a few words seemed to be given me, which I expressed, and left the place greatly refreshed in Spirit. From thence I went to Michigan, where I found a wide field of labour amongst my own colour. Here I remained four years. I established a school for coloured orphans, having always felt the great importance of the religious and moral _agri_culture of children, and the great need of it, especially amongst the coloured people. Having white teachers, I met with much encouragement. My eighty-seventh year had now arrived, when suffering from disease, and feeling released from travelling further in my good Master's cause, I came on to Philadelphia, where I have remained until this time, which brings me to my ninety-seventh year. When I went forth, it was without purse or scrip,--and I have come through great tribulation and temptation--not by any might of my own, for I feel that I am but as dust and ashes before my almighty Helper, who has, according to His promise, been with me and sustained me through all, and gives me now firm faith that he will be with me to the end, and, in his own good time, receive me into His everlasting rest. 
21346	----	produced from images generously made available by the Library of Congress) Transcribers Notes 1. The original spellings of words have been retained. 2. Typos or suspected typos have been noted by [_sic_.]. 3. The long "s", which appears as an "f" with the right part of the cross missing, has been replaced with "s". 4. Lines joined with brackets in the original have been indented three additional spaces. 5. Quote marks at the beginning of successive lines have been changed to the modern convention of one opening double quote and one ending double quote at the end of the quoted text. 6. Footnotes appear as lower-case letters in parentheses. They are alphabetical from (a) to (oo) and have been grouped at the end of the book. _S H E A' S_ _EARLY SOUTHERN TRACTS._ _No. II._ THE Sot-weed Factor: Or, a Voyage to MARYLAND. A SATYR. In which is describ'd The Laws, Government, Courts and Constitutions of the Country, and also the Buildings, Feasts, Frolicks, Entertainments and Drunken Humours of the Inhabitants of that Part of _America_. In Burlesque Verse. By _Eben. Cook_, Gent. LONDON: Printed and Sold by _D. Bragg_, at the _Raven_ in _Pater-Noster-Row_. 1708. (Price 6d.) We have no means of knowing the history of Master "Ebenezer Cook, Gentleman," who, one hundred and forty-six years ago, produced the Sot-Weed Factor's Voyage to Maryland. He wrote, printed, published, and sold it in London for sixpence sterling, and then disappeared forever. We do not know certainly that Mr. Cook himself was the actual adventurer who suffered the ills described by him "in burlesque verse." Indeed, "Eben: Cook, Gent." may be a myth--a _nom de plume_. Yet, there is a certain personal poignancy and earnestness about the whole Story that almost forbid the idea of a secondhand narrative. Nay, I think it extremely probable that it was "Eben: Cook, Gent." or, some other equally afflicted gentleman assuming that name, who-- "_Condemn'd by Fate to wayward Curse, Of Friends unkind and empty purse_,"-- fled from his native land to become a Sot-Weed factor in America.[1] The adventures and manners described are ludicrous and certainly very unpolished. Although Mr. Cook calls his poem "_A Satyr_," there is, in his account of early habits in Maryland, so much resemblance to what we observe in the rude society of all new settlements, that it is possible the story is not so much a Satire as a hightened description of what an unlucky traveler found in certain quarters of the colony, Anno Domini, 1700. When "Mr. Cook," with an anathema in his mouth, makes a final bow to his readers, he expressly adds, in a note, on the last page, that "the Author does not intend by this any of the _English_ Gentlemen resident there;" still, excepting even all these select personages, he doubtless found _un_-gentlefolk enough among the rough farmers and fishermen of obscure "Piscato-way" and the adjacent country, to justify his discontent. At all events, we may, I imagine, very reasonably suppose "Eben: Cook" to have been a London "Gent:" rather decayed by fast living, sent abroad to see the world and be tamed by it, who very soon discovered that Lord Baltimore's Colony was not the court of her Majesty Queen Anne, or its taverns frequented by Addison and the wits; and whose disgust became supreme when he was "finished" on the "Eastern-Shoar,"[2] by "A pious, Concientious Rogue" who, taking advantage of his incapacity for trade, cheated him out of his cargo and sent him home without a leaf of the coveted "Sot-weed!" This poem is, very likely, the result of that homeward voyage. With proper allowance for breadth and burlesque, angry exaggeration and the discomforts of such a "Gentleman" as we may fancy Master Cook to have been, it is well worth preservation as hinting, if not photographing, the manners and customs of the ruder classes in a British Province a century and a half ago. The "Sot-Weed Factor" was first printed in London, in 1708, in a folio of twenty-one pages. It was reprinted, with a poem on Bacon's Rebellion, by Mr. Green, at Annapolis, Maryland, in 1731. Mr. Green cautiously reminds the reader that it was a description written twenty years before, and "did not agree with the condition of Annapolis at the time of its publication!" The edition, now published, is taken from the London copy of 1708, as "Printed and sold by B. Bragg, at the Raven, in Pater-Noster-row (price 6d.)" In Stevens's _Bibliotheca Americana_, 1861, we find the following title: "Sot-Weed Redivivus; or the Planters Looking-Glass. In Burlesque Verse, Calculated for the Meridian of Maryland, by E. C. Gent: _Annapolis_; _William Parks_, for the Author. 1730. viii and text 28 pp. 4°." Mr. Stevens describes the book as "alike curious as an early specimen of printing in Maryland, and as an example of American poetry." "E. C. _Gent_:" of 1730, at Annapolis, may be the "Ebenezer Cook, Gent:" of London, 1708,--"_redivivus_,"--returned to America and turned Author again at Annapolis, under the auspices of our early Colonial printer, William Parks. But we have never seen this rare book, published twenty-two years after the _Sot-Weed Factor_ was first issued in England, and know nothing of its character or authorship. BRANTZ MAYER. Baltimore, October 20, 1865. [Footnote 1: Sot-Weed, i. e. the sot making or inebriating weed; a name for _tobacco_, used at that time. A Sot-weed Factor, was a tobacco agent or supercargo.] [Footnote 2: The "eastern shoar" of the Chesapeake bay: this portion of Maryland is still familiarly called so in that state.] THE Sot-Weed Factor; Or, a Voyage to Maryland, &c. Condemn'd by Fate to way-ward Curse, Of Friends unkind, and empty Purse; Plagues worse than fill'd _Pandora's_ Box, I took my leave of _Albion's_ Rocks: With heavy Heart, concerned that I Was forc'd my Native Soil to fly, And the _Old World_ must bid good-buy But Heav'n ordain'd it should be so, And to repine is vain we know: Freighted with Fools from _Plymouth_ sound To _Mary-Land_ our Ship was bound, Where we arrived in dreadful Pain, Shock'd by the Terrours of the Main; For full three Months, our wavering Boat, Did thro' the surley Ocean float, And furious Storms and threat'ning Blasts, Both tore our Sails and sprung our Masts; Wearied, yet pleas'd we did escape Such Ills, we anchor'd at the (a) _Cape_; But weighing soon, we plough'd the Bay, To (b) Cove it in (c) _Piscato-way_, Intending there to open Store, I put myself and Goods a-shoar: Where soon repair'd a numerous Crew, In Shirts and Drawers of (d) _Scotch-cloth Blue_ With neither Stockings, Hat nor Shooe. These _Sot-weed_ Planters Crowd the Shoar, In hue as tawny as a Moor: Figures so strange, no God design'd, To be a part of Humane kind: But wanton Nature, void of Rest, Moulded the brittle Clay in Jest. At last a Fancy very odd Took me, this was the Land of _Nod_; Planted at first, when Vagrant _Cain_, His Brother had unjustly slain; Then Conscious of the Crime he'd done From Vengeance dire, he hither run, And in a hut supinely dwelt, The first in _Furs_ and _Sot-weed_ dealt. And ever since his Time, the Place, Has harbour'd a detested Race; Who when they cou'd not live at Home, For refuge to these Worlds did roam; In hopes by Flight they might prevent, The Devil and his fell intent; Obtain from Tripple-Tree reprieve, And Heav'n and Hell alike deceive; But e're their Manners I display, I think it fit I open lay My Entertainment by the way: That Strangers well may be aware on, What homely Diet they must fare on. To touch that Shoar where no good Sense is found, But Conversation's lost, and Manners drown'd. I cros't unto the other side, A River whose impetuous Tide, The Savage Borders does divide; In such a shining odd invention, I scarce can give its due Dimention. The _Indians_ call this watry Waggon (e) _Canoo_, a Vessel none can brag on; Cut from a _Popular-Tree_ or _Pine_, And fashion'd like a Trough for Swine: In this most noble Fishing-Boat, I boldly put myself afloat; Standing erect, with Legs stretch'd wide, We paddled to the other side: Where being Landed safe by hap, As _Sol_ fell into _Thetis'_ Lap. A ravenous Gang bent on the stroul, Of (f) Wolves for Prey, began to howl; This put me in a pannick Fright, Least I should be devoured quite; But as I there a musing stood, And quite benighted in a Wood, A Female Voice pierc'd, thro' my Ears, Crying, _You Rogue drive home the Steirs_. I listen'd to th' attractive sound, And straight a Herd of Cattel found Drove by a Youth, and homeward bound; Cheer'd with the fight, I straight thought fit, To ask where I a Bed might get. The surley Peasant bid me stay, And ask'd from whom (g) I'de run away. Surprized at such a saucy Word, I instantly lugg'd out my Sword; Swearing I was no Fugitive, But from _Great-Britain_ did arrive, In hopes I better there might Thrive. To which he mildly made reply, _I beg your Pardon, Sir, that I Should talk to you Unmannerly; But if you please to go with me, To yonder House, you'll welcome be_. Encountring soon the smoaky Seat, The Planter old did thus me greet: "Whether you come from Goal or Colledge, You're welcome to my certain Knowledge; And if you please all Night to stay, My Son shall put you in the way." Which offer I most kindly took, And for a Seat did round me look; When presently amongst the rest, He plac'd his unknown _English_ Guest, Who found them drinking for a whet, A Cask of (h) Syder on the Fret, Till Supper came upon the Table, On which I fed whilst I was able. So after hearty Entertainment, Of Drink and Victuals without Payment; For Planters Tables, you must know, Are free for all that come and go. While (i) Pon and Milk, with (k) Mush well stoar'd, In Wooden Dishes grac'd the Board; With (l) Homine and Syder-pap, (Which scarce a hungry dog wou'd lap) Well stuff'd with Fat from Bacon fry'd, Or with _Mollossus_ dulcify'd. Then out our Landlord pulls a Pouch, As greasy as the Leather Couch On which he sat, and straight begun To load with Weed his _Indian_ Gun; In length, scarce longer than one's Finger. His Pipe smoak'd out with aweful Grace, With aspect grave and solemn pace; The reverend Sire walks to a Chest, Of all his Furniture the best, Closely confined within a Room, Which seldom felt the weight of Broom; From thence he lugs a Cag of Rum, And nodding to me, thus begun: I find, says he, you don't much care For this our _Indian_ Country Fare; But let me tell you, Friend of mine, You may be glad of it in time, Tho' now your Stomach is so fine; And if within this Land you stay, You'll find it true what I do say. This said, the Rundlet up he threw, And bending backwards strongly drew: I pluck'd as stoutly for my part, Altho' it made me sick at Heart, And got so soon into my Head I scarce cou'd find my way to Bed; Where I was instantly convey'd By one who pass'd for Chamber-Maid, Tho' by her loose and sluttish Dress, She rather seemed a _Bedlam-Bess_: Curious to know from whence she came, I prest her to declare her Name. She Blushing, seem'd to hide her Eyes, And thus in Civil Terms replies; In better Times, e'er to this Land, I was unhappily Trapann'd; Perchance as well I did appear, As any Lord or Lady here, Not then a Slave for twice two (m) Year. My Cloaths were fashionably new, Nor were my Shifts of Linnen Blue; But things are changed, now at the Hoe, I daily work, and Bare-foot go, In weeding Corn or feeding Swine, I spend my melancholy Time. Kidnap'd and Fool'd, I hither fled, To shun a hated Nuptial (n) Bed, And to my cost already find, Worse Plagues than those I left behind. Whate'er the Wanderer did profess, Good-faith I cou'd not chuse but guess The Cause which brought her to this place, Was supping e'er the Priest laid Grace. Quick as my Thoughts, the Slave was fled, (Her Candle left to shew my Bed) Which made of Feathers soft and good, Close in the (o) Chimney-corner stood; I threw me down expecting Rest, To be in golden Slumbers blest: But soon a noise disturb'd my quiet, And plagu'd me with nocturnal Riot; A Puss which in the ashes lay, With grunting Pig began a Fray; And prudent Dog, that feuds might cease, Most strongly bark'd to keep the Peace. This Quarrel scarcely was decided, By stick that ready lay provided; But _Reynard_, arch and cunning Loon, Broke into my Appartment soon: In hot pursuit of Ducks and Geese, With fell intent the same to seize: Their Cackling Plaints with strange surprize, Chac'd Sleep's thick Vapours from my Eyes; Raging I jump'd upon the Floar, And like a Drunken Saylor Swore; With Sword I fiercely laid about, And soon dispers'd the Feather'd Rout The Poultry out of Window flew, And _Reynard_ cautiously withdrew: The Dogs who this Encounter heard, Fiercely themselves to aid me rear'd, And to the Place of Combat run, Exactly as the Field was won. Fretting and hot as roasting Capon, And greasy as a Flitch of Bacon; I to the Orchard did repair, To Breathe the cool and open Air; Expecting there the rising Day, Extended on a Bank I lay; But Fortune here, that fancy Whore, Disturb'd me worse and plagu'd me more, Than she had done the night before: Hoarse croaking (p) Frogs did 'bout me ring, Such Peals the Dead to Life wou'd bring, A Noise might move their Wooden King. I stuffed my Ears with Cotten white, For fear of being deaf out-right, And curst the melancholy Night; But soon my Vows I did recant, And Hearing as a Blessing grant; When a confounded Rattle-Snake, With hissing made my Heart to ake: Not knowing how to fly the Foe, Or whither in the Dark to go; By strange good Luck, I took a Tree, Prepar'd by Fate to set me free; Where riding on a Limb a stride, Night and the Branches did me hide, And I the Devil and Snake defy'd. Not yet from Plagues exempted quite, The curst Muskitoes did me bite; Till rising Morn' and blushing Day, Drove both my Fears and Ills away; And from Night's Errors set me free. Discharg'd from hospitable Tree; I did to Planter's Booth repair, And there at Breakfast nobly Fare On rashier broil'd of infant Bear: I thought the Cub delicious Meat, Which ne'er did ought but Chesnuts eat; Nor was young Orsin's flesh the worse, Because he sucked a Pagan Nurse. Our Breakfast done, my Landlord stout, Handed a Glass of Rum about; Pleas'd with the Treatment I did find, I took my leave of Oast so kind; Who to oblige me, did provide, His eldest son to be my Guide, And lent me Horses of his own, A skittish Colt, and aged Rhoan, The four-leg'd prop of his Wife _Joan_: Steering our Barks in Trot or Pace, We sail'd directly for a place In _Mary-Land_, of high renown, Known by the Name of Battle-Town. To view the Crowds did there resort, Which Justice made, and Law their sport, In that sagacious County Court: Scarce had we enter'd on the way, Which thro' thick Woods and Marshes lay; But _Indians_ strange did soon appear, In hot persuit of wounded Deer; No mortal Creature can express, His wild fantastick Air and Dress; His painted Skin in Colours dy'd, His sable hair in Satchel ty'd, Shew'd Savages not free from Pride; His tawny Thighs, and Bosom bare, Disdain'd a useless Coat to wear, Scorn'd Summer's Heat, and Winter's Air; His manly shoulders such as please Widows and Wives, were bathed in grease, Of Cub and Bear, whose supple Oil Prepar'd his Limbs 'gainst Heat or Toil. Thus naked Pict in Battel fought, Or undisguis'd his Mistress sought; And knowing well his Ware was good, Refus'd to screen it with a Hood; His visage dun, and chin that ne'er Did Raizor feel or Scissers bare, Or knew the Ornament of Hair, Look'd sternly Grim, surprized with Fear, I spur'd my Horse as he drew near: But Rhoan who better knew than I, The little Cause I had to fly; Seem'd by his solemn steps and pace, Resolv'd I shou'd the Specter face, Nor faster mov'd, tho' spur'd and lick'd, Than _Balaam's_ Ass by Prophet kick'd. _Kekicknitop_ (q) the Heathen cry'd; How is it, _Tom_, my Friend reply'd, Judging from thence the Brute was civil, I boldly fac'd the Courteous Devil; And lugging out a Dram of Rum, I gave his Tawny worship some: Who in his language as I guess, (My Guide informing me no less,) Implored the (r) Devil, me to bless. I thank'd him for his good Intent, And forwards on my Journey went, Discoursing as along I rode, Whether this Race was framed by God, Or whether some Malignant pow'r, Contriv'd them in an evil hour, And from his own Infernal Look, Their Dusky form and Image took: From hence we fell to Argument Whence Peopled was this Continent. My Friend suppos'd _Tartarians_ wild, Or _Chinese_ from their Home exiled, Wandering thro' Mountains hid with Snow And Rills did in the Vallies flow Far to the South of _Mexico_: Broke thro' the Barrs which Nature cast And wide unbeaten Regions past, Till near those Streams the humane deludge roll'd, Which sparkling shin'd with glittering Sands of Gold And fetch'd (s) _Pizarro_ from the (t) _Iberian_ Shoar, To rob the Natives of their fatal Stoar. I smil'd to hear my young Logician Thus reason like a Politician; Who ne're by Father's Pains and Earning Had got at Mother _Cambridge_ Learning; Where Lubber youth just free from birch Most stoutly drink to prop the Church; Nor with (u) _Grey Groat_ had taken Pains To purge his Head and Cleanse his Reines: And in obedience to the Colledge, Had pleas'd himself with carnal knowledge: And tho' I lik'd the youngster's Wit, I judg'd the Truth he had not hit; And could not chuse but smile to think What they could do for Meat and Drink, Who o'er so many Desarts ran With Brats and Wives in _Caravan_; Unless perchance they'd got the Trick, To eat no more than Porker sick; Or could with well contented Maws Quarter like (v) Bears upon their Paws. Thinking his Reasons to confute, I gravely thus commenc'd Dispute, And urged that tho' a _Chinese_ Host, Might penetrate this _Indian_ Coast, Yet this was certainly most true, They never cou'd the Isles subdue; For knowing not to steer a Boat, They could not on the Ocean float, Or plant their Sunburnt Colonies, In Regions parted by the Seas; I thence inferr'd (w) _Phoenicians_ old, Discover'd first with Vessels bold These Western Shoars, and planted here, Returning once or twice a Year, With _Naval Stoars_ and Lasses kind, To comfort those were left behind; Till by the Winds and Tempest toar, From their intended Golden Shoar, They suffer'd Ship-wreck, or were drown'd, And lost the World so newly found. But after long and learn'd Contention, We could not finish our dissention; And when that both had talk'd their fill, We had the self same Notion still. Thus Parson grave well read and Sage, Does in dispute with Priest engage; The one protests they are not Wise, Who judge by (x) Sense and trust their Eyes; And vows he'd burn for it at Stake, That Man may God his Maker make; The other smiles at his Religion, And vows he's but a learned Widgeon: And when they have empty'd all their Stoar From Books or Fathers, are not more Convinc'd or wiser than before. Scarce had we finish'd serious Story, But I espy'd the Town before me, And roaring Planters on the ground, Drinking of Healths in Circle round: Dismounting Steed with friendly Guide, Our Horses to a Tree we ty'd, And forwards pass'd among the Rout, To chuse convenient _Quarters_ out: But being none were to be found, We sat like others on the ground Carousing Punch in open Air, Till Cryer did the Court declare; The planting Rabble being met Their Drunken Worships likewise set; Cryer proclaims that Noise shou'd cease And streight the Lawyers broke the Peace: Wrangling for Plantiff and Defendant, I thought they ne'er wou'd make an end on't: With nonsense, stuff and false quotations, With brazen Lyes and Allegations; And in the splitting of the Cause, They used much Motions with their Paws, As shew'd their Zeal was strongly bent, In Blows to end the Argument. A reverend Judge, who to the shame Of all the Bench, cou'd write his (y) his Name; At Petty-fogger took offence, And wonder'd at his Impudence. My Neighbour _Dash_ with scorn replies, And in the Face of Justice flies; The Bench in fury streight divide, And Scribble's take or Judge's side; The Jury, Lawyers and their Clyents, Contending fight like earth-born Gyants; But Sheriff wily lay perdue, Hoping Indictments wou'd ensue, And when---------------------- A Hat or Wig fell in the way, He seized them for the _Queen_ as stray: The Court adjourn'd in usual manner In Battle Blood and fractious Clamour; I thought it proper to provide, A Lodging for myself and Guide, So to our Inn we march'd away, Which at a little distance lay; Where all things were in such Confusion, I thought the World at its conclusion; A Herd of Planters on the ground, O'er-whelm'd with Punch, dead drunk, we found; Others were fighting and contending, Some burnt their Cloaths to save the mending. A few whose Heads by frequent use, Could better bare the potent Juice, Gravely debated State Affairs. Whilst I most nimbly trip'd up Stairs; Leaving my Friend discoursing oddly, And mixing things Prophane and Godly; Just then beginning to be Drunk, As from the Company I slunk, To every Room and Nook I crept, In hopes I might have somewhere slept; But all the bedding was possest By one or other drunken Guest: But after looking long about, I found an antient Corn-loft out, Glad that I might in quiet sleep, And there my bones unfractur'd keep. I lay'd me down secure from Fray, And soundly snoar'd till break of Day; When waking fresh I sat upright, And found my Shooes were vanish'd quite; Hat, Wig, and Stockings, all were fled From this extended _Indian_ Bed; Vext at the Loss of Goods and Chattel, I swore I'd give the Rascal battel, Who had abus'd me in this fort, And Merchant Stranger made his Sport. I furiously descended Ladder; No Hare in _March_ was ever madder; In vain I search'd for my Apparel, And did with Oast and Servants Quarrel; For one whose Mind did much aspire To (z) Mischief, threw them in the Fire: Equipt with neither Hat nor Shooe, I did my coming hither rue, And doubtful thought what I should do: Then looking round, I saw my Friend Lie naked on a Table's end; A sight so dismal to behold, One wou'd have judg'd him dead and cold, When wringing of his bloody Nose, By fighting got we may suppose; I found him not so fast asleep, Might give his friends a cause to weep: Rise (aa) _Oronooko_, rise said I, And from this _Hell_ and _Bedlam_ fly. My Guide starts up, and in amaze, With blood-shot Eyes did round him gaze; At length with many a sigh and groan, He went in search of aged Rhoan; But Rhoan, tho' seldom us'd to faulter, Had fairly this time slipt his Halter; And not content all Night to stay Ty'd up from Fodder, ran away: After my Guide to ketch him ran, And so I lost both Horse and Man: Which Disappointment tho' so great, Did only Mirth and Jests create: Till one more Civil than the rest, In Conversation for the best, Observing that for want of Rhoan, I should be left to walk alone; Most readily did me intreat, To take a Bottle at his Seat; A Favour at that time so great, I blest my kind propitious Fate; And finding soon a fresh supply, Of Cloaths from Stoar-house kept hard by, I mounted streight on such a Steed, Did rather curb, than whipping need; And straining at the usual rate, With spur of Punch which lay in Pate, E'er long we lighted at the Gate: Where in an antient _Cedar_ House, Dwelt my new Friend a (bb) Cockerouse; Whose Fabrick tho' 'twas built of Wood, Had many Springs and Winters stood; When sturdy Oaks, and lofty Pines Were level'd with (cc) Musmillion Vines, And Plants eradicated were, By Hurricanes into the air; There with good Punch and Apple Juice, We spent our Hours without abuse; Till Midnight in her sable Vest, Persuaded Gods and Men to rest; And with a pleasing kind surprize, Indulg'd soft Slumbers to my Eyes. Fierce (dd) _Æthon_ courser of the Sun, Had half his Race exactly run; And breath'd on me a fiery Ray, Darting hot Beams the following Day, When snug in Blanket white I lay: But Heat and (ee) Chinces rais'd the Sinner, Most opportunely to his Dinner; Wild Fowl and Fish delicious Meats, As good as _Neptune's_ doxy eats, Began our Hospitable Treat; Fat Venson follow'd in the Rear, And Turkies wild (ff) Luxurious Chear: But what the Feast did most commend, Was hearty welcom from my Friend. Thus having made a noble Feast, And eat as well as pamper'd Priest, _Madera_ strong in flowing Bowls, Fill'd with extream delight our Souls; Till wearied with a purple Flood, Of generous Wine (the Giant's blood, As Poets feign) away I made, For some refreshing verdant Shade; Where musing on my Rambles strange, And Fortune which so oft did change; In midst of various Contemplations Of Fancies odd, and Meditations, I slumbered long--------------- Till hazy Night with noxious Dews Did sleep's unwholsom Fetters lose; With Vapors chil'd, and misty air, To fire-side I did repair; Near which a jolly Female Crew, Were deep engag'd at _Lanctre-Looe_; In Night-rails white, with dirty Mein, Such Sights are scarce in _England_ seen: I thought them first some Witches bent, On Black Designs in dire Convent. Till one who with affected air, Had nicely learn'd to Curse and Swear; Cry'd Dealing's lost is but a Flam, And vow'd by G----d she'd keep her _Pam_. When dealing through the board had run, They ask'd me kindly to make one; Not staying often to be bid, I sat me down as others did; We scarce had play'd a Round about, But that these _Indian_ Froes fell out. D----m you, says one, tho' now so brave, I knew you late a Four-Years Slave; What if for Planter's Wife you go, Nature designed you for the Hoe. Rot you replies the other streight, The Captain kiss'd you for his Freight; And if the Truth was known aright, And how you walk'd the Streets by night You'd blush (if one cou'd blush) for shame, Who from _Bridewell_ or _New gate_ came: From Words they fairly fell to Blows, And being loath to interpose, Or meddle in the Wars of Punk, Away to Bed in hast I slunk. Waking next day, with aking Head, And Thirst, that made me quit my Bed; I rigg'd myself, and soon got up, To cool my Liver with a Cup Of (gg) _Succahana_ fresh and clear, Not half so good as _English_ Beer; Which ready stood in Kitchin Pail, And was in fact but _Adam's_ Ale; For Planter's Cellars you must know, Seldom with good _October_ flow, But Perry Quince and Apple Juice, Spout from the Tap like any Sluce; Untill the Cask's grown low and stale, They're forc'd again to (hh) Goud and Pail: The soathing drought scarce down my Throat, Enough to put a ship afloat, With Cockerouse as I was sitting, I felt a Feaver Intermitting; A fiery Pulse beat in my Veins, From Cold I felt resembling Pains: This cursed seasoning I remember, Lasted from _March_ to cold _December_; Nor would it then its _Quarters_ shift Until by _Cardus_ turn'd adrift, And had my Doctress wanted skill, Or Kitchin Physick at her will, My Father's Son had lost his Lands, And never seen the _Goodwin Sands_: But thanks to Fortune and a Nurse Whose Care depended on my Purse, I saw myself in good Condition, Without the help of a Physitian: At length the shivering ill relieved, Which long my Head and Heart had grieved; I then began to think with Care, How I might sell my _British_ Ware, That with my Freight I might comply, Did on my Charter party lie; To this intent, with Guide before, I tript it to the Eastern Shoar; While riding near a Sandy Bay, I met a _Quaker_, _Yea_ and _Nay_; A Pious Consientious Rogue, As e'er woar Bonnet or a Brogue, Who neither Swore nor kept his Word But cheated in the Fear of God; And when his Debts he would not pay, By Light within he ran away. With this sly Zealot soon I struck A Bargain for my _English_ Truck Agreeing for ten thousand weight, Of _Sot-weed_ good and fit for freight, Broad Oronooko bright and sound, The growth and product of his ground; In Cask that should contain compleat, Five hundred of Tobacco neat. The Contract thus betwixt us made, Not well acquainted with the Trade, My Goods I trusted to the Cheat, Whose crop was then aboard the Fleet; And going to receive my own, I found the Bird was newly flown: Cursing this execrable Slave, This damn'd pretended Godly Knave; On dire Revenge and Justice bent, I instantly to Counsel went, Unto an ambodexter (ii) _Quack_, Who learnedly had got the Knack Of giving Glisters, making Pills, Of filling Bonds, and forging Wills; And with a stock of Impudence, Supply'd his want of Wit and Sense; With Looks demure, amazing People, No wiser than a Daw in Steeple; My Anger flushing in my Face, I stated the preceeding Case: And of my Money was so lavish, That he'd have poyson'd half the Parish, And hang'd his Father on a Tree For such another tempting Fee; Smiling, said he, the Cause is clear, I'll manage him you need not fear; The Case is judg'd, good Sir, but look In _Galen_, No--in my Lord Cook, I vow to God I was mistook: I'll take out a Provincial Writ, And trounce him for his Knavish Wit; Upon my Life we'll win the Cause, With all the ease I cure the (kk) Yaws; Resolv'd to plague the holy Brother, I set one Rogue to catch another; To try the cause then fully bent, Up to (ll) _Annapolis_ I went, A City Situate on a Plain, Where scarce a House will keep out Rain; The Buildings framed with Cyprus rare, Resembles much our _Southwark_ Fair: But Stranger here will scarcely meet With Market-place, Exchange, or Street; And if the Truth I may report, 'Tis not so large as _Tottenham Court_. St _Mary's_ once was in repute, Now here the Judges try the Suit And Lawyers twice a year dispute. As oft the Bench most gravely meet, Some to get Drunk, and some to eat A swinging share of Country Treat. But as for Justice right or wrong, Not one amongst the numerous throng, Knows what they mean, or has the Heart, To give his Verdict on a Stranger's part: Now Court being call'd by beat of Drum, The Judges left their Punch and Rum, When Pettifogger Docter draws, His Paper forth, and opens Cause; And least I shou'd the better get, Brib'd _Quack_ supprest his knavish Wit. So Maid upon the Downy Field Pretends a Force, and Fights to yield: The Byast Court without delay, Adjudg'd my Debt in Country Pay; In (mm) Pipe staves, Corn or Flesh of Boar, Rare Cargo for the _English_ Shoar; Raging with Grief, full speed I ran To joyn the Fleet at (nn) _Kicketan_; Embarqu'd and waiting for a Wind I left this dreadful Curse behind. May Canniballs transported o'er the Sea Prey on these Slaves, as they have done on me; May never Merchant's trading Sails explore This Cruel, this inhospitable Shoar; But left abandon'd by the World to starve, May they sustain the Fate they well deserve; May they turn Savage, or as _Indians_ Wild, From Trade, Converse and Happiness exil'd; Recreant to Heaven, may they adore the Sun, And into Pagan Superstitions run For Vengence ripe--------------- May Wrath Divine then lay those Regions wast Where no Man's (oo) Faithful, nor a Woman Chast. [Footnote a: By the Cape is meant the _Capes of Virginea_[_sic._], the first Land on the Coast of _Virginia_ and _Mary-Land_.] [Footnote b: To _Cove_ is to lie at Anchor safe in Harbour.] [Footnote c: The Bay of _Piscato-way_, the usual place where our Ships come to an Anchor in _Mary-Land_.] [Footnote d: The Planters generally wear _Blue Linnen_.] [Footnote e: A _Canoo_ is an _Indian_ Boat, cut out of the body of a Popular-Tree [_sic._, Poplar-Tree].] [Footnote f: Wolves are very numerous in _Mary-Land_.] [Footnote g: 'Tis supposed by the Planters that all unknown Persons run away from some Master.] [Footnote h: Syder-pap is a sort of Food made of Syder and small Homine, like our Oatmeal.] [Footnote i: Pon is Bread made of _Indian-Corn_.] [Footnote k: Mush is a sort of hasty-pudding made with water and _Indian_ Flower.] [Footnote l: Homine is a dish that is made of boiled _Indian_ Wheat, eaten with Molossus, or Bacon-Fat.] [Footnote m: 'Tis the Custom for Servants to be obliged for four Years to very servile work; after which time they have their Freedom.] [Footnote n: These are the general Excuses made by _English_ Women, which are sold, or sell themselves to _Mary-Land_.] [Footnote o: Beds stand in the Chimney-corner in this Country.] [Footnote p: Frogs are called _Virginia_ Bells and make (both in that country and _Mary-Land_) during the Night, a very hoarse ungrateful Noise.] [Footnote q: _Kekicknitop_ is an _Indian_ Expression, and signifies no more than this, _How do you do?_] [Footnote r: These _Indians_ worship the Devil, and pray to him as we do to God Almighty. 'Tis suppos'd, that _America_ was peopled from _Scythia_ or _Tartaria_, which Borders on _China_, by reason the _Tartarians_ and _Americans_, very much agree in their Manners, Arms and Government. Other persons are of Opinion, that the _Chinese_ first peopled the _West-Indies_; imagining _China_ and the Southern part of _America_ to be contiguous. Others believe that the Phoenicians who were very skilful Mariners, first planted a Colony in the Isles of _America_, and supply'd the Persons left to inhabit there with Women and all other Necessaries; till either the Death or Shipwreck of the first Discoverers, or some other Misfortune, occasioned the loss of the Discovery, which had been purchased by the Peril of the first Adventurers.] [Footnote s: Pizarro was the Person that conquer'd Peru; a Man of a most bloody Disposition, base, treacherous, covetous and revengeful.] [Footnote t: _Spanish_ Shoar.] [Footnote u: There is a very bad Custom in some Colledges, of giving the Students _A Groat ad purgandas Rhenes_, which is usually employ'd to the use of the _Donor_.] [Footnote v: Bears are said to live by sucking of their _Paws_, according to the Notion of some Learned Authors.] [Footnote w: The _Phoenicians_ were the best and boldest Saylors of Antiquity, and indeed the only Persons, in former Ages, who durst venture themselves on the Main Sea.] [Footnote x: The _Priests_ argue, That our Senses in point of _Transubstantiation_ ought not to be believed, for tho' the Consecrated Bread has all the accidents of Bread, yet they affirm, 'tis the Body of Christ, and not of Bread but Flesh and Bones.] [Footnote y: In the County-Court of Mary-Land, very few of the Justices of the Peace can write or read.] [Footnote z: 'Tis the Custom of the Planters to throw their own, or any other Person's Hat, Wig, Shooes or Stockings in the Fire.] [Footnote aa: Planters are usually call'd by the Name of _Oronooko_, from their Planting _Oronooko-Tobacco_.] [Footnote bb: Cockerouse, is a Man of Quality.] [Footnote cc: Musmilleon Vines are what we call Musk milleon Plants.] [Footnote dd: _Æthon_ is one of the Poetical Horses of the Sun.] [Footnote ee: _Chinces_ are a sort of Vermin like our _Bugs_ in _England_.] [Footnote ff: Wild Turkies are very good Meat, and prodigiously large in _Mary-Land_.] [Footnote gg: Succahana is Water.] [Footnote hh: A Goud grows upon an _Indian_ Vine, resembling a Bottle, when ripe it is hollow; this the Planters make use of to drink water out of.] [Footnote ii: This Fellow was an Apothecary, and turned an Attorney at Law.] [Footnote kk: The _Yaws_ is the _Pox_.] [Footnote ll: The chief of _Mary-Land_ containing about twenty-four _Houses_.] [Footnote mm: There is a Law in this Country, the Plaintiff may pay his Debt in Country pay, which consists in the produce of his Plantation.] [Footnote nn: The home ward bound fleet meets here.] [Footnote oo: The Author does not intend by this any of the _English_ Gentlemen resident there.] * * * * * FINIS. GLOSSARY. Cockerouse: a man of Quality. Chinces: _chinches_,--bed-bugs. Froes: women; _frau_ (German) _vrouw_ (Dutch). Hoe (at the): working in the field. Lanctre-Looe: the game at cards of _loo_. Night-rails: night cloathes. Oast: host. Oronooko: tobacco, also a nick-name, in those days, for a planter. Pam: in _loo_ the knave or clubs generally, and sometimes the knave of trumps, is agreed on as the highest card, and called Pam. Sot-weed: tobacco. Sot-weed Factor: tobacco-agent or supercargo. Succahana: water. Tripple-Tree: gallows. 
15130	----	THE FUGITIVE BLACKSMITH; OR, EVENTS IN THE HISTORY OF JAMES W.C. PENNINGTON, PASTOR OF A PRESBYTERIAN CHURCH, NEW YORK, FORMERLY A SLAVE IN THE STATE OF MARYLAND, UNITED STATES. "Let mine outcasts dwell with thee, Moab; be thou a covert to them from the face of the spoiler."--ISAIAH xvi. 4. Second Edition. LONDON: CHARLES GILPIN, 5, BISHOPSGATE WITHOUT. 1849 [_Transcriber's Note: This project was transcribed from a contemporary printing of the work, not from the 1849 edition. Certain spellings may have been modernized and typographic and printer's errors changed from the original._] MR. CHARLES GILPIN, MY DEAR SIR, The information just communicated to me by you, that another edition of my little book, "The Fugitive Blacksmith," is called for, has agreeably surprised me. The British public has laid me under renewed obligations by this mark of liberality, which I hasten to acknowledge. I would avail myself of this moment also, to acknowledge the kindness of the gentlemen of the newspaper press for the many favourable reviews which my little book has received. It is to them I am indebted, in no small degree, for the success with which I have been favoured in getting the book before the notice of the public. Yours truly, J.W.C. PENNINGTON. _Hoxton, Oct. 15th, 1849._ PREFACE. The brief narrative I here introduce to the public, consists of outline notes originally thrown together to guide my memory when lecturing on this part of the subject of slavery. This will account for its style, and will also show that the work is not full. The question may be asked, Why I have published anything so long after my escape from slavery? I answer I have been induced to do so on account of the increasing disposition to overlook the fact, that THE SIN of slavery lies in the chattel principle, or relation. Especially have I felt anxious to save professing Christians, and my brethren in the ministry, from falling into a great mistake. My feelings are always outraged when I hear them speak of "kind masters,"--"Christian masters,"--"the mildest form of slavery,"--"well fed and clothed slaves," as extenuations of slavery; I am satisfied they either mean to pervert the truth, or they do not know what they say. The being of slavery, its soul and body, lives and moves in the chattel principle, the property principle, the bill of sale principle; the cart-whip, starvation, and nakedness, are its inevitable consequences to a greater or less extent, warring with the dispositions of men. There lies a skein of silk upon a lady's work-table. How smooth and handsome are the threads. But while that lady goes out to make a call, a party of children enter the apartment, and in amusing themselves, tangle the skein of silk, and now who can untangle it? The relation between master and slave is even as delicate as a skein of silk: it is liable to be entangled at any moment. The mildest form of slavery, if there be such a form, looking at the chattel principle as the definition of slavery, is comparatively the worst form. For it not only keeps the slave in the most unpleasant apprehension, like a prisoner in chains awaiting his trial; but it actually, in a great majority of cases, where kind masters do exist, trains him under the most favourable circumstances the system admits of, and then plunges him into the worst of which it is capable. It is under the mildest form of slavery, as it exists in Maryland, Virginia, and Kentucky, that the finest specimens of coloured females are reared. There are no mothers who rear, and educate in the natural graces, finer daughters than the Ethiopian women, who have the least chance to give scope to their maternal affections. But what is generally the fate of such female slaves? When they are not raised for the express purpose of supplying the market of a class of economical Louisian and Mississippi gentlemen, who do not wish to incur the expense of rearing legitimate families, they are, nevertheless, on account of their attractions, exposed to the most shameful degradation, by the young masters in the families where it is claimed they are so well off. My master once owned a beautiful girl about twenty-four. She had been raised in a family where her mother was a great favourite. She was her mother's darling child. Her master was a lawyer of eminent abilities and great fame, but owing to habits of intemperance, he failed in business, and my master purchased this girl for a nurse. After he had owned her about a year, one of his sons became attached to her, for no honourable purposes; a fact which was not only well-known among all of the slaves, but which became a source of unhappiness to his mother and sisters. The result was, that poor Rachel had to be sold to "Georgia." Never shall I forget the heart-rending scene, when one day one of the men was ordered to get "the one-horse cart ready to go into town;" Rachel, with her few articles of clothing, was placed in it, and taken into the very town where her parents lived, and there sold to the traders before their weeping eyes. That same son who had degraded her, and who was the cause of her being sold, acted as salesman, and bill of saleman. While this cruel business was being transacted, my master stood aside, and the girl's father, a pious member and exhorter in the Methodist Church, a venerable grey-headed man, with his hat off, besought that he might be allowed to get some one in the place to purchase his child. But no; my master was invincible. His reply was, "She has offended in my family, and I can only restore confidence by sending her out of hearing." After lying in prison a short time, her new owner took her with others to the far South, where her parents heard no more of her. Here was a girl born and reared under the mildest form of slavery. Her original master was reputed to be even indulgent. He lived in a town, and was a high-bred gentleman, and a lawyer. He had but a few slaves, and had no occasion for an overseer, those negro leeches, to watch and drive them; but when he became embarrassed by his own folly, the chattel principle doomed this girl to be sold at the same sale with his books, house, and horses. With my master she found herself under far more stringent discipline than she had been accustomed to, and finally degraded, and sold where her condition could not be worse, and where she had not the least hope of ever bettering it. This case presents the legitimate working of the great chattel principle. It is no accidental result--it is the fruit of the tree. You cannot constitute slavery without the chattel principle--and with the chattel principle you cannot save it from these results. Talk not then about kind and christian masters. They are not masters of the system. The system is master of them; and the slaves are their vassals. These storms rise on the bosom of the calmed waters of the system. You are a slave, a being in whom another owns property. Then you may rise with his pride, but remember the day is at hand when you must also fall with his folly. To-day you may be pampered by his meekness; but to-morrow you will suffer in the storm of his passions. In the month of September, 1848, there appeared in my study, one morning, in New York City, an aged coloured man of tall and slender form. I saw depicted on his countenance anxiety bordering on despair, still I was confident that he was a man whose mind was accustomed to faith. When I learned that he was a native of my own state, Maryland, having been born in the county of Montgomery, I at once became much interested in him. He had been sent to me by my friend, William Harned, Esq., of the Anti-Slavery Office, 61, John Street. He put into my hand the following bill of distress:-- "Alexander, Virginia, _September 5th, 1848._ "The bearer, Paul Edmondson, is the father of two girls, Mary Jane and Emily Catherine Edmondson. These girls have been purchased by us, and once sent to the South; and upon the positive assurance that the money for them would be raised if they were brought back, they were returned. Nothing, it appears, has as yet been done in this respect by those who promised, and we are on the very eve of sending them south a second time; and we are candid in saying, that if they go again, we will not regard any promises made in relation to them. "The father wishes to raise money to pay for them, and intends to appeal to the liberality of the humane and the good to aid him, and has requested us to state in writing the _conditions upon which we will sell his daughters_. "We expect to start our servants to the South in a few days; if the sum of twelve hundred dollars be raised and paid us in fifteen days, or we be assured of that sum, then we will retain them for twenty-five days more, to give an opportunity for raising the other thousand and fifty dollars, otherwise we shall be compelled to send them along with our other servants. (Signed) "BRUIN AND HILL." The old man also showed me letters from other individuals, and one from the Rev. Matthew A. Turner, pastor of Asbury Chapel, where himself and his daughters were members. He was himself free, but his wife was a slave. Those two daughters were two out of fifteen children he had raised for the owner of his wife. These two girls had been sold, along with four brothers, to the traders, for an attempt to escape to the North, and gain their freedom. On the next Sabbath evening, I threw the case before my people, and the first fifty dollars of the sum was raised to restore the old man his daughters. Subsequently the case was taken up under the management of a committee of ministers of the Methodist Episcopal Church, consisting of the Rev. Gr. Peck, D.D., Rev. E.E. Griswold, and Rev. D. Curry, and the entire sum of 2,250 dollars, (£450.) was raised for two girls, fourteen and sixteen years of age! But why this enormous sum for two mere children? Ah, reader, they were reared under the mildest form of slavery known to the laws of Maryland! The mother is an invalid, and allowed to live with her free husband; but she is a woman of excellent mind, and has bestowed great pains upon her daughters. If you would know, then, why these girls were held at such a price, even to their own father, read the following extract of a letter from one who was actively engaged in behalf of them, and who had several interviews with the traders to induce them to reduce the price, but without success. Writing from Washington, D.C., September 12th, 1848, this gentleman says to William Harned, "The truth is, _and is confessed to be, that their destination is prostitution_; of this you would be satisfied on seeing them: they are of elegant form, and fine faces." And such, dear reader, is the sad fate of hundreds of my young countrywomen, natives of my native state. Such is the fate of many who are not only reared under the mildest form of slavery, but of those who have been made acquainted with the milder system of the Prince of Peace. When Christians, and Christian ministers, then, talk about the "mildest form of slavery,"--"Christian masters," &c., I say my feelings are outraged. It is a great mistake to offer these as an extenuation of the system. It is calculated to mislead the public mind. The opinion seems to prevail, that the negro, after having toiled as a slave for centuries to enrich his white brother, to lay the foundation of his proud institutions, after having been sunk as low as slavery can sink him, needs now only a second-rate civilization, a lower standard of civil and religious privileges than the whites claim for themselves. During the last year or two, we have heard of nothing but revolutions, and the enlargements of the eras of freedom, on both sides of the Atlantic. Our white brethren everywhere are reaching out their hands to grasp more freedom. In the place of absolute monarchies they have limited monarchies, and in the place of limited monarchies they have republics: so tenacious are they of their own liberties. But when we speak of slavery, and complain of the wrong it is doing us, and ask to have the yoke removed, we are told, "O, you must not be impatient, you must not create undue excitement. You are not so badly off, for many of your masters are kind Christian masters." Yes, sirs, many of our masters are professed Christians; and what advantage is that to us? The grey heads of our fathers are brought down by scores to the grave in sorrow, on account of their young and tender sons, who are sold to the far South, where they have to toil without requite to supply the world's market with _cotton, sugar, rice, tobacco, &c_. Our venerable mothers are borne down with poignant grief at the fate of their children. Our sisters, if not by the law, are by common consent made the prey of vile men, who can bid the highest. In all the bright achievements we have obtained in the great work of emancipation, if we have not settled the fact that the chattel principle is wrong, and cannot be maintained upon Christian ground, then we have wrought and triumphed to little purpose, and we shall have to do our first work over again. It is this that has done all the mischief connected with slavery; it is this that threatens still further mischief. Whatever may be the ill or favoured condition of the slave in the matter of mere personal treatment, it is the chattel relation that robs him of his manhood, and transfers his ownership in himself to another. It is this that transfers the proprietorship of his wife and children to another. It is this that throws his family history into utter confusion, and leaves him without a single record to which he may appeal in vindication of his character, or honour. And has a man no sense of honour because he was born a slave? Has he no need of character? Suppose insult, reproach, or slander, should render it necessary for him to appeal to the history of his family in vindication of his character, where will he find that history? He goes to his native state, to his native county, to his native town; but no where does he find any record of himself _as a man_. On looking at the family record of his old, kind, Christian, master, there he finds his name on a catalogue with the horses, cows, hogs and dogs. However humiliating and degrading it may be to his feelings to find his name written down among the beasts of the field, _that_ is just the place, and the _only_ place assigned to it by the chattel relation. I beg our Anglo-Saxon brethren to accustom themselves to think that we need something more than mere kindness. We ask for justice, truth and honour as other men do. My coloured brethren are now widely awake to the degradation which they suffer in having property vested in their persons, and they are also conscious of the deep and corrupting disgrace of having our wives and children owned by other men--men, who have shown to the world that their own virtue is not infallible, and who have given us no flattering encouragement to entrust that of our wives and daughters to them. I have great pleasure in stating that my dear friend W.W., spoken of in this narrative, to whom I am so deeply indebted, is still living. I have been twice to see him within four years, and have regular correspondence with him. In one of the last letters I had from him, he authorises me to use his name in connection with this narrative in these words,--"As for using my name, by reference or otherwise, in thy narrative, it is at thy service. I know thee so well James, that I am not afraid of thy making a bad use of it, nor am I afraid or ashamed to have it known that I took thee in and gave thee aid, when I found thee travelling alone and in want.--W.W." On the second page of the same sheet I have a few lines from his excellent lady, in which she says, "James, I hope thee will not attribute my long silence in writing to indifference. No such feeling can ever exist towards thee in our family. Thy name is mentioned almost every day. Each of the children claims the next letter from thee. It will be for thee to decide which shall have it.--P.W." In a postscript following this, W.W. says again:--"Understand me, James, that thee is at full liberty to use my name in any way thee wishes in thy narrative. We have a man here from the eastern shore of thy state. He is trying to learn as fast as thee did when here.--W.W." I hope the reader will pardon me for introducing these extracts. My only apology is, the high gratification I feel in knowing that this family has not only been greatly prospered in health and happiness, but that I am upon the most intimate and pleasant terms with all its members, and that they all still feel a deep and cordial interest in my welfare. There is another distinguished individual whose sympathy has proved very gratifying to me in my situation--I mean that true friend of the negro, _Gerrit Smith, Esq._ I was well acquainted with the family in which Mr. Smith married in Maryland. My attention has been fixed upon him for the last ten years, for I have felt confident that God had set him apart for some great good to the negro. In a letter dated Peterborough, November 7th, 1848, he says:-- "J.W.C. PENNINGTON, "Slight as is my _personal_ acquaintance with you, I nevertheless am well acquainted with you. I am familiar with many passages in your history--all that part of your history extending from the time when, a sturdy blacksmith, you were running away from Maryland oppression, down to the present, when you are the successor of my lamented friend, Theodore S. Wright. Let me add that my acquaintance with you has inspired me with a high regard for your wisdom and integrity." Give us a few more such men in America, and slavery will soon be numbered among the things that were. A few men who will not only have the moral courage to aim the severing blow at the chattel relation between master and slave, without parley, palliation or compromise; but who have also the christian fidelity to brave public scorn and contumely, to seize a coloured man by the hand, and elevate him to the position from whence the avarice and oppression of the whites have degraded him. These men have the right view of the subject. They see that in every case where the relation between master and slave is broken, slavery is weakened, and that every coloured man elevated, becomes a step in the ladder upon which his whole people are to ascend. They would not have us accept of some modified form of liberty, while the old mischief working chattel relation remains unbroken, untouched and unabrogated. J.W.C. PENNINGTON. _13, Princes Square, London, August 15th_, 1849. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. My birth and parentage--The treatment of Slaves generally in Maryland 1 CHAPTER II. The flight 14 CHAPTER III. A dreary night in the woods--Critical situation the next day 31 CHAPTER IV. The good woman of the toll-gate directs me to W.W.--My cordial reception by him 40 CHAPTER V. Seven months' residence in the family of J.K., a member of the Society of Friends in Chester County, Pennsylvania--Removal to New York--Becomes a convert to religion--Becomes a teacher 49 CHAPTER VI. Some account of the family I left in slavery--Proposal to purchase myself and parents--How met by my old master 58 CHAPTER VII. The feeding, clothing, and religious instruction of the slaves in the part of Maryland where I lived 65 APPENDIX 74 THE FUGITIVE BLACKSMITH. CHAPTER I. MY BIRTH AND PARENTAGE.--THE TREATMENT OF SLAVES GENERALLY IN MARYLAND. I was born in the state of Maryland, which is one of the smallest and most northern of the slave-holding states; the products of this state are wheat, rye, Indian corn, tobacco, with some hemp, flax, &c. By looking at the map, it will be seen that Maryland, like Virginia her neighbour, is divided by the Chesapeake Bay into eastern and western shores. My birthplace was on the eastern shore, where there are seven or eight small counties; the farms are small, and tobacco is mostly raised. At an early period in the history of Maryland, her lands began to be exhausted by the bad cultivation peculiar to slave states; and hence she soon commenced the business of breeding slaves for the more southern states. This has given an enormity to slavery, in Maryland, differing from that which attaches to the system in Louisiana, and equalled by none of the kind, except Virginia and Kentucky, and not by either of these in extent. My parents did not both belong to the same owner: my father belonged to a man named ----; my mother belonged to a man named ----. This not only made me a slave, but made me the slave of him to whom my mother belonged; as the primary law of slavery is, that the child shall follow the condition of the mother. When I was about four years of age, my mother, an older brother and myself, were given to a son of my master, who had studied for the medical profession, but who had now married wealthy, and was about to settle as a wheat planter in Washington County, on the western shore. This began the first of our family troubles that I knew anything about, as it occasioned a separation between my mother and the only two children she then had, and my father, to a distance of about two hundred miles. But this separation did not continue long; my father being a valuable slave, my master was glad to purchase him. About this time, I began to feel another evil of slavery--I mean the want of parental care and attention. My parents were not able to give any attention to their children during the day. I often suffered much from _hunger_ and other similar causes. To estimate the sad state of a slave child, you must look at it as a helpless human being thrown upon the world without the benefit of its natural guardians. It is thrown into the world without a social circle to flee to for hope, shelter, comfort, or instruction. The social circle, with all its heaven-ordained blessings, is of the utmost importance to the _tender child_; but of this, the slave child, however tender and delicate, is robbed. There is another source of evil to slave children, which I cannot forbear to mention here, as one which early embittered my life,--I mean the tyranny of the master's children. My master had two sons, about the ages and sizes of my older brother and myself. We were not only required to recognise these young sirs as our young masters, but _they_ felt themselves to be such; and, in consequence of this feeling, they sought to treat us with the same air of authority that their father did the older slaves. Another evil of slavery that I felt severely about this time, was the tyranny and abuse of the overseers. These men seem to look with an evil eye upon children. I was once visiting a menagerie, and being struck with the fact, that the lion was comparatively indifferent to every one around his cage, while he eyed with peculiar keenness a little boy I had; the keeper informed me that such was always the case. Such is true of those human beings in the slave states, called overseers. They seem to take pleasure in torturing the children of slaves, long before they are large enough to be put at the hoe, and consequently under the whip. We had an overseer, named Blackstone; he was an extremely cruel man to the working hands. He always carried a long hickory whip, a kind of pole. He kept three or four of these in order, that he might not at any time be without one. I once found one of these hickories lying in the yard, and supposing that he had thrown it away, I picked it up, and boy-like, was using it for a horse; he came along from the field, and seeing me with it, fell upon me with the one he then had in his hand, and flogged me most cruelly. From that, I lived in constant dread of that man; and he would show how much he delighted in cruelty by chasing me from my play with threats and imprecations. I have lain for hours in a wood, or behind a fence, to hide from his eye. At this time my days were extremely dreary. When I was nine years of age, myself and my brother were hired out from home; my brother was placed with a pump-maker, and I was placed with a stonemason. We were both in a town some six miles from home. As the men with whom we lived were not slaveholders, we enjoyed some relief from the peculiar evils of slavery. Each of us lived in a family where there was no other negro. The slaveholders in that state often hire the children of their slaves out to non-slaveholders, not only because they save themselves the expense of taking care of them, but in this way they get among their slaves useful trades. They put a bright slave-boy with a tradesman, until he gets such a knowledge of the trade as to be able to do his own work, and then he takes him home. I remained with the stonemason until I was eleven years of age: at this time I was taken home. This was another serious period in my childhood; I was separated from my older brother, to whom I was much attached; he continued at his place, and not only learned the trade to great perfection, but finally became the property of the man with whom he lived, so that our separation was permanent, as we never lived nearer after, than six miles. My master owned an excellent blacksmith, who had obtained his trade in the way I have mentioned above. When I returned home at the age of eleven, I was set about assisting to do the mason-work of a new smith's shop. This being done, I was placed at the business, which I soon learned, so as to be called a "first-rate blacksmith." I continued to work at this business for nine years, or until I was twenty-one, with the exception of the last seven months. In the spring of 1828, my master sold me to a Methodist man, named ----, for the sum of seven hundred dollars. It soon proved that he had not work enough to keep me employed as a smith, and he offered me for sale again. On hearing of this, my old master re-purchased me, and proposed to me to undertake the carpentering business. I had been working at this trade six months with a white workman, who was building a large barn when I left. I will now relate the abuses which occasioned me to fly. Three or four of our farm hands had their wives and families on other plantations. In such cases, it is the custom in Maryland to allow the men to go on Saturday evening to see their families, stay over the Sabbath, and return on Monday morning, not later than "half-an-hour by sun." To overstay their time is a grave fault, for which, especially at busy seasons, they are punished. One Monday morning, two of these men had not been so fortunate as to get home at the required time: one of them was an uncle of mine. Besides these, two young men who had no families, and for whom no such provision of time was made, having gone somewhere to spend the Sabbath, were absent. My master was greatly irritated, and had resolved to have, as he said, "a general whipping-match among them." Preparatory to this, he had a rope in his pocket, and a cowhide in his hand, walking about the premises, and speaking to every one he met in a very insolent manner, and finding fault with some without just cause. My father, among other numerous and responsible duties, discharged that of shepherd to a large and valuable flock of Merino sheep. This morning he was engaged in the tenderest of a shepherd's duties;--a little lamb, not able to go alone, lost its mother; he was feeding it by hand. He had been keeping it in the house for several days. As he stooped over it in the yard, with a vessel of new milk he had obtained, with which to feed it, my master came along, and without the least provocation, began by asking, "Bazil, have you fed the flock?" "Yes, sir." "Were you away yesterday?" "No, sir." "Do you know why these boys have not got home this morning yet?" "No, sir, I have not seen any of them since Saturday night." "By the Eternal, I'll make them know their hour. The fact is, I have too many of you; my people are getting to be the most careless, lazy, and worthless in the country." "Master," said my father, "I am always at my post; Monday morning never finds me off the plantation." "Hush, Bazil! I shall have to sell some of you; and then the rest will have enough to do; I have not work enough to keep you all tightly employed; I have too many of you." All this was said in an angry, threatening, and exceedingly insulting tone. My father was a high-spirited man, and feeling deeply the insult, replied to the last expression,--"If I am one too many, sir, give me a chance to get a purchaser, and I am willing to be sold when it may suit you." "Bazil, I told you to hush!" and suiting the action to the word, he drew forth the "cowhide" from under his arm, fell upon him with most savage cruelty, and inflicted fifteen or twenty severe stripes with all his strength, over his shoulders and the small of his back. As he raised himself upon his toes, and gave the last stripe, he said, "By the * * * I will make you know that I am master of your tongue as well as of your time!" Being a tradesman, and just at that time getting my breakfast, I was near enough to hear the insolent words that were spoken to my father, and to hear, see, and even count the savage stripes inflicted upon him. Let me ask any one of Anglo-Saxon blood and spirit, how would you expect a _son_ to feel at such a sight? This act created an open rupture with our family--each member felt the deep insult that had been inflicted upon our head; the spirit of the whole family was roused; we talked of it in our nightly gatherings, and showed it in our daily melancholy aspect. The oppressor saw this, and with the heartlessness that was in perfect keeping with the first insult, commenced a series of tauntings, threatenings, and insinuations, with a view to crush the spirit of the whole family. Although it was sometime after this event before I took the decisive step, yet in my mind and spirit, I never was a _Slave_ after it. Whenever I thought of the great contrast between my father's employment on that memorable Monday morning, (feeding the little lamb,) and the barbarous conduct of my master, I could not help cordially despising the proud abuser of my sire; and I believe he discovered it, for he seemed to have diligently sought an occasion against me. Many incidents occurred to convince me of this, too tedious to mention; but there is one I will mention, because it will serve to show the state of feeling that existed between us, and how it served to widen the already open breach. I was one day shoeing a horse in the shop yard. I had been stooping for some time under the weight of the horse, which was large, and was very tired; meanwhile, my master had taken his position on a little hill just in front of me, and stood leaning back on his cane, with his hat drawn ever his eyes. I put down the horse's foot, and straightened myself up to rest a moment, and without knowing that he was there, my eye caught his. This threw him into a panic of rage; he would have it that I was watching him. "What are you rolling your white eyes at me for, you lazy rascal?" He came down upon me with his cane, and laid on over my shoulders, arms, and legs, about a dozen severe blows, so that my limbs and flesh were sore for several weeks; and then after several other offensive epithets, left me. This affair my mother saw from her cottage, which was near; I being one of the oldest sons of my parents, our family was now mortified to the lowest degree. I had always aimed to be trustworthy; and feeling a high degree of mechanical pride, I had aimed to do my work with dispatch and skill, my blacksmith's pride and taste was one thing that had reconciled me so long to remain a slave. I sought to distinguish myself in the finer branches of the business by invention and finish; I frequently tried my hand at making guns and pistols, putting blades in penknives, making fancy hammers, hatchets, sword-canes, &c., &c. Besides I used to assist my father at night in making straw-hats and willow-baskets, by which means we supplied our family with little articles of food, clothing and luxury, which slaves in the mildest form of the system never get from the master; but after this, I found that my mechanic's pleasure and pride were gone. I thought of nothing but the family disgrace under which we were smarting, and how to get out of it. Perhaps I may as well extend this note a little. The reader will observe that I have not said much about my master's cruel treatment; I have aimed rather to shew the cruelties incident to the system. I have no disposition to attempt to convict him of having been one of the most cruel masters--that would not be true--his prevailing temper was kind, but he was a perpetualist. He was opposed to emancipation; thought free negroes a great nuisance, and was, as respects discipline, a thorough slaveholder. He would not tolerate a look or a word from a slave like insubordination. He would suppress it at once, and at any risk. When he thought it necessary to secure unqualified obedience, he would strike a slave with any weapon, flog him on the bare back, and sell. And this was the kind of discipline he also empowered his overseers and sons to use. I have seen children go from our plantations to join the chained-gang on its way from Washington to Louisiana; and I have seen men and women flogged--I have seen the overseers strike a man with a hay-fork--nay more, men have been maimed by shooting! Some dispute arose one morning between the overseer and one of the farm hands, when the former made at the slave with a hickory club; the slave taking to his heels, started for the woods; as he was crossing the yard, the overseer turned, snatched his gun which was near, and fired at the flying slave, lodging several shots in the calf of one leg. The poor fellow continued his flight, and got into the woods; but he was in so much pain that he was compelled to come out in the evening, and give himself up to his master, thinking he would not allow him to be punished as he had been shot. He was locked up that night; the next morning the overseer was allowed to tie him up and flog him; his master then took his instruments and picked the shot out of his leg, and told him, it served him just right. My master had a deeply pious and exemplary slave, an elderly man, who one day had a misunderstanding with the overseer, when the latter attempted to flog him. He fled to the woods; it was noon; at evening he came home orderly. The next morning, my master, taking one of his sons with him, a rope and cowhide in his hand, led the poor old man away into the stable; tied him up, and ordered the son to lay on thirty-nine lashes, which he did, making the keen end of the cowhide lap around and strike him in the tenderest part of his side, till the blood sped out, as if a lance had been used. While my master's son was thus engaged, the sufferer's little daughter, a child six years of age, stood at the door, weeping in agony for the fate of her father. I heard the old man articulating in a low tone of voice; I listened at the intervals between the stripes, and lo! he was praying! When the last lash was laid on, he was let down; and leaving him to put on his clothes, they passed out of the door, and drove the man's weeping child away! I was mending a hinge to one of the barn doors; I saw and heard what I have stated. Six months after, this same man's eldest daughter, a girl fifteen years old, was sold to slave-traders, where he never saw her more. This poor slave and his wife were both Methodists, so was the wife of the young master who flogged him. My old master was an Episcopalian. These are only a few of the instances which came under my own notice during my childhood and youth on our plantations; as to those which occurred on other plantations in the neighbourhood, I could state any number. I have stated that my master was watching the movements of our family very closely. Sometime after the difficulties began, we found that he also had a confidential slave assisting him in the business. This wretched fellow, who was nearly white, and of Irish descent, informed our master of the movements of each member of the family by day and by night, and on Sundays. This stirred the spirit of my mother, who spoke to our fellow-slave, and told him he ought to be ashamed to be engaged in such low business. Master hearing of this, called my father, mother, and myself before him, and accused us of an attempt to resist and intimidate his "confidential servant." Finding that only my mother had spoken to him, he swore that if she ever spoke another word to him, he would flog her. I knew my mother's spirit and my master's temper as well. Our social state was now perfectly intolerable. We were on the eve of a general fracas. This last scene occurred on Tuesday; and on Saturday evening following, without counsel or advice from any one, I determined to fly. CHAPTER II. THE FLIGHT. It was the Sabbath: the holy day which God in his infinite wisdom gave for the rest of both man and beast. In the state of Maryland, the slaves generally have the Sabbath, except in those districts where the evil weed, tobacco, is cultivated; and then, when it is the season for setting the plant, they are liable to be robbed of this only rest. It was in the month of November, somewhat past the middle of the month. It was a bright day, and all was quiet. Most of the slaves were resting about their quarters; others had leave to visit their friends on other plantations, and were absent. The evening previous I had arranged my little bundle of clothing, and had secreted it at some distance from the house. I had spent most of the forenoon in my workshop, engaged in deep and solemn thought. It is impossible for me now to recollect all the perplexing thoughts that passed through my mind during that forenoon; it was a day of heartaching to me. But I distinctly remember the two great difficulties that stood in the way of my flight: I had a father and mother whom I dearly loved,--I had also six sisters and four brothers on the plantation. The question was, shall I hide my purpose from them? moreover, how will my flight affect them when I am gone? Will they not be suspected? Will not the whole family be sold off as a disaffected family, as is generally the case when one of its members flies? But a still more trying question was, how can I expect to succeed, I have no knowledge of distance or direction. I know that Pennsylvania is a free state, but I know not where its soil begins, or where that of Maryland ends? Indeed, at this time there was no safety in Pennsylvania, New Jersey, or New York, for a fugitive, except in lurking-places, or under the care of judicious friends, who could be entrusted not only with liberty, but also with life itself. With such difficulties before my mind, the day had rapidly worn away; and it was just past noon. One of my perplexing questions I had settled--I had resolved to let no one into my secret; but the other difficulty was now to be met. It was to be met without the least knowledge of its magnitude, except by imagination. Yet of one thing there could be no mistake, that the consequences of a failure would be most serious. Within my recollection no one had attempted to escape from my master; but I had many cases in my mind's eye, of slaves of other planters who had failed, and who had been made examples of the most cruel treatment, by flogging and selling to the far South, where they were never to see their friends more. I was not without serious apprehension that such would be my fate. The bare possibility was impressively solemn; but the hour was now come, and the man must act and be free, or remain a slave for ever. How the impression came to be upon my mind I cannot tell; but there was a strange and horrifying belief, that if I did not meet the crisis that day, I should be self-doomed--that my ear would be nailed to the door-post for ever. The emotions of that moment I cannot fully depict. Hope, fear, dread, terror, love, sorrow, and deep melancholy were mingled in my mind together; my mental state was one of most painful distraction. When I looked at my numerous family--a beloved father and mother, eleven brothers and sisters, &c.; but when I looked at slavery as such; when I looked at it in its mildest form, with all its annoyances; and above all, when I remembered that one of the chief annoyances of slavery, in the most mild form, is the liability of being at any moment sold into the worst form; it seemed that no consideration, not even that of life itself, could tempt me to give up the thought of flight. And then when I considered the difficulties of the way--the reward that would be offered--the human blood-hounds that would be set upon my track--the weariness--the hunger--the gloomy thought, of not only losing all one's friends in one day, but of having to seek and to make new friends in a strange world. But, as I have said, the hour was come, and the man must act, or for ever be a slave. It was now two o'clock. I stepped into the quarter; there was a strange and melancholy silence mingled with the destitution that was apparent in every part of the house. The only morsel I could see in the shape of food, was a piece of Indian flour bread, it might be half-a-pound in weight. This I placed in my pocket, and giving a last look at the aspect of the house, and at a few small children who were playing at the door, I sallied forth thoughtfully and melancholy, and after crossing the barn-yard, a few moments' walk brought me to a small cave, near the mouth of which lay a pile of stones, and into which I had deposited my clothes. From this, my course lay through thick and heavy woods and back lands to ---- town, where my brother lived. This town was six miles distance. It was now near three o'clock, but my object was neither to be seen on the road, or to approach the town by daylight, as I was well-known there, and as any intelligence of my having been seen there would at once put the pursuers on my track. This first six miles of my flight, I not only travelled very slowly, therefore, so as to avoid carrying any daylight to this town; but during this walk another very perplexing question was agitating my mind. Shall I call on my brother as I pass through, and shew him what I am about? My brother was older than I, we were much attached; I had been in the habit of looking to him for counsel. I entered the town about dark, resolved, all things in view, _not_ to shew myself to my brother. Having passed through the town without being recognised, I now found myself under cover of night, a solitary wanderer from home and friends; my only guide was the _north star_, by this I knew my general course northward, but at what point I should strike Penn, or when and where I should find a friend, I knew not. Another feeling now occupied my mind,--I felt like a mariner who has gotten his ship outside of the harbour and has spread his sails to the breeze. The cargo is on board--the ship is cleared--and the voyage I must make; besides, this being my first night, almost every thing will depend upon my clearing the coast before the day dawns. In order to do this my flight must be rapid. I therefore set forth in sorrowful earnest, only now and then I was cheered by the _wild_ hope, that I should somewhere and at sometime be free. The night was fine for the season, and passed on with little interruption for want of strength, until, about three o'clock in the morning, I began to feel the chilling effects of the dew. At this moment, gloom and melancholy again spread through my whole soul. The prospect of utter destitution which threatened me was more than I could bear, and my heart began to melt. What substance is there in a piece of dry Indian bread; what nourishment is there in it to warm the nerves of one already chilled to the heart? Will this afford a sufficient sustenance after the toil of the night? But while these thoughts were agitating my mind, the day dawned upon me, in the midst of an open extent of country, where the only shelter I could find, without risking my travel by daylight, was a corn shock, but a few hundred yards from the road, and here I must pass my first day out. The day was an unhappy one; my hiding-place was extremely precarious. I had to sit in a squatting position the whole day, without the least chance to rest. But, besides this, my scanty pittance did not afford me that nourishment which my hard night's travel needed. Night came again to my relief, and I sallied forth to pursue my journey. By this time, not a crumb of my crust remained, and I was hungry and began to feel the desperation of distress. As I travelled I felt my strength failing and my spirits wavered; my mind was in a deep and melancholy dream. It was cloudy; I could not see my star, and had serious misgivings about my course. In this way the night passed away, and just at the dawn of day I found a few sour apples, and took my shelter under the arch of a small bridge that crossed the road. Here I passed the second day in ambush. This day would have been more pleasant than the previous, but the sour apples, and a draught of cold water, had produced anything but a favourable effect; indeed, I suffered most of the day with severe symptoms of cramp. The day passed away again without any further incident, and as I set out at nightfall, I felt quite satisfied that I could not pass another twenty-four hours without nourishment. I made but little progress during the night, and often sat down, and slept frequently fifteen or twenty minutes. At the dawn of the third day I continued my travel. As I had found my way to a public turnpike road during the night, I came very early in the morning to a toll-gate, where the only person I saw, was a lad about twelve years of age. I inquired of him where the road led to. He informed me it led to Baltimore. I asked him the distance, he said it was eighteen miles. This intelligence was perfectly astounding to me. My master lived eighty miles from Baltimore. I was now sixty-two miles from home. That distance in the right direction, would have placed me several miles across Mason and Dixon's line, but I was evidently yet in the state of Maryland. I ventured to ask the lad at the gate another question--Which is the best way to Philadelphia? Said he, you can take a road which turns off about half-a-mile below this, and goes to Getsburgh, or you can go on to Baltimore and take the packet. I made no reply, but my thought was, that I was as near Baltimore and Baltimore-packets as would answer my purpose. In a few moments I came to the road to which the lad had referred, and felt some relief when I had gotten out of that great public highway, "The National Turnpike," which I found it to be. When I had walked a mile on this road, and when it had now gotten to be about nine o'clock, I met a young man with a load of hay. He drew up his horses, and addressed me in a very kind tone, when the following dialogue took place between us. "Are you travelling any distance, my friend?" "I am on my way to Philadelphia." "Are you free?" "Yes, sir." "I suppose, then, you are provided with free papers?" "No, sir. I have no papers." "Well, my friend, you should not travel on this road: you will be taken up before you have gone three miles. There are men living on this road who are constantly on the look-out for your people; and it is seldom that one escapes them who attempts to pass by day." He then very kindly gave me advice where to turn off the road at a certain point, and how to find my way to a certain house, where I would meet with an old gentleman who would further advise me whether I had better remain till night, or go on. I left this interesting young man; and such was my surprise and chagrin at the thought of having so widely missed my way, and my alarm at being in such a dangerous position, that in ten minutes I had so far forgotten his directions as to deem it unwise to attempt to follow them, lest I should miss my way, and get into evil hands. I, however, left the road, and went into a small piece of wood, but not finding a sufficient hiding-place, and it being a busy part of the day, when persons were at work about the fields, I thought I should excite less suspicion by keeping in the road, so I returned to the road; but the events of the next few moments proved that I committed a serious mistake. I went about a mile, making in all two miles from the spot where I met my young friend, and about five miles from the toll-gate to which I have referred, and I found myself at the twenty-four miles' stone from Baltimore. It was now about ten o'clock in the forenoon; my strength was greatly exhausted by reason of the want of suitable food; but the excitement that was then going on in my mind, left me little time to think of my _need_ of food. Under ordinary circumstances as a traveller, I should have been glad to see the "Tavern," which was near the mile-stone; but as the case stood with me, I deemed it a dangerous place to pass, much less to stop at. I was therefore passing it as quietly and as rapidly as possible, when from the lot just opposite the house, or sign-post, I heard a coarse stern voice cry, "Halloo!" I turned my face to the left, the direction from which the voice came, and observed that it proceeded from a man who was digging potatoes. I answered him politely; when the following occurred:-- "Who do _you_ belong to?" "I am free, sir." "Have you got papers?" "No, sir." "Well, you must stop here." By this time he had got astride the fence, making his way into the road. I said, "My business is onward, sir, and I do not wish to stop." "I will see then if you don't stop, you black rascal." He was now in the middle of the road, making after me in a brisk walk. I saw that a crisis was at hand; I had no weapons of any kind, not even a pocket-knife; but I asked myself, shall I surrender without a struggle. The instinctive answer was "No." What will you do? continue to walk; if he runs after you, run; get him as far from the house as you can, then turn suddenly and smite him on the knee with a stone; that will render him, at least, unable to pursue you. This was a desperate scheme, but I could think of no other, and my habits as a blacksmith had given my eye and hand such mechanical skill, that I felt quite sure that if I could only get a stone in my hand, and have time to wield it, I should not miss his knee-pan. He began to breathe short. He was evidently vexed because I did not halt, and I felt more and more provoked at the idea of being thus pursued by a man to whom I had not done the least injury. I had just began to glance my eye about for a stone to grasp, when he made a tiger-like leap at me. This of course brought us to running. At this moment he yelled out "Jake Shouster!" and at the next moment the door of a small house standing to the left was opened, and out jumped a shoemaker girded up in his leather apron, with his knife in hand. He sprang forward and seized me by the collar, while the other seized my arms behind. I was now in the grasp of two men, either of whom were larger bodied than myself, and one of whom was armed with a dangerous weapon. Standing in the door of the shoemaker's shop, was a third man; and in the potatoe lot I had passed, was still a fourth man. Thus surrounded by superior physical force, the fortune of the day it seemed to me was gone. My heart melted away, I sunk resistlessly into the hands of my captors, who dragged me immediately into the tavern which was near. I ask my reader to go in with me, and see how the case goes. * * * * * GREAT MORAL DILEMMA. A few moments after I was taken into the bar-room, the news having gone as by electricity, the house and yard were crowded with gossippers, who had left their business to come and see "the runaway nigger." This hastily assembled congregation consisted of men, women, and children, each one had a look to give at, and a word to say about, the "nigger." But among the whole, there stood one whose name I have never known, but who evidently wore the garb of a man whose profession bound him to speak for the dumb, but he, standing head and shoulders above all that were round about, spoke the first hard sentence against me. Said he, "That fellow is a runaway I know; put him in jail a few days, and you will soon hear where he came from." And then fixing a fiend-like gaze upon me, he continued, "if I lived on this road, _you_ fellows would not find such clear running as you do, I'd trap more of you." But now comes the pinch of the case, the case of conscience to me even at this moment. Emboldened by the cruel speech just recited, my captors enclosed me, and said, "Come now, this matter may easily be settled without you going to jail; who do you belong to, and where did you come from?" The facts here demanded were in my breast. I knew according to the law of slavery, who I belonged to and where I came from, and I must now do one of three things--I must refuse to speak at all, or I must communicate the fact, or I must tell an untruth. How would an untutored slave, who had never heard of such a writer as Archdeacon Paley, be likely to act in such a dilemma? The first point decided, was, the facts in this case are my private property. These men have no more right to them than a highway robber has to my purse. What will be the consequence if I put them in possession of the facts. In forty-eight hours, I shall have received perhaps one hundred lashes, and be on my way to the Louisiana cotton fields. Of what service will it be to them. They will get a paltry sum of two hundred dollars. Is not my liberty worth more to me than two hundred dollars are to them? I resolved therefore, to insist that I was free. This not being satisfactory without other evidence, they tied my hands and set out, and went to a magistrate who lived about half a mile distant. It so happened, that when we arrived at his house he was not at home. This was to them a disappointment, but to me it was a relief; but I soon learned by their conversation, that there was still another magistrate in the neighbourhood, and that they would go to him. In about twenty minutes, and after climbing fences and jumping ditches, we, captors and captive, stood before his door, but it was after the same manner as before--he was not at home. By this time the day had worn away to one or two o'clock, and my captors evidently began to feel somewhat impatient of the loss of time. We were about a mile and a quarter from the tavern. As we set out on our return, they began to parley. Finding it was difficult for me to get over fences with, my hands tied, they untied me, and said, "Now John," that being the name they had given me, "if you have run away from any one, it would be much better for you to tell us!" but I continued to affirm that I was free. I knew, however, that my situation was very critical, owing to the shortness of the distance I must be from home: my advertisement might overtake me at any moment. On our way back to the tavern, we passed through a small skirt of wood, where I resolved to make an effort to escape again. One of my captors was walking on either side of me; I made a sudden turn, with my left arm sweeping the legs of one of my captors from under him; I left him nearly standing on his head, and took to my heels. As soon as they could recover they both took after me. We had to mount a fence. This I did most successfully, and making across an open field towards another wood; one of my captors being a long-legged man, was in advance of the other, and consequently nearing me. We had a hill to rise, and during the ascent he gained on me. Once more I thought of self-defence. I am trying to escape peaceably, but this man is determined that I shall not. My case was now desperate; and I took this desperate thought: "I will run him a little farther from his coadjutor; I will then suddenly catch a stone, and wound him in the breast." This was my fixed purpose, and I had arrived near the point on the top of the hill, where I expected to do the act, when to my surprise and dismay, I saw the other side of the hill was not only all ploughed up, but we came suddenly upon a man ploughing, who as suddenly left his plough and cut off my flight, by seizing me by the collar, when at the same moment my pursuer seized my arms behind. Here I was again in a sad fix. By this time the other pursuer had come up; I was most savagely thrown down on the ploughed ground with my face downward, the ploughman placed his knee upon my shoulders, one of my captors put his upon my legs, while the other tied my arms behind me. I was then dragged up, and marched off with kicks, punches and imprecations. We got to the tavern at three o'clock. Here they again cooled down, and made an appeal to me to make a disclosure. I saw that my attempt to escape strengthened their belief that I was a fugitive. I said to them, "If you will not put me in jail, I will now tell you where I am from." They promised. "Well," said I, "a few weeks ago, I was sold from the eastern shore to a slave-trader, who had a large gang, and set out for Georgia, but when he got to a town in Virginia, he was taken sick, and died with the small-pox. Several of his gang also died with, it, so that the people in the town became alarmed, and did not wish the gang to remain among them. No one claimed us, or wished to have anything to do with us; I left the rest, and thought I would go somewhere and get work." When I said this, it was evidently believed by those who were present, and notwithstanding the unkind feeling that had existed, there was a murmur of approbation. At the same time I perceived that a panic began to seize some, at the idea that I was one of a small-pox gang. Several who had clustered near me, moved off to a respectful distance. One or two left the bar-room, and murmured, "better let the small-pox nigger go." I was then asked what was the name of the slave-trader. Without premeditation, I said, "John Henderson." "John Henderson!" said one of my captors, "I knew him; I took up a yaller boy for him about two years ago, and got fifty dollars. He passed out with a gang about that time, and the boy ran away from him at Frederickstown. What kind of a man was he?" At a venture, I gave a description of him. "Yes," said he, "that is the man." By this time, all the gossippers had cleared the coast; our friend, "Jake Shouster," had also gone back to his bench to finish his custom work, after having "lost nearly the whole day, trotting about with a nigger tied," as I heard his wife say as she called him home to his dinner. I was now left alone with the man who first called to me in the morning. In a sober manner, he made this proposal to me: "John, I have a brother living in Risterstown, four miles off, who keeps a tavern; I think you had better go and live with him, till we see what will turn up. He wants an ostler." I at once assented to this. "Well," said he, "take something to eat, and I will go with you." Although I had so completely frustrated their designs for the moment, I knew that it would by no means answer for me to go into that town, where there were prisons, handbills, newspapers, and travellers. My intention was, to start with him, but not to enter the town alive. I sat down to eat; it was Wednesday, four o'clock, and this was the first regular meal I had since Sunday morning. This over, we set out, and to my surprise, he proposed to walk. We had gone about a mile and a-half, and were approaching a wood through which the road passed with a bend. I fixed upon that as the spot where I would either free myself from this man, or die in his arms. I had resolved upon a plan of operation--it was this: to stop short, face about, and commence action; and neither ask or give quarters, until I was free or dead! We had got within six rods of the spot, when a gentleman turned the corner, meeting us on horseback. He came up, and entered into conversation with my captor, both of them speaking in Dutch, so that I knew not what they said. After a few moments, this gentleman addressed himself to me in English, and I then learned that he was one of the magistrates on whom we had called in the morning; I felt that another crisis was at hand. Using his saddle as his bench, he put on an extremely stern and magisterial-like face, holding up his horse not unlike a field-marshal in the act of reviewing troops, and carried me through a most rigid examination in reference to the statement I had made. I repeated carefully all I had said; at the close, he said, "Well, you had better stay among us a few months, until we see what is to be done with you." It was then agreed that we should go back to the tavern, and there settle upon some further plan. When we arrived at the tavern, the magistrate alighted from his horse, and went into the bar-room. He took another close glance at me, and went over some points of the former examination. He seemed quite satisfied of the correctness of my statement, and made the following proposition: that I should go and live with him for a short time, stating that he had a few acres of corn and potatoes to get in, and that he would give me twenty-five cents per day. I most cheerfully assented to this proposal. It was also agreed that I should remain at the tavern with my captor that night, and that he would accompany me in the morning. This part of the arrangement I did not like, but of course I could not say so. Things being thus arranged, the magistrate mounted his horse, and went on his way home. It had been cloudy and rainy during the afternoon, but the western sky having partially cleared at this moment, I perceived that it was near the setting of the sun. My captor had left his hired man most of the day to dig potatoes alone; but the waggon being now loaded, it being time to convey the potatoes into the barn, and the horses being all ready for that purpose, he was obliged to go into the potatoe field and give assistance. I should say here, that his wife had been driven away by the small-pox panic about three o'clock, and had not yet returned; this left no one in the house, but a boy, about nine years of age. As he went out, he spoke to the boy in Dutch, which I supposed, from the little fellow's conduct, to be instructions to watch me closely, which he certainly did. The potatoe lot was across the public road, directly in front of the house; at the back of the house, and about 300 yards distant, there was a thick wood. The circumstances of the case would not allow me to think for one moment of remaining there for the night--the time had come for another effort--but there were two serious difficulties. One was, that I must either deceive or dispatch this boy who is watching me with intense vigilance. I am glad to say, that the latter did not for a moment seriously enter my mind. To deceive him effectually, I left my coat and went to the back door, from which my course would be direct to the wood. When I got to the door, I found that the barn, to which the waggon, must soon come, lay just to the right, and overlooking the path I must take to the wood. In front of me lay a garden surrounded by a picket fence, to the left of me was a small gate, and that by passing through that gate would throw me into an open field, and give me clear running to the wood; but on looking through the gate, I saw that my captor, being with the team, would see me if I attempted to start before he moved from the position he then occupied. To add to my difficulty the horses had baulked; while waiting for the decisive moment, the boy came to the door and asked me why I did not come in. I told him I felt unwell, and wished him to be so kind as to hand me a glass of water; expecting while he was gone to get it, the team would clear, so that I could start. While he was gone, another attempt was made to start the team but failed; he came with the water and I quickly used it up by gargling my throat and by drinking a part. I asked him to serve me by giving me another glass: he gave me a look of close scrutiny, but went in for the water. I heard him fill the glass, and start to return with it; when the hind end of the waggon cleared the corner of the house, which stood in a range with the fence along which I was to pass in getting to the wood. As I passed out the gate, I "squared my main yard," and laid my course up the line of fence, I cast a last glance over my right shoulder, and saw the boy just perch his head above the garden picket to look after me; I heard at the same time great confusion with the team, the rain having made the ground slippery, and the horses having to cross the road with a slant and rise to get into the barn, it required great effort after they started to prevent their baulking. I felt some assurance that although the boy might give the alarm, my captor could not leave the team until it was in the barn. I heard the horses' feet on the barn-floor, just as I leaped the fence, and darted into the wood. The sun was now quite down behind the western horizon, and just at this time a heavy dark curtain of clouds was let down, which seemed to usher in haste the night shade. I have never before or since seen anything which seemed to me to compare in sublimity with the spreading of the night shades at the close of that day. My reflections upon the events of that day, and upon the close of it, since I became acquainted with the Bible, have frequently brought to my mind that beautiful passage in the Book of Job, "He holdeth back the face of His throne, and spreadeth a cloud before it." Before I proceed to the critical events and final deliverance of the next chapter, I cannot forbear to pause a moment here for reflection. The reader may well imagine how the events of the past day affected my mind. You have seen what was done to me; you have heard what was said to me--you have also seen what I have done, and heard what I have said. If you ask me whether I had expected before I left home, to gain my liberty by shedding men's blood, or breaking their limbs? I answer, no! and as evidence of this, I had provided no weapon whatever; not so much as a penknife--it never once entered my mind. I cannot say that I expected to have the ill fortune of meeting with any human being who would attempt to impede my flight. If you ask me if I expected when I left home to gain my liberty by fabrications and untruths? I answer, no! my parents, slaves as they were, had always taught me, when they could, that "truth may be blamed but cannot be shamed;" so far as their example was concerned, I had no habits of untruth. I was arrested, and the demand made upon me, "Who do you belong to?" knowing the fatal use these men would make of _my_ truth, I at once concluded that they had no more right to it than a highwayman has to a traveller's purse. If you ask me whether I now really believe that I gained my liberty by those lies? I answer, no! I now believe that I should be free, had I told the truth; but, at that moment, I could not see any other way to baffle my enemies, and escape their clutches. The history of that day has never ceased to inspire me with a deeper hatred of slavery; I never recur to it but with the most intense horror at a system which can put a man not only in peril of liberty, limb, and life itself, but which may even send him in haste to the bar of God with a lie upon his lips. Whatever my readers may think, therefore, of the history of events of the day, do not admire in it the fabrications; but _see_ in it the impediments that often fall into the pathway of the flying bondman. _See_ how human bloodhounds gratuitously chase, catch, and tempt him to shed blood and lie; how, when he would do good, evil is thrust upon him. CHAPTER III. A DREARY NIGHT IN THE WOODS--CRITICAL SITUATION THE NEXT DAY. Almost immediately on entering the wood, I not only found myself embosomed in the darkness of the night, but I also found myself entangled in a thick forest of undergrowth, which had been quite thoroughly wetted by the afternoon rain. I penetrated through the wood, thick and thin, and more or less wet, to the distance I should think of three miles. By this time my clothes were all thoroughly soaked through, and I felt once more a gloom and wretchedness; the recollection of which makes me shudder at this distant day. My young friends in this highly favoured Christian country, surrounded with all the comforts of home and parental care, visited by pastors and Sabbath-school teachers, think of the dreary condition of the blacksmith boy in the dark wood that night; and then consider that thousands of his brethren have had to undergo much greater hardships in their flight from slavery. I was now out of the hands of those who had so cruelly teased me during the day; but a number of fearful thoughts rushed into my mind to alarm me. It was dark and cloudy, so that I could not see the _north star_. How do I know what ravenous beasts are in this wood? How do I know what precipices may be within its bounds? I cannot rest in this wood to-morrow, for it will be searched by those men from whom I have escaped; but how shall I regain the road? How shall I know when I am on the right road again? These are some of the thoughts that filled my mind with gloom and alarm. At a venture I struck an angle northward in search of the road. After several hours of zigzag and laborious travel, dragging through briars, thorns and running vines, I emerged from the wood and found myself wading marshy ground and over ditches. I can form no correct idea of the distance I travelled, but I came to a road, I should think about three o'clock in the morning. It so happened that I came out near where there was a fork in the road of three prongs. Now arose a serious query--which is the right prong for me? I was reminded by the circumstance of a superstitious proverb among the slaves, that "the left-hand turning was unlucky," but as I had never been in the habit of placing faith in this or any similar superstition, I am not aware that it had the least weight upon my mind, as I had the same difficulty with reference to the right-hand turning. After a few moments parley with myself, I took the central prong of the road and pushed on with all my speed. It had not cleared off, but a fresh wind had sprung up; it was chilly and searching. This with my wet clothing made me very uncomfortable; my nerves began to quiver before the searching wind. The barking of mastiffs, the crowing of fowls, and the distant rattling of market waggons, warned me that the day was approaching. My British reader must remember that in the region where I was, we know nothing of the long hours of twilight you enjoy here. With us the day is measured more by the immediate presence of the sun, and the night by the prevalence of actual darkness. The day dawned upon me when I was near a small house and barn, situate close to the road side. The barn was too near the road, and too small to afford secure shelter for the day; but as I cast my eye around by the dim light, I could see no wood, and no larger barn. It seemed to be an open country to a wide extent. The sun was travelling so rapidly from his eastern chamber, that ten or fifteen minutes would spread broad daylight over my track. Whether _my_ deed was evil, _you_ may judge, but I freely confess that I did _then_ prefer darkness rather than light; I therefore took to the mow of the little barn at a great risk, as the events of the day will show. It so happened that the barn was filled with corn fodder, newly cured and lately gotten in. You are aware that however quietly one may crawl into such a bed, he is compelled to make much more noise than if it were a feather-bed; and also considerably more than if it were hay or straw. Besides inflicting upon my own excited imagination the belief that I made noise enough to be heard by the inmates of the house who were likely to be rising at the time, I had the misfortune to attract the notice of a little house-dog, such as we call in that part of the world a "fice," on account of its being not only the smallest species of the canine race, but also, because it is the most saucy, noisy, and teasing of all dogs. This little creature commenced a fierce barking. I had at once great fears that the mischievous little thing would betray me; I fully apprehended that as soon as the man of the house arose, he would come and make search in the barn. It now being entirely daylight, it was too late to retreat from this shelter, even if I could have found another; I, therefore, bedded myself down into the fodder as best I could, and entered upon the annoyances of the day, with the frail hope to sustain my mind. It was Thursday morning; the clouds that had veiled the sky during the latter part of the previous day and the previous night were gone. It was not until about an hour after the sun rose that I heard any out-door movements about the house. As soon as I heard those movements, I was satisfied there was but one man about the house, and that he was preparing to go some distance to work for the day. This was fortunate for me; the busy movements about the yard, and especially the active preparations in the house for breakfast, silenced my unwelcome little annoyer, the fice, until after the man had gone, when he commenced afresh, and continued with occasional intermissions through the day. He made regular sallies from the house to the barn, and after smelling about, would fly back to the house, barking furiously; thus he strove most skilfully throughout the entire day to raise an alarm. There seemed to be no one about the house but one or two small children and the mother, after the man was gone. About ten o'clock my attention was gravely directed to another trial: how I could pass the day without food. The reader will remember it is Thursday, and the only regular meal I have taken since Sunday, was yesterday, in the midst of great agitation, about four o'clock; that since that I have performed my arduous night's travel. At one moment, I had nearly concluded to go and present myself at the door, and ask the woman of the house to have compassion and give me food; but then I feared the consequences might be fatal, and I resolved to suffer the day out. The wind sprang up fresh and cool; the barn being small and the crevices large, my wet clothes were dried by it, and chilled me through and through. I cannot now, with pen or tongue, give a correct idea of the feeling of wretchedness I experienced; every nerve in my system quivered, so that not a particle of my flesh was at rest. In this way I passed the day till about the middle of the afternoon, when there seemed to be an unusual stir about the public road, which passed close by the barn. Men seemed to be passing in parties on horseback, and talking anxiously. From a word which I now and then overheard, I had not a shadow of doubt that they were in search of me. One I heard say, "I ought to catch such a fellow, the only liberty he should have for one fortnight, would be ten feet of rope." Another I heard say, "I reckon he is in that wood now." Another said, "Who would have thought that rascal was so 'cute?" All this while the little fice was mingling his voice with those of the horsemen, and the noise of the horses' feet. I listened and trembled. Just before the setting of the sun, the labouring man of the house returned, and commenced his evening duties about the house and barn; chopping wood, getting up his cow, feeding his pigs, &c, attended by the little brute, who continued barking at short intervals. He came several times into the barn below. While matters were passing thus, I heard the approach of horses again, and as they came up nearer, I was led to believe that all I had heard pass, were returning in one party. They passed the barn and halted at the house, when I recognised the voice of my old captor; addressing the labourer, he asked, "Have you seen a runaway nigger pass here to-day?" LABOURER.--"No; I have not been at home since early this morning. Where did he come from?" CAPTOR.--"I caught him down below here yesterday morning. I had him all day, and just at night he fooled me and got away. A party of us have been after him all day; we have been up to the line, but can't hear or see anything of him. I heard this morning where he came from. He is a blacksmith, and a stiff reward is out for him, two hundred dollars." LAB.--"He is worth looking for." CAP.--"I reckon so. If I get my clutches on him again, I'll mosey[A] him down to ---- before I eat or sleep." [Footnote A: An expression which signifies to drive in a hurry.] Reader, you may if you can, imagine what the state of my mind was at this moment. I shall make no attempt to describe it to you; to my great relief, however, the party rode off, and the labourer after finishing his work went into the house. Hope seemed now to dawn for me once more; darkness was rapidly approaching, but the moments of twilight seemed much longer than they did the evening before. At length the sable covering had spread itself over the earth. About eight o'clock, I ventured to descend from the mow of the barn into the road. The little dog the while began a furious fit of barking, so much so, that I was sure that with what his master had learned about me, he could not fail to believe I was about his premises. I quickly crossed the road, and got into an open field opposite. After stepping lightly about two hundred yards, I halted, and on listening, I heard the door open. Feeling about on the ground, I picked up two stones, and one in each hand I made off as fast as I could, but I heard nothing more that indicated pursuit, and after going some distance I discharged my encumbrance, as from the reduced state of my bodily strength, I could not afford to carry ballast. This incident had the effect to start me under great disadvantage to make a good night's journey, as it threw me at once off the road, and compelled me to encounter at once the tedious and laborious task of beating my way across marshy fields, and to drag through woods and thickets where there were no paths. After several hours I found my way back to the road, but the hope of making anything like clever speed was out of the question. All I could do was to keep my legs in motion, and this I continued to do with the utmost difficulty. The latter part of the night I suffered extremely from cold. There came a heavy frost; I expected at every moment to fall on the road and perish. I came to a corn-field covered with heavy shocks of Indian corn that had been cut; I went into this and got an ear, and then crept into one of the shocks; eat as much of it as I could, and thought I would rest a little and start again, but weary nature could not sustain the operation of grinding hard corn for its own nourishment, and I sunk to sleep. When I awoke, the sun was shining around; I started with alarm, but it was too late to think of seeking any other shelter; I therefore nestled myself down, and concealed myself as best I could from the light of day. After recovering a little from my fright, I commenced again eating my whole corn. Grain by grain I worked away at it; when my jaws grew tired, as they often did, I would rest, and then begin afresh. Thus, although I began an early breakfast, I was nearly the whole of the forenoon before I had done. Nothing of importance occurred during the day, until about the middle of the afternoon, when I was thrown into a panic by the appearance of a party of gunners, who passed near me with their dogs. After shooting one or two birds, however, and passing within a few rods of my frail covering, they went on, and left me once more in hope. Friday night came without any other incident worth naming. As I sallied out, I felt evident benefit from the ear of corn I had nibbled away. My strength was considerably renewed; though I was far from being nourished, I felt that my life was at least safe from death by hunger. Thus encouraged, I set out with better speed than I had made since Sunday and Monday night. I had a presentiment, too, that I must be near free soil. I had not yet the least idea where I should find a home or a friend, still my spirits were so highly elated, that I took the whole of the road to myself; I ran, hopped, skipped, jumped, clapped my hands, and talked to myself. But to the old slaveholder I had left, I said, "Ah! ha! old fellow, I told you I'd fix you." After an hour or two of such freaks of joy, a gloom would come over me in connexion with these questions, "But where are you going? What are you going to do? What will you do with freedom without father, mother, sisters, and brothers? What will you say when you are asked where you were born? You know nothing of the world; how will you explain the fact of your ignorance?" These questions made me feel deeply the magnitude of the difficulties yet before me. Saturday morning dawned upon me; and although my strength seemed yet considerably fresh, I began to feel a hunger somewhat more destructive and pinching, if possible, than I had before. I resolved, at all risk, to continue my travel by day-light, and to ask information of the first person I met. The events of the next chapter will shew what fortune followed this resolve. CHAPTER IV. THE GOOD WOMAN OF THE TOLL-GATE DIRECTS ME TO W.W.--MY RECEPTION BY HIM. The resolution of which I informed the reader at the close of the last chapter, being put into practice, I continued my flight on the public road; and a little after the sun rose, I came in sight of a toll-gate again. For a moment all the events which followed my passing a toll-gate on Wednesday morning, came fresh to my recollection, and produced some hesitation; but at all events, said I, I will try again. On arriving at the gate, I found it attended by an elderly woman, whom I afterwards learned was a widow, and an excellent Christian woman. I asked her if I was in Pennsylvania. On being informed that I was, I asked her if she knew where I could get employ? She said she did not; but advised me to go to W.W., a Quaker, who lived about three miles from her, whom I would find to take an interest in me. She gave me directions which way to take; I thanked her, and bade her good morning, and was very careful to follow her directions. In about half an hour I stood trembling at the door of W.W. After knocking, the door opened upon a comfortably spread table; the sight of which seemed at once to increase my hunger sevenfold. Not daring to enter, I said I had been sent to him in search of employ. "Well," said he, "Come in and take thy breakfast, and get warm, and we will talk about it; thee must be cold without any coat." "_Come in and take thy breakfast, and get warm!_" These words spoken by a stranger, but with such an air of simple sincerity and fatherly kindness, made an overwhelming impression upon my mind. They made me feel, spite of all my fear and timidity, that I had, in the providence of God, found a friend and a home. He at once gained my confidence; and I felt that I might confide to him a fact which I had, as yet, confided to no one. From that day to this, whenever I discover the least disposition in my heart to disregard the wretched condition of any poor or distressed persons with whom I meet, I call to mind these words--"_Come in and take thy breakfast, and get warm_." They invariably remind me of what I was at that time; my condition was as wretched as that of any human being can possibly be, with the exception of the loss of health or reason. I had but four pieces of clothing about my person, having left all the rest in the hands of my captors. I was a starving fugitive, without home or friends--a reward offered for my person in the public papers--pursued by cruel manhunters, and no claim upon him to whose door I went. Had he turned me away, I must have perished. Nay, he took me in, and gave me of his food, and shared with me his own garments. Such treatment I had never before received at the hands of any white man. A few such men in slaveholding America, have stood, and even now stand, like Abrahams and Lots, to stay its forthcoming and well-earned and just judgment. The limits of this work compel me to pass over many interesting incidents which occurred during my six months' concealment in that family. I must confine myself only to those which will show the striking providence of God, in directing my steps to the door of W.W., and how great an influence the incidents of that six months has had upon all my subsequent history. My friend kindly gave me employ to saw and split a number of cords of wood, then lying in his yard, for which he agreed with me for liberal pay and board. This inspired me with great encouragement. The idea of beginning to earn something was very pleasant. Next; we confidentially agreed upon the way and means of avoiding surprise, in case any one should come to the house as a spy, or with intention to arrest me. This afforded still further relief, as it convinced me that the whole family would now be on the look out for such persons. The next theme of conversation was with reference to my education. "Can thee read or write any, James?" was the question put to me the morning after my arrival, by W.W. "No, sir, I cannot; my duties as a blacksmith have made me acquainted with the figures on the common mechanics' square. There was a day-book kept in the shop, in which the overseer usually charged the smithwork we did for the neighbours. I have spent entire Sabbaths looking over the pages of that book; knowing the names of persons to whom certain pieces of work were charged, together with their prices, I strove anxiously to learn to write in this way. I got paper, and picked up feathers about the yard, and made ink of ---- berries. My quills being too soft, and my skill in making a pen so poor, that I undertook some years ago to make a steel pen.[A] In this way I have learnt to make a few of the letters, but I cannot write my own name, nor do I know the letters of the alphabet." [Footnote A: This attempt was as early as 1822.] _W.W., (handing a slate and pencil.)_--"Let me see how thee makes letters; try such as thou hast been able to make easily." A.B.C.L.G. _P.W., (wife of W.W.)_--"Why, those are better than I can make." _W.W._--"Oh, we can soon get thee in the way, James." Arithmetic and astronomy became my favourite studies. W.W. was an accomplished scholar; he had been a teacher for some years, and was cultivating a small farm on account of ill-health, which had compelled him to leave teaching. He is one of the most far-sighted and practical men I ever met with. He taught me by familiar conversations, illustrating his themes by diagrams on the slate, so that I caught his ideas with ease and rapidity. I now began to see, for the first time, the extent of the mischief slavery had done to me. Twenty-one years of my life were gone, never again to return, and I was as profoundly ignorant, comparatively, as a child five years old. This was painful, annoying, and humiliating in the extreme. Up to this time, I recollected to have seen one copy of the New Testament, but the entire Bible I had never seen, and had never heard of the Patriarchs, or of the Lord Jesus Christ. I recollected to have heard two sermons, but had heard no mention in them of Christ, or the way of life by Him. It is quite easy to imagine, then, what was the state of my mind, having been reared in total moral midnight; it was a sad picture of mental and spiritual darkness. As my friend poured light into my mind, I saw the darkness; it amazed and grieved me beyond description. Sometimes I sank down under the load, and became discouraged, and dared not hope that I could ever succeed in acquiring knowledge enough, to make me happy, or useful to my fellow-beings. My dear friend, W.W., however, had a happy tact to inspire me with confidence; and he, perceiving my state of mind, exerted himself, not without success, to encourage me. He cited to me various instances of coloured persons, of whom I had not heard before, and who had distinguished themselves for learning, such as Bannicker, Wheatley, and Francis Williams. How often have I regretted that the six months I spent in the family of W.W., could not have been six years. The danger of recapture, however, rendered it utterly imprudent that I should remain longer; and early in the month of March, while the ground was covered with the winter's snow, I left the bosom of this excellent family, and went forth once more to try my fortune among strangers. My dear reader, if I could describe to you the emotions I felt when I left the threshold of W.W.'s door, you could not fail to see how deplorable is the condition of the fugitive slave, often for months and years after he has escaped the immediate grasp of the tyrant. When I left my parents, the trial was great, but I had now to leave a friend who had done more for me than parents could have done as slaves; and hence I felt an endearment to that friend which was heightened by a sense of the important relief he had afforded me in the greatest need, and hours of pleasant and highly profitable intercourse. About a month previous to leaving the house of W.W., a small circumstance occurred one evening, which I only name to shew the harassing fears and dread in which I lived during most of the time I was there. He had a brother-in-law living some ten miles distant--he was a friend to the slave; he often came unexpectedly and spent a few hours--sometimes a day and a night. I had not, however, ever known him to come at night. One night about nine o'clock, after I had gone to bed, (my lodging being just over the room in which W.W. and his wife were sitting,) I heard the door open and a voice ask, "Where is the boy?" The voice sounded to me like the voice of my master; I was sure it must be his. I sprang and listened for a moment--it seemed to be silent; I heard nothing, and then it seemed to me there was a confusion. There was a window at the head of my bed, which I could reach without getting upon the floor: it was a single sash and opened upon hinges. I quickly opened this window and waited in a perfect tremour of dread for further development. There was a door at the foot of the stairs; as I heard that door open, I sprang for the window, and my head was just out, when the gentle voice of my friend W.W. said, "James?"[A] "Here," said I, "---- has come, and he would like to have thee put up his horse." I drew a breath of relief, but my strength and presence of mind did not return for some hours, I slept none that night; for a moment I could doze away, but the voice would sound in my ears, "Where is that boy?" and it would seem to me it must be the tyrant in quest of his weary prey, and would find myself starting again. [Footnote A: If W.W. had ascended the stairs without calling, I should certainly have jumped out of the window.] From that time the agitation of my mind became so great that I could not feel myself safe. Every day seemed to increase my fear, till I was unfit for work, study or rest. My friend endeavoured, but in vain, to get me to stay a week longer. The events of the spring proved that I had not left too soon. As soon as the season for travelling fairly opened, active search was made, and my master was seen in a town, twenty miles in advance of where I had spent my six months. The following curious fact also came out. That same brother-in-law who frightened me, was putting up one evening at a hotel some miles off, and while sitting quietly by himself in one part of the room, he overheard a conversation between a travelling pedler and several gossippers of the neighbourhood, who were lounging away the evening at the hotel. PEDLER.--"Do you know one W.W. somewhere about here?" GOSSIPER.--"Yes, he lives ---- miles off." PED.--"I understand he had a black boy with him last winter, I wonder if he is there yet?" GOS.--"I don't know, he most always has a runaway nigger with him." PED.--"I should like to find out whether that fellow is there yet." BROTHER-IN-LAW, (turning about.)--"What does thee know about that boy?" PED.--"Well he is a runaway." BROTHER-IN-LAW.--"Who did he run away from?" PED.--"From Col ---- in ----." BROTHER-IN-LAW.--"How did thee find out that fact?" PED.--"Well, I have been over there peddling." BROTHER-IN-LAW.--"Where art thou from?" PED.--"I belong in Conn." BROTHER-IN-LAW.--"Did thee see the boy's master?" PED.--"Yes." BROTHER-IN-LAW.--"What did he offer thee to find the boy?" PED.--"I agreed to find out where he was, and let him know, and if he got him, I was to receive ----." BROTHER-IN-LAW.--"How didst thou hear the boy had been with W.W." PED.--"Oh, he is known to be a notorious rascal for enticing away, and concealing slaves; he'll get himself into trouble yet, the slaveholders are on the look out for him." BROTHER-IN-LAW.--"W.W. is my brother-in-law; the boy of whom thou speakest is not with him, and to save thee the trouble of abusing him, I can moreover say, he is no rascal." PED.--"He may not be there now, but it is because he has sent him off. His master heard of him, and from the description, he is sure it must have been his boy. He could tell me pretty nigh where he was; he said he was a fine healthy boy, twenty-one, a first-rate blacksmith; he would not have taken a thousand dollars for him." BROTHER-IN-LAW.--"I know not where the boy is, but I have no doubt he is worth more to himself than he ever was to his master, high as he fixes the price on him; and I have no doubt thee will do better to pursue thy peddling honestly, than to neglect it for the sake of serving negro-hunters at a venture." All this happened within a month or two after I left my friend. One fact which makes this part of the story deeply interesting to my own mind, is, that some years elapsed before it came to my knowledge. CHAPTER V. SEVEN MONTHS' RESIDENCE IN THE FAMILY OF J.K. A MEMBER OF THE SOCIETY OF FRIENDS, IN CHESTER COUNTY, PENNSYLVANIA.--REMOVAL TO NEW YORK--BECOMES A CONVERT TO RELIGION--BECOMES A TEACHER. On leaving W.W., I wended my way in deep sorrow and melancholy, onward towards Philadelphia, and after travelling two days and a night, I found shelter and employ in the family of J.K., another member of the Society of Friends, a farmer. The religious atmosphere in this family was excellent. Mrs. K. gave me the first copy of the Holy Scriptures I ever possessed, she also gave me much excellent counsel. She was a preacher in the Society of Friends; this occasioned her with her husband to be much of their time from home. This left the charge of the farm upon me, and besides put it out of their power to render me that aid in my studies which my former friend had. I, however, kept myself closely concealed, by confining myself to the limits of the farm, and using all my leisure time in study. This place was more secluded, and I felt less of dread and fear of discovery than I had before, and although seriously embarrassed for want of an instructor, I realized some pleasure and profit in my studies. I often employed myself in drawing rude maps of the solar system, and diagrams illustrating the theory of solar eclipses. I felt also a fondness for reading the Bible, and committing chapters, and verses of hymns to memory. Often on the Sabbath when alone in the barn, I would break the monotony of the hours by endeavouring to speak, as if I was addressing an audience. My mind was constantly struggling for thoughts, and I was still more grieved and alarmed at its barrenness; I found it gradually freed from the darkness entailed by slavery, but I was deeply and anxiously concerned how I should fill it with useful knowledge. I had a few books, and no tutor. In this way I spent seven months with J.K., and should have continued longer, agreeably to his urgent solicitation, but I felt that life was fast wearing, and that as I was now free, I must adventure in search of knowledge. On leaving J.K., he kindly gave me the following certificate,-- "East Nautmeal, Chester County, Pennsylvania, _Tenth Month 5th, 1828._ "I hereby certify, that the bearer, J.W.C. Pennington, has been in my employ seven months, during most of which time I have been from home, leaving my entire business in his trust, and that he has proved a highly trustworthy and industrious young man. He leaves with the sincere regret of myself and family; but as he feels it to be his duty to go where he can obtain education, so as to fit him to be more useful, I cordially commend him to the warm sympathy of the friends of humanity wherever a wise providence may appoint him a home. Signed, "J.K." Passing through Philadelphia, I went to New York, and in a short time found employ on Long Island, near the city. At this time, the state of things was extremely critical in New York. It was just two years after the general emancipation in that state. In the city it was a daily occurrence for slaveholders from the southern states to catch their slaves, and by certificate from Recorder Riker take them back. I often felt serious apprehensions of danger, and yet I felt also that I must begin the world somewhere. I was earning respectable wages, and by means of evening schools and private tuition, was making encouraging progress in my studies. Up to this time, it had never occurred to me that I was a slave in another and a more serious sense. All my serious impressions of mind had been with reference to the slavery from which I had escaped. Slavery had been my theme of thought day and night. In the spring of 1829, I found my mind unusually perplexed about the state of the slave. I was enjoying rare privileges in attending a Sabbath school; the great value of Christian knowledge began to be impressed upon my mind to an extent I had not been conscious of before. I began to contrast my condition with that of ten brothers and sisters I had left in slavery, and the condition of children I saw sitting around me on the Sabbath, with their pious teachers, with that of 700,000, now 800,440 slave children, who had no means of Christian instruction. The theme was more powerful than any my mind had ever encountered before. It entered into the deep chambers of my soul, and stirred the most agitating emotions I had ever felt. The question was, what can I do for that vast body of suffering brotherhood I have left behind. To add to the weight and magnitude of the theme, I learnt for the first time, how many slaves there were. The question completely staggered my mind; and finding myself more and more borne down with it, until I was in an agony; I thought I would make it a subject of prayer to God, although prayer had not been my habit, having never attempted it but once. I not only prayed, but also fasted. It was while engaged thus, that my attention was seriously drawn to the fact that I was a lost sinner, and a slave to Satan; and soon I saw that I must make another escape from another tyrant. I did not by any means forget my fellow-bondmen, of whom I had been sorrowing so deeply, and travailing in spirit so earnestly; but I now saw that while man had been injuring me, I had been offending God; and that unless I ceased to offend him, I could not expect to have his sympathy in my wrongs; and moreover, that I could not be instrumental in eliciting his powerful aid in behalf of those for whom I mourned so deeply. This may provoke a smile from some who profess to be the friends of the slave, but who have a lower estimate of experimental Christianity than I believe is due to it; but I am not the less confident that sincere prayer to God, proceeding from a few hearts deeply imbued with experimental Christianity about _that time_, has had much to do with subsequent happy results. At that time the 800,000 bondmen in the British Isles had not seen the beginning of the end of their sufferings--at that time, 20,000 who are now free in Canada, were in bonds--at that time, there was no Vigilance Committee to aid the flying slave--at that time, the two powerful Anti-Slavery Societies of America had no being. I distinctly remember that I felt the need of enlisting the sympathy of God, in behalf of my enslaved brethren; but when I attempted it day after day, and night after night, I was made to feel, that whatever else I might do, I was not qualified to do that, as I was myself alienated from him by wicked works. In short, I felt that I needed the powerful aid of some in my behalf with God, just as much as I did that of my dear friend in Pennsylvania, when flying from man. "If one man sin against another, the judge shall judge him, but if a man sin against God, who shall entreat for him?" Day after day, for about two weeks, I found myself more deeply convicted of personal guilt before God. My heart, soul and body were in the greatest distress; I thought of neither food, drink or rest, for days and nights together. Burning with a recollection of the wrongs man had done me--mourning for the injuries my brethren were still enduring, and deeply convicted of the guilt of my own sins against God. One evening, in the third week of the struggle, while alone in my chamber, and after solemn reflection for several hours, I concluded that I could never be happy or useful in that state of mind, and resolved that I would try to become reconciled to God. I was then living in the family of an Elder of the Presbyterian Church. I had not made known my feelings to any one, either in the family or out of it; and I did not suppose that any one had discovered my feelings. To my surprise, however, I found that the family had not only been aware of my state for several days, but were deeply anxious on my behalf. The following Sabbath, Dr. Cox was on a visit in Brooklyn to preach, and was a guest in the family; hearing of my case, he expressed a wish to converse with me, and without knowing the plan, I was invited into a room and left alone with him. He entered skilfully and kindly into my feelings, and after considerable conversation he invited me to attend his service that afternoon. I did so, and was deeply interested. Without detaining the reader with too many particulars, I will only state that I heard the doctor once or twice after this, at his own place of worship in New York City, and had several personal interviews with him, as the result of which, I hope, I was brought to a saving acquaintance with Him, of whom Moses in the Law and the Prophets did write; and soon connected myself with the church under his pastoral care. I now returned with all my renewed powers to the great theme--slavery. It seemed now as I looked at it, to be more hideous than ever. I saw it now as an evil under the moral government of God--as a sin not only against man, but also against God. The great and engrossing thought with me was, how shall I now employ my time and my talents so as to tell most effectually upon this system of wrong! As I have stated, there was no Anti-Slavery Society then--there was no Vigilance Committee. I had, therefore, to select a course of action, without counsel or advice from any one who professed to sympathize with the slave. Many, many lonely hours of deep meditation have I passed during the years 1828 and 1829, before the great anti-slavery movement. On the questions, What shall I do for the slave? How shall I act so that he will reap the benefit of my time and talents? At one time I had resolved to go to Africa, and to react from there; but without bias or advice from any mortal, I soon gave up that, as looking too much like feeding a hungry man with a long spoon. At length, finding that the misery, ignorance, and wretchedness of the free coloured people was by the whites tortured into an argument for slavery; finding myself now among the free people of colour in New York, where slavery was so recently abolished; and finding much to do for their elevation, I resolved to give my strength in that direction. And well do I remember the great movement which commenced among us about this time, for the holding of General Conventions, to devise ways and means for their elevation, which continued with happy influence up to 1834, when we gave way to anti-slavery friends, who had then taken up the labouring oar. And well do I remember that the first time I ever saw those tried friends, Garrison, Jocelyn, and Tappan, was in one of those Conventions, where they came to make our acquaintance, and to secure our confidence in some of their preliminary labours. My particular mode of labour was still a subject of deep reflection; and from time to time I carried it to the Throne of Grace. Eventually my mind fixed upon the ministry as the desire of my whole heart. I had mastered the preliminary branches of English education, and was engaged in studying logic, rhetoric, and the Greek Testament, without a master. While thus struggling in my laudable work, an opening presented itself which was not less surprising than gratifying. Walking on the street one day, I met a friend, who said to me, "I have just had an application to supply a teacher for a school, and I have recommended you." I said, "My dear friend, I am obliged to you for the kindness; but I fear I cannot sustain an examination for that station." "Oh," said he, "try." I said, "I will," and we separated. Two weeks afterwards, I met the trustees of the school, was examined, accepted, and agreed with them for a salary of two hundred dollars per annum; commenced my school, and succeeded. This was five years, three months, and thirteen days after I came from the South. As the events of my life since that have been of a public professional nature, I will say no more about it. My object in writing this tract is now completed. It has been to shew the reader the hand of God with a slave; and to elicit your sympathy in behalf of the fugitive slave, by shewing some of the untold dangers and hardships through which he has to pass to gain liberty, and how much he needs friends on free soil; and that men who have felt the yoke of slavery, even in its mildest form, cannot be expected to speak of the system otherwise than in terms of the most unqualified condemnation. There is one sin that slavery committed against me, which I never can forgive. It robbed me of my education; the injury is irreparable; I feel the embarrassment more seriously now than I ever did before. It cost me two years' hard labour, after I fled, to unshackle my mind; it was three years before I had purged my language of slavery's idioms; it was four years before I had thrown off the crouching aspect of slavery; and now the evil that besets me is a great lack of that general information, the foundation of which is most effectually laid in that part of life which I served as a slave. When I consider how much now, more than ever, depends upon sound and thorough education among coloured men, I am grievously overwhelmed with a sense of my deficiency, and more especially as I can never hope now to make it up. If I know my own heart, I have no ambition but to serve the cause of suffering humanity; all that I have desired or sought, has been to make me more efficient for good. So far I have some consciousness that I have done my utmost; and should my future days be few or many, I am reconciled to meet the last account, hoping to be acquitted of any wilful neglect of duty; but I shall have to go to my last account with this charge against the system of slavery, "_Vile monster! thou hast hindered my usefulness, by robbing me of my early education._" Oh! what might I have been now, but for this robbery perpetrated upon me as soon as I saw the light. When the monster heard that a man child was born, he laughed, and said, "It is mine." When I was laid in the cradle, he came and looked on my face, and wrote down my name upon his barbarous list of chattels personal, on the same list where he registered his horses, hogs, cows, sheep, and even his _dogs!_ Gracious Heaven, is there no repentance for the misguided men who do these things! The only harm I wish to slaveholders is, that they may be speedily delivered from the guilt of a sin, which, if not repented of, must bring down the judgment of Almighty God upon their devoted heads. The least I desire for the slave is, that he may be speedily released from the pain of drinking a cup whose bitterness I have sufficiently tasted, to know that it is insufferable. CHAPTER VI. SOME ACCOUNT OF THE FAMILY I LEFT IN SLAVERY--PROPOSAL TO PURCHASE MYSELF AND PARENTS--HOW MET BY MY OLD MASTER. It is but natural that the reader should wish to hear a word about the family I left behind. There are frequently large slave families with whom God seems to deal in a remarkable manner. I believe my family is an instance. I have already stated that when I fled, I left a father, mother, and eleven brothers and sisters. These were all, except my oldest brother, owned by the man from whom I fled. It will be seen at once then how the fear of implicating them embarrassed me in the outset. They suffered nothing, however, but a strong suspicion, until about six months after I had left; when the following circumstance took place:-- When I left my friend W.W. in Pennsylvania to go on north, I ventured to write a letter back to one of my brothers, informing him how I was; and this letter was directed to the care of a white man who was hired on the plantation, who worked in the garden with my father, and who professed a warm friendship to our family; but instead of acting in good faith, he handed the letter to my master. I am sorry that truth compels me to say that that man was an Englishman. From that day the family were handled most strangely. The history begins thus: they were all sold into Virginia, the adjoining state. This was done lest I should have some plan to get them off; but God so ordered that they fell into kinder hands. After a few years, however, their master became much embarrassed, so that he was obliged to pass them into other hands, at least for a term of years. By this change the family was divided, and my parents, with the greater part of their children, were taken to New Orleans. After remaining there several years at hard labour,--my father being in a situation of considerable trust, they were again taken back to Virginia; and by this means became entitled by the laws of that state to their freedom. Before justice, however, could take its course, their old master in Maryland, as if intent to doom them for ever to bondage, repurchased them; and in order to defeat a similar law in Maryland, by which they would have been entitled to liberty, he obtained from the General Assembly of that state the following special act. This will show not only something of his character as a slaveholder, but also his political influence in the state. It is often urged in the behalf of slaveholders, that the law interposes an obstacle in the way of emancipating their slaves when they wish to do so, but here is an instance which lays open the real philosophy of the whole case. They make the law themselves, and when they find the laws operate more in favour of the slaves than themselves, they can easily evade or change it. Maryland being a slave-exporting state, you will see why they need a law to prohibit the importation of slaves; it is a protection to that sort of trade. This law he wished to evade. "_An act for the Relief of ---- of ---- County. Passed January 17th, 1842._ "Whereas it is represented to this General Assembly that ---- of ---- county, brought into this state from the state of Virginia, sometime in the month of March last, two negro slaves, to wit, ---- and ---- his wife, who are slaves for life, and who were acquired by the said ---- by purchase, and whereas, the said ---- is desirous of retaining said slaves in this state. THEREFORE, BE IT ENACTED, _by the General Assembly_ of Maryland, that the said ---- be, and he is hereby authorized to retain said negroes as slaves for life within this state, provided that the said ---- shall within thirty days after the passage of this act, file with the clerk of the ---- county court, a list of said slaves so brought into this state, stating their ages, with an affidavit thereto attached, that the same is a true and faithful list of the slaves so removed, and that they were not brought into this state for the purpose of sale, and that they are slaves for life. And _provided also_, that the sum of fifteen dollars for each slave, between the ages of twelve and forty-five years, and the sum of five dollars for each slave above the age of forty-five years and under twelve years of age, so brought into this state, shall be paid to the said clerk of ---- county court: to be paid over by him to the treasurer of the western shore, for the use and benefit of the Colonization Society of this state. _State of Connecticut. Office of Secretary of State_. "I hereby certify, that the foregoing is a true copy of an act passed by the General Assembly of Maryland, January 17th, 1842, as it appears in the printed acts of the said Maryland, in the Library of the state. In testimony whereof, I have hereunto set my hand and seal of said state, at Hartford, this 17th day of August, 1846. CHARLES W. BEADLEY, (SEAL.) Secretary of State." Thus, the whole family after being twice fairly entitled to their liberty, even by the laws of two slave states, had the mortification of finding themselves again, not only recorded as slaves for life, but also a premium paid upon them, professedly to aid in establishing others of their fellow-beings in a free republic on the coast of Africa; but the hand of God seems to have been heavy upon the man who could plan such a stratagem to wrong his fellows. The immense fortune he possessed when I left him, (bating one thousand dollars I brought with me in my own body,) and which he seems to have retained till that time, began to fly, and in a few years he was insolvent, so that he was unable to hold the family, and was compelled to think of selling them again. About this time I heard of their state by an underground railroad passenger, who came from that neighbourhood, and resolved to make an effort to obtain the freedom of my parents, and to relieve myself from liability. For this purpose, after arranging for the means to purchase, I employed counsel to make a definite offer for my parents and myself. To his proposal, the following evasive and offensive answer was returned. _January 12th_, 1846. J. H----, Esq. "Sir,--Your letter is before me. The ungrateful servant in whose behalf you write, merits no clemency from me. He was guilty of theft when he departed, for which I hope he has made due amends. I have heard he was a respectable man, and calculated to do some good to his fellow-beings. Servants are selling from five hundred and fifty to seven hundred dollars. I will take five hundred and fifty dollars, and liberate him. If my proposition is acceded to, and the money lodged in Baltimore, I will execute the necessary instrument, and deliver it in Baltimore, to be given up on payment being made. "Yours, &c, "----." "Jim was a first-rate mechanic, (blacksmith) and was worth to me one thousand dollars." Here he not only refuses to account for my parents, by including them in his return and proposition, but he at the same time attempts to intimidate me by mooting the charge of theft. I confess I was not only surprised, but mortified, at this result. The hope of being once more united to parents whom I had not seen for sixteen years, and whom I still loved dearly, had so excited my mind, that I disarranged my business relations, disposed of a valuable library of four hundred volumes, and by additional aid obtained among the liberal people of Jamaica, I was prepared to give the extravagant sum of five hundred dollars each for myself, and my father and mother. This I was willing to do, not because I approve of the principle involved as a general rule. But supposing that, as my former master was now an old man not far from his grave, (about which I was not mistaken) and as he knew, by his own shewing, that I was able to do some good, he would be inclined, whatever might have been our former relations and misunderstandings, to meet my reasonable desire to see my parents, and to part this world in reconciliation with each other, as well as with God. I should have rejoiced had his temper permitted him to accede to any offer. But I thought it too bad, a free man of Jesus Christ, living on "free soil," to give a man five hundred dollars for the privilege of being let alone, and to be branded as a thief into the bargain, and that too after I had served him twenty prime years, without the benefit of being taught so much as the alphabet. I wrote him with my own hand, sometime after this, stating that no proposition would be acceded to by me, which did not include my parents; and likewise fix the sum for myself more reasonable, and also retract the offensive charge; to this he maintained a dignified silence. The means I had acquired by the contributions of kind friends to redeem myself, I laid by, in case the worst should come; and that designed for the purchase of my parents, I used in another kind of operation, as the result of which, my father and two brothers are now in Canada. My mother was sold a second time, south, but she was eventually found. Several of my sisters married free men, who purchased their liberty; and three brothers are owned, by what may be called conscience slaveholders, who hold slaves only for a term of years. My old master has since died; my mother and he are now in the other world together, she is at rest from him. Sometime after his death, I received information from a gentleman, intimate with his heirs, (who are principally females) that the reduced state of the family, afforded not only a good opportunity to obtain a release upon reasonable terms, but also to render the children of my oppressor some pecuniary aid; and much as I had suffered, I must confess this latter was the stronger motive with me, for acceding to their offer made by him. I have many other deeply interesting particulars touching our family history, but I have detailed as many as prudence will permit, on account of those members who are yet south of Mason and Dixon's line. I have faith in the hand that has dealt with us so strangely, that all our remaining members will in time be brought together; and then the case may merit a reviewed and enlarged edition of this tract, when other important matter will be inserted. CHAPTER VII. THE FEEDING AND CLOTHING OF THE SLAVES IN THE PART OF MARYLAND WHERE I LIVED, &C. The slaves are generally fed upon salt pork, herrings and Indian corn. The manner of dealing it out to them is as follows:--Each working man, on Monday morning, goes to the cellar of the master where the provisions are kept, and where the overseer takes his stand with some one to assist him, when he, with a pair of steel-yards, weighs out to every man the amount of three-and-a-half pounds, to last him till the ensuing Monday--allowing him just half-a-pound per day. Once in a few weeks there is a change made, by which, instead of the three-and-a-half pounds of pork, each man receives twelve herrings, allowing two a-day. The only bread kind the slaves have is that made of Indian meal. In some of the lower counties, the masters usually give their slaves the corn in the ear; and they have to grind it for themselves by night at hand-mills. But my master had a quantity sent to the grist mill at a time, to be ground into coarse meal, and kept it in a large chest in his cellar, where the woman who cooked for the boys could get it daily. This was baked in large loaves, called "steel poun bread." Sometimes as a change it was made into "Johnny Cake," and then at others into mush. The slaves had no butter, coffee, tea, or sugar; occasionally they were allowed milk, but not statedly; the only exception to this statement was the "harvest provisions." In harvest, when cutting the grain, which lasted from two to three weeks in the heat of summer, they were allowed some fresh meat, rice, sugar, and coffee; and also their allowance of whiskey. At the beginning of winter, each slave had one pair of coarse shoes and stockings, one pair of pantaloons, and a jacket. At the beginning of summer, he had two pair of coarse linen pantaloons and two shirts. Once in a number of years, each slave, or each man and his wife, had one coarse blanket and enough coarse linen for a "bed-tick." He never had any bedstead or other furniture kind. The men had no hats, waistcoats or handkerchiefs given them, or the women any bonnets. These they had to contrive for themselves. Each labouring man had a small "patch" of ground allowed him; from this he was expected to furnish himself and his boys hats, &c. These patches they had to work by night; from these, also, they had to raise their own provisions, as no potatoes, cabbage, &c., were allowed them from the plantation. Years ago the slaves were in the habit of raising broom-corn, and making brooms to supply the market in the towns; but now of later years great quantities of these and other articles, such as scrubbing-brushes, wooden trays, mats, baskets, and straw hats which the slaves made, are furnished by the shakers and other small manufacturers, from the free states of the north. Neither my master or any other master, within my acquaintance, made any provisions for the religious instruction of his slaves. They were not worked on the Sabbath. One of the "boys" was required to stay at home and "feed," that is, take care of the stock, every Sabbath; the rest went to see their friends. Those men whose families were on other plantations usually spent the Sabbath with them; some would lie about at home and rest themselves. When it was pleasant weather my master would ride "into town" to church, but I never knew him to say a word to one of us about going to church, or about our obligations to God, or a future state. But there were a number of pious slaves in our neighbourhood, and several of these my master owned; one of these was an exhorter. He was not connected with a religious body, but used to speak every Sabbath in some part of the neighbourhood. When slaves died, their remains were usually consigned to the grave without any ceremony; but this old gentleman, wherever he heard of a slave having been buried in that way, would send notice from plantation to plantation, calling the slaves together at the grave on the Sabbath, where he'd sing, pray, and exhort. I have known him to go ten or fifteen miles voluntarily to attend these services. He could not read, and I never heard him refer to any Scripture, and state and discourse upon any fundamental doctrine of the gospel; but he knew a number of "spiritual songs by heart," of these he would give two lines at a time very exact, set and lead the tune himself; he would pray with great fervour, and his exhortations were amongst the most impressive I have heard. The Methodists at one time attempted to evangelize the slaves in our neighbourhod, but the effort was sternly resisted by the masters. They held a Camp Meeting in the neighbourhood, where many of the slaves attended. But one of their preachers for addressing words of comfort to the slaves, was arrested and tried for his life. My master was very active in this disgraceful affair, but the excellent man, Rev. Mr. G., was acquitted and escaped out of their hands. Still, it was deemed by his brethren to be imprudent for him to preach any more in the place, as some of the more reckless masters swore violence against him. This good man's name is remembered dearly, till this day, by slaves in that county. I met with a fugitive about a year ago, who remembered distinctly the words spoken by Mr. G., and by which his own mind was awakened to a sense of the value of his soul. He said, in the course of his preaching, addressing himself to the slaves, "You have precious immortal souls, that are worth far more to you than your bodies are to your masters;" or words to that effect. But while these words interested many slaves, they also made many masters exceedingly angry, and they tortured his words into an attempt to excite the slaves to rebellion. Some of my master's slaves who had families, were regularly married, and others were not; the law makes no provision for such marriages, and the only provision made by the master was, that they should obtain his leave. In some cases, after obtaining leave to take his wife, the slave would ask further leave to go to a minister and be married. I never knew him to deny such a request, and yet, in those cases where the slave did not ask it, he never required him to be married by a minister. Of course, no Bibles, Tracts, or religious books of any kind, were ever given to the slaves; and no ministers or religious instructors were ever known to visit our plantation at any time, either in sickness or in health. When a slave was sick, my master being himself a physician, sometimes attended, and sometimes he called other physicians. Slaves frequently sickened and died, but I never knew any provision made to administer to them the comforts, or to offer to them the hopes of the gospel, or to their friends after their death. * * * * * _There is no one feature of slavery to which the mind recurs with more gloomy impressions, than to its disastrous influence upon the families of the masters, physically, pecuniarily, and mentally._ It seems to destroy families as by a powerful blight, large and opulent slave-holding families, often vanish like a group of shadows at the third or fourth generation. This fact arrested my attention some years before I escaped from slavery, and of course before I had any enlightened views of the moral character of the system. As far back as I can recollect, indeed, it was a remark among slaves, that every generation of slaveholders are more and more inferior. There were several large and powerful families in our county, including that of my master, which affords to my mind a melancholy illustration of this remark. One of the wealthiest slaveholders in the county, was General R., a brother-in-law to my master. This man owned a large and highly valuable tract of land, called R.'s Manor. I do not know how many slaves he owned, but the number was large. He lived in a splendid mansion, and drove his coach and four. He was for some years a member of Congress. He had a numerous family of children. The family showed no particular signs of decay until he had married a second time, and had considerably increased his number of children. It then became evident that his older children were not educated for active business, and were only destined to be a charge. Of sons, (seven or eight,) not one of them reached the eminence once occupied by the father. The only one that approached to it, was the eldest, who became an officer in the navy, and obtained the doubtful glory of being killed in the Mexican war. General R. himself ran through his vast estate, died intemperate, and left a widow and large number of daughters, some minors, destitute, and none of his sons fitted for any employment but in the army and navy. Slaves have a superstitious dread of passing the dilapidated dwelling of a man who has been guilty of great cruelties to his slaves, and who is dead, or moved away. I never felt this dread deeply but once, and that was one Sabbath about sunset, as I crossed the yard of General R.'s residence, which was about two miles from us, after he had been compelled to leave it. To see the once fine smooth gravel walks, overgrown with grass--the redundances of the shrubbery neglected--the once finely painted pricket fences, rusted and fallen down--a fine garden in splendid ruins--the lofty ceiling of the mansion thickly curtained with cobwebs--the spacious apartments abandoned, while the only music heard within as a substitute for the voices of family glee that once filled it, was the crying cricket and cockroaches! Ignorant slave as I was at that time, I could but pause for a moment, and recur in silent horror to the fact that, a strange reverse of fortune, had lately driven from that proud mansion, a large and once opulent family. What advantage was it now to the members of that family, that the father and head had for near half a century stood high in the counsels of the state, and had the benefit of the unrequited toil of hundreds of his fellowmen, when they were already grappling with the annoyances of that poverty, which he had entailed upon others. My master's family, in wealth and influence, was not inferior to General R.'s originally. His father was a member of the convention that framed the present constitution of the state; he was, also, for some years chief justice of the state. My master was never equal to his father, although he stood high at one time. He once lacked but a few votes of being elected Governor of the state: he once sat in the Assembly, and was generally a leading man in his own county. His influence was found to be greatest when exerted in favour of any measure in regard to the control of slaves. He was the first mover in several cruel and rigid municipal regulations in the county, which prohibited slaves from going over a certain number of miles from their master's places on the Sabbath, and from being seen about the town. He once instigated the authorities of the town where he attended service, to break up a Sabbath-school some humane members of the Methodist and Lutheran denominations had set up to teach the free negroes, lest the slaves should get some benefit of it. But there was a still wider contrast between my master and his own children, eight in number, when I left him. His eldest daughter, the flower of the family, married a miserable and reckless gambler. His eldest son was kind-hearted, and rather a favourite with the slaves on that account; but he had no strength of mind or weight of character. His education was limited, and he had no disposition or tact for business of any kind. He died at thirty-six, intestate; leaving his second-wife (a sister to his father's second wife) with several orphan children, a widow with a small estate deeply embarrassed. The second son was once sent to West Point to fit for an officer. After being there a short time, however, he became unsteady, and commenced the study of medicine, but he soon gave that up and preferred to live at home and flog the slaves; and by them was cordially dreaded and disliked, and among themselves he was vulgarly nicknamed on account of his cruel and filthy habits. These two families will afford a fair illustration of the gloomy history of many others that I could name. This decline of slaveholding families is a subject of observation and daily remark among slaves; they are led to observe every change in the pecuniary, moral, and social state of the families they belong to, from the fact, that as the old master declines, or as his children are married off, they are expecting to fall into their hands, or in case of insolvency on the part of the old master, they expect to be sold; in either case, it involves a change of master--a subject to which they cannot be indifferent. And it is very rarely the case that a slave's condition is benefited by passing from the old master into the hands of one of his children. Owing to the causes I have mentioned, the decline is so rapid and marked, in almost every point of view, that the children of slaveholders are universally inferior to themselves, mentally, morally, physically, as well as pecuniarily, especially so in the latter point of view; and this is a matter of most vital concern to the slaves. The young master not being able to own as many slaves as his father, usually works what he has more severely, and being more liable to embarrassment, the slaves' liability to be sold at an early day is much greater. For the same reason, slaves have a deep interest, generally, in the marriage of a young mistress. Very generally the daughters of slaveholders marry inferior men; men who seek to better their own condition by a wealthy connection. The slaves who pass into the hands of the young master has had some chance to become acquainted with his character, bad as it may be; but the young mistress brings her slaves a new, and sometimes an unknown master. Sometimes these are the sons of already broken down slaveholders. In other cases they are adventurers from the north who remove to the south, and who readily become the most cruel masters. APPENDIX. These two letters are simply introduced to show what the state of my feelings was with reference to slavery at the time they were written. I had just heard several facts with regard to my parents, which had awakened my mind to great excitement. TO MY FATHER, MOTHER, BROTHERS, AND SISTERS. _The following was written in 1844:_ DEARLY BELOVED IN BONDS, About seventeen long years have now rolled away, since in the Providence of Almighty God, I left your embraces, and set out upon a daring adventure in search of freedom. Since that time, I have felt most severely the loss of the sun and moon and eleven stars from my social sky. Many, many a thick cloud of anguish has pressed my brow and sent deep down into my soul the bitter waters of sorrow in consequence. And you have doubtless had your troubles and anxious seasons also about your fugitive star. I have learned that some of you have been sold, and again taken back by Colonel ----. How many of you are living and together, I cannot tell. My great grief is, lest you should have suffered this or some additional punishment on account of my _Exodus_. I indulge the hope that it will afford you some consolation to know that your son and brother is yet alive. That God has dealt wonderfully and kindly with me in all my way. He has made me a Christian, and a Christian Minister, and thus I have drawn my support and comfort from that blessed Saviour, who came _to preach good tidings unto the meek, to bind up the broken hearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and the opening of the prison to them, that are bound. To proclaim the acceptable year of the Lord and the day of vengeance of our God; to comfort all that mourn. To appoint unto them that mourn in Zion, to give unto them beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness, that they might be called trees of righteousness, the planting of the Lord that he might be glorified._ If the course I took in leaving a condition which had become intolerable to me, has been made the occasion of making that condition worse to you in any way, I do most heartily regret such a change for the worse on your part. As I have no means, however, of knowing if such be the fact, so I have no means of making atonement, but by sincere prayer to Almighty God in your behalf, and also by taking this method of offering to you these consolations of the gospel to which I have just referred, and which I have found to be pre-eminently my own stay and support. My dear father and mother; I have very often wished, while administering the Holy Ordinance of Baptism to some scores of children brought forward by doting parents, that I could see you with yours among the number. And you, my brothers and sisters, while teaching hundreds of children and youths in schools over which I have been placed, what unspeakable delight I should have had in having you among the number; you may all judge of my feeling for these past years, when while preaching from Sabbath to Sabbath to congregations, I have not been so fortunate as even to see father, mother, brother, sister, uncle, aunt, nephew, niece, or cousin in my congregations. While visiting the sick, going to the house of mourning, and burying the dead, I have been a constant mourner for you. My sorrow has been that I know you are not in possession of those hallowed means of grace. I am thankful to you for those mild and gentle traits of character which you took such care to enforce upon me in my youthful days. As an evidence that I prize both you and them, I may say that at the age of thirty-seven, I find them as valuable as any lessons I have learned, nor am I ashamed to let it be known to the world, that I am the son of a bond man and a bond woman. Let me urge upon you the fundamental truths of the Gospel of the Son of God. Let repentance towards God and faith in our Lord Jesus Christ have their perfect work in you, I beseech you. Do not be prejudiced against the gospel because it may be seemingly twisted into a support of slavery. The gospel rightly understood, taught, received, felt and practised, is anti-slavery as it is anti-sin. Just so far and so fast as the true spirit of the gospel obtains in the land, and especially in the lives of the oppressed, will the spirit of slavery sicken and become powerless like the serpent with his head pressed beneath the fresh leaves of the prickly ash of the forest. There is not a solitary decree of the immaculate God that has been concerned in the ordination of slavery, nor does any possible development of his holy will sanctify it. He has permitted us to be enslaved according to the invention of wicked men, instigated by the devil, with intention to bring good out of the evil, but He does not, He cannot approve of it. He has no need to approve of it, even on account of the good which He will bring out of it, for He could have brought about that very good in some other way. God is never straitened; He is never at a loss for means to work. Could He not have made this a great and wealthy nation without making its riches to consist in our blood, bones, and souls? And could He not also have given the gospel to us without making us slaves? My friends, let us then, in our afflictions, embrace and hold fast the gospel. The gospel is the fulness of God. We have the glorious and total weight of God's moral character in our side of the scale. The wonderful purple stream which flowed for the healing of the nations, has a branch for us. Nay, is Christ divided? "The grace of God that bringeth salvation hath appeared to (for) all men, teaching us that denying ungodliness and worldly lust, we should live soberly, righteously, and godly in this present world, looking for that blessed hope and glorious appearing of the great God and our Saviour Jesus Christ, who gave himself for us that he might redeem us from all iniquity, and purify unto himself a peculiar people, zealous of good works."--Titus ii. 11-14. But you say you have not the privilege of hearing of this gospel of which I speak. I know it; and this is my great grief. But you shall have it; I will send it to you by my humble prayer; I can do it; I will beg our heavenly Father, and he will preach this gospel to you in his holy providence. You, dear father and mother cannot have much longer to live in this troublesome and oppressive world; you cannot bear the yoke much longer. And as you approach another world, how desirable it is that you should have the prospect of a different destiny from what you have been called to endure in this world during a long life. But it is the gospel that sets before you the hope of such a blessed rest as is spoken of in the word of God, Job iii. 17, 19. "There the wicked cease from troubling, and there the weary be at rest; there the prisoners rest together; they hear not the voice of the oppressors. The small and great are there; and the servant is free from his master." Father, I know thy eyes are dim with age and weary with weeping, but look, dear father, yet a little while toward that haven. Look unto Jesus, "the author and finisher of thy faith," for the moment of thy happy deliverance is at hand. Mother, dear mother, I know, I feel, mother, the pangs of thy bleeding heart, that thou hast endured, during so many years of vexation. Thy agonies are by a genuine son-like sympathy mine; I will, I must, I do share daily in those agonies of thine. But I sincerely hope that with me you bear your agonies to Christ who carries our sorrows. O come then with me, my beloved family, of weary heart-broken and care-worn ones, to Jesus Christ, "casting all your care upon him, for he careth for you."--2 Peter v. 7. With these words of earnest exhortation, joined with fervent prayer to God that He may smooth your rugged way, lighten your burden, and give a happy issue out of all your troubles, I must bid you adieu. Your son and brother, JAS. P. _Alias_ J.W.C. PENNINGTON. TO COLONEL F---- T----, OF H----, WASHINGTON COUNTY, MD. 1844. DEAR SIR, It is now, as you are aware, about seventeen years since I left your house and service, at the age of twenty. Up to that time, I was, according to your rule and claim, your slave. Till the age of seven years, I was, of course, of little or no service to you. At that age, however, you hired me out, and for three years I earned my support; at the age of ten years, you took me to your place again, and in a short time after you put me to work at the blacksmith's trade, at which, together with the carpentering trade, &c, I served you peaceably until the day I left you, with exception of the short time you had sold me to S---- H----, Esq., for seven hundred dollars. It is important for me to say to you, that I have no consciousness of having done you any wrong. I called you master when I was with you from the mere force of circumstances; but I never regarded you as my master. The nature which God gave me did not allow me to believe that you had any more right to me than I had to you, and that was just none at all. And from an early age, I had intentions to free myself from your claim. I never consulted any one about it; I had no advisers or instigators; I kept my own counsel entirely concealed in my own bosom. I never meditated any evil to your person or property, but I regarded you as my oppressor, and I deemed it my duty to get out of your hands by peaceable means. I was always obedient to your commands. I laboured for you diligently at all times. I acted with fidelity in any matter which you entrusted me. As you sometimes saw fit to entrust me with considerable money, to buy tools or materials, not a cent was ever coveted or kept. During the time I served you in the capacity of blacksmith, your materials were used economically, your work was done expeditiously, and in the very best style, a style second to no smith in your neighbourhood. In short, sir, you well know that my habits from early life were advantageous to you. Drinking, gambling, fighting, &c., were not my habits. On Sabbaths, holidays, &c., I was frequently at your service, when not even your body-servant was at home. Times and times again, I have gone on Sunday afternoon to H----, six miles, after your letters and papers, when it was as much my privilege to be _"out of the way,"_ as it was C----. But what treatment did you see fit to return me for all this? You, in the most unfeeling manner, abused my father for no cause but speaking a word to you, as a man would speak to his fellow-man, for the sake simply of a better understanding. You vexed my mother, and because she, as a tender mother would do, showed solicitude for the virtue of her daughters, you threatened her in an insulting brutal manner. You abused my brother and sister without cause, and in like manner you did to myself; you surmised evil against me. You struck me with your walking-cane, called me insulting names, threatened me, swore at me, and became more and more wrathy in your conduct, and at the time I quitted your place, I had good reason to believe that you were meditating serious evil against me. Since I have been out of your hands, I have been signally favoured of God, whence I infer that in leaving you, I acted strictly in accordance with his holy will. I have a conscience void of offence towards God and towards all men, yourself not excepted. And I verily believe that I have performed a sacred duty to God and myself, and a kindness to you, in taking the blood of my soul peaceably off your soul. And now, dear sir, having spoken somewhat pointedly, I would, to convince you of my perfect good will towards you, in the most kind and respectful terms, remind you of your coming destiny. You are now over seventy years of age, pressing on to eternity with the weight of these seventy years upon you. Is not this enough without the blood of some half-score of souls? You are aware that your right to property in man is now disputed by the civilized world. You are fully aware, also, that the question, whether the Bible sanctions slavery, has distinctly divided this nation in sentiment. On the side of Biblical Anti-slavery, we have many of the most learned, wise and holy men in the land. If the Bible affords no sanction to slavery, (and I claim that it cannot,) then it must be a sin of the deepest dye; and can you, sir, think to go to God in hope with a sin of such magnitude upon your soul? But admitting that the question is yet doubtful, (which I do only for the sake of argument,) still, sir, you will have the critical hazard of this doubt pressing, in no very doubtful way, upon your declining years, as you descend the long and tedious hill of life. Would it not seem to be exceedingly undesirable to close an eventful probation of seventy or eighty years, and leave your reputation among posterity suspended upon so doubtful an issue? But what, my dear sir, is a reputation among posterity, who are but worms, compared with a destiny in the world of spirits? And it is in light of that destiny that I would now have you look at this subject. You and I, and all that you claim as your slaves, are in a state of probation; our great business is to serve God under His righteous moral government. Master and slave are the subjects of that government, bound by its immutable requirements, and liable to its sanctions in the next world, though enjoying its forbearance in this. You will pardon me then for pressing this point in earnest good faith. You should, at this stage, review your life without political bias, or adherence to long cherished prejudices, and remember that you are soon to meet those whom you have held, and do hold in slavery, at the awful bar of the impartial Judge of all who doeth right. Then what will become of your own doubtful claims? What will be done with those doubts that agitated your mind years ago; will you answer for threatening, swearing, and using the cowhide among your slaves? What will become of those long groans and unsatisfied complaints of your slaves, for vexing them with insulting words, placing them in the power of dogish and abusive overseers, or under your stripling, misguided, hot-headed son, to drive and whip at pleasure, and for selling parts or whole families to Georgia? They will all meet you at that bar. Uncle James True, Charles Cooper, Aunt Jenny, and the native Africans; Jeremiah, London, and Donmore, have already gone a-head, and only wait your arrival--Sir, I shall meet you there. The account between us for the first twenty years of my life, will have a definite character upon which one or the other will be able to make out a case. Upon such a review as this, sir, you will, I am quite sure, see the need of seriousness. I assure you that the thought of meeting you in eternity, and before the dread tribunal of God, with a complaint in my mouth against you, is to me of most weighty and solemn character. And you will see that the circumstances from which this thought arises are of equal moment to yourself. Can the pride of leaving your children possessed of long slave states, or the policy of sustaining in the state the institution of slavery, justify you in overlooking a point of moment to your future happiness? What excuse could you offer at the bar of God, favoured as you have been with the benefits of a refined education, and through a long life with the gospel of love, should you, when arraigned there, find that you have, all your life long, laboured under a great mistake in regard to slavery, and that in this mistake you had died, and only lifted up your eyes in the light of eternity to be corrected, when it was too late to be corrected in any other way. _I could wish to address you_ (being bred, born, and raised in your family) _as a father in Israel, or as an elder brother in Christ, but I cannot; mockery is a sin._ I can only say then, dear sir, farewell, till I meet you at the bar of God, where Jesus, who died for us, will judge between us. Now his blood can wash out our stain, break down the middle wall of partition, and reconcile us not only to God but to each other, then the word of his mouth, the sentence will set us at one. As for myself, I am quite ready to meet you face to face at the bar of God. I have done you no wrong; I have nothing to fear when we both fall into the hands of the just God. I beseech you, dear sir, to look well and consider this matter soundly. In yonder world you can have no slaves--you can be no man's master--you can neither sell, buy, or whip, or drive. Are you then, by sustaining the relation of a slaveholder, forming a character to dwell with God in peace? With kind regards, I am, sir, yours respectfully, J.W.C. PENNINGTON. LIBERTY'S CHAMPION. BY A FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR'S. On the wings of the wind he comes, he comes! With the rolling billow's speed; On his breast are the signs of peace and love, And his soul is nerved with strength from above: While his eyes flash fire, He burns with desire To achieve the noble deed. To the shores of the free he goes, he goes! And smiles as he passes on; He hears the glad notes of Liberty's song, And bids the brave sons of freedom be strong. While his heart bounds high To his crown in the sky, He triumphs o'er conquests won. To the homes of the slave he flies, he flies! Where manacled mourners cry; The bursting groan of the mind's o'erflow, Transfixed on the dark and speaking brow: With a murmuring sound, Ascends from the ground, To the God that reigns on high. To his loved Father's throne he hastes, he hastes! And pours forth his soul in grief: Uprising he finds his strength renewed, And his heart with fervent love is imbued; While the heaving sigh, And the deep-toned cry, Appeal for instant relief. To the hard oppressor he cries, he cries, And points to the bleeding slave; He tells of the rights of the human soul, And his eyes with full indignation roll: While his heart is moved, And the truth is proved, He seeks the captive to save. Again to the foeman he speaks, he speaks, But utters his cry in vain; He breathes no curse, no vengeance seeks,-- For the broken hearts or the anguished shrieks, For the mother's pains, Or the father's gains,-- Upon the oppressor's name. To nations of freemen once more he comes, To raise Liberty's banner high; He tells of the wrongs of the bonded slave, And cries aloud, 'mid throngs of the brave, "O freemen, arise! Be faithful and wise, And answer the mourner's cry. In melting strains of love he calls, he calls, To the great and good from afar; Till sympathy wakes to the truthful tale, And the prayer of the faith, which cannot fail, Ascends to heaven, And grace is given, To nerve for the bloodless war. The truth with a magic power prevails: All hearts are moved to the strife; In a holy phalanx, and with deathless aim, They seek a peaceful triumph to gain O'er the tyrant's sway, In his onward way, To raise the fallen to life. At the mighty voice of the glorious free The chain of the oppressor breaks; The slave from his bondage springs forth to love, And, standing erect, his eye fixed above, He honours his race, And in the world's face, The language of liberty speaks. The oppressor no longer owns a right, Or property claims in the slave, But the world, in the glory of freedom's light, Beams out from the darkness of wide-spread night; Throughout its length, In greatness and strength, The honour of the free and brave. * * * * * Printed for CHARLES GILPIN, 5, Bishopgate Street Without. The Fugitive Blacksmith, or Events in the History of JAMES W.C. PENNINGTON, Pastor of a Presbyterian Church, New York. Foolscap 8vo., sewed, price 1s. "This entrancing narrative * * * We trust that thousands of our readers will procure the volume, which is published by Mr. Gilpin at a mere trifle--much too cheap to accomplish the purpose for which, in part or mainly, it has been published--the raising a fund to remove the pecuniary burdens which press on the author's flock. NOTHING SHORT OF THE SALE OF FIFTY THOUSAND OR SIXTY THOUSAND COPIES could be at all availing for this object. * * * We very cordially recommend him and his narrative to the kind consideration of our readers. Let them load him with English hospitality, fill his purse, and send him back as fast as possible to the land of his early bondage, of his matured freedom, and to the people to whose character and capabilities he does so much honour."--_Christian Witness_, October, 1849. "The principal portion of the 'Tract,' as Mr. Pennington modestly styles his book, consists of an autobiography of his early life as a slave, and of his escape from bondage, and final settlement in New York as a Presbyterian Minister. His adventures and hair-breadth escapes invest the narrative with startling interest, and excite the deepest sympathies of the reader."--_Nonconformist_, September, 26th, 1849. "Believing that by the purchase of this little book our readers will confer a benefit on the writer, at the same time that they become possessed of a narrative of deep interest, we give it our most cordial recommendation."--_Teetotal Times_, October, 1849. * * * * * London: CHARLES GILPIN, 5, Bishopsgate Street Without. 
20005	----	produced from images generously made available by the Library of Congress) NOTICE TO THE PUBLIC. The object of the writer, in preparing this account of himself, is to RAISE SUFFICIENT MEANS TO FREE HIS LAST TWO CHILDREN FROM SLAVERY. Having already, within twelve years past, purchased himself, his wife, and five of his children, at a cost, altogether, of over _four thousand dollars_, he now earnestly desires a humane and christian public to AID HIM IN THE SALE OF THIS BOOK, for the purpose of finishing the task in which he has so long and anxiously labored. God has blessed him in an extraordinary manner, not only by granting freedom to him and so large a portion of his family, but by giving him the hope of the gospel, and permitting him to preach that gospel among his own people--in which calling he has been engaged for about twenty-five years. [Illustration: THE SARATOGA STREET AFRICAN BAPTIST CHAPEL.] The building, of which the above cut is an imperfect representation, fronts as above 100 feet on Saratoga street, and 46 feet on Calvert street. The house is of brick, and cost over $18,000.--(See page 45.) A NARRATIVE OF THE LIFE OF REV. NOAH DAVIS, _A COLORED MAN._ WRITTEN BY HIMSELF, AT THE AGE OF FIFTY-FOUR. PRINTED SOLELY FOR THE AUTHOR'S BENEFIT. Baltimore: PUBLISHED BY JOHN F. WEISHAMPEL, JR., No. 484 West Baltimore St. ENTERED according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1859, by NOAH DAVIS, in the Clerk's office of the District Court of Maryland. STEREOTYPED BY JOHN F. WEISHAMPEL, JR., BOOKSELLER AND PUBLISHER, BALTIMORE. Contents. CHAPTER I. Early Life in Virginia--Example of Pious Parents. CHAPTER II. Apprenticed to the Shoe-making--Learns housework--Intemperance--"A negro can't be trusted"--Learning how to write and cipher. CHAPTER III. Religious Experience--Conviction and Conversion. CHAPTER IV. Marriage--License to Preach--Purchase of Freedom--Call to Baltimore. CHAPTER V. Experience in Baltimore--Education--Purchase of a Wife and two Children--Great Distress of Mind--Generous Assistance--Church Matters. CHAPTER VI. A New Movement in Baltimore--Erection of a Meeting House for the African Baptist Church--Heavy Indebtedness--Account of the Enterprise. CHAPTER VII. Account of a Visit to the northern Cities--True Friends. CHAPTER VIII. Conclusion--Object of this Book. NARRATIVE. CHAPTER I. Early Life in Virginia--Example of Pious Parents. I was born a slave, in Madison county, Virginia, March, 1804. My father, John Davis, and his family, belonged to Robert Patten, Esq., a wealthy merchant, residing in Fredericksburg--who was also owner, in connection with Mr. John Thom, of a large merchant mill, located on "Crooked Run," a stream running between Madison and Culpepper counties. My father was the head miller in that large establishment, in which responsible station he was much respected. There I was born, and remained until I was twelve years old. Mr. Patten was always considered one of the best of masters, allowing his servants many privileges; but my father enjoyed more than many others. Both he and my mother were pious members of a Baptist church, and from their godly example, I formed a determination, before I had reached my twelfth year, that if I was spared to become a man, I would try to be as good as my parents. My father could read a little, and make figures, but could scarcely write at all. His custom, on those Sabbaths when we remained at home, was to spend his time in instructing his children, or the neighboring servants, out of a New Testament, sent him from Fredericksburg by one of his older sons. I fancy I can see him now, sitting under his bush arbor, reading that precious book to many attentive hearers around him. Such was the esteem I had for my pious father, that I have kept that blessed book ever since his death, for his sake; and it was the first New Testament I read, after I felt the pardoning love of God in my soul. My father died, August 20, 1826, aged 60 years. My mother, Jane Davis, at the death of my father, removed from the farm, where my father died, and spent the remainder of her days in Fredericksburg, with her children. She lived to good old age, and fell asleep in Jesus, Dec. 24, 1831. My father had been allowed to keep a cow and horse, for his own use; and to raise and feed his hogs and poultry from the mill. He had the privilege of keeping his children with him, until they were old enough to put out to such trades as they might choose. I had several brothers and one sister. Two of my brothers, one older, the other younger than myself, lived with our parents, at this place. My oldest brother worked in the mill, with my father, while my youngest brother and I did little else than play about home, and wait upon our mother. I had several playmates, besides my brothers, and among them were the sons of Col. Thom, and the servant boys who stayed at his house. Although many years have passed away since, it gives me pleasure, even now, to recollect the happy seasons I enjoyed with the playmates of my childhood. But this pleasant state of things was not to continue long. The owners of the mill and farm concluded to sell out the whole concern. My father and his family then removed to another farm, belonging to our owner, located in Culpepper county, near Stevensburg. Here I remained nearly two years, working, part of the time, with a carpenter, who was building a summer residence for my master; and the rest of the time, assisting my father to cultivate as much ground as he and his family could tend. Here I learned something of a farmer's life. The overseer, Mr. Daniel Brown, had the reputation of being one of the best overseers in the county. But my father's family was not put under him further than for his protection; for after our owner sold the mill, he set my parents free, and allowed them to maintain themselves, by cultivating as much ground on the farm as they needed. Sometimes my father would leave his little place in charge of my brother Robert and myself, and would hire himself to work in some mill, or go peddling poultry, vegetables, &c., at some of the market places around. CHAPTER II. Apprenticed to the shoe-making--Learns housework--Intemperance--"A negro can't be trusted"--Learning how to write and cipher. In December, 1818, for the first time in my life, I left my parents, to go a distance from home; and I was sad at the thought of parting with those whom I loved and reverenced more than any persons on earth. But the expectation of seeing Fredericksburg, a place which, from all I had then learned, I supposed must be the greatest place in the world, reconciled me somewhat with the necessity of saying Good-bye to the dear ones at home. I arrived at Fredericksburg, after a day and a half's travel, in a wagon--a distance of some fifty miles. Having arrived in town, a boy green from the country, I was astonished and delighted at what appeared to me the splendor and beauty of the place. I spent a merry Christmas at my old master's stately mansion, along with my older brother, and for a while forgot the home on the farm. But soon, another home was selected for me, where I might learn a trade, and as I preferred the boot and shoe-making, I was put to Mr. Thomas Wright, a man of sterling integrity, who was considered the best workman in the whole town. Here I had an older brother living, which was some inducement for my going to live with Mr. Wright. I was bound, to serve until I should be twenty-one years old. This was in January, 1819. Upon entering with Mr. Wright, I learned that the colored boys had to serve one year with Mrs. Wright, in the house and kitchen. The object of this was to train them for future usefulness, when called from the shop, to serve as waiters or cooks. Mrs. Wright was a good manager, and a very particular housekeeper. I used to think she was too particular. But I have learned better since. I have often wished, when I have been seeking homes for my children, that I could find one like Mrs. Wright. She would spare no pains to teach her servants how she wanted her work done; and then she would spare no pains to make them do it. I have often looked back, with feelings of gratitude and veneration, to that pious lady, for her untiring perseverance in training me up in the way I should go. But she is gone, as I trust, to receive the reward of righteousness, in a better world. After I had been under Mrs. Wright's special charge the first year, she could leave me to cook a dinner, or clean the house, or do anything she might set me at, without her being present. I was now considered fit to take my seat among the hands in the shop. Here I found quite a new state of things. The shoemakers, at that time, in Fredericksburg, were considered the most intemperate of any class of men in the place; and as the apprentice-boys had always to be very obliging to the journeymen, in order to get along pleasantly with them, it was my duty to be runner for the shop; and I was soon trained how to bring liquor among the men with such secresy as to prevent the boss, who had forbidden it to come on the premises, from knowing it. But, in those days, the drinking of ardent spirits was a common practice, even among christians. With such examples all around, I soon learned the habit of drinking, along with every other vile habit to which my companions were addicted. It was true in my case, that "evil communications corrupt good manners;" and had it not been for the strictness with which my boss and his amiable lady watched over me, I should in all probability have become a confirmed drunkard, before my time was out. But they held the reins over me, and kept me in, until I had served out my apprenticeship. I can say, however, that, much as I was inclined to other vices and sins, Mr. Wright readily gave me a recommendation for honesty, truthfulness, and goodness of character. In fact, he had felt such confidence in me, that he would often leave his shoe store in my care, when he would have to go to the north, for a supply of stock. And I can truly say, that I never deceived him, when he thus trusted me. Nothing would mortify me as much, as to hear it said, "A negro can't be trusted." This saying would always nerve me with a determination _to be trustworthy_.--If I was trusted, I would deserve to be trusted. I wanted to show that principle was not confined to color. But I have been led to look at it since, and have thought that perhaps it was more pride than principle in me, at that time, for I was a wicked sinner. The first idea I ever got of writing, was from trying to imitate my employer, who used to write the names of his customers on the lining of the boots and shoes, as he gave them out to be made. So I tried to make letters, and soon succeeded in writing my name, and then the word Fredericksburg, and so on. My father had previously taught me the alphabet, in the spelling book, before I had left the mill. After I became religious, I would carry my father's New Testament to church, and always try to get to meeting in time to hear the preacher read a chapter before sermon. If he named the chapter before reading it, I would soon find it. In this way, I gathered much information in pronouncing many hard words in the Scriptures. It was a long time before I learned the meaning of the numeral letters put in the Bible over the chapters. I had often seen them in the spelling book running alongside a column of figures; but no one ever told me that they were put there for the same use as the figures. CHAPTER III. Religious Experience--Conviction--Conversion. Just about the close of my apprenticeship, and as I began to feel myself a man, I commenced to visit the girls, which induced me to go still more frequently to church. At that time, there were four churches in Fredericksburg. The colored people had apartments for worship with the white people, at each of these churches. They were Methodist, Presbyterian, Episcopalian and Baptist. I had no particular preference for any one of these denominations, more than another; but, went wherever my favorites went. One night a young lady invited me to go to the Methodist church, where a prayer-meeting was to be held. During the meeting, a venerable old gentleman rose to his feet, and related an account of the sudden death of a young lady, which he had read in a newspapers. When he related that solemn circumstance, it so affected me, that I felt as if I was about to die, in a sudden manner also. Having always, from parental training, purposed in my mind to become religious before I died, I thought that now was the time to begin to pray. But I could not try to pray in the church, for I was afraid that the girls would laugh at me. Yet I became so troubled, that I left the house, girls and all, intending to seek some place where I might pray. But to my horror and surprise, when I got out of the church, this reflection occurred to me, "God is in heaven, and you are on earth:--how can He hear you?" O, what distress of mind I now felt! I began to wonder how God could hear my prayer; for, sure enough, He was in heaven, and I on the earth. In my perplexity, I started for home. Just before I reached the shop, where I slept, this thought struck me, if possible with more force than the former reflection: "God does see you!" It really appeared to me as if I could see that God was indeed looking at me; and not only so, but I felt that He had been looking at me all my life. I now said to myself, "It is of no use for me to pray.--If God has seen all my wickedness, as I feel that He has, then there is no mercy for me." So I ran to my lodging-place, and tried to hide myself in a dark room. But this was useless; for it appeared that God could see me in the dark, as well as in the light. I now felt constrained to beg for mercy, and spent the time in trying to obtain pardon for my sins. But the morning came, and the hour drew near for the hands to go to work, and I was still unhappy. I felt so very different to what I had always felt, that I tried to examine my impressions of the previous night, to learn if it was true that God did see me or not; for I thought my imagination might have deceived me. Up to this time, I was not fully convinced that God knew all about me. So I began to study about the matter. As I sat on the shoe-bench, I picked up a bunch of bristles, and selecting one of the smallest, I began to wonder, if God could see an object so small as that. No sooner had this inquiry arose in my heart, than it appeared to me, that the Lord could not only see the bristle, but that He beheld me, as plainly as I saw the little object in my hand; and not only so, but that God was then looking through me, just as I would hold up a tumbler of clear water to the sun and look through it. This was enough. I felt that I must pray, or perish; and now I began to pray. But it really seemed, that the more I prayed the less hope there was for me. Still I could not stop praying; for I felt that God was angry with me. I had sinned against his holy laws; and now, if He should cut me off, and send me to hell, it was but right. These thoughts followed me day and night, for five weeks, before I felt relief. At length, one day, while sitting on my shoe bench, I felt that my time had come when I must die. What troubled me most, was that I should have to appear before God, in all my sins;--O, what horror filled my soul at the thought! I began to wonder what I must do. I knew I was not prepared for death and the Judgment. It is true that two of my shopmates, at that time, were members of the church; but they did not seem to care for my soul. All the rest of the hands were as wicked as myself. "What shall I do?" was in my mind, all the time I sat at work. The reflection occurred to me, "Your mother is a christian; it may be she can save you." But this suggestion appeared to be offensive to God. Then came another thought,--"As my master was a rich man, could he not do something to help me?" But I found no relief in either ... and while I sat thus, hoping and praying, light broke into my mind--all my trouble left me in an instant. I felt such a love and peace flowing in my soul, that I could not sit longer; I sprang to my feet, and cried out, "Glory to God!" It seemed to me, that God, whom I had beheld, a few seconds previously, angry with me, was now well-pleased. I could not tell why this great change had taken place in me; and my shopmates were surprised at my conduct, saying, that I must be getting crazy. But, just at this moment, the thought came into my mind, that I was converted; still, as I felt so very different from what I had expected to feel, I could not see how that could be. I concluded to run and see my mother, and ask her how people felt, when they got converted. So I went, right away, to my mother's house, some five or six squares from the shop. When I reached the door of her house, it appeared to me that everything was new and bright. I went in, and sat down. Mother asked me how I was. I told her, I felt _right smart_. This was a new sound from me; for my answers to this question had long been--"_poorly_." But now came the trial; to ask mother how people felt, when they were converted. I felt ashamed to ask the question; so I went into another room; and seeing a hymn book lying on the table, I took it up. The first hymn that struck my sight began with these words: "When converts first begin to sing, Their happy souls are on the wing-- Their theme is all redeeming love; Fain would they be with Christ above. With admiration they behold The love of Christ, which can't be told," &c. These lines expressed my feelings precisely, and being encouraged from them, I went to my mother, and asked her the question--"How do people feel, when they get converted?" She replied, "Do you think you are converted?" Now, this was a severe trial; for, although I felt that I was really changed, yet I wanted to hear from her, before I could decide whether I was actually converted, or not. I replied, "No." Then she said, "My son, the devil makes people think themselves converted, sometimes." I arose, and left immediately, believing that the devil had made a fool of me. I returned to my shop, more determined to pray than ever before. I arrived, and took my seat, and tried to get under that same weight, that I had felt pressing me down, but a short while before. But it seemed to me that I could not; and, instead of feeling sad, I felt joyful in my heart; and while trying to pray, I thought the Saviour appeared to me. I thought I saw God smiling upon me, through Christ, His Son. My soul was filled with love to God and Jesus Christ. It appeared to me, I saw a fullness in Jesus Christ, to save every sinner who would come to Him. And I felt, that if I was only converted, I would tell all sinners how precious the Saviour was. But I could not think myself converted yet, because I could not see what I had done, for God to pardon my sins. Still I felt a love to Him for what He had done for my soul. Then I began to think upon my shopmates--and, O what pity ran through my soul for them. I wished to pray for them; but I felt so unworthy, that I could not do it. At last I promised the Lord that if He would convert my soul, I would talk to them. ... It was several months after that, before I was made to realize this to be the work of God; and when it was made plain, O what joy it did bring to my poor soul! I shortly became a member of the Baptist church, and was baptized, in company with some twenty others, by Rev. Geo. F. Adams, who was then pastor of the Baptist church in Fredericksburg--September 19, 1831. This church then contained about three hundred colored members. CHAPTER IV. Marriage--License to Preach--Purchase of Freedom--A Call to Baltimore. I had not been a member of the church a great while, before I formed an attachment to a young woman, who ultimately became my wife. I have ever regarded her as the special gift of God to me. She embraced religion about the same time that I did. We had been acquainted with each other for several years previous, and although we associated frequently in the same social circle together; yet nothing of a special liking had manifested itself until the day she was baptized. But we were both slaves, and of course had to get the consent of our owners, before we went further. My wife belonged to the late Carter L. Stephenson, Esq., who was a brother to Hon. Andrew Stephenson, of Va. My wife's master was quite indulgent to the servants about the house. He never restrained visitors from coming on his premises to visit his domestics. It was said he had the likeliest set of servant girls in the town; and though I cannot say I got the prettiest, yet I think I got the best one among them. We have lived happily together, as husband and wife, for the last twenty-eight years. We have had nine children--seven born in slavery, and two since my wife's freedom. Five out of the seven in slavery I have bought--two are still in bondage. Before long, the brethren chose me to fill the office of a deacon. But it never seemed to me to be the place that God designed for me; though I felt willing to do whatever lay in my power for God's glory and the good of His people. The impression made upon my mind at my conversion, to talk to sinners, increased on me, until I could wait no longer. I related my convictions of duty to my brethren, and particularly to one who was always held in high esteem for his piety and excellent character--a colored brother, Armistead Walker. My case was first brought by him before the colored portion of the church; and after a full hearing of my statement, by the white brethren, with regard to my call to preach, &c., I was licensed to preach the gospel, and exhort sinners to repentance, as opportunity might be afforded. I had ample opportunities at that time, for doing good, by preaching to my fellow men, both in town and country. Several other colored brethren, about this time, gave evidence of having been called of God, to the work of preaching the gospel. Among these was a dear brother, named Alexander Daniel. He was a bright and shining light, among our people, and everything considered, I think he was the best preacher of color I ever heard. But alas, he is no more! He was esteemed as a christian minister, and his friends, both white and colored, united in erecting a monument over his grave. In my attempts to preach the gospel to my fellow sinners, I often felt embarrassed, not knowing how to read a chapter in the Bible correctly. My desires now increased for such a knowledge of the sacred Scriptures, as would enable me to read a chapter publicly to my hearers. I thought that if I had all my time at my own command, I would devote it all to divine things. This desire I think, led me more than anything else, to ask permission of my master, Dr. F. Patten, to purchase my freedom. I made this a subject of prayer, both night and day, that God would show me what he would have me do. I felt encouraged to hope that I should find favor with my owner, as he had always treated me kindly. But how shall I get the purchase money, provided he grants my request?--This appeared a difficult matter, but I thought if my master would give me a chance, that I should be able to raise the money. I went to him, and stated my wishes, informing him why I wanted to be free--that I had been led to believe the Lord had converted my soul, and had called me to talk to sinners. He granted my request, without a single objection, fixing my price at five hundred dollars. But now I had to tell him that I had no money, and that I desired him to grant me another request; which was, to let me travel and find friends, who would give me the money. After learning my wishes fully, he consented, and told me, when I got ready to start, he would give me a pass, to go where I pleased. I thanked him sincerely for this privilege, and after making arrangements, in the way of obtaining suitable letters of recommendation, I left Fredericksburg, in June, 1845, for Philadelphia, New York, Boston, &c. After spending nearly four months in visiting the northern cities, I returned home, with about one hundred and fifty dollars, greatly disheartened. Previous to going north, I had raised about a hundred and fifty dollars, which I had already paid on my debt. The cause of my failure to raise all the money, I believe, was that I was unaccustomed to addressing large congregations of strangers; and often, when I was favored with an opportunity of presenting my case to the people, I would feel such embarrassment that I could scarcely say anything. And I met another obstacle, which discouraged me very much; which was, that some persons would tell me they sympathized with me, in my efforts to get free; but they said it was against their principles to give money, to buy slaves. I confess, this was new to me, and would cut me down much in my spirits--still I found generous and noble-hearted friends, who treated me with every mark of kindness. I began to wonder to myself, whether God was in this matter, or not; and if so, why I had not succeeded. However, having returned home, I went to work at my trade, for the purpose of earning the remainder of the money. Having paid what I was able, toward my debt, and reserving enough to open a shop, upon my own account, my old boss, Mr. Wright, my true and constant friend, became my protector, so that I might carry on my business lawfully. In this, however, I was not very successful; but I had not been long engaged at it, before I received a communication from my white Baptist friends in Baltimore, through my pastor, Rev. Sam'l Smith, informing me that if I would come to Baltimore, and accept an appointment as missionary to the colored people of that city, they would assist me in raising the balance of the money then due upon myself. This was indeed an unexpected, and to me an undesired call. I began to think, how can I leave my wife and seven small children, to go to Baltimore to live, a distance of more than a hundred miles from them. This, I thought, could not be. I thought my children would need my watchful care, more now than at any other time. It is true, they were all slaves, belonging to a rich widow lady. But she had always given me the entire control of my family. Now, if I should leave them at their tender age, mischief might befall them. Still, as the letter from Baltimore was from gentlemen of the best standing, it became me to give them an answer. This I could not do, without first consulting my master. I did so, and after giving the matter a careful consideration, he thought I had better go and see those gentlemen--he was perfectly willing to leave the matter to me. The result was, that I accepted the offer of the brethren in Baltimore; and by them I was enabled to pay the debt I owed; and I have never had cause to repent it--though I had misgivings sometimes, when I would get into trouble. But I have found those who were my friends at first, are my friends still. In a few weeks after I had arrived in Baltimore, (1847,) the white Baptists who were favorable to the mission in behalf of the colored people, secured for me an appointment as missionary of the Domestic Board of the Southern Baptist Convention, in connection with the Maryland Baptist Union Association. I now felt a debt of gratitude to these dear friends, that I could not show more acceptably to them, than by engaging heartily in the work to which I had been thus called. I went to work, first, by hiring a room in a private house, where I would collect what few children I could get together, in a Sabbath school. I continued in this place for nearly a year, teaching the little children, and preaching to a few grown persons, who would come in at times to hear what this Baptist man had to say; and who, after satisfying their curiosity, would generally leave me. During my stay in this locality, I could not find half a dozen colored Baptists, who would take hold with me in this missionary enterprise. There were some few attached to the white churches; but only two of those showed any disposition to help me in this great and good work. I found that everybody loved to go with the multitude, and it was truly up-hill work with me. I found some who are called Anti-Mission, or Old School Baptists, who, when I called upon them, would ask of what faith I was,--and when I would reply, that I belonged to what I understood to be the Regular Baptists, they would answer, "Then you are not of our faith," &c. Now I felt lonely indeed, separated far from home, from family, from dear brethren and friends; thrown among strangers in a strange place. Those I came to benefit, stood aloof from me, and seemed to look upon all my movements with distrust and suspicion, and opposed to all I was trying to do for the moral and spiritual benefit of our degraded race. But, thanks be to God, all I found in Baltimore were not of this stamp. Those of the white Baptists who had been the means of calling me to this field, adhered to me like brethren, indeed. Could I feel at liberty to mention names, I would bring to notice some dear friends who have ever stood by me, in all my efforts to do good, and whose acts of disinterested benevolence have been rarely equaled. But their labors of love are recorded on high, and I must forbear. CHAPTER V. Experience in Baltimore--Education--Purchase of a Wife and two Children--Great Distress of Mind--Generous Assistance--Church Matters. When I came among the colored people of Baltimore, I found, to my surprise, that they were advanced in education, quite beyond what I had conceived of. Of course, as I never had such advantages, I was far behind the people; and as this did not appear well in a preacher, I felt very small, when comparing my abilities with others of a superior stamp. I found that the great mass of colored professors of religion were Methodists, whose piety and zeal seemed to carry all before them. There were, at that time, some ten or eleven colored Methodist churches, one Episcopalian, one Presbyterian; and one little Baptist church, located upon the outskirts of the city. The most of the Methodist churches were large and influential; and the Presbyterian church had one of the best Sabbath schools for colored children in the city. But the Baptist colored membership was looked upon as the smallest; and under these circumstances, I was surrounded with discouragements; although the ministers and brethren of other denominations have always treated me with marked christian kindness. I had never had a day's schooling; and coming to one of the first cities in the Union, where the colored people had the advantages of schools, and where their pulpits were occupied, Sabbath after Sabbath, by comparatively intelligent colored ministers--what could I expect, but that the people would turn away from one who was trying to preach in the room of a private house, some fifteen by twenty feet? Yet, there was no turning back: God had called me to the work, and it was His cause I was advocating. I found, that to preach, like other preachers, I must improve my mind, by reading the Bible and other good books, and by studying my own language. I started afresh--I got a small stock of books, and the white brethren loaned and gave me other useful volumes, to which they added a word of instruction and encouragement, whenever an opportunity offered; and the ministers cordially invited me to attend their Monday ministerial conference meeting, which was very useful to me. ... I had now been in Baltimore more than a year. My wife and seven children were still in Virginia. I went to see them as often as my circumstances permitted--three or four times a year. About this time, my wife's mistress agreed to sell to me my wife and our two youngest children. The price fixed, was eight hundred dollars cash, and she gave me twelve months to raise the money. The sun rose bright in my sky that day; but before the year was out, my prospects were again in darkness. Now I had two great burdens upon my mind: one to attend properly to my missionary duty, the other to raise eight hundred dollars. During this time we succeeded in getting a better place for the Sabbath school, and there was a larger attendance upon my preaching, which demanded reading and study, and also visiting, and increased my daily labors. On the other hand, the year was running away, in which I had to raise eight hundred dollars. So that I found myself at times in a great strait. My plan to raise the money was, to secure the amount, first, by pledges, before I collected any.... Finally, the year was more than passed away, and I had upon my subscription list about one half of the money needed. It was now considered that the children had increased in value one hundred dollars, and I was told that I could have them, by paying in cash six hundred dollars, and giving a bond, with good security, for three hundred more, payable in twelve months. I had six weeks, in which to consummate this matter. I felt deeply, that this was a time to pray the Lord to help me, and for this my wife's prayers were fervently offered with my own. I had left my wife in Virginia, and come to Baltimore, a distance of over a hundred miles; I had been separated thus for nearly three years; I had been trying to make arrangements to have her with me, for over twelve months, and as yet had failed. We were oppressed with the most gloomy forebodings, and could only kneel down together and pray for God's direction and help. I was in Fredericksburg, and had but one day longer to stay, and spend with my wife. What could be done, must be done quickly. I went to my old friend, Mr. Wright, and stated my case to him. After hearing of all I had done, and the conditions I had to comply with, he told me that if I would raise the six hundred dollars cash, he would endorse my bond for the remaining three hundred.--This promise inspired me with new life. The next thing was, how could the six hundred dollars be obtained in six weeks. I had upon my subscription list and in pledges nearly four hundred dollars. But this had to be collected from friends living in Fredericksburg, Washington city, Baltimore, and Philadelphia. I left Fredericksburg, and spent a few days in Washington, to collect what I could of the money promised to me there; and met much encouragement, several friends doubling their subscriptions. When I arrived in Baltimore, and made known the peculiar strait I was in, to my joyful surprise, some of the friends who had pledged five dollars, gave me ten; and one dear friend who had promised me ten dollars, for this object, and who had previously contributed largely in the purchase of myself, now gave me fifty. I began to count up, and in two weeks from the time I commenced collecting, I had in hand four hundred dollars. Presently, another very dear friend enquired of me how I was getting along; and when I told him, he said, "Bring your money to me." I did so. It lacked two hundred dollars to make the purchase. This, the best friend I ever had in the world, made up the six hundred dollars, and said, "Go, get your wife; and you can keep on collecting, and repay the two hundred dollars when you get able." I was now overcome with gratitude and joy, and knew not what to say; and when I began to speak, he would not have any of my thanks. I went to my boarding house, and shut myself up in my room, where I might give vent to the gratitude of my heart: and, O, what a melting time I had! It was to me a day of thanksgiving. Having now in hand the six hundred dollars, and the promise of Mr. Wright's security for three hundred more, I was, by twelve o'clock, next day in Fredericksburg. At first sight, my wife was surprised that I had come back so soon; for it was only two weeks since I had left her; and when I informed her that I had come after her and the children, she could hardly believe me. In a few days, having duly arranged all things relative to the purchase and removal, we left for Baltimore, with feelings commingled with joy and sorrow--sorrow at parting with five of our older children, and our many friends; and rejoicing in the prospect of remaining together permanently in the missionary field, where God had called me to labor. I arrived in Baltimore, with my wife and two little ones, November 5th, 1851, and stopped with sister Hester Ann Hughes, a worthy member of the M. E. Church, with whom I had been boarding for four years. The Md. Baptist Union Association was now in session here, and it became my duty to prepare my church letter and missionary report, for that body. The church had now been organized just three years; commencing with only four members, including the pastor. Our church statistics for the year, as reported, were: Baptized, 2; Received by letter, 2; Present number of members, 15.... Sabbath school much revived, under the special efforts of several white brethren and sisters. Present number of Sunday scholars, 50. This year was a joyful one to me--my little church increasing, and the Sabbath school flourishing, under the superintendence of the late truly excellent brother James C. Crane, though he was with us but for a short season. My wife and little ones were also with me, both in the church and Sabbath school. I was a happy man, and felt more than ever inclined to give thanks to God, and serve Him to the best of my ability. My salary was only three hundred dollars a year; but with hard exertion and close economy, together with my wife's taking in washing and going out at day's work, we were enabled by the first of the year, to pay the two hundred dollars our dear friend had loaned us, in raising the six hundred dollars before spoken of. But the bond for three hundred dollars was now due, and how must this be met? I studied out a plan; which was to get some gentleman who might want a little servant girl, to take my child, and advance me three hundred dollars for the purpose of paying my note, which was now due in Virginia. In this plan I succeeded; and had my own life insured for seven years for five hundred dollars, and made it over to this gentleman, as security; until I ultimately paid him the whole amount; though I was several years in paying it. Among the number that joined our little church, was a young brother, Jos. M. Harden, who was baptized by Dr. Fuller, but soon became a valuable member with us, both in the church and Sunday school. He was born in Baltimore, and had been early taught to read, and though he had been at ten years old bound out, till he was twenty-one, his love of books had made him far superior to colored people generally, and he was very valuable to me. Things had gone on hopefully with me, and my little church, though our progress was very slow. But we had to suffer a loss in brother Harden's leaving us for the great missionary field in Africa, where I trust the Lord has sent him for a great and happy work. But God has blessed us in the person of brother Samuel W. Madden, whose labors as a licensed preacher for several years have been invaluable to us. CHAPTER VI. A New Movement in Baltimore--Erection of a Meeting House for the African Baptist Church--Heavy Indebtedness--Account of the Enterprise--Personal Troubles. For several years previous to Jan., 1855, our little church and Sunday school had occupied a very inconvenient upper room on Courtland street. Our particular friend, Mr. William Crane, with some other white persons to aid him, was the devoted superintendent of our Sunday school, and the unfailing friend of our own little church, as well as of me personally. Mr. Crane had felt, with us, the great disadvantage of our place of worship, and had exerted himself much to obtain a more commodious room for us. But in July, 1853; he commenced an extraordinary effort in our behalf, by purchasing a lot--one hundred feet by forty-six feet--with three fronts, on Calvert, Saratoga and Davis streets, on which a chapel building has been erected for us. Our chapel was opened for worship Feb. 18, 1855; and Rev. Dr. Fuller preached the opening sermon to a crowded audience. On this occasion Mr. Wm. Crane read a detailed report of all the facts relative to this building--a full copy of this report may be interesting probably to my readers, and I have therefore obtained it, and here present it, in connection with a picture of the building, which will be found opposite the title page. HISTORY OF THE SARATOGA STREET AFRICAN BAPTIST CHAPEL. "The questions have often been asked in this vicinity during the last six months, Who is putting up that large building called the 'Saratoga Street African Baptist Chapel?' 'What are they putting it up for?'--'Who will own it, when finished?' 'How much will it cost? and who will pay for it?'" These questions have often been answered, but it seems proper, and indeed necessary, at this time to answer them plainly and clearly, for the information of this large assembly. First, then, I reply: This entire building has been reared under my directions, in the name of the Saratoga street African Baptist Church. This Church was organized with only four members, six years ago, with brother Noah Davis, a missionary of the Md. Baptist Union Association, as its pastor, who has labored most faithfully in his work. But, although colored churches of the Baptist denomination in all of our Southern and Western cities count their members by thousands, this church has now only thirty members--but our hope and prayer is, that established here in the centre of a population of full thirty thousand colored people, God may bless the humble devoted efforts of His people, and increase their numbers a hundred fold. Four years ago, the 1st of January, we commenced a Sunday school in Courtland street,--where this church has always held its regular meetings, which notwithstanding its many discouragements--mostly from a want of devoted self-denying teachers--has been unremittingly kept up morning and afternoon, till the present time, with an attendance varying from thirty to over one hundred scholars; and we feel assured that the hundreds of Bibles and Testaments, tracts, &c., with the Sunday school instructions, and the preaching of brother Davis will have laid the foundation for a lasting blessing to his people. This little church and Sunday school have met to-day for the first time in this building, and in the language of the Psalmist David, probably on an occasion like this, we would exclaim, "Send now, we beseech thee, O Lord--O Lord, we beseech thee, send now prosperity!"--(Ps. 118: 25.) But what are the objects for which this house has been built? I answer, the first object was, to furnish such a room as this, for the use of this church, where the gospel might be preached and its ordinances administered, and where Sunday schools and religious associations might be properly accommodated. The second was, to furnish rooms in the next story, for a male high school at one end, and a female high school at the other, and where colored missionaries for Africa might be educated for that most important field of labor; with a large hall in the centre, for a lecture room, or for any other religious, moral, or useful purposes. The upper story has four separate rooms, finished for renting to associations of colored people, with a view to paying whatever debt may remain on the building, and for defraying its current expenses;--and it is hoped that, at some future day, a reading room and a circulating library for colored people may also be located here--the whole of it combining a most respectable, central, commodious _Colored People's Home_. But it is asked, who owns this building? I admit that it is an unusually mixed up affair; but I will try to explain it. After a great deal of searching and enquiring after a lot or building, where this Church and Sunday school could have a settled home, about two years ago, I was informed that this lot was for sale; and realizing instantly that my cherished objects could here be accomplished I bought it without hesitation, for five thousand dollars; but the loss of two years' interest and the amount paid to tenants to move away, makes the cost of the lot now full six thousand dollars. I obtained the deed of J. H. B. Latrobe, Esq., who sold it, as trustee for the estate of Hugh Finley, deceased, under an order of Court. After a charter of incorporation for the Church had been made, I got Mr. Latrobe to draw up also this deed, [here presenting it] which he says is a perfectly good one--from William Crane and wife, to Geo. F. Adams, J. W. M. Williams, and John W. Ball, as trustees for all concerned, conveying to this Church all my right and title forever to all of the proposed building on this lot above the first story: leaving me the basement and the cellar as my own property forever, with the proviso, that the Church in its own name should put up the entire building. But I agreed at the same time to subscribe five thousand dollars on the subscription book of the Church towards erecting it. So that I am now sole owner of the store and cellar under the Chapel--the Church has no ownership there at all--but the Church is legal owner of this Chapel and all the rooms above it. The Church appointed me their agent to build the house, and as such I have made all the contracts, paid out all the monies, and assumed all the liabilities. Before commencing the building, as before stated, my own subscription was...................................$5,000 My brother, J. C. Crane, from whom I expected efficient personal aid, gave..1,000 Bro. Franklin Wilson,..................1,000 A. Fuller Crane,.........................500 John W. Ball,............................250 J. B. Thomas,............................100 Among our colored friends, about.........200 ------ Amounting to, say,....................$8,050 Since that time, the pressure on the money market has prevented any general effort to obtain subscriptions, but a city pastor has subscribed..............................$150 A sister of the First Baptist Church.....100 Bro. Jonathan Batchelor, of Lynn, Mass...100 ------ Making in all, a total of.............$8,400 The entire cost of the building, notwithstanding the most rigid economy, will be over eighteen thousand dollars, and full half of this amount is yet unprovided for. The bills are not all presented, but some of the larger ones which have been settled by notes will be due in a short time; while the largest one, the lumber bill, has six months to run yet, so that I am bound to settle up and pay the entire balance of expenditure on this house, as agent of the Church, within the coming six months. And whatever amount of money I advance over and above the subscriptions and collections must, of course, remain as a debt due me by the Church, and be on interest until paid. The last question, how is the money obtained to pay for the building? has been partly answered; but a full explanation of it will depend on what the friends of the object will now contribute toward paying for it. I will subscribe one dollar for every ten dollars that may be subscribed and paid on account of the Church debt within the year 1855. In other words, I will add ten per cent to any amount which may be contributed. I may remark, that in engaging in this project, I had not a dollar which I wished to put out at interest. I want much more than my capital in my mercantile business. I am in fact borrowing, to lend to the Church. But it is God's cause, and I have had to trust in Him to bear me through it. The failing health of my dear brother, J. C. Crane,[A] and the want of his invaluable co-operation with me, as well as the lack of hearty, zealous assistance on the part of many other brethren and friends, has been painful to me. But I hope, now that the house is finished, the friends of our Redeemer's cause and of the African race generally, may not fail in lending their efficient aid. [Footnote A: Died March 31, 1857. See Memoir of Southern Baptist Publication Society.] I have only to add, brethren, "the time is short;" we must all of us soon appear before the judgment seat of Christ, to render an account of all the talents committed to our charge. If God has given me a talent for the acquisition of money over and above what my duty to my family requires, I regard myself bound as a good steward to exert that talent entirely for Him. I am not my own, and I feel perfectly assured that any individual who possesses the tact and ability for acquiring money is neccessarily (_sic._) the best qualified for a judicious and proper disbursement of it; and I dare not try to leave my earthly acquisitions in testamentary charitable bequests--to the inexperienced and uncertain management of those who may come after me. "May God help us to work for Him, and at last may we hear, 'Well done, good and faithful servant; enter thou into the joy of thy Lord.'" This paper was read to the congregation, probably a thousand people, immediately after Dr. Fuller had preached the opening sermon, Feb. 18, 1855; and a collection was taken of about one hundred dollars. Subsequent to this, a venerable widow lady of Baltimore contributed $500, and other quite liberal donations were made. On the 1st of July, 1855, Mr. Crane rendered a full account to the Church and trustees, of all the monies received and bills paid on the building; showing that the entire cost of it was,............................$18,207,73 Total am't of collections credited,.....9,547,86 ---------- Leaving balance over-paid by him, .... $8,659,87 The trustees then gave Mr. Crane a bond for this balance, and a lease on the building, until this debt, with interest on it, could be paid. Our Church now had great cause of gratitude at finding ourselves in a fine large Chapel, in the centre of our city--a room 100 feet long, and 19 feet high, with a gallery at each end, a baptistery, gas lights, and sliding partitions, to make two closed rooms under the galleries, when needed for the changing of clothes on baptismal occasions, as well as for our Church prayer and conference meetings. We were in hopes that we could rent out the large hall, together with the six other spacious rooms in the two upper stories, for schools, benevolent societies, &c., so as to pay the interest on our debt, if no more; but so far, we have not been able to do this. My own trials, with my family, have greatly retarded my efforts in this matter. We have had the largest and best week-day school for colored children in the city--a part of the time with three teachers and over one hundred scholars--but for four years, no rent has been received from the school. The prices for tuition have been so low, that they have hardly sustained the teachers; but we trust that our people have derived much benefit from them already, and hope they may receive much more good from them in the future. Since the dedication of our Chapel, our Church has more than doubled its membership, and the congregation has increased four-fold; while on our baptizing occasions the hall is generally full. We have always held three meetings for worship every Sunday, to accommodate many servants, who have no command of their time, and also regular Wednesday and Friday evening prayer and conference meetings. Our Sunday school has always had two sessions a day--an hour and a half in the morning, and an hour in the afternoon. I have been necessarily much hindered in my own labors, from pecuniary embarrassments, arising from the sale of my children, who were left in Virginia--two daughters and three sons. The first of these, who was about to be sold, and taken away South, was my oldest daughter; and it was with great difficulty and the help of friends that I raised eight hundred and fifty dollars, and got her on to Baltimore. But I was soon called upon to make a similar effort to save my eldest son from being sold far from me. Entirely unexpected, I received the painful news that my boy was in one of the trader's jails in Richmond, and for sale. The dealer knew me, and was disposed to let me have him, if I could get any one to purchase him. I was, of course, deeply anxious to help my boy; but I began to think that I had already drawn so heavily on the liberality of all my friends, that to appeal to them again seemed out of the question. I immediately wrote to the owners of my son, and received an answer--that his price was fixed at seven hundred dollars. The fact is, God had already done so much more for me and my family than we had ever expected, that we could not tell what further help He might give us, until we had asked Him for it; and we could but pray over this trying affair. I hardly knew what else to do, but pray. The boy was twenty years old, and had been accustomed to waiting in the house, for the most respectable families. It occurred to me, that I might perhaps get him a home near me, where we might see him and use our parental influence over him. I thought it was possible, that I might find three hundred persons among my friends in Baltimore, who would contribute one dollar each to save my son, and that I might then obtain some friend in Baltimore to advance four hundred dollars, and let my son work it out with him: and give this friend a life insurance policy on the boy, as a security. This plan seemed practicable, and I wrote to his owners, asking for ten days to raise the money; which they granted me. I now got my case made known publicly to the different colored congregations in the city--and was very much surprised to find how many friends I had, and how kindly they engaged in helping me. The result of it was, that I obtained the three hundred dollars, and also a kind friend to advance the four hundred dollars, within the ten days, and recovered my son; who is now doing well, in working out the money advanced on him. So far, I felt that I had great reason to say, "Hitherto the Lord hath helped me." I had obtained my own freedom and also that of my wife and four children. But three of my children were still in bondage. In 1856, the mistress of these remaining ones died; and in settling up her estate, it became necessary to sell all her servants at auction with her other property. This was the decision of the Court; and commissioners were appointed to carry out the sale, on the 1st of January, 1857. I felt now, that I had gone as far as I could in getting my family free; for I felt very certain that my daughter, about whom I felt the greatest anxiety, would sell at auction for more money than I could get any of my friends in Baltimore to give for her; and I saw no way to do any thing for the two boys. I thought I had no chance of raising any more money myself, and I could only pray the Lord to grant us His grace, to reconcile us and the children, to whatever might come upon us. But before the end of the year, when the sale was to take place, the time was extended six months by the Court. My hopes now began to revive again; I began to think that if I could be at the sale, my daughter, though a grown up girl might possibly not bring over six or seven hundred dollars. In that case, I might perhaps get six or twelve months time, and get some friend in Baltimore to help me, as had been the case with my son. The sale was postponed for six months longer, and finally occurred, Jan. 1, 1858. The money panic, of 1857, had partially destroyed my hopes of doing anything to relieve my daughter;--But I had secured the promise of a kind friend in Baltimore, to go to Fredericksburg with me, and if he liked the appearance of the boys, to buy one or both of them. But in this I was disappointed; for on the day of sale this gentleman was confined to his house by sickness. The sale went on. My oldest son, aged twenty-one, sold for $560; and the younger one, just turning his seventeenth year, brought $570. They were bought in by their young master. But my daughter was run up to $990, by a slave trader, who after the sale agreed to let my friends have her, for me, for eleven hundred dollars. These friends were gentlemen of the first standing in the place, who, out of kindness to me, whom they had well known for years, gave their bond jointly for the amount, and in this case again I got the girl's life insured for one thousand dollars as a security for them. The girl was of course left in the hands of these gentlemen, in whom I had the most implicit confidence. I returned to Baltimore, and prepared for the redemption of my child. I had a circular printed, showing the facts as they were, and scattered it among my friends. CHAPTER VII. Account of A Visit to the northern Cities--True Friends. During the winter and spring, I used every effort in my power in the way of collecting funds, but, though I met with the most generous sympathy and kindness from all my friends--up to the 1st of June I had in hand only one hundred and fifty dollars. I then applied to the Mission Board, for permission to travel and solicit funds to help me out of my distress. This was readily granted me. Having obtained a certificate, relative to the objects of my journey, signed by Rev. Franklin Wilson, Secretary of our State Missionary Board, as well as by the pastors and other friends in Baltimore, I started once more on this painful business of begging money, to purchase my fifth child out of slavery. I went to Philadelphia, and met with marked attention from the ministers of the Baptist churches generally, and especially from Rev. Messrs. McKean, Cole, and Griffith, with whom I had been acquainted in Baltimore; as well as Revs. Messrs Cuthbert and Malcom, and the editors of the Christian Chronicle, Presbyterian, &c. I obtained in this city nearly two hundred dollars. With a view to meet a particular friend in Boston, I was induced to visit that city next. The many acts of kindness and sympathy I met with there can never be effaced from my memory. I had a special introduction to the Messrs. Gould and Lincoln, book publishers. To the latter, I owe a lasting obligation.--Through him I obtained a hearing of my case in Mr. Anderson's church, Roxbury, where I obtained very liberal aid, while the pastor was absent, as well as in many other cases. I called on Rev. Dr. Stow, who allowed my case to be presented to his congregation, at an evening meeting, where I received some fifty dollars. He also gave me a letter of commendation to the other Baptist ministers, with a request that they would also sign it, which a large number did. The article was then published gratuitously for me in the "Watchman and Reflector" and "Christian Era." Rev. L. A. Grimes, pastor of the 12th Baptist Church, (colored,) from the respectable position which he occupied in the community, did much for me, in furthering my cause, and introducing me to others, especially at the daily prayer meetings. I had the great privilege and pleasure of mingling with the people of God of every name, in these blessed meetings. The first I went to, was at the old South Chapel. Here I felt at first greatly embarrassed when called on to speak or pray. I thought that those who came to these meetings must be among the most pious and intelligent people in Boston. The kind manner in which they treated me, confirmed me in my impressions of them. But the best meetings, I think I ever enjoyed on earth, for such a length of time, (nearly two months,) was at what was called the North street prayer meeting, or Father Mason's. This was in a large upper room. It really appeared to me, that the most of those who met at this place each day at twelve o'clock to spend an hour in prayer, to tell what God had done for their souls, had been made "ready," by the Spirit of God before they reached that sacred spot.-- I know, I shall fail to present a true picture of this heavenly place; for such it was to me, and many others. But, it may be, that my own peculiar circumstances may have rendered the meetings unusually precious to me. But they were good to me in many respects. I was a poor colored man, in distress, and needed christian sympathy. I found it truly, among the many white friends with whom I met in the North street prayer meeting. There, in that meeting, the dear friends would pray with me and for me. In a word, I felt at times it was good for me to be afflicted, for surely, if it had not been for my peculiar circumstances, I should never have been inside the Old South Chapel, or North street prayer meeting, where I enjoyed so much of God's presence, and found so many real friends, in the midst of strangers. I felt that I realized what the apostle Peter meant: "If need be, ye are in heaviness, through manifold temptation, that the trials of your faith, being much more precious than gold that perisheth, though it be tried with fire, might be found unto praise and honor and glory, at the appearing of Jesus Christ."--(1 Peter 1: 6,7.) Also, "For I will show him how great things he must suffer for my name's sake."--(Acts 9: 16.) The arguments I drew from these passages of Scripture were, to show that when God wanted to purify our faith, and strengthen our confidence in Him, He would send trials upon us. And to let us see how great the things we must suffer for His name's sake, and to let us see too how great the grace He gives us, to enable us to endure hardness, as good soldiers of the cross. Suffice it to say, the friends in Boston and its vicinity gave me about four hundred dollars towards the purchase of my daughter. I had the privilege of meeting the Baptist ministers in their conference meeting. Here the Rev. Mr. Tilson, pastor of the First Baptist Church at Hingham, invited me to spend a Sunday evening at his place, which I did, very greatly to my own satisfaction and profit. During my stay in Boston, I visited several of the smaller towns adjacent to it,--Lynn, Cambridge, Melrose, Malden, Chelsea, and others, and I was kindly received at all of them. I collected in Lynn something like $50, the most of which was given to me by the members of the 2nd Baptist Church. Just before leaving Boston, to my great and agreeable surprise, I met Dr. F. Patten, surgeon in the U. S. Navy, (my former owner,) in the street, in that city. I had not seen him for seven or eight years, and had no thought of seeing him in Boston. He recognized me first, and spoke to me before I knew he was near; but I instantly knew him. We greeted each other heartily, and he invited me to visit him at Chelsea. This I did, the same afternoon, and was kindly treated. While I sat there with him and his children, and he was looking over my subscription book, I was constrained to look back for fifteen years, over all the way the Lord had brought me, since the day this same gentleman had given me privilege to purchase my freedom, and handed me a pass, saying, "I am not afraid of you running away, Noah--you may go where you please." I reflected, suppose I had stayed away, when I was in Boston, twelve years ago, begging money to buy myself--how would it be with me and my family to-day? But I have tried to acknowledge the Lord in all my ways, always asking counsel of Him, and I now feel that He has kindly directed and kept me. I also visited New Bedford, where I met a large number of my old acquaintances from Virginia, and had the privilege of presenting my object to several of the Churches, and I received in all about $50. I next went to Providence, Rhode Island, where I spent a couple of weeks greatly to my advantage. It was indeed "providence" to me. I was permitted to present my case to nearly all the Baptist Churches in that city. Five of these aided my cause; but their great kindness deserves some particular notice. The first one I visited was Rev. Mr. Stone's, whose congregation, with himself, greatly encouraged me. At the First Church I told my story before an evening meeting, and shall never forget the kindness of the pastor, the senior deacon, and others. I obtained here nearly $100. I was kindly assisted by Rev. Mr. Keyser's Church, as also the Fourth Baptist Church. But at the Central Baptist Church, Rev. Mr. Fields', I found unbounded kindness and liberality. After seeing my letters of recommendation, the pastor invited me to his prayer meeting, where I was favored with the privilege of telling my story, freely. I had been from home several months, and had collected in all about seven hundred dollars, but still lacked about four hundred to accomplish my object. I was receiving letters every week from my Church and family, saying that my presence at home was greatly needed; but the idea of going home without accomplishing my great object, filled me with distress. While speaking to the meeting, and telling how God had delivered me from time to time out of trials, I felt such a sense of my condition, that for the moment I could not restrain my feelings--my heart became so full, that it stopped all utterance. At the close of the meeting, the people showed their sympathy for me by giving me a collection of sixty one dollars.--One dear brother, (may the Lord bless him!) came forward, and presenting me with a ten dollar bill, said, "Brother Davis, give yourself no more trouble about that daughter.--You say you have to stop in New York. Let me say, that when you get home, whatever you lack of the four hundred dollars, write to me, and I will send you a check for the balance." This was spoken in the presence of the whole meeting. I felt completely at a loss for words of gratitude and thanksgiving; and merely said, the day is broke, and the Lord has appeared for me indeed! I now left Providence, feeling in my heart that the place is rightly called by that name, as far as I am concerned. I then went to New York. In that great city, I met with considerable assistance. I never started out, but it seemed that the Lord directed my steps. I was allowed to address a prayer meeting of the First Baptist Church, whose pastor was the late excellent Rev. A. K. Nott, and was aided to the amount of over seventy dollars. Rev. Dr. Lathrop, with much christian kindness, invited me to his night meeting; but a severe rain prevented any attendance. He invited me again, and then he was absent because of illness. I was depressed with disappointment; but he had sent a request that I might be heard, (as I afterward learned,) and I was called on to state my case to the audience. I was taken by surprise, for the pastor's illness had taken all hope from me of accomplishing anything there. Still I begun, by telling my experience. I said that when it had pleased God to convert my soul, I thought that all my trouble was gone, and gone forever; but I had since learned that I was much mistaken--I had learned that "in the world we shall have tribulation." I then went on to state my present trouble and distress--and before I left the meeting, I received with heart-felt gratitude, one hundred and thirty four dollars. This reminded me of Providence. Rev. Drs. Gillette and Armitage treated me with much generous sympathy, as also did many others. I visited Greenport on Long Island, where Rev. Henry Knapp kindly aided me. Elders Swan and Read, and the brethren generally at New London, aided me to the amount of about fifty dollars. CHAPTER VIII. Conclusion--Object of this Book. I now left the north, for home, and arrived there safely. My friends greeted me cordially on my success in collecting money. I still lacked, however, one hundred and forty-two dollars of the needed eleven hundred. I had used every effort in my power to prevent the necessity of having to call on my generous friend in Providence. But in spite of all my endeavors, I had to make known to him this deficiency, which he immediately and generously supplied, by remitting me a check for the full amount. I was now prepared to go after my daughter, which I did, December 1st, 1858; thus releasing her within one year from the time she was sold. She is now with me, and doing well. I received a promise from the young master of my two sons, at the time he purchased them, that if I should succeed in paying for my daughter during that year, he would let me know what I might have my two boys for. At the time, my boys were about returning to Richmond, where they had been hired out for several years. I charged them to let me hear a good report of their conduct; and if I could do anything for them, after I had got through with the purchase of their sister, I would do it. This pledge I made to the boys, in the presence of their master's agent. Having, through the aid of a kind Providence, been enabled to pay for my daughter, I have felt it my duty to turn my attention toward redeeming my word to my last children now in bondage. But this, of course, has called up anxious thought and prayerful meditation. I have also considered the peculiar condition of my church--the large outlay of money in the erection of the building, and the heavy debt hanging upon it, which is increased every year by the interest. I have also considered how long I have been supported in this field of labor by the Missionary Board of the Southern Baptist Convention and the Maryland Baptist Union Association. The question then occurred to me, Could I not, by _making a book_, do something to relieve myself and my children, and ultimately, by the same means, help my church, under its heavy debt, and also relieve the Missionary Board from helping me. This idea struck me with so much force, that I have yielded to it--that is, to write a short Narrative of my own life, setting forth the trials and difficulties the Lord has brought me through to this day, and offer it for sale to my friends generally, as well as to the public at large; and I hope it may not only aid me, but may serve to encourage others, who meet with similar difficulties, to put their trust in God. END OF THE NARRATIVE. SERMON. BY REV. NOAH DAVIS TEXT.--"But if any provide not for his own, and especially for those of his own house, he hath denied the faith, and is worse than an infidel."--1 Tim. 5:8. In this chapter, we have several christian duties set forth by the apostle Paul, to Timothy, a young preacher of the gospel, who was to teach other christians to observe them, as evidences of the genuineness of their faith in Christ. That faith which does not produce obedience to the commands of Jesus must be regarded as defective. Religion requires us to love God, and all men, and we must show our faith, by a life consistent with our profession. If human nature, fallen as it is, prompts men of the world to labor zealously to supply their own temporal necessities and the wants of those whom Providence has made to depend upon them, how much more will it be expected of those who profess to have drank of that pure Fountain of love, the Spirit of our blessed Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ. God has indeed doomed man to eat his bread in the sweat of his face; but as if to reward him, he has connected with it a pleasure in the labor, and especially, in our efforts to do good to others. In speaking from these words, let us first consider what is here meant by "providing" for "his own;" secondly, "and especially for those of his own house;" thirdly, what it is to "deny the faith;" and lastly, draw a comparison between the one who "hath denied the faith" and the "infidel." 1. In the first place, we are to consider the duty enjoined in the text, to provide for our own: which we understand to mean our own temporal wants, such as food and raiment and every temporal benefit. Every man is bound by the laws of nature to provide for himself the necessaries of life, honestly in the sight of God and men, as far as in him lieth. This both reason and common sense dictate. This religion inspires. "He that will not work, shall not eat," is the teaching of the word of God. "Provide things honest in the sight of all men," is the instruction of the great apostle to the Gentiles; at the same time giving them an example, by working with his own hands, to supply his necessities, and the wants of those who were with him. I have heard it said that a lazy person cannot be a christian, and the same idea seems to be supported in my text. "But if any provide not for his own." Religion benefits those who possess it, by regulating their appetite for temporal things, as well as giving them a relish for spiritual ones. While we are in love with sin, we labor hard to enjoy its pleasures. How industriously do wicked men labor for what they can eat, drink and wear. And shall a christian be less active to secure for himself the necessaries of life?--he would prove himself indeed to be worse than the infidel. But we have other wants to be supplied, beside those of the body. God has given to all men an intellectual nature--a mind, which distinguishes them from the brutes. These minds are capable of improvement; and every man is under obligation to make use of the means and opportunities which God has given him for cultivating his mind, by educating himself, that he may be useful to himself and those around him. But man is a social being as well as an intellectual one. "God hath made of one blood, all nations of men, for to dwell on all the face of the earth."--(Acts 17: 26.) Much of our happiness, and usefulness in this world arises from this quality which man possesses over the animal creation. And just in proportion, as we shall cultivate, and refine our social and intellectual natures, just in that proportion, shall we rise above the level of the savage and the heathen. But man has a soul, which must be fitted for the enjoyment of God, here and hereafter. Now to provide for the wants of the soul, is our highest duty on earth.--Sin has unclothed us of that innocence in which our Creator first made us, and the responsibility now rests upon every soul, to provide a clothing which will stand the inspection of God himself. This clothing, Christ has prepared through His sufferings, and death, and it is given to all them that believe in Him. And surely, if it be our duty to provide temporal things for ourselves, and for those of our own house, how much more are we bound to seek and secure the one thing needful. 2. But we will consider in the second place, what is meant by providing for our own house?--"and especially for those of his own house?" House here means family. First, we will consider the duty devolving upon a christian parent, in making suitable provision for his own house, or family. This embraces all we have urged as his duty to himself. It is the duty of all parents, to provide for their families every temporal good which adds to their own comfort or usefulness in life. And it is no less the duty of parents to provide for the spiritual necessities of their own families. And first--we shall consider the duty of parents, to provide suitable training for their children. This is a duty which God has enjoined and approves. He said of Abraham, "For I know him, that he will command his children and his household after him, and they shall keep the way of the Lord, to do justice and judgment, that the Lord may bring upon Abraham, that which He hath spoken of him." The duty of parents to train their children religiously, is clearly taught under the gospel dispensation. "And ye fathers, provoke not your children to wrath, but bring them up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord." Here, we have divine authority, for teaching our children, the things, which make for their good, both in this life and that which is to come. But it may be asked, to what extent are parents bound to comply with these high and solemn obligations? We answer, to the utmost of their ability. To whom much is given, of him much is required, and to whom little is given, of him little is required.--But all are bound to train up their children "in the way they should go, that when they are old, they may not depart from it." This duty is seen in the judgments which God has visited upon those parents and children who have neglected to obey the Lord in this particular.--(1 Samuel 2: 34.) 3. We are, in the third place, to enquire what it is to "deny the faith." Much is said in the Scriptures about faith. Much depends upon it. We are said to be "justified by faith," and "saved by faith;" we "live by faith." And inasmuch, as such as are spoken of in the text are said to be worse than an infidel, because they provide not for themselves and families, thereby showing that they have denied the faith, therefore let us try to consider what genuine faith is, and what it is to deny it. This is the most important point in the subject now before us. "Without faith it is impossible to please God." We will consider some of the effects of this distinguishing grace. There are several kinds of faith spoken of in the Bible. In one case, men are said to "believe for a while." This faith is shown us in the parable taught by our blessed Saviour, in the characters represented by the seed sown upon the rock, "which for a while believe, and in time of temptation fall away."--(Luke 8: 33.) There is a faith which is called dead.--"Even so faith, if it hath not works, is dead, being alone."--(James 2: 17.) But the faith which enables the christian to obey the Saviour in all things, is said to "work by love."--(Gal. 5: 6.) Now we say that those who have this faith, will never deny it. The counterfeit may deceive, but the genuine cannot. We say this faith cannot deny itself. All who are spoken of in the Old Testament as having this faith never denied it. By it Abel made a more excellent sacrifice to God than Cain. By it, Enoch walked with God, when the other portion of mankind walked in the vain wicked imaginations of their own hearts. "By faith Noah, being warned of God of things not seen as yet, moved with fear, prepared an ark for the saving of his house." "Abraham believed God, and it was counted unto him for righteousness." This is the grace which enables believers to renounce the pleasures of sin, which are but for a season. It gives them a complete victory over the world. It abideth with hope and charity. Now, whosoever professes this faith, and then by his unholy life denies it, by neglecting to provide for his own, and especially for those of his own house, makes it manifest that he never had it. It is as unchangeable as its Author, for it is the gift of God. It prompted Noah to labor over a hundred years, to build an ark, to save his house. And what it has done, it will continue to do, for those who have it. This is the principle in religion which purifies the heart, overcomes the world, and causes christians to love one another, whatever may be their circumstances, or color or rank in life. 4. We are now in the fourth and last place to draw a comparison between those who deny the faith, and an infidel. Now an infidel, is an unbeliever in the religion of Christ.--Yet he provides for his own, and especially for those of his own house. In this he is consistent with himself. Here he acts from reason, and principles of nature. But the individual who denies the faith, is one, who has taken upon himself the solemn vow before God and men, that he will act out what his profession supposes him to be in possession of, which is superior in its influence, to the infidel's principles, yet he fails to do as much. But again, an infidel is a bad man, and makes no pretensions to hide it. But he who contradicts his profession, by denying it in the manner here set forth, is worse for attempting to cover up a character, which in itself is no better. But consider the effect produced by a false faith, (and we have shown, that such a faith, as does not come up with the infidel's, is false,) it does the person no harm. Many persons, when they make a profession of faith, suppose it is the true faith, but after a while, they find that their faith does not work by love, it does not purify their hearts. They love sin secretly, as much as before. They love worldly company as well as ever. And they find the employments, which their profession enjoins upon them, irksome and dry. Such persons are greatly deceived, yet they are ashamed to confess it, and throw off the mask of profession. And such persons are often the greatest fault-finders with those, whose true faith inspires them to endure hardness, afflictions and deny themselves and take up their cross, so that they may glorify their Saviour in their bodies and spirits which are the Lord's. In conclusion, dear brethren, let us, who have made a profession of faith, examine ourselves, whether we be in the faith of the gospel, or not. "Know ye not your own selves how that Jesus Christ is in you, except ye be reprobates." AMEN. STATISTICAL REPORT OF ALL THE COLORED PROTESTANT CHURCHES AND SABBATH SCHOOLS IN BALTIMORE. (As quoted from the Minutes of their respective bodies, for the year 1859.) Sharp st. and Wesley Chapel, Meth. Ep., 1812 Orchard st. and Asbury, " 1508 Dallas st., " 119 Bethel, Saratoga st., African M.E., 1398 Ebenezer, Montgomery st., " " 600 Union Bethel, Fell's Point, " " 100 Water's Chapel, Spring st., " " 98 Mission " Tissia st., " " 77 South Howard st. Chapel, Zion Meth., 200 St. Thomas', Chesnut st., Meth. Prot., 70 St. James', Saratoga st., Episcopal, 100 Presbyterian church, Madison st., 69 First Baptist, cor. Young and Thomson st., 99 Union Baptist, Lewis st., 63 Saratoga st. African Baptist Chapel, 73 ----- Total Col'd Prot. Religious Popul'n, 6386 SABBATH SCHOOL REPORT. (Rendered to the S. S. Union, for 1859.) V B C O I O L F M B N S E A L V . M L S E E . E C R L H R S I T T O E I B E E L A ' R A A A D N ' C C R S S Y H H S . . . . . . Sharp st., M.E., 200 15 15 200 Orchard st., " 6 9 177 Asbury, " 2 45 259 Dallas st., " 20 17 250 John Wesley, " 250 10 10 120 Bethel, African M.E., 60 15 200 16 16 350 Ebenezer, " " 27 178 Spring st., " " 113 13 120 Allen chapel, " " 6 58 Union Bethel, " " 11 86 Good Samaritan, " 6 60 Tissia st., " " 108 6 30 St. Thomas, M.P., 200 3 4 56 S. How'd st., Zion, 5 7 102 Mt. Olive, Ind., 3 7 40 Presbyterian, 20 10 240 Episcopal, 205 5 5 70 First Col'd Baptist, 78 3 3 33 Union, " 11 86 Saratoga st., " 40 1 250 8 6 150 ---------------------------------- Aggregate, 106 18 1604 126 222 2665 THE SARATOGA STREET _INSTITUTE._ This Seminary for colored people, was opened in the upper rooms of the African Baptist Chapel building, in December, 1856, and in a few months, over one hundred scholars, were in attendance. But from circumstances which need not be narrated, in 1857, the school was removed away, without any rent having ever been paid for the use of the rooms. A second time a school has been collected of over one hundred scholars, but, up to the present time, August, 1859, the trustees of the building have never received any sort of compensation for the use of the rooms, occupied by the Institute. Mr. J. G. Goodridge, lately a teacher of a Public School, in York, Pa, has now rented the rooms, and his friends feel great confidence in the success of his labors. It may be remarked, that the large colored population of Baltimore, now from thirty to forty thousand souls, have no sort of Public School provision made for them, by the city or state governments. They are left entirely to themselves for any education they may obtain. The above named Institute combines advantages for the education of colored children far superior to any other in the city. INTERESTING BOOKS PUBLISHED BY WEISHAMPEL, BALTIMORE. Prayer Meeting Hymn Book. _Containing over three hundred Hymns, with many favorite Choruses._ _PRICE TWENTY-FIVE CENTS._ This book is bound in leather, it convenient to carry in the pocket, and has been received with much favor, many thousands having been sold during the first year of its publication. It contains all the Hymns most used in Prayer Meetings and Revivals; these have been collected from many different volumes, no other single book containing all of them. It is provided at a low price. The retail coat being only twenty-five cents, it will circulate where larger and costlier volumes are neglected; and being designed only for the circle of prayer and the revival, will not interfere with the use of the regular Church Hymn Books. 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26958	----	Transcriber's Note Letters following a carat (^) were superscripted in the original text. CAPTAIN RICHARD INGLE, The Maryland "Pirate and Rebel," 1642-1653. [Illustration] A Paper read before the Maryland Historical Society, May 12th, 1884, BY EDWARD INGLE, A. B. BALTIMORE, 1884. CAPTAIN RICHARD INGLE, The Maryland "Pirate and Rebel," 1642-1653. RICHARD INGLE. "Captain Richard Ingle, ... a pirate and a rebel, was discovered hovering about the settlement."--_McSherry, History of Maryland, p. 59._ "The destruction of the records by him [Ingle] has involved this episode in impenetrable obscurity, &c."--_Johnson, Foundation of Maryland, p. 99._ "Captain Ingle, the pirate, the man who gloried in the name of 'The Reformation.'"--_Davis, "The Day Star," p. 210._ "That Heinous Rebellion first put in Practice by that Pirate Ingle."--_Acts of Assembly, 1638-64, p. 238._ "Those late troubles raised there by that ungrateful Villaine Richard Ingle."--_Ibid., p. 270._ "I hold it that a little rebellion, now and then, is a good thing and as necessary in the political world as storms in the physical."--_Jefferson, Works, Vol. III, p. 105._ Fund-Publication, No. 19 CAPTAIN RICHARD INGLE, The Maryland "Pirate and Rebel," 1642-1653. [Illustration] A Paper read before the Maryland Historical Society, May 12th, 1884, BY EDWARD INGLE, A. B. BALTIMORE. 1884. PEABODY PUBLICATION FUND. COMMITTEE ON PUBLICATION. 1884-5. HENRY STOCKBRIDGE, JOHN W. M. LEE, BRADLEY T. JOHNSON. PRINTED BY JOHN MURPHY & CO. PRINTERS TO THE MARYLAND HISTORICAL SOCIETY, BALTIMORE, 1884. CAPTAIN RICHARD INGLE, THE MARYLAND "PIRATE AND REBEL." In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries the American colonies, from Massachusetts to South Carolina, were at intervals subject to visitations of pirates, who were wont to appear suddenly upon the coasts, to pillage a settlement or attack trading vessels and as suddenly to take flight to their strongholds. Captain Kidd was long celebrated in prose and verse, and only within a few years have credulous people ceased to seek his buried treasures. The arch-villain, Blackbeard, was a terror to Virginians and Carolinians until Spotswood, of "Horseshoe" fame, took the matter in hand, and sent after him lieutenant Maynard, who, slaying the pirate in hand to hand conflict, returned with his head at the bowsprit.[1] Lapse of time has cast a romantic and semi-mythologic glamor around these depredators, and it is in many instances at this day extremely difficult to distinguish fact from fiction. The unprotected situation of many settlements along the seaboard colonies rendered them an easy prey to rapacious sea rovers, but it might have been expected that the Maryland shores of the Chesapeake bay would be free from their harassings. The province, however, it seems was not to enjoy such good fortune, for in the _printed_ annals of her life appears the name of one man, who has been handed down from generation to generation as a "pirate," a "rebel" and an "ungrateful villain," and other equally complimentary epithets have been applied to him. The original historians of Maryland based their ideas about him upon some of the statements made by those whom he had injured or attacked, and who differed from him in political creed. The later history writers have been satisfied to follow such authors as Bozman, McMahon and McSherry, or to copy them directly, without consulting original records. To the general reader, therefore, who relies upon these authorities, Richard Ingle is "a pirate and rebel" still.[2] A thorough defence of him would be almost impossible in view of the comparative scarcity of records and the complicated politics of his time. In a review of his relations with Maryland, however, and by a presentation of all the facts, some light may be thrown upon his general character, and explanations, if not a defence, of his acts may be made. Richard Ingle's name first appears in the records of Maryland under date of March 23rd, 1641/2, when he petitioned the Assembly against Giles Brent touching the serving of an execution by the sheriff. He had come to the province a few weeks before, bringing in his vessel Captain Thomas Cornwallis, one of the original council, the greatest man in Maryland at that time, who had been spending some months in England.[3] Between the time of his arrival and the date of his petition Ingle had no doubt been plying his business, tobacco trading, in the inlets and rivers of the province. No further record of him in Maryland this year has been preserved, but Winthrop wrote that on May 3rd, 1642, "The ship Eleanor of London one Mr. || Inglee || master arrived at Boston she was laden with tobacco from Virginia, and having been about 14 days at sea she was taken with such a tempest, that though all her sails were down and made up, yet they were blown from the yards and she was laid over on one side two and a half hours, so low as the water stood upon her deck and the sea over-raking her continually and the day was as dark as if it had been night, and though they had cut her masts, yet she righted not till the tempest assuaged. She staid here till the 4th of the (4) and was well fitted with masts, sails, rigging and victuals at such reasonable rates as that the master was much affected with his entertainment and professed that he never found the like usage in Virginia where he had traded these ten years."[4] Although his name is given an additional _e_ and there are some few seeming discrepancies, the facts taken together point to the probability of his being Richard Ingle on his return voyage to England. Next year he was again in Maryland, and, as attorney for Mr. Penniston and partners, sued widow Cockshott for debts incurred by her husband. The next entry in the "Provincial Records" under this date, March 6th, 1642/3, is an attachment against William Hardige in case of Captain Cornwallis.[5] This William Hardige, who was afterward one of Ingle's chief accusers, was very frequently involved in suits for debts to Cornwallis, and others. About the middle of the month of January, 1643/4, the boatswain of the "Reformation" brought against Hardige a suit for tobacco, returnable February 1st. Three days afterward a warrant was issued to William Hardige, a tailor, for the arrest of Ingle for high treason, and Captain Cornwallis was bidden to aid Hardige, and the matter was to be kept secret.[6] Ingle was arrested and given into the custody of Edward Parker, the sheriff, by the lieutenant general of the province, Giles Brent, who also seized Ingle's goods and ship, until he should clear himself, and placed on board, under John Hampton, a guard ordered to allow no one to come on the ship without a warrant from the lieutenant general.[7] Then was published, and as the records seem to show, fixed on the vessel's mainmast the following proclamation.[8] "These are to publish & pclaym to all psons as well seamen as others, that Richard Ingle, m^r of his ship, is arrested upon highe treason to his Ma^ty; & therefore to require all psons to be aiding & assisting to his Lo^ps officers in the seizing of his ship, & not to offer any resistance or contempt hereunto, nor be any otherwaise aiding or assisting to the said Richard Ingle upon perl of highe treason to his Ma^ty." Notwithstanding this proclamation Ingle escaped in the following manner. Parker had no prison, and, consequently, had to keep personal guard over his prisoner. He supposed, "from certain words spoken by the Secretary," that Brent and the council had agreed to let Ingle go on board his vessel, and when Captain Cornwallis and Mr. Neale came from the council meeting and carried Ingle to the ship, he accompanied them.[9] Arrived on board Cornwallis said "All is peace," and persuaded the commanding officer to bid his men lay down their arms and disperse, and then Ingle and his crew regained possession of the ship. Under such circumstances the sheriff could not prevent his escape, especially when a member of the council and the most influential men in the province had assisted the deed by their acts or presence. Besides it was afterwards said that William Durford, John Durford, and Fred. Johnson, at the instigation of Ingle, beat and wounded some of the guard, though this charge does not appear to have been substantiated.[10] On January 20th, 1643/4, the following warrant was issued to the sheriff.[11] "I doe hereby require (in his Ma^ties name) Richard Ingle, mariner to yield his body to Rob Ellyson, Sheriff of this County, before the first of ffebr next, to answer to such crimes of treason, as on his Ma^ties behalfe shalbe obiected ag^st him, upon his utmost perl, of the Law in that behalfe. And I doe further require all psons that can say or disclose any matter of treason ag^st the said Richard Ingle to informe his Lo^ps Attorny of it some time before the said Court to the end it may be then & there prosequuted G. BRENT." Ingle, however, was not again arrested, though he still remained in the neighborhood of St. Mary's, for on January 30th his vessel was riding at anchor in St. George's river, and mention is made of him in the records as being in the province. For nearly two months the Ingle question was agitated and for the sake of clearness an account will be given of the acts concerning him in the order of their occurrence. The information given by Hardige to Lewger which had caused Ingle's arrest was: that in March or April, 1642, he heard Ingle, who was then at Kent Island, and at other times in St. Mary's, say, that he was "Captain of Gravesend for the Parliament against the King;" that he heard Ingle say that in February of that year he had been bidden in the King's name to come ashore at Accomac, in Virginia, but he, in the parliament's name had refused to do so, and had threatened to cut off the head of any one who should come on his ship.[12] On January 29th, Hardige and others were summoned to appear and to give evidence of--here the pirate enters--"pyratical & treasonable offences" of Ingle. On February 1st, the sheriff impannelled a jury of which Robert Vaughan was chosen foreman, and witnesses were sworn, among them Hardige who "being excepted at as infamous," by Capt. Cornwallis, "was not found so."[13] John Lewger, the attorney-general, having stated that the Court had power to take cognizance of treason out of the province in order to determine where the offender should be tried, presented three bills for the jury to consider. The first bill included the second charge brought by Hardige, the second ordered the jury to inquire "if on the 20th of November and some daies afore & since in the 17 yea of his Ma^ties reigne at Gravesend in Comit Kent in England" the accused "not having the feare of God before his eies, but instigated thereunto by the instigation of the divill & example of other traitors of his Ma^tie traiterously & as an enemy did levie war & beare armes ag^st his ma^tie and accept & exercise the comand & captainship of the town of Gravesend," and by the third bill they were to inquire if Ingle did not, on April 5th in the eighteenth year of Charles' reign, on his vessel in the Potomac river, near St. Clement's island, say, "that Prince Rupert was a rogue or rascall." If the rest of the testimony was no stronger or more conclusive than that of Hardige, it is not surprising that the jury replied to all the bills "_Ignoramus_."[14] Another jury was impannelled to investigate the charge of Ingle's having broken from the sheriff, and they returned a like finding. In the afternoon the first jury were given two more bills, first, to find "whether in April 1643 Ingle, being then at Mattapanian,[15] St. Clement's hundred, said 'that Prince Rupert was Prince Traitor & Prince rogue and if he had him aboard his ship he would whip him at the capstan.'" This bill met the fate of the others, but the second charging him with saying "that the king (meaning o^r Gover L. K. Charles) was no king neither would be no king, nor could be no king unless he did ioine with the Parlam^t," caused the jury to disagree and no verdict having been reached at 7 P. M., they adjourned until the following Saturday.[16] On that day, February 3rd, at the request of the attorney-general the jury were discharged and the bill given to another jury who returned it "_Ignoramus_."[17] In spite of the unanimity of all the juries in finding no true indictment, another warrant was issued for the arrest, by Parker or Ellyson, of Ingle for high treason, and after a fruitless attempt to secure by another jury a different finding, Ingle was impeached on February 8th, for having on January 20th, 1643/4, committed assaults upon the vessels, guns, goods, and person of one Bishop, and upon being reproached for these acts, having threatened to beat down the dwellings of people and even of Giles Brent, and for "the said crimes of pyracie, mutinie, trespasse, contempt & misdemeanors & every of them severally."[18] If Ingle did commit these depredations he was, no doubt instigated by the proceedings instituted on that day against him, and moreover by the fact that Henry Bishop had been among the witnesses to be summoned against him. Nothing more was done in the matter, for from a copy of a certificate to Ingle under date of February 8th, it is learned that "Upon certaine complaints exhibited by his Lo^ps attorny ag^st M^r R. Ingle the attending & psequution whereof was like to cause great demurrage to the ship & other damages & encumbrances in the gathering of his debts it was demanded by his Lo^ps said attorny on his Lo^ps behalfe that the said R. I. deposite in the country to his Lo^ps use one barrell of powder & 400 l of shott to remaine as a pledge that the said R. I. shall by himself or his attorny appeare at his Lo^ps Co^rt at S. Maries on or afore the first of ffebr next to answere to all such matters as shalbe then and there obiected ag^st him * * * * and upon his appearance the said powder & shott or the full value of it at the then rate of the country to be delivered to him his attorny or assigne upon demand."[19] What a change of policy, from charging a man with treason, the penalty for which was death, to offering him the right of bail for the appearance of his attorney, if necessary, to meet indefinite charges! In view of all the facts, it seems probable that the Maryland authorities were committed to the King's cause by the commission granted by him to Leonard Calvert in 1643, and by their action in seizing Ingle; that after his arrest it was thought to be injudicious to go to extremes, and that they made little resistance to, if they did not connive at, his escape. Certainly, efforts to recapture him must have been very feeble, for when the sheriff demanded the tobacco and cask due him from the defendant for summoning juries, witnesses, &c., it was found that Ingle had left in the hands of the Secretary the required amount.[20] In arresting Ingle for uttering treasonable words, the palatine government was not only placing itself upon the side of King Charles, but was preparing to do what he had been prevented from doing a few months before. For when at his command some persons who had acted treasonably were condemned to death, parliament declared that "all such indictments and proceedings thereon were unjust and illegal; and that if any man was executed or suffered hurt, for any thing he had done by their order, the like punishment should be inflicted by death or otherwise, upon such prisoners as were, or should be, taken by their forces," and their lives were saved.[21] The authorities of Maryland themselves show why Ingle was allowed to escape. On March 16th, Lewger showed that "whereas Richard Ingle was obnoxious to divers suits & complaints of his Lo^p for divers and sundry crimes all w^ch upon composition for the publique good & safety were suspended ag^st the said Richard Ingle assuming to leave in the country to the publique need at this time," powder and shot, but he had not paid the composition and had left without paying custom dues, which were required for the proper discharge of his ship "by the law & custom of all Ports," he prayed that all of Ingle's goods, debts, &c., might be sequestered until he should clear himself.[22] Under the circumstances, the grave charges pending against him, as there is no proof that he had known the terms of composition, a crew and vessel being at his command, it is not surprising that he sailed away from danger, without attending to the formality of clearing, and leaving unpaid debts, for Lewger claimed 600 pounds of tobacco from him, as payment for some plate and a scimitar, for which Cornwallis went security.[23] There is a touch of seeming sarcasm in the suggestion that the deposit by Ingle of ammunition would have relieved the public need, for he would have been that much less dangerous, and the government would have been so much the more prepared to resist him. But how were those who assisted him treated? On January 30th, Thomas Cornwallis, James Neale, Edward Parker and John Hampton, were impeached for having rescued him, and thereby of being accessories to high treason. Cornwallis made answer, "that he did well understand the matters charged ag^st the said Richard Ingle to be of no importance but suggested of mean malice of the ---- William hardige, as hath appeared since in that the grand enquest found not so much probability in the accusations, as that it was fitt to putt him to his triall" and "he supposed & understood no other but that the said rich. Ingle went aboard w^th the licence and consent of the L. G. & Counsell & of the officer in whose custody he was & as to the escape & rescuous in manner as is charged he is no way accessory to it & therefore prayeth to be dismissed."[24] The judgment was delayed, but Cornwallis was anxious to be at once discharged. The lieutenant general and the attorney general, therefore, having consulted together, found Cornwallis guilty, and fined him one thousand pounds of tobacco, though at the request of the accused the fine was respited until the last day of the month, when Brent ordered the sheriff "to levie 1000 lbs tob. on any goods or debts" of Capt. Tho. Cornwallis "for so much adjudged by way of fine unto the Lord Propriet^r ag^st him at the Court held on the 9^th ffeb last."[25] This fine, which was to be given to the attorney of Tho. Wyatt, commander of Kent Island, in payment of Lord Baltimore's debt to him, Cornwallis afterward acknowledged he had paid.[26] Neale did not make his appearance before the court, though he seems to have been in St. Mary's, and was suspended from the council for his contempt. On February 11th, being accused of having begged Ingle from the sheriff, he denied all the charges, and in a few days was restored to his seat in the council, upon the eve of Brent's departure for Kent Island.[27] Parker said Ingle had escaped against his will, and he was discharged, while Hampton escaped prosecution, presumably, for there is no further record of action in the case against him.[28] But it would have been bad policy for the authorities to allow the matter to drop without apparent effort on their part to punish somebody, and Cornwallis had to bear the brunt of their attacks. The feeling against him was so strong, according to his own statements, that besides paying a fine, the highest "that could by law be laid upon him," he was compelled for personal safety to take ship with Ingle for England, where the doughty captain testified before a parliamentary committee of Cornwallis' devotion to its cause, and of the losses he had sustained in its behalf.[29] The lieutenant governor, and council, may have congratulated themselves about the departure of Ingle and Cornwallis, but that mariner and trader was preparing to return to Maryland. On August 26th, 1644, certain persons trading to Virginia petitioned the House of Commons to allow them to transport ammunition, clothes, and victuals, custom free, to the plantations of the Chesapeake, which were at that time loosely classed under the one name--Virginia. The Commons granted to the eight[30] vessels mentioned in the petition, the right of carrying victuals, clothes, arms, ammunition, and other commodities, "for the supply and Defence and Relief of the Planters," and referred the latter part of the petition, asking power to interrupt the Hollanders and other strange traders, to the House of Lords.[31] It is hardly necessary to say at this point that the planters to be relieved and defended by the cargoes of the vessels, were planters not at enmity with the parliament. For vessels from London were used in the interests of parliament, while those from Bristol were the King's ships. De Vries, the celebrated Dutchman, who has left such acute observations about the early colonists, wrote that while visiting Virginia in 1644 he saw two London ships chase a fly-boat to capture it, and it was reported in Massachusetts that a captured Indian had given as a reason for the Indian massacre, on April 18th, 1644, "that they did it because they saw the English took up all their lands, * * * and they took this season for that they understood that they were at war in England, and began to go to war among themselves, for they had seen a fight in the river between a London ship, which was for the parliament, and a Bristol ship, which was for the King."[32] Among the ships commissioned by the parliament, which were armed, was the "Reformation," of which Ingle was still master. He was in London in October, 1644, receiving cargo, and Cornwallis entrusted to him goods, valued at 200 pounds sterling.[33] The vessel soon afterwards sailed, and was in Maryland in February. In the province, at that time, affairs were in a very unsettled condition. The energetic Claiborne, who was also called by Maryland authorities a pirate and a rebel, but who was a much better man than is generally supposed, and whose life ought to be especially studied, was still pushing his claims to Kent Island, and Leonard Calvert had been compelled to visit Virginia more than once during the winter in trying to prevent his actions. The Indians were aroused and prone to take advantage of disputes between the factions in the province, while the colonists themselves were in a state of unrest. At this juncture Ingle appeared. Streeter wrote of his coming, "several vessels appeared in the harbor, from which an armed force disembarked, (Feb. 14, 1645,) under the command of Capt. Richard Ingle, St. Mary's was taken; many of the members were prisoners; the Governor was a fugitive in Virginia; and the Province in the hands of a force, professing to act, and probably acting, under authority of Parliament."[34] There is no authority given for the first part of this statement, though it is not improbable, and is partly substantiated by the exaggerated charges against Ingle, made by the Assembly of 1649, and the references to him in proclamations. There is no mention in the provincial records of Calvert's having being forced out of the province, but, on the contrary, Calvert in his commission to Hill in 1646 stated that "at this present, I have occasion, for his lordship's service to be absent out the said province," and says nothing at all about Ingle. The rebellion has been called "Claiborne's and Ingle's," and, although association with Claiborne would not have been dishonorable to any one, historical accuracy seems to call for a distinction. In Greene's proclamation of pardon given in March, 1647/8; in the letter written by the Assembly to Lord Baltimore in April, 1649; in the Proprietor's commissions for the great seal, for muster master general, for commander of Kent Island, respectively, in 1648; and in his letter to Stone in 1649, the rebellion is attributed to the instigation of Ingle.[35] In the commission to Governor Stone, of August, 1648, is the statement, "so as such pardon or pardons extend not to the pardoning of William Clayborne heretofore of the isle of Kent in our said province of Maryland and now or late of Virginia or of his complices in their late rebellion against our rights and dominion in and over the said province nor of Richard Ingle nor John Durford mariner," and in the act of Oblivion, in April, 1650, pardon is granted to all excepting "Richard Ingle and John Darford Marryners, and such others of the Isle of Kent" as were not pardoned by Leonard Calvert.[36] In these two instances alone is any kind of an opportunity offered for connecting the two names, even here they are separated, and the distinction is made greater by the fact that in a commission concerning Hill, also of August, 1648, and in other places, Claiborne is mentioned with no reference at all to Ingle.[37] It is probable, in the absence of evidence to the contrary, that Ingle and Claiborne never planned any concerted action, but that each took advantage of the other's deeds, to further his own interests. To return to the year 1645. The rebellion supposed to have been originated by Ingle, was according to statements of the Assembly of 1649, continued by his accomplices, and during it "most of your Lordships Royal friends here were spoiled of their whole Estate and sent away as banished persons out of the Province those few that remained were plundered and deprived in a manner of all Livelyhood and subsistance only Breathing under that intollerable Yoke which they were forced to bear under those Rebells."[38] The people were tendered an oath against Lord Baltimore, which all the Roman Catholics refused to take, except William Thompson, about whom there is some doubt.[39] Ingle, himself, said that he had been able to take some places from the papists and malignants, and with goods taken from them had relieved the well-affected to parliament. Further on in this paper it will be seen that Roman Catholics' property was attacked under Ingle's auspices, but that the bad treatment of them did not continue long and was not very severe, may be inferred from the fact that in 1646, there were enough members of the council, who were Roman Catholics, in the province to elect Hill governor. In this connection ought to be mentioned the report, by an uncertain author, concerning the Maryland mission, written in 1670. The report is devoted principally to an account of a miracle which, strange to say, had not been recorded, as far as is known, although twenty-four years had elapsed since it had occurred. "It has been established by custom and usage of the Catholics," the uncertain author wrote, "who live in Maryland, during the whole night of the 31st of July following the festival of St. Ignatius, to honor with a salute of cannon their tutelar guardian and patron saint. Therefore, in the year 1646, mindful of the solemn custom, the anniversary of the holy father being ended, they wished the night also consecrated to the honor of the same, by the continual discharge of artillery. At the time, there were in the neighborhood certain soldiers, unjust plunderers, Englishmen indeed by birth, of the heterodox faith, who, coming the year before with a fleet, had invaded with arms, almost the entire colony, had plundered, burnt, and finally, having abducted the priests and driven the Governor himself into exile, had reduced it to a miserable servitude. These had protection in a certain fortified citadel, built for their own defence, situated about five miles from the others; but now, aroused by the nocturnal report of the cannon, the day after, that is on the first of August, rush upon us with arms, break into the houses of the Catholics, and plunder whatever there is of arms or powder."[40] Now this statement bears upon the face of it a contradiction, for the restriction upon the Roman Catholics could not have been very great, since they were allowed to retain, up to August, 1646, the powder and cannon necessary to fire continual salutes, moreover, when next day the soldiers came to their dwellings, nothing seems to have been taken except the ammunition, and this was done no doubt to prevent any further alarm, that a body of troops situated as they were might reasonably have felt at hearing artillery discharges five miles away. Many writers have stated that good Fathers White and Fisher were carried off to England by Ingle, but from the records of the Jesuits at Stonyhurst, it is learned that Father White was seized "by a band of soldiers," "and carried to England in chains," and also that in "1645 This year the colony was attacked by a party of 'rowdies' or marauders and the missioners were carried off to Virginia."[41] These extracts serve to show what was the confusion existing in the minds of contemporaries of Ingle, and the extreme difficulty, therefore, of finding the real truth. But in the sworn statements preserved in the Maryland records, some facts may be found. Within a few days of the events at St. Mary's resulting in partial subversion of Baltimore's government, the "Reformation" was riding at the mouth of St. Inigoes' creek, near which was situated the "Cross," the manor house of Cornwallis, who, when he had been obliged in 1644 to leave Maryland, had left his house and property in the hands of Cuthbert Fenwick, his attorney.[42] Fenwick was intending to go to Accomac, Virginia, and sent Thomas Harrison, a servant, who had been bought from Ingle by Cornwallis, and a fellow servant, Edw. Matthews, to help Andrew Monroe to bring a small pinnace nearer the house.[43] In the pinnace were clothes, bedding, and other goods, the property of Fenwick. Monroe refused to bring the pinnace, and waited until Ingle came into the creek;[44] and allowed the pinnace to be captured, (if that may be called a capture to which consent was given,) and plundered. Fenwick said that the pinnace was plundered by "Richard Ingle or his associates;"[45] another witness said that Ingle "seized or plundered" the pinnace, and Monroe was employed by him in his acts against the province, and while in command of another pinnace assisted in the pillaging of Copley's house at Portoback.[46] Matthews as well as other servants were held captives on the "Reformation," and Harrison took up arms for Ingle and afterwards left the province and fled to Accomac. Fenwick went on board, no doubt to protest against such acts, and when he returned to the shore was seized by a party of men under John Sturman, who seems to have been a leader in the rebellion, and carried back to the vessel where he was kept prisoner.[47] In the meantime Thomas Sturman, John Sturman, coopers, and William Hardwick, a tailor, led a party to sack the dwelling of Cornwallis, who, in a petition to the Governor and Council in 1652, described it as "a Competent Dwelling house, furnished with plate, Linnen hangings, beding brass pewter and all manner of Household Stuff worth at least a thousand pounds." In the same petition he said that the party "plundered and Carryed away all things in It, pulled downe and burnt the pales about it, killed and destroyed all the Swine and Goates and killed or mismarked allmost all the Cattle, tooke or dispersed all the Servants, Carryed away a Great quantity of Sawn Boards from the pitts, and ript up Some floors of the house. And having by these Violent and unlawfull Courses forst away my Said Attorny the Said Thomas and John Sturman possest themselves of the Complts house as theire owne, dwelt in it Soe long as they please and at their departing tooke the locks from the doors and y^e Glass from the windowes and in fine ruined his whole Estate to the damage of the Complt at least two or three thousand pounds."[48] It may be well to bear in mind that Cornwallis in this petition, which was against the two Sturmans and Hardwick, who did not deny the allegations, but claimed the statute of limitation, no mention is made of Ingle, save that on his ship Fenwick was detained.[49] In the latter part of the year 1645 began the era of petitions, which should be taken with allowance, for the age has been characterized as one of perjury, and in the representations by both parties in Maryland politics, advantage was taken of every slight point to strengthen their respective positions, and from internal evidence it seems that some statements were garbled, to say the least about them. The opening of this era was marked by the presentation, December 25th, 1645, by the committee of plantations, to the House of Lords, the following statements and suggestions, viz: that many had complained of the tyranny of recusants in Maryland, "who have seduced and forced many of his Majesty's subjects from their religion;" that by a certificate from the Judge of the Admiralty grounded upon the deposition of witnesses taken in that Court: Leonard Calvert, late Governor there, had a commission from Oxford to seize such persons, ships and goods as belonged to any of London; which he registered, proclaimed, and endeavored to put in execution at Virginia; and that one Brent, his deputy Governor, had seized upon a ship, empowered under a commission derived from the Parliament, because she was of London, and afterward not only tampered with the crew thereof to carry her to Bristol, then in hostility against the Parliament, but also tendered them an oath against the Parliament; the committee under these circumstances recommended that the province should be settled in the hands of protestants.[50] This was the first part of the determined effort to deprive the great Cecil Calvert of his charter of Maryland, which Richard Ingle continued so vigorously in after years. He was probably in England at that time, for he refers to the action of the Lords in regard to the settling of the Maryland government, in his petition of February 24th, 1645/6, to the House of Lords. To this petition was appended a statement on behalf of Cornwallis, which will explain it. Cornwallis said that on Ingle's return to England, to cover up his defalcation in the matter of 200 pounds worth of goods, he had complained to the committee for examinations against Cornwallis as an enemy to the State. The matter was given a full hearing, and when it was left to the law and the defendant was granted the right of having witnesses in Maryland examined, Ingle had him arrested upon two feigned actions to the value of 15,000 pounds sterling. Some friends succeeded in rescuing him from prison, and then Ingle sent the following petition to the House of Lords, which had the effect of stopping for the time proceedings against him.[51] Having done so he carried the prosecution no further. The petition is somewhat lengthy, but it should be read as it is eminently characteristic of the man.[52] "The humble petition of Richard Ingle, showing That whereas the petitioner, having taken the covenant, and going out with letters of marque, as Captain of the ship Reformation, of London, and sailing to Maryland, where, finding the Governor of that Province to have received a commission from Oxford to seize upon all ships belonging to London, and to execute a tyrannical power against the Protestants, and such as adhered to the Parliament, and to press wicked oaths upon them, and to endeavor their extirpation, the petitioner, conceiving himself, not only by his warrant, but in his fidelity to the Parliament, to be conscientiously obliged to come to their assistance, did venture his life and fortune in landing his men and assisting the said well affected Protestants against the said tyrannical government and the Papists and malignants. It pleased God to enable him to take divers places from them, and to make him a support to the said well affected. But since his return to England, the said Papists and malignants, conspiring together, have brought fictitious acts against him, at the common law, in the name of Thomas Cornwallis and others for pretended trespass, in taking away their goods, in the parish of St. Christopher's, London, which are the very goods that were by force of war justly and lawfully taken from these wicked Papists and malignants in Maryland, and with which he relieved the poor distressed Protestants there, who otherwise must have starved, and been rooted out. "Now, forasmuch as your Lordships in Parliament of State, by the order annexed, were pleased to direct an ordinance to be framed for the settlement of the said province of Maryland, under the Committee of Plantations, and for the indemnity of the actors in it, and for that such false and feigned actions for matters of war acted in foreign parts, are not tryable at common law, but, if at all, before the Court and Marshall; and for that it would be a dangerous example to permit Papists and malignants to bring actions of trespass or otherwise against the well affected for fighting for the Parliament. "The petitioner most humbly beseecheth your Lordships to be pleased to direct that this business may be heard before your Lordships at the bar, or to refer it to a committee to report the true state of the case and to order that the said suits against the petitioner at the common law may be staid, and no further proceeded in." It is not known how this matter was settled, but in 1647, September 8th, Ingle transferred to Cornwallis "for divers good and valuable causes" the debts, bills, &c., belonging to him, and made him his attorney to collect the same. Among the items in the inventory appended to the power of attorney were "A Bill and note of John Sturman's, the one dated the 10th of April 1645 for Satisfaction of tenn pounds of powder the other dated the 4th of April 1645 for 900 l of Tob & Caske," and "an acknowledgem^t of Cap^t William Stone dated the 10th of April 1645 for a receipt of a Bill of Argall Yardley's Esq, for 9860 l of Tobacco and Caske,"[53] which show that the mercantile interests of Ingle were not subservient to his supposed warlike measures. A consideration of the statements by Cornwallis and of those by Ingle, proves that the latter must have had considerable influence in the Parliament, and that he was prepared to stand by and defend all his actions, and the similarity to his petition of ideas and even of words in certain places, would safely allow the conjecture that Ingle had something to do in the report of 1645 already mentioned. It is curious also to compare his reference to the ill-treatment of the Protestants, and the mention of the hardships of Baltimore's adherents, made by the Assembly of 1649. There is no record of the presence of Ingle in Maryland after the spring of 1645, though the rebellion which he was accused of instigating continued some months longer.[54] For continuity, a rapid sketch of the history of Maryland during the next two years must be given. For fourteen months the province was without a settled government. In March, 1645/6, the Virginian Assembly in view of the secret flight into Maryland of Lieutenant Stillwell, and others, enacted that "Capt. Tho. Willoughby, Esq., and Capt. Edward Hill be hereby authorized to go to Maryland or Kent to demand the return of such persons who are alreadie departed from the colony. And to follow such further instructions as shall be given them by the Governor and Council."[55] After Hill had arrived in Maryland he was elected governor by the members of the council, who, notwithstanding Ingle's rebellion, were in the province. The right of the council to elect Hill was afterwards disputed, but one word must be said in regard to this. The reason for disputing the right was that the councilors could elect only a member of the council to be governor. In the commission to Leonard Calvert in 1637, no such restriction was made,[56] in the commission of 1642 the restriction occurs, and in the commission of 1644, which has been preserved in two copies, the same provision was made.[57] As Lord Baltimore himself had confused ideas about this commission, it is not surprising that the council thought they were doing right in electing Hill. Even if the council had no right to act thus, Hill had stronger claims to the governorship. In Lord Baltimore's commission to Leonard Calvert, of September 18th, 1644, is the provision:[58] "and lastly whereas our said Lieutenant may happen to dye or be absent from time to time out of the said province of Maryland, before we can have notice to depute another in his place we do therefore hereby grant unto him full power and Authority from time to time in such Cases to Nominate elect and appoint such an able person inhabiting and residing within our said province of Maryl^d, as he in his discretion shall make choice of & think fit to be our Lieutenant Governor, &c." Such is the command as recorded in the Council Proceedings of Maryland. But Baltimore, in 1648, in a commission to the Governor and council in Maryland, wrote that Leonard Calvert had no right to appoint any person in his stead "unless such persons were of our privy council there,"[59] although he recognized the validity of Leonard's death-bed appointment by witnesses of Governor Greene. He, to be sure, was a member of the council, but this fact was not mentioned in the preamble of the commission, in which the words, with some slight changes in tense and mood, are almost identical with those in the preamble of the commission of July 30th, 1646, from Calvert to Hill, which, notwithstanding doubts to the contrary, must have been genuine. For Lord Baltimore, in the commission of 1648 seems to have acknowledged that his brother had granted the commission to Hill,[60] who, in a letter to Calvert, said that he had promised him one-half the customs and rents, the remuneration stipulated in his commission. Hill, not knowing that Calvert was dead, wrote him a letter, dated June 18th, 1647, urging the payment of his dues, and the next day Greene, the new Governor, replied that he did not understand the matter, but that if Hill would send an attorney "full satisfaction should be given him." When Hill wrote next he waived the authority of Calvert, and based his claim upon the right of the council to elect him, and in this way placed himself upon an illegal footing, which circumstance was taken advantage of for a time by the Maryland authorities. But finally at a court held June 10th, 1648,[61] one year after Calvert's death, a claim from Hill was presented "for Arrears of what consideration was Covenanted unto him by Leonard Calvert, Esq., for his Service in the office of Governor of this Province, being the half of his Ldps rents for the year 1646 & the half of the Customes for the Same yeare." It was ordered by the court, "that ye half of that yeares Customes as far as it hath not already been received by Capt. Hill shall be paid unto him by the Ld Prop^rs Attorny out of the first profitts which shall be receivable to his Ldp * * * his Ldps Receiver shall accompt & pay unto Cap^t Edward Hill or his assignes the one halfe of his Ldps rents due at Christmas next in Lieu of the S^d rents of the yeare 1646 which were otherwise disposed of to his Ldps use." There is, however, one fact which must not be lost sight of in regard to Leonard Calvert's commission to Hill. If it was executed by a member of the council, and therefore was a forgery, for in the records Calvert's name is signed to it, and the place of the seal is noted, it is not at all likely that it would have been allowed by Calvert on his return, and by his immediate successors, to be preserved and copied into the records. If all other proof failed this last would establish the validity of Hill's commission. But Calvert, who, throughout his whole career as governor of Maryland, showed unchanging devotion to his brother's interests, gathered in Virginia a body of soldiers and returned at the end of 1646 to St. Mary's, where he easily repossessed himself of that part of the country, though Kent Island remained still in possession of Claiborne's forces. Thus was ended what has been called Ingle's rebellion, in which the loss of the lord proprietor's personal estate "was in truth so small as that it was not Considerable when it was come in Ballance with the Safety of the Province which as the then present Condition of things stood, hung upon so ticklish a pin as that unless such a disposition had been made thereof an absolute ruin and subversion of the whole Province would inevitably have followed."[62] Another proof of Hill's regular appointment is that Calvert on the 29th of December, soon after his return, re-assembled the Assembly, which Hill had summoned and adjourned, and proceeded with it to enact laws.[63] Although a later Assembly in 1648 protested against the laws passed by this Assembly, the proprietor recognized them as valid, and wrote in 1649 that it had been "lawfully continued" by his brother "ffor although the first Sumons were issued by one who was not our Lawfull Lieutenant there, yet being afterwards approved of by one that was, it is all one, as to the proceedings afterward as if at first they had issued from a lawfull Governor."[64] The writer is no lawyer, but it seems, that, if the Assembly of Hill was "lawfully continued" and "approved" by Calvert, the recognition by Baltimore must have been legally retroactive, and, therefore, that the laws passed before Calvert's return must have been legally valid, saving of course the proprietor's dissent. Leonard Calvert having spent some months in settling the affairs of the province died, June 9th, 1647, and Greene ruled in his stead. In the following March, Ingle's name again appears in the records. The governor, on March 4th, 1648, proclaimed pardon to all except Richard Ingle, and in August of the same year the lord proprietor issued, besides his commissions to Governor Stone, to the council and to secretary Thomas Hatton, commissions, for the Great Seal, for muster master general, and for commander of the Isle of Kent. John Price was made muster master general for his "great Fidelity unto us in that Occasion of the late insurrection and Rebellion in our said province was begun there by that Notorious Villain Richard Ingle and his Complices," and Robert Vaughan was appointed commander of Kent for the same reason.[65] Then in 1650 was passed the act of Oblivion, excepting Ingle, Durford, and some of the Isle of Kent. In 1649, Baltimore granted to James Lindsey and Richard Willan certain lands, and directed that in the grants should be inserted the notice "of their singular and approved worth courage and fidelity (in Ingle's insurrection) to the end a memory of their merit and of his (the Proprietor) sense thereof may remain upon record to the honour of them and their posterity forever."[66] An investigation into Ingle's doings at this time may explain the bitter terms in which he is mentioned in the official records of Maryland, and also why upon him was foisted the chief responsibility for the disturbances. During the year 1646, Lord Baltimore was engaged in defending his charter, against the justice of which such grave charges had been brought by Ingle and others, in the winter of 1645/6. On January 23rd, 1646/7, application in Baltimore's behalf, was made to the House of Lords, that the depositions of witnesses made before the Admiralty Court in regard to Maryland should be read. In a few weeks Baltimore begged that the actions looking to the repeal of his charter might be delayed, and on the same day certain merchants in London, who were interested in the Virginia trade, requested that the ordinance should be sent to the Commons, for Baltimore's petition was intended only to cause delay.[67] The matter was stayed for the time, but by December, 1649, Ingle had sent to the Council of State a petition and remonstrance against the government of Lord Baltimore's colony. The hearing, which was referred to the Committee of the Admiralty, was postponed until January 10th, 1650, when Baltimore's agent requested it to be deferred until the 16th. Witnesses were summoned and upon Baltimore's appearance, he was ordered to make answer in writing to Ingle by the 30th. On January 29th the matter was again postponed until February 6th, "in respect of extraordinary occasions not permitting them to hear the same to-morrow." Delay followed delay until March 1st, when Ingle was "unprovided to prove" the charges against Lord Baltimore for misconduct in the government of Maryland, but on the 15th of the same month, "after several debates of the business depending between Capt. Ingle and Lord Baltimore, touching a commission granted to Leonard Calvert, * * * by the late King at Oxford in 1643" the advocate for the State and the attorney general were directed to examine the validity of the original charter to Cecil, Lord Baltimore. Allusion to this matter was again made in the records, but nothing showing its result unless it be the order of the Council of State, of December 23d, 1651, that Lord Baltimore should be allowed to "pursue his cause according to law."[68] Ingle seems to have been at this time in the service of what was once a parliament, but which had been reduced in 1648, by Pride's purge, to about sixty members. In February, 1650, he informed the Council of State that on board two ships, the "'Flower de Luce' and the 'Thomas and John,' were persons bound to Virginia, who were enemies of the Commonwealth." The vessels were stayed for over a month, when they were allowed to sail down to Gravesend, where, before they left for Virginia, the mayor and justices were to "take the superscription of passengers and mariners not to engage against the Commonwealth."[69] In April of this year the Council of State ordered the payment to Ingle of £30 sterling for services and care in keeping Captain Gardner, who had been arrested for treason, in having tried to betray Portland Castle.[70] He again comes into notice in 1653, by some letters written by him to Edward Marston. He had been cast away by shipwreck in the Downs, and was then at Dover, where he had been very ill. Having heard that two prizes which he had helped to secure, had been condemned and that the rest of the men had obtained their shares, he wrote to secure the eleven shares due him, and told Marston to send one part to his wife, and the other to him. On November 14th, he again wrote that he had received no answer although "I have written you every post these 3 weeks, having been sick my want of money is great."[71] This is the last fact, which can at present be found, about Richard Ingle, who first came into notice demanding tobacco debts, and is discovered, at last demanding prize money. These two acts were typical of the man, he was always on the lookout for gain and yet remained a staunch adherent to the Long Parliament, which did so much to strengthen English liberties, but whose acts led to such extreme measures as those which culminated in the execution of the self-willed unfortunate Charles I. By a careful consideration of all the facts, it will be seen that the acts of Richard Ingle are in some cases legendary, and as such naturally have become more heinous with every successive account. The endeavor has been in this paper to give an unprejudiced historical account of his life, but in view of the mis-statements about him, it still remains to sum up, and examine the specific charges against him. He is accused of having stolen the silver seal of the province. Lord Baltimore's own statements, however, concerning it are doubtful. "Whereas our great seal of the said province of Maryland was treacherously and violently taken away from thence by Richard Ingle or his complices in or about February,[72] 1644/5," he wrote in August, 1648. Nothing had been said according to the records up to that time in Maryland about the loss of the seal. On the contrary, in a commission given by Governor Greene on July 4th, 1647, over a year before the proprietor's commission for the great seal, are the words, "Given under my hand and the Seal of the province."[73] and in the proclamation of March 4th, 1648, Greene promised pardon "under my hand and the seal of the province,"[74] to all out of the province except Ingle, who should confess their faults before a certain date. It may be urged against these facts that "under my hand and the seal of the province," was mere legal phraseology. But those which have been given are the only two instances of the use of the term from 1646 to 1648, and are both preceded and followed by commissions, &c., ending "and this shall be your commission," or "given at St. Mary's," in which, if the term was merely technical language, why was it not more frequently used? Again, it may be said that it was a temporary seal. If it were, it is strange that no mention is made of the fact in the records of the province, or in Lord Baltimore's commission for the new seal. It was hoped and desired that in this paper no occasion would arise to make accusations against any of Ingle's opponents, but historic truth now requires it to be done. It must be remembered that Baltimore was in constant danger of losing his charter, in a great measure, on account of Ingle's activity against him. Upon his authority alone is based the charge against Ingle about the seal, but of how much value is the authority of one who, at the very same time and in a commission sent out with that of the seal, wrote that Leonard Calvert "was limited by our commission to him not to appoint" any person governor "unless such person were of our privy council there,"[75] although no such limitation as to the governor's right was made in any of the commissions to Leonard Calvert so this clause in the lord proprietor's commission resolves itself into a Machiavellian statement. It is hardly credible that Lord Baltimore could have made such a statement from ignorance, for no one knew the commission better than the author of it. But notwithstanding the evidence against Lord Baltimore, the writer has too high an opinion of his character to attribute to him the diplomatic lie. Lord Baltimore was no doubt influenced a great deal, by what was reported to him concerning Maryland, so the blame must rest upon his informers. Still if these persons would resort to such methods in one case, they would be likely to do so in other instances. Whoever was the author of the statement, it throws doubt upon other supposed facts of this period, and leads to the conclusion that the commission for a new seal was one of the reconstructive acts of the proprietor, on a par with the treatment of Hill. Ingle has been charged with the destruction of the records of the province. What was Baltimore's opinion? "We understand" he wrote in 1651, "that in the late Rebellion there One thousand Six hundred Forty and four most of the Records of that province being then lost or embezzled."[76] This hearsay statement of Lord Baltimore may have been based upon the testimony in 1649, of Thomas Hatton, Secretary of the province, of the receipt of books from Mr. Bretton, who "delivered to me this Book, and another lesser Book with a Parchment Cover, divers of the Leaves thereof being cut or torn out, and many of them being lost and much worn out and defaced together with divers other Papers and Writings bound together in a Bundle,"[77] and swore that they were all the documents belonging to the secretary or register which could be found, "except some Warrants, and some Draughts of Mr. _Hill's_ Time." All the records, therefore, were not destroyed, but in 1649, there were in existence papers belonging to the Hill regime. But greater proofs against the vandalism of Ingle are the records themselves, or the copies of them, which could not have been made if the originals had been destroyed, and which have at last been deposited where thieves do not break through nor steal. There have been preserved among the records up to 1647, the original proprietary record books, liber Z., 1637-1644 and liber P. R., 1642 to February 12, 1645. The Council Proceedings, 1636-1657, the Assembly Proceedings, 1638-1658, and liber F., 1636-1642, proprietary records, have been handed down in copies. The loss of liber F., 1636-1642, can no more be attributed to Ingle than can the loss of liber K., 1692-1694, which was made fifty years after Ingle's time. Both of these, as well as records of later years, have been preserved in copies only, but a brief study of the Calendar of State Archives, prefixed to the Acts of Assembly, will demonstrate that the destruction of records by Ingle could not have been so great as has been supposed. But did he destroy any? There are gaps in the records, that exist between February 14, 1645, when the rebellion occurred, and December, 1646, when Calvert returned, but it is not likely that under the existing circumstances very great care was taken of the records of these twenty-two months, and moreover there is no proof that Ingle was in the province after 1645, for he was probably in London in December of that year, and certainly in the following February. His appointing Cornwallis his attorney for collecting Maryland and Virginia debts would also lead one to believe that he did not return to the province. Some of the records of the Hill government, however, were in existence in 1649, but as far as is known have since disappeared. Ingle certainly did not destroy them, and indeed to a man engaged in the tobacco trade, there were few inducements to waste his time, and that of his men cutting up records. It is difficult to understand why Lord Baltimore should have called Ingle an "ungrateful villain," for the reception the latter met at St. Mary's in 1644, was not calculated to inspire one with gratitude. The compensation offered Ingle might have been deemed liberal, but the Maryland authorities acknowledged that they had to make this offer for the public good and safety, and, therefore, no particular credit can be given them for kindness towards the troublesome mariner. But the relations between Ingle and Cornwallis are rather perplexing. The latter accused Ingle of not returning the value of goods entrusted to him, and also of landing, during his absence, "some men near his house," and rifling "him to the value of 2,500 l at least."[78] All this was done after Cornwallis had showed his devotion to Parliament, by releasing Ingle. It must be remembered in connection with the devotion to Parliament, that Ingle was doing the great carrying trade for Cornwallis. Besides, after Ingle had made him his attorney, he went to Maryland and there sued three men for the pillage and destruction of his property, without implicating Ingle. In the absence of full records concerning these two men, it is unfair to judge either of them harshly in this matter. The indefinite allusion to Ingle's piracy in 1644 was not sustained, but in 1649 he was again called "pirate." The definition of piracy has undergone many changes within the past three hundred years. From robbery committed upon the high seas, it has come to mean, "acts of violence done upon the ocean or unappropriated lands or within the territory of a state through descent from the sea, by a body of men acting independently of any political or organized society."[79] The pirate has also been held as an enemy, whom the whole human race can oppress. These definitions are from the international standpoint. What was the English law at the time of Ingle? The treatment of pirates was regulated by the Act of Parliament, made in the reign of Henry VIII.,[80] and Sir Leoline Jenkins, on September 2d, 1668, at a session of the Admiralty, said, "now robbery as 'tis distinguished from thieving or larceny, implies not only the actual taking away of my goods, while I am, as we say, in peace, but also the putting me in fear, by taking them away by force and arms out of my hands, or in my sight and presence, when this is done upon the sea, without a lawful commission of war or reprisals, it is downright Piracy."[81] In the Assembly of March, 1638, piracy was defined as follows: "William dawson with divers others did assault the vessels of Capt. Thomas Cornwaleys his company feloniously and as pyrates & robbers to take the said vessels and did discharge divers peices charged wi^th bulletts & shott against the said Thomas Cornwaleys, &c."[82] Granted, although it is doubtful, that Ingle seized the pinnace, riding in St. Inigoes' creek, he was not, therefore, a pirate. According to the testimony, he used no force, for the one in charge of the pinnace allowed him to take it; and the act was not committed on the high seas. For the acts committed on the land, Ingle acknowledged himself to have been responsible; for in his petition he wrote, that he "did venture his life and fortune in landing his men and assisting the said well-affected Protestants (_i. e._, such as adhered to Parliament)" against the government, the papists and malignants. His acts on the land were rather contradictory, if one reads the testimony. In 1647, for instance, a certain Walter Beane[83] at the request of Cuthbert Fenwick, said that during the plundering time, with the consent of Fenwick, he paid Ingle some tobacco, which was due Fenwick or Cornwallis. Ingle then gave him the following, "Received of Walter Beane five hund^r Thirty Eight pounds of Tob for a debt th^t the s^d Walter Beane did owe to Cuthbert ffenwick. Witness my hand, RICH^D. INGLE." Beane stated also that sometime before Ingle came, he paid six hogsheads of tobacco to Fenwick for Cornwallis, and that Ingle, upon his arrival, sent eleven men to fetch the hogsheads and other tobacco; that when Beane refused to give them up, Ingle was notified, and sent a note threatening extreme measures, and Beane was thus forced to give up the tobacco. Does it not seem curious that Ingle should give a receipt for one batch of tobacco, and within a short time have other tobacco forcibly seized? Of course the authorities of Maryland might have considered such acts piratical. But they were not. Ingle had a commission from Parliament, to relieve the planters in Maryland, by furnishing them arms, &c. He found the government of Maryland at enmity with Parliament, which was the actual government of England at that time, and assisted the friends of Parliament in Maryland. Even if he exceeded the provisions of his letter of marque he was responsible to Parliament alone.[84] That the English authorities did not disapprove of his conduct is shown by the weight attached to his statements, and by the fact that he was afterwards in the service of the Commonwealth. As to Ingle's having been a "rebel," the facts all point to his participation in the beginning of a rebellion, caused probably, by those dissatisfied with Leonard Calvert's rule, more probably by the influence of William Claiborne, who in spite of condemnatory acts by the Maryland Assembly, and the vacillating measures of Charles I., insisted for many years upon his right to Kent Island. But rebellion is viewed in different ways: by those against whom it is made, with horror and detestation; by those who make it, with pride and ofttimes with devotion. If Ingle led on the rebellion, he was acting in Maryland, only as Cromwell afterwards did on a larger scale, in England, and as Bacon, the brave and noble, did in Virginia, and to be placed in the same category with many, who will be handed down to future generations as rebels, will be no discredit to the first Maryland rebel. FOOTNOTES: [1] Spotswood Letters, Brock, p. 12. [2] Rev. Edw. D. Neill, to whom I am indebted for valuable references, was the first to attempt any kind of a defence of Ingle, but Dr. Wm. Hand Browne, who also has greatly aided me, has omitted the pirate and rebel clause in the history which he is preparing for the Commonwealth Series. [3] Assembly Proceedings, 1638-1664, p. 120, Land Office Records, Vol. I., p. 582. In the Maryland records the name is spelled Cornwaleys, but in this paper the rule has been adopted of spelling it Cornwallis, as it is known to history. [4] Winthrop's History of New England, Vol. II., p. 75. Winthrop gave another spelling, "Jugle," no doubt obtained from the signature, as has been done with the name more than once in modern times. In a bill sent to the grand jury at St. Mary's, Maryland, February 1st, 1643/4, it was stated that Ingle's ship in 1642 was the "Reformation." The bill was, however, returned "Ignoramus," and the use of the name was probably anachronous. [5] Proprietary Records, Liber P. R., p. 85. [6] Ibid., p. 124. [7] Ibid., p. 137. [8] Ibid., p. 124. Council Proceedings, 1636-1657. Bozman, in his History of Maryland, Vol. II., p. 271, not knowing evidently that more than one warrant was issued for Ingle's arrest, transposed this proclamation, making it follow Jan. 20; but in P. R. it is under date of Jan. 18, 1643/4. [9] P. R., p. 146. [10] Ibid., pp. 125, 138. [11] C. P., p. 111, P. R., p. 125. [12] Ibid., p. 125. [13] Ibid., pp. 129, 130. [14] Ibid. [15] This was on the south side of the Patuxent river. At one time the Jesuits used a building there for a storehouse. There was the favorite dwelling of Charles, third Lord Baltimore, which afterward belonged to Mr. Henry Sewall, and there Col. Darnall took refuge during the Coode uprising. [16] P. R., p. 131. [17] Ibid., p. 134. [18] Ibid., pp. 137, 139. [19] Ibid., p. 141. [20] Ibid., p. 148. [21] Bozman: History of Maryland, Vol. II., p. 272. [22] P. R., p. 149. [23] Ibid., p. 150. [24] Ibid., p. 131. [25] Ibid., pp. 139, 145. [26] Sixth Report of the Historical Commission to Parliament, p. 101. [27] P. R., pp. 140, 141, 146. [28] Ibid., p. 146. [29] Sixth Rep. Hist. Com., p. 101. [30] The absence of punctuation between the "Elizabeth and Ellen" leads one to conjecture that there were but seven vessels. [31] Journal of the House of Commons, 1642-44, p. 607. This may be found in the Congressional Library, Washington, D. C. [32] Collections N. Y. Historical Society, Series II., Vol. III., p. 126. Winthrop: History of New England, Vol. II., p. 198. [33] L. O. R., Vol. I., p. 224; Sixth Rep. Hist. Com., p. 101. [34] Papers Relating to the Early History of Maryland, by S. F. Streeter, p. 267. [35] C. P., pp. 166, 201, 204; A. P., 238, 270. [36] C. P., p. 175; A. P., p. 301. [37] C. P., p. 209. [38] A. P., p. 238. [39] Ibid., pp. 238, 270, 271. At the request of the Assembly, Baltimore forgave Thompson for acts which he might have committed by reason of ignorance or through a mistake. [40] Relatio Itineris in Marylandiam, p. 95. [41] Records of the Eng. Prov. Society of Jesus, Series V., VI., VII., VIII., pp. 337, 389. [42] L. O. R., Vol. I., p. 432. [43] Ibid., p. 572. [44] Ibid., Vol. II., p. 354. [45] Ibid., Vol. I., p. 584. [46] Now Port Tobacco, Charles Co. Ibid., Vol. II., p. 354. [47] Ibid., Vol. I., p. 433. Most of the testimony against Ingle in Maryland was by those whom he had held prisoners. [48] Ibid., Vol. I., pp. 432, 433. [49] Ibid. [50] Terra Mariae, Neill, pp. 110, 111. [51] Sixth Rep. Hist. Com., p. 101. [52] Rev. E. D. Neill has given the full draft of this petition. See Founders of Maryland, pp. 75-77. [53] L. O. R., Vol. I., p. 378. [54] Father White and Father Fisher were carried to England and imprisoned. The former was, after some months, released upon the condition of his leaving England. He went to Belgium, and afterwards returned to England, but never again to Maryland. "Thirsting for the salvation of his beloved Marylanders he sought every opportunity of returning secretly to that mission, earnestly begging the favor of his Superiors; but, as the good Father was then upwards of sixty-five years of age and his constitution broken down, they would not consent." R. P. S. J., p. 337. Fisher was released and returned to Maryland. [55] Hening: Statutes, Vol. I., p. 321. [56] C. P., pp. 17, 77. [57] Ibid., p. 136; L. O. R., Vol. I., p. 203. [58] C. P., p. 135. [59] Ibid., p. 209. [60] Ibid., p. 154-161. [61] L. O. R., Vol. II., p. 328. [62] A. P., p. 242. [63] Ibid., pp. 209-210. [64] Ibid., 266. [65] C. P., pp. 204-205. [66] Kilty. Landholder's Assistant, pp. 79-80; L. O. R., Vol. II., p. 410. [67] Seventh Report His. Com., pp. 54, 162. [68] Sainsbury: Calendar State Papers, Colonial, 1574-1660, pp. 331-337, 368. [69] Ibid. [70] Ibid., Domestic, 1650, pp. 64, 79, 572. [71] Ibid., 1653-1654, pp. 235, 251, 278. [72] C. P., 201. [73] Ibid., 162. [74] Ibid., 166. [75] Ibid., p. 209. [76] A. P., p. 329. [77] C. P., 219. [78] Sixth Rep. Hist. Com., p. 101. [79] Hall: International Law, p. 218. [80] 28 Henry VIII., C. 15. See p. 124, Vol. VI., Evan's Collection of Statutes. [81] Quoted by Phillimore. See International Law, Vol. I., p. 414. [82] A. P., pp. 17-18. [83] L. O. R., Vol. II., p. 312. [84] Phillimore, Vol. I., p. 425. Transcriber's Note Archaic and variable spelling and capitalisation has been preserved in the quoted material as printed. Asterisks are used instead of periods in ellipses. Minor punctuation errors have been repaired. Where the letter l (representing pounds) is preceded by a number, a space has been inserted between number and l for clarity. The following amendments have been made: Page 14--Febuary amended to February--"... a copy of a certificate to Ingle under date of February 8th, ..." Page 20--masacre amended to massacre--"... had given as a reason for the Indian massacre, ..." Page 33--Corwallis amended to Cornwallis--"A consideration of the statements by Cornwallis and ..." Page 47--proprietory amended to proprietary--"... and liber F., 1636-1642, proprietary records, have been handed down ..." 
2008	----	MAZELLI, AND OTHER POEMS By George W. Sands PREFACE Under this head, I desire to say a few words upon three subjects, --my friends, my book, and myself. My friends, though not legion in number, have been, in their efforts in my behalf, disinterested, sincere, and energetic. My book: I lay it, as my first offering, at the shrine of my country's fame. "Would it were worthier." While our soldiers are first in every field where they meet our enemies, and while the wisdom of our legislators is justified before all the world, in the perfection of our beloved institutions, our literature languishes. This should not be so; for literature, with its kindred arts, makes the true glory of a nation. We bow in spirit when Greece is named, not alone because she was the mother of heroes and lawgivers, but because her hand rocked the cradle of a literature as enduring as it is beautiful and brilliant, and cherished in their infancy those arts which eventually repaid her nursing care in a rich harvest of immortal renown. For myself I have little to say. I have not written for fame, and if my life had been a happy one I should never have written at all. As it was, I early came to drink of the bitter cup; and sorrow, whilst it cuts us off from the outer, drives us back upon the inner world;--and then the unquiet demon of ceaseless thought is roused, and the brain becomes "a whirling gulf of phantasy and flame," and we rave and--write! Yes, write! And men read and talk about genius, and, God help them! Often envy its unhappy possessors the fatal gift which lies upon heart and brain like molten lead! Of all who have gained eminence among men as poets, how few are there of whom it may not be justly said, "They have come up through much tribulation." G. W. S. CONTENTS Mazelli, Canto I., Canto II., Canto III., The Misanthrope Reclaimed, Act I., Act II., Act III., Act IV., Miscellaneous Poems, Dedication. Frederick City, September 7th, 1849. Dear Sir,-- In humble testimony of my gratitude for your services as a friend, and my admiration and respect for your character and worth as an author and a man, permit me to dedicate to you the poem of "Mazelli." Your obedient servant, George W. Sands. To Samuel Tyler, Esq., Of the Maryland Bar. MAZELLI Canto I. I. "Stay, traveller, stay thy weary steed, The sultry hour of noon is near, Of rest thy way-worn limbs have need, Stay, then, and, taste its sweetness here. The mountain path which thou hast sped Is steep, and difficult to tread, And many a farther step 'twill cost, Ere thou wilt find another host; But if thou scorn'st not humble fare, Such as the pilgrim loves to share,-- Not luxury's enfeebling spoil, But bread secured by patient toil-- Then lend thine ear to my request, And be the old man's welcome guest. Thou seest yon aged willow tree, In all its summer pomp arrayed, 'Tis near, wend thither, then, with me, My cot is built beneath its shade; And from its roots clear waters burst To cool thy lip, and quench thy thirst:-- I love it, and if harm should, come To it, I think that I should weep; 'Tis as a guardian of my home, So faithfully it seems to keep Its watch above the spot where I Have lived so long, and mean to die. Come, pardon me for prating thus, But age, you know, is garrulous; And in life's dim decline, we hold Thrice dear whate'er we loved of old,-- The stream upon whose banks we played, The forest through whose shades we strayed, The spot to which from sober truth We stole to dream the dreams of youth, The single star of all Night's zone, Which we have chosen as our own, Each has its haunting memory Of things which never more may be." II. Thus spake an aged man to one Who manhood's race had just begun. His form of manhood's noblest length Was strung with manhood's stoutest strength, And burned within his eagle eye The blaze of tameless energy-- Not tameless but untamed--for life Soon breaks the spirit with its strife And they who in their souls have nursed The brightest visions, are the first To learn how Disappointment's blight Strips life of its illusive light; How dreams the heart has dearest held Are ever first to be dispelled; How hope, and power, and love, and fame, Are each an idly sounding name, A phantom, a deceit, a wile, That woos and dazzles to beguile. But time had not yet tutored him, The youth of hardy heart and limb, Who quickly drew his courser's bit; For though too haughty to submit, In strife for mastery with men, Yet to a prayer, or a caress, His soul became all gentleness,-- An infant's hand might lead him then: So answered he,--"In sooth the way My steed and I have passed to-day, Is of such weary, winding length, As sorely to have tried our strength, And I will bless the bread and salt Of him who kindly bids me halt." Then springing lightly to the ground, His girth and saddle he unbound, And turning from the path aside, The steed and guest, the host and guide, Sought where the old man's friendly door Stood ever open to the poor: The poor--for seldom came the great, Or rich, the apers of their state, That simple, rude abode to see, Or claim its hospitality. III. From where the hermit's cottage stood, Beneath its huge old guardian tree, The gazer's wand'ring eye might see, Where, in its maze of field and wood, And stretching many a league away, A broad and smiling valley lay:-- Lay stilly calm, and sweetly fair, As if Death had not entered there; As if its flowers, so bright of bloom, Its birds, so gay of song and wing, Would never lose their soft perfume, Would never, never cease to sing. Fat flocks were in its glens at rest, Pure waters wandered o'er its breast, The sky was clear, the winds were still, Rich harvests grew on every hill, The sun in mid-day glory smiled, And nature slumbered as a child. IV. And now, their rustic banquet done, And sheltered from the noontide sun By the old willow's pleasant shade, The guest and host the scene surveyed; Marked how the mountain's mighty base The valley's course was seen to trace; Marked how its graceful azure crest Against the sky's blue arch was pressed, And how its long and rocky chain Was parted suddenly in twain, Where through a chasm, wide and deep, Potomac's rapid waters sweep, While rocks that press the mountain's brow, Nod o'er his waves far, far below;(1) Marked how those waves, in one broad blaze, Threw back the sun's meridian rays, And, flashing as they rolled along, Seemed all alive with light and song; Marked how green bower and garden showed Where rose the husbandman's abode, And how the village walls were seen To glimmer with a silvery sheen, Such as the Spaniard saw, of yore, Hang over Tenuchtitlan's walls, When maddened with the lust of gore, He came to desecrate her halls; To fire her temples, towers, and thrones, And turn her songs of peace to groans. They gazed, till from the hermit's eye A tear stole slow and silently; A tear, which Memory's hand had taken From a deep fountain long congealed; A tear, which showed how strongly shaken The heart must be, which thus revealed, Through time's dim shadows, gathering fast, Its recollections of the past; Then, as a sigh escaped his breast, Thus spake the hermit to his guest. V. "Thou seest how fair a scene is here; It seems as if 'twere planned above, And fashioned from some happier sphere, To be the home of peace and love. Yet man, too fond of strife, to dwell In meek contentment's calm repose, Will turn an Eden to a hell, And triumph in his brother's woes! And passion's lewd and lawless host, Delight to rave and revel most Where generous Nature stamps and strews Her fairest forms, and brightest hues: And Discord here has lit her brand, And Hatred nursed her savage brood, And stern Revenge, with crimson hand, Has written his foul deeds in blood. But those who loved and suffered then, Have given place to other men: Of all who live, to me alone The story, of their fate is known; Give heed, and I will tell it thee, Tho' mournful must the story be. VI. I mind as if 'twere yesterday, The hour when first I stood beside The margin of yon rushing tide, And watched its wild waves in their play; These locks that now are thin and gray, Then clustered thick and dark as thine, And few had strength of arm like mine. Thou seest how many a furrow now Time's hand hath ploughed athwart my brow: Well, then it was without a line;-- And I had other treasures too, Of which 'tis useless now to vaunt; Friends, who were kind, and warm, and true; A heart, that danger could not daunt; A soul, with wild dreams wildly stirred; And hope that had not been deferred. I cannot count how many years Have since gone by, but toil and tears, And the lone heart's deep agony, I feel have sadly altered me;-- Yet mourn I not the change, for those I loved or scorned, my friends or foes, Have fallen and faded, one by one, As time's swift current hurried by, Till I, of all my kith alone, Am left to wait, and wish to die. VII. How strong a hand hath Time! Man rears, And names his work immortal; years Go by. Behold! where dwelt his pride, Stern Desolation's brood abide; The owl within his bower sits, The lone bat through his chamber flits; Where bounded by the buoyant throng, With measured step, and choral song, The wily serpent winds along; While the Destroyer stalketh by, And smiles, as if in mockery. How strong a band hath Time! Love weaves His wreath of flowers and myrtle leaves, (Methinks his fittest crown would be A chaplet from the cypress tree;) With hope his breast is swelling high, And brightly beams his laughing eye; But soon his hopes are mixed with fears, And soon his smiles are quenched in tears: Then Disappointment's blighting breath Breathes o'er him, and he droops to death; While the Destroyer glideth by, And smiles, as if in mockery. How strong a hand hath Time! Fame wins The eager youth to her embrace; With tameless ardour he begins, And follows up the bootless race; Ah! bootless--for, as on he hies, With equal speed the phantom flies, Till youth, and strength, and vigour gone, He faints, and sinks, and dies unknown; While the Destroyer passeth by, And smiles, as if in mockery. Gaze, stranger, on the scene below; 'Tis scarce a century ago, Since here abode another race, The men of tomahawk and bow, The savage sons of war and chase; Yet where, ah! where, abide they now? Go search, and see if thou canst find, One trace which they have left behind, A single mound, or mossy grave, That holds the ashes of the brave; A single lettered stone to say That they have lived, and passed away. Men soon will cease to name their name, Oblivion soon will quench their fame, And the wild story of their fate, Will yet be subject of debate, 'Twixt antiquarians sage and able, Who doubt if it be truth or fable. VIII. I said I minded well the time, When first beside yon stream I stood; Then one interminable wood, In its unbounded breadth sublime, And in its loneliness profound, Spread like a leafy sea around. To one of foreign land and birth, Nursed 'mid the loveliest scenes of earth, But now from home and friends exiled, Such wilderness were doubly wild;-- I thought it so, and scarce could I My tears repress, when standing by The river's brink, I thought of mine Own native stream, the glorious Rhine! For, near to it, with loving eye, My mother watched my infancy; Along its banks my childhood strayed, With its strong waves my boyhood played. And I could see, in memory, still My father's cottage on the hill, With green vines trailing round and o'er Wall, roof and casement, porch and door: Yet soon I learned yon stream to bless, And love the wooded wilderness. I could not then have told thee how The change came o'er my heart, but now I know full well the charm that wrought, Into my soul, the spell of thought-- Of tender, pensive thought, which made Me love the forest's deepest shade, And listen, with delighted ear, To the low voice of waters near, As gliding, gushing, gurgling by, They utter their sweet minstrelsy. I scarce need give that _charm_ a name; Thy heart, I know, hath felt the same,-- Ah! where is mind, or heart, or soul, That has not bowed to its control? IX. See, where yon towering, rocky ledge, Hangs jutting o'er the river's edge, There channelled dark, and dull, and deep, The lazy, lagging waters sleep; Thence follow, with thine eagle sight, A double stone's cast to the right, Mark where a white-walled cottage stands, Devised and reared by cunning hands, A stately pile, and fair to see! The chisel's touch, and pencil's trace, Have blent for it a goodly grace; And yet, it much less pleaseth me, Than did the simple rustic cot, Which occupied of yore that spot. For, 'neath its humble shelter, grew The fairest flower that e'er drank dew; A lone exotic of the wood, The fairy of the solitude, Who dwelt amid its loneliness To brighten, beautify, and bless. The summer sky's serenest blue, Would best portray her eye's soft hue; From her white brow were backward rolled Long curls of mingled light and gold; The flush upon her cheek of snow, Had shamed the rose's harsher glow; And haughty love had, haughtier grown, To own her breast his fairest throne. The eye that once behold her, ne'er Could lose her image;--firm and bright, All-beautiful, and pure, and clear, 'Twas stamped upon th' enamoured sight; Unchangeable, for ever fair, Above decay, it lingered there! As it has lingered on mine own, These many years, till it has grown, In its mysterious strength, to be A portion of my soul and me. X. Not in the peopled solitude Of cities, does true love belong; For it is of A thoughtful mood, And thought abides not with the throng. Nor is it won by glittering wealth, By cunning, nor device of art, Unheralded, by silent stealth, It wins its way into the heart. And once the soul has known its dream, Thenceforth its empire is supreme, For heart, and brain, and soul, and will, Are bowed by its subduing thrill. My love, alas! not born to bless, Had birth in nature's loneliness; And held, at first, as a sweet spell, It grew in strength, till it became A spirit, which I could not quell,-- A quenchless--a volcanic flame, Which, without pause, or time of rest, Must burn for ever in my breast. Yet how ecstatically sweet, Was its first soft tumultuous beat! I little thought that beat could be The harbinger of misery; And daily, when the morning beam Dawned earliest on wood and stream, When, from each brake and bush were heard, The hum of bee, and chirp of bird, From these, earth's matin songs, my ear Would turn, a sweeter voice to hear-- A voice, whose tones the very air Seemed trembling with delight to bear; From leafy wood, and misty stream, From bush, and brake, and morning beam, Would turn away my wandering eye, A dearer object to descry, Till voice so sweet, and form so bright, Grew part of hearing and of sight. XI. Yet my fond love I never told, But kept it, as the miser keeps, In his rude hut, his hoarded heaps Of gleaming gems, and glittering gold: Gloating in secret o'er the prize, He fears to show to other eyes; And so passed many months away, Till once I heard a comrade say:-- "To-morrow brings her bridal day; Mazelli leaves the greenwood bower, Where she has grown its fairest flower, To bless, with her bright, sunny smile, A stranger from a distant isle, Whom love has lured across the sea, O'er hill and glen, through wood and wild, Far from his lordly home, to be Lord of the forest's fairest child." It was as when a thunder peal Bursts, crashing from a cloudless sky, It caused my brain and heart to reel And throb, with speechless agony: Yet, when wild Passion's trance was o'er, And Thought resumed her sway once more, I breathed a prayer that she might be Saved from the pangs that tortured me; That her young heart might never prove The sting of unrequited love. My task I then again began, But ah! how much an altered man,-- A single hour, a few hot tears, Had done the wasting work of years. XII. Nor was it I alone, to whom Those words had been as words of doom, By some malicious fiend rehearsed: Another one was standing by, With princely port, and piercing eye, Of dusky cheek, and brow, and plume; I thought his heaving heart would burst, His labouring bosom's heave and swell, So strongly, quickly, rose and fell! A long, bright blade hung at his side, Its keen and glittering edge he tried; He bore a bow, and this he drew, To see if still its spring were true; But other sign could none be caught, Of what he suffered, felt, or thought. And then with firm and haughty stride, He turned away, and left my side; I watched him, as with rapid tread, Along the river's marge he sped, Till the still twilight's gathering gloom Hid haughty form, and waving plume. Canto II. I. He stood where the mountain moss outspread Its smoothness beneath his dusky foot; The chestnut boughs above his head, Hung motionless and mute. There came not a voice from the wooded hill, Nor a sound from the shadowy glen, Save the plaintive song of the whip-poor-will,(2) And the waterfall's dash, and now and then, The night-bird's mournful cry. Deep silence hung round him; the misty light Of the young moon silvered the brow of Night, Whose quiet spirit had flung her spell O'er the valley's depth, and the mountain's height, And breathed on the air, till its gentle swell Arose on the ear like some loved one's call; And the wide blue sky spread over all Its starry canopy. And he seemed as the spirit of some chief, Whose grave could not give him rest; So deep was the settled hue of grief, On his manly front impressed: Yet his lips were compressed with a proud disdain, And his port was erect and high, Like the lips of a martyr who mocks at pain, As the port of a hero who scorns to fly, When his men have failed in fight; Who rather a thousand deaths would die, Than his fame should suffer blight. II. And who by kith, and who by name, Is he, that lone, yet haughty one? By his high brow, and eye of flame, I guess him old Ottalli's son. Ottalli! whose proud name was here In other times, a sound of fear! The fleet of foot, and strong of hand, Chief of his tribe, lord of the land, The forest child, of mind and soul Too wild and free to brook control! In chase was none so swift as he, In battle none so brave and strong; To friends, all love and constancy,-- But we to those who wrought him wrong! His arm would wage avenging strife, With bow, and spear, and bloody knife, Till he had taught his foes to feel, How true his aim, how keen his steel. Now others hold the sway he held,-- His day and power have passed away; His goodly forests all are felled, And songs of mirth rise, clear and gay, Chaunted by youthful voices, where His battle-hymn once filled the air-- Where blazed the lurid council fire, The village church erects its spire; And where the mystic war-dance rang, With its confused, discordant clang, While stern, fierce lips, with many a cry For blood and vengeance, filled the sky, Mild Mercy, gentle as the dove, Proclaims her rule of peace and love. And of his true and faithful clan, Of child and matron, maid and man, Of all he loved, survives but one-- His earliest, and his only son! That son's sole heritage his fame, His strength, his likeness, and his name. III. And thus from varying year to year, The youthful chief has lingered here; Chief!--why is he so nobly named? How many warriors at his call, By Arcouski's breath inflamed, Would with him fight, and for him fall? Of all his father's warrior throng, Remains not one whose lip could now Rehearse with him the battle song, Whose hand could bend the hostile bow. And yet, no weak, complaining word, From his stern lip is ever heard; And his bright eye, so black and clear, Is never moistened by a tear; Of quiet mien, and mournful mood, He lives, a stoic of the wood; Gliding about from place to place, With noiseless step, and steady pace, Haunting each fountain, glen, and grot, Like the lone Genius of the spot. IV. And this was he who, standing there, Seemed as an image of Despair, Which agony's convulsive strife, Had quickened into breathing life. The writhing lip, the brow all wet With Pain's cold, clammy, deathlike sweat; The hand, that with unconscious clasp, Strained his keen dagger in its grasp; The eye, that lightened with the blaze Of frenzied Passion's maniac gaze; The nervous, shuddering thrill, which came At intervals along his frame; The tremulously heaving breast,-- These signs the inward storm confessed: Yet, through those signs of wo, there broke Flashes of fearless thought, which spoke A soul within, whose haughty will Would wrestle with immortal ill, And only quit the strife, when fate Its being should annihilate. Silent he stood, until the breeze Bore from his lips some words like these. V. "The words I speak are no complaint And if I breathe out my despair, It is not that my heart grows faint, Or shrinks from what 'tis doomed to bear. Though every sorrow which may shake Or rend man's heart, should pierce my own, Their strength united, should not make My lip breathe one complaining tone. If I must suffer, it shall be With a firm heart, a soul elate, A wordless scorn, which silently Shall mock the stern decrees of fate. The weak might bend, the timid shrink, Until misfortune's storm blew by, But I, a chieftain's son, should drink Its proffered cup without a sigh. And it will scarcely, to my lip, Seem harsher than yon fountain's flow, For I have held companionship With Misery, from my youth till now-- Have felt, by turns, each pang, each care, Her hapless sons are doomed, to bear;-- I caught my mother's parting breath, When passed she to the spirit land; And from the fatal field of death, Where, leading on his fearless band, With fiery and resistless might, He fell, though victor in the fight, Pierced by the arrow of some foe, I saw my father's spirit go. And I have seen his warrior men, From mountain, valley, hill, and glen, Departing one by one, since then, As from the dry and withered spray, The wilted leaves are blown away, Upon some windy autumn day: I, only I, am left to be The last leaf of the blighted tree, Which the first wind that through the sky Goes carelessly careering by, Will, in its wild, unheeded mirth, Rend from its hold, and dash to earth: Thus, here alone have I remained, An outcast, where I should have reigned. VI. "How shall I to myself alone, The weakness of my bosom own? Why, mindful of my fame and pride, When my brave brethren had died; Why, with my friendly, ready knife, Drew I not forth my useless life? Was it a coward fear of death, That bade me treasure up my breath? Or had life yet some genial ray, That wooed me in its warmth to stay? Had earth yet one whose smile could stir, My spirit with deep love for her? Yes, though within me hope was dead, And wild Ambition's dreams were fled; Though o'er my blighted heart, Despair Desponded, love still nestled there; Love! how the pale-faced scorner's lip Would sneer, to hear me name that name; Yet was it deep within my soul A secret but consuming flame; Whose overruling mastership, Defied slow Reason's dull control! And felt for one of that vile race, To whom my tribe had given place; Was nursed in silence and in shame! Shame, for the weakness of a heart, Yet bleeding from th' oppressor's blow, Which could bestow its better part Upon the offspring of a foe! They, the mean delvers of the soil, The wielders of the felling axe,-- Because we will not stoop to toil, Nor to its burdens bond our backs; Because we scorn Seduction's wiles, Her lying words and forged smiles, They, the foul slaves of lust and gold, Say that our blood and hearts are cold.(3) But ere the morrow's dawning light Has climbed yon eastern craggy height, One, whose fierce eye and haughty brow, Are lit with pride and pleasure now, Shall learn, at point of my true steel, How much the Red man's heart may feel,-- How fearlessly he strikes the foe, When love and vengeance prompt the blow! Though scorned by him, I know an art Could stop the beatings of his heart, Ere his own lips could say, 'Be still!' A single arrow from my bow, Bathed in the poisonous manchenille,(4) Would in an instant lay him low; So deadly is the icy chill, With which the life-blood it congeals, The wounded warrior scarcely feels Its fatal touch ere he expire: But, when Revenge would glut his ire, He stops not with immediate death The current of his victim's breath; With gasp, and intervening pause, The lifeblood from its source he draws, Marks, in the crimson stream that flows, How near life verges to its close,-- And its last soul-exhaling groan, To him is music's sweetest tone! And he, whose fate it is to die, Ere Morning's banner flouts the sky, The eye shall see, the arm shall know, That guides and deals th' avenging blow; And ere his spirit goes to rest, Right well his scornful heart shall learn, How fiercely, in a savage breast, The flames of love and hate may burn." He spake, and down the mountain's side, With quick, impatient step, he hied, Threading the forest's lonely gloom, A ruthless minister of doom. VII. 'Twas midnight; calmly slept the Earth, And the mysterious eyes above, Gazed down with chastened looks of love, Not, as when first they hymned her birth, With ardent songs of holy mirth, But mournfully serene and clear;-- As on some erring one we gaze, Whose feet have strayed from wisdom's ways, But who, in error, still is dear. Far o'er yon swiftly flowing stream Fair fell the young moon's silver beam, And gazing on its restless sheen, Stood one whose garb, and port, and mien, Bespoke him of a foreign land, One born to win, and hold command; The master mind, the leading one, Where deeds of manly might were done. Yet, by the hallowed glow, that came O'er lip and cheek, o'er eye and brow, He who beheld, might guess that now His thoughts were not of wealth and fame: Whence could that veiling radiance shine, Save from Affection's holy shrine? And this was he, who from afar, Had come to bear away his bride; And love had been the guiding star, That lit him o'er the trackless tide; "To-morrow, on its sunny wing, My bridal hour soon shall bring; And those bright orbs which o'er me shed Such gentle radiance from on high, Shall shine upon my nuptial bed, When next they walk along the sky. O! what are all the pomps of earth, Of honour, glory, greatness, worth, Beside the bliss which Love confers Upon his humblest followers!" He said, and from the river turned;-- An eye, that with fierce hatred burned, Met his, and this reply was made: "Thou, haughty one, shalt be a shade Ere dawns the coming morrow's sun." Then, ere the point he could evade, He felt the sharp steel pierce his breast, While he, who the foul deed had done Stood calmly by, and saw him sink In death, beside the water's brink, Saw, gush by gush, the crimson blood Pour out, and mingle with the flood; Then drew his dagger from its rest, And gazing on its fearful hue, Said, "Thou hast yet one task to do. He who, death-wounded, welters there, Came hither, o'er the deep to bear Far off from her paternal nest, The white dove I have watched so long. The falcon's wing was bold and strong, Yet thou hast stayed him in his flight; Strike one more blow, and thou to-night May'st rest;" then laid his bosom bare, And buried deep the dagger there, And by his victim's lifeless trunk, Without a sigh or groan he sunk. Canto III. I. With plumes to which the dewdrops cling, Wide waves the morn her golden wing; With countless variegated beams The empurpled orient glows and gleams; A gorgeous mass of crimson clouds The mountain's soaring summit shrouds; Along the wave the blue mist creeps, The towering forest trees are stirred By the low wind that o'er them sweeps, And with the matin song of bird, The hum of early bee is heard, Hailing with his shrill, tiny horn, The coming of the bright-eyed morn; And, with the day-beam's earliest dawn, Her couch the fair Mazelli quits, And gaily, fleetly as a fawn, Along the wildwood paths she flits, Hieing from leafy bower to bower, Culling from each its bud and flower, Of brightest hue and sweetest breath, To weave them in her bridal wreath. Now, pausing in her way, to hear The lay of some wild warbler near, Repaying him, in mocking tone, With music sweeter than his own; Now, o'er some crystal stream low bending, Her image in its waves to see, With its sweet, gurgled music blending, A song of tenfold melody; Now, chasing the gay butterfly, That o'er her pathway passed her by, With grace as careless, glee as wild, As though she were some thoughtless child; Now, seated on some wayside stone, With time's green, messy veil o'ergrown, In silent thoughtfulness, she seems To hold communion with her heart, Beguiling fancy with the dreams That from its Pure recesses start. II. There is a silent power, that o'er Our bosoms wields a wizard might, Restoring bygone years to light, With the same vivid glow they wore, Ere time had o'er their features cast The shadowy shroud that veils the past:-- To those who walk in wisdom's way, 'Tis welcome as an angel's smile; But those who from her counsels stray, Whose hearts are full of craft and guile, To them 'tis as a constant goad-- A weight that doubles Sorrow's load,-- A silent searcher of the breast, Which will not let the guilty rest. In childhood's pleasant-season born, It haunts us in all after time; From youth's serene and sunny morn To manhood's stern meridian prime. From manhood, till the weight of years, And life's dull constant toil, and tears, And passion's ever raging storm, Have dimmed the eye and bowed the form. True, youth, of hope and love possessed, By friends--youth has no foes--caressed, Finds in the present--happy boy!-- Enough of gaiety and joy; And man, whose visionary brain Begets that idle phantom train Of shadows--Power, Wealth, and Fame,-- A scourge--a bubble--and a name-- So often and so vainly sought-- Has little time for peaceful thought; And so they turn not back to gaze, Where faithful memory displays Her record of departed days; But oh! how loves the eye of age, To move along its pictured page, To scan and number, o'er and o'er, The joys that may return no more; The hopes that, blighted in their bloom, By disappointment's chilly gloom, Were given sadly to the tomb; The loves so wildly once enjoyed, By time's unsparing hand destroyed; The bright imaginative dreams, Portrayed by restless fancy's beams, By restless fancy's beams portrayed, Alas! but to delude and fade! To count these o'er and o'er again Is age's sole resort from pain. Then, stranger, marvel not that I Have claimed so long thy listening ear; I could not pass in silence by Themes to my memory so dear, As those which make my story's close-- Mazelli's love, Mazelli's woes. III. Ascending from the golden east, The sun had gained his zenith height, The guests were gathered to the feast, Prepared to grace the marriage rite; The youthful and the old were there, The rustic swain and bashful fair; The aged, reverend and gray, Yet hale, and garrulous, and gay, Each told, to while the time away, Some tale of his own wedding day; The youthful, timorous and shy, Spoke less with lip than tell-tale eye, That, in its stolen glances, sends The language Love best, comprehends. The noontide hour goes by, and yet The bridegroom tarries--why? and where? Sure he could not his vows forget, When she who loves him is so fair! And then his honour, faith, and pride, Had bound him to a meaner bride, If once his promise had been given; But she, so pure, so far above The common forms of earthly mould, So like the incarnate shapes of love, Conceived, and born, and nursed in heaven, His love for her could ne'er grow cold! And yet he comes not. Half way now, From where, at his meridian height, He pours his fullest, warmest light, To where, at eve, in his decline, The day-god sinks into the brine, When his diurnal task is done, Descends his ever burning throne, And still the bridegroom is not, there-- Say, why yet tarries he, and where? IV. Within an arbour, rudely reared, But to the maiden's heart endeared By every tie that binds the heart, By hope's, and love's, and memory's art,-- For it was here he first poured out In words, the love she could not doubt,-- Mazelli silent sits apart. Did ever dreaming devotee, Whose restless fancy, fond and warm, Shapes out the bright ideal form To which he meekly bends the knee, Conceive of aught so fair as she? The holiest seraph of the sphere Most holy, if by chance led here, Might drink such light from those soft eyes, That he would hold them far more dear Than all the treasures of the skies. Yet o'er her bright and beauteous brow Shade after shade is passing now, Like clouds across the pale moon glancing, As thought on rapid thought advancing, Thrills through the maiden's trembling breast, Not doubting, and yet not at rest. Not doubting! Man may turn away And scoff at shrines, where yesterday He knelt, in earnest faith, to pray, And wealth may lose its charm for him, And fame's alluring star grow dim, Devotion, avarice, glory, all The pageantries of earth may pall; But love is of a higher birth Than these, the earth-born things of earth,-- A spark from the eternal flame, Like it, eternally the same, It is not subject to the breath Of chance or change, of life or death. And so doubt has no power to blight Its bloom, or quench its deathless light,-- A deathless light, a peerless bloom, That beams and glows beyond the tomb! Go tell the trusting devotee, His worship is idolatry; Say to the searcher after gold, The prize he seeks is dull and cold; Assure the toiler after fame, That, won, 'tis but a worthless name, A mocking shade, a phantasy,-- And they, perchance, may list to thee; But say not to the trusting maid, Her love is scorned, her faith betrayed,-- As soon thy words may lull the gale, As gain her credence to the tale! And still the bridegroom is not there-- Oh! why yet tarries he, and where? V. It was the holy vesper hour, The time for rest, and peace, and prayer, When falls the dew, and folds the flower Its petals, delicate and fair, Against the chilly evening air; And yet the bridegroom was not there. The guests, who lingered through the day, Had glided, one by one, away, And then, with pale and pensive ray, The moon began to climb the sky, As from the forest, dim and green, A small and silent band was seen Emerging slow and solemnly; With cautious step, and measured tread, They moved as those who bear the dead; And by no lip a word was spoke, Nor other sound the silence broke, Save when, low, musical, and clear, The voice of waters passing near, Was softly wafted to the ear, And the cool, fanning twilight breeze, That lightly shook the forest trees, And crept from leaf to trembling leaf, Sighed, like to one oppressed with grief. Why move they with such cautious care? What precious burden do they bear? Hush, questioner! the dead are there;-- The victim of revenge and hate, Of fierce Ottali's fiery pride, With that stern minister of fate, As cold and lifeless by his side. VI. Still onward, solemnly and slow, And speaking not a word, they go, Till pausing in their way before Mazelli's quiet cottage door, They gently lay their burden down. Whence comes that shriek of wild despair That rises wildly on the air? Whose is the arm so fondly thrown Around the cold, unconscious clay, That cannot its caress repay? Such wordless wo was in that cry, Such pain, such hopeless agony, No soul, excluded from the sky, Whom unrelenting justice hath Condemned to bear the second death, E'er breathed upon the troubled gale A wilder or a sadder wail;-- It rose, all other sounds above, The dirge of peace, and hope, and love! VII. And day on weary day went by, And like the drooping autumn leaf, She faded slow and silently, In her deep, uncomplaining grief; For, sick of life's vacuity, She neither sought nor wished relief. And daily from her cheek, the glow Departed, and her virgin brow Was curtained with a mournful gloom,-- A shade prophetic, of the tomb; And her clear eyes, so blue and bright, Shot forth a keen, unearthly light, As if the soul that in them lay, Were weary of its garb of clay, And prayed to pass from earth away; Nor was that prayer vain, for ere The frozen monarch of the year, Had blighted, with his icy breath, A single bud in summer's wreath, They shrouded her, and made her grave, And laid her down at Lodolph's side; And by the wide Potomac's wave, Repose the bridegroom and the bride. 'Tis said, that, oft at summer midnight, there, When all is hushed and voiceless, and the air, Sweet, soothing minstrel of the viewless hand, Swells rippling through the aged trees, that stand With their broad boughs above the wave depending, With the low gurgle of the waters blending The rustle of their foliage, a light boat, Bearing two shadowy forms, is seen to float Adown the stream, without or oar or sail, To break the wave, or catch the driving gale; Smoothly and steadily its course is steered, Until the shadow of yon cliff is neared, And then, as if some barrier, hid below The river's breast, had caught its gliding prow, Awhile, uncertain, o'er its watery bed, It hangs, then vanishes, and in its stead, A wan, pale light burns dimly o'er the wave That rolls and ripples by Mazelli's grave. Notes To Mazelli Note 1. "And how its long and rocky chain Was parted suddenly in twain, Where through a chasm, wide and deep, Potomac's rapid waters sweep, While rocks that press the mountain's brow Nod O'er his waves far, far below." "The passage of the Potomac, through the Blue Ridge, is perhaps, one of the most stupendous scenes in nature. You stand on a very high point of land. On your right comes up the Shenandoah, having ranged along the foot of the mountain a hundred miles to seek a vent. On your left approaches the Potomac, seeking a vent also. In the moment of their junction, they rush together against the mountain, rend it asunder, and pass off to the sea. "The first glance at this scene hurries our senses into the opinion that this earth has been created in time; that the mountains were formed first; that the rivers began to flow afterwards; that, in this place particularly, they have been dammed up by the Blue Ridge Mountains, and have formed an ocean which filled the whole valley; that, continuing to rise, they have at length broken over at this spot, and have torn the mountain down from its summit to its base. "The piles of reckon each hand, but particularly on the Shenandoah, the evident marks of their disrupture and avulsion from their beds by the most powerful agents of nature, corroborate the impression. But the distant finishing which nature has given to this picture, is of a very different character. It is a true contrast to the foreground. It is as Placid and delightful as that is wild and tremendous. "For, the mountain being cloven asunder, she presents to the eye, through the cleft, a small catch of smooth blue horizon, at an infinite distance in the plain country, inviting you, as it were, from the riot and tumult roaring around, to pass through the breach, and participate of the calm below."--Jefferson's Notes on Virginia. Note 2. "Save the plaintive song of the whip-poor-will." That the Indian mind and language are not devoid of poetry, the names they have given to this bird (the whip-poor-will) sufficiently evidence. Some call it the "Muckawis," others the "Wish-ton-wish," signifying "the voice of a sigh," and "the plaint for the lost." Those, who in its native glens at twilight, have listened to its indescribably melancholy song, will know how beautifully appropriate these names are. Note 3. "They, the foul slaves' of lust and gold, Say that our blood and hearts are cold." It has been advanced by some writers, that the almost miraculous fortitude often displayed by Indians, under the most intense suffering, is to be accounted for by their insensibility to pain, resulting, they allege, from a defective nervous organization. From the absence of a display of gallantry and tenderness between the sexes, they argue also, in them, the nonexistence of love, and its kindred passions. This we think unjust, as it robs them of the honours of a system of education, which is life-long, and whose sole object is to attain the mastery of all feeling, physical or mental. The view taken of this subject by Robertson, in his History of America, to us, seems most accordant with truth. He says: "The amazing steadiness with which the Americans endure the most exquisite torments, has induced some authors to suppose that, from the peculiar feebleness of their frame, their sensibility is not so acute as that of other people; as women, and persons of a relaxed habit, are observed to be robust men, whose nerves are more firmly braced. But the constitution of the Americans is not so different in its texture, from that of the rest of the human species, as to account for this diversity in their behaviour. It flows from a principle of honour, instilled early and cultivated with such care, as to inspire him in his rudest state with a heroic magnanimity, to which philosophy hath endeavoured in vain to form him, when more highly improved and polished. This invincible constancy he has been taught to consider as the chief distinction of a man, and the highest attainment of a warrior. The ideas which influence his conduct, and the passions which take possession of his heart, are few. They operate of course with more decisive effect, than when the mind is crowded with a multiplicity of objects, or distracted by the variety of its pursuits; and when every motive that acts with any force in forming the sentiments of a savage, prompts him to suffer with dignity, he will bear what might seem impossible for human patience to sustain. But whenever the fortitude of the Americans is not roused to exertion by their ideas of honour, their feelings of pain are the same with those of the rest of mankind." Note 4. "Bathed in the poisonous manchenille." The slightest wound from an arrow dipped in the juice of the Manchenille, causes certain and speedy death. "If they only pierce the skin, the blood fixes and congeals in a moment, and the strongest animal falls motionless to the ground."--Robertson's America. S. L. Sawtelle. Dear Sir: To you, who have given me friendship in adversity, counsel in perplexity, and hope in despondency, permit me, as an expression of my deep and lasting gratitude, to inscribe the "Misanthrope." With sentiments of the highest respect, Your obt. servt., George W. Sands. Frederick City, September 1849. Dramatis Personae. Werner--Misanthrope. Manuel--a cottager. Albert--his son. Rebecca--wife to Manuel. Rose--his daughter. Spirits. An aerial chorus. THE MISANTHROPE RECLAIMED A Dramatic Poem ACT I. A fountain near the summit of a mountain, from which, through a deep glen, a stream descends to the valley below. A city seen in the distance. Time, midnight. Werner standing near the fountain. Werner (solus). Eternal rocks and hills! Mighty and vast; and you, ye giant oaks, Whose massy branches have for centuries Played with the breeze and battled with the storm, He, who so oft has trod your rugged paths, And laid him down beneath your shades to rest, Returns to be your dweller once again. I sooner far would make your wilds my home, With nought but your rude eaves to shield me from The winter's cold or summer's heat, than be One of the hundred thousand human flies That swarm within yon filthy city's walls. Here, I at least may live in solitude, Free from a forced communion with a race, Whose presence makes me feel that I am bound, By nature, to the thing I loathe the most, Earth's stateliest, proudest, meanest reptile, man! The beauty of a god adorns his form, The foulness of a fiend is in his heart; The viper's, or the scorpion's filthy nest Nurses a far less deadly, poisonous brood Than are the hellish lusts, the avarice,-- The pride--the hate--the double-faced deceits-- That make his breast their dwelling. If he be not beneath hell's wish to damn, Too lost for even fiends to meddle with, How must they laugh to hear him, in his pride, Baptize his vices, virtues; making use Of holy names to designate his crimes; Giving his lust the sacred name of love; Calling his avarice a goodly sin, Care for his household; naming his deceit Praiseworthy caution; boasting of his hate, When he no more can cloak it, as a proof Of strength of mind and honesty of heart. For all of goodness that remains on earth, The name of virtue might be banished from it. Fathers, who waste in shameful riotings The bread for which their children cry at home; Mothers, who put aside th' unconscious babe That they may wrong its father; children, who Grow old in crime ere they have spent their youth; These are its habitants. I cannot brook the thought, that I belong To their vile race. My sufferings have been great, And keen enough to prove my immortality; For dust could not have borne what I have suffered. My mind has pierced far, far beyond the length Of mortal vision, and discovered things Of which men scarcely dream, and paid in pain, The price of what it learned and bought with pangs By which a thousand ages were compressed Into one hour of agony: a power Which is a terror to possess, and yet This one thought only irks me. Methinks the peaceful earth will scarcely give My dust a resting-place within its bosom, But cast it forth as if too vile, to mingle With clay that ne'er has been the slave of sin. What! other watchers here at this lone hour? [An evil spirit enters, singing. The world is half hidden, By midnight's dark shadow; The filly, witch-ridden, Skims over the meadow; The house-dog is barking, The night-owl is hooting, The glow-worm is sparkling, The meteor is shooting; And forms, which lie So stiff and still, In their shrouds so chill, Through the live-long day, Now burst their clay, And flit through the sky, On their dusky pinions: Hell's dominions Keep holiday. Sisters, sisters, wherever your watches Are kept, fleet hither to me, Fleet hither, fleet hither, and leave earth's wretches Alone to their misery. [A chorus of evil spirits answer as they enter from different parts of the mountain. We come! Vice needs no assistance, She meets no resistance, Virtue's existence Is only in name; Drinking and eating, Intriguing and cheating, Carousing, completing Their ruin and shame; Old age unrepenting, Manhood unrelenting, Youth sighing and winning, Deceiving and sinning, Deserting, repining, All men are the same. Ho! ho! Earth quakes with the weight of the anguish she bears, Her plains and her valleys are deluged with tears, And her sighs, if united, were deeper by far, Than the thunderbolt's peal, when the clouds are at war. There is, not a bosom, that bears not within Its chambers, the blot and the burden of sin; Not a mind, but in many an hour bath felt The curse of its nature, the pangs of its guilt. These earth-worms! whose sire would have had us to bow To his dust-moulded Godship! what--what are they now? In the scale of true goodness, they sink far below The poor, patient ox, that they yoke to the plough. Let them revel awhile, in the false glaring light Of deception, that blindness but seems to make bright; Let them gather awhile of time's perishing flowers; The revenge of eternity! This shall be ours! Ho! ho! [They settle near the fountain. The first Spirit addresses them. The night is advancing, Come, let us, dancing In dewy circles deftly tread; And while we dance round, New schemes shall be found, To ruin the living, and trouble the dead. [They form a circle on the margin of the stream, and dance round singing. I. Life is but a fleeting day, Half of which man dreams away; Night! we follow in thy train-- Sleep! supreme o'er thee we reign; Ours the dreams that come when thou Sit'st upon the unconscious brow; Reason then deserts her throne, We then reign, and we alone. II. Then seek we, for the maiden's pillow, Far beyond the Atlantic's billow, Love's apple, and when we have found it, Draw the magic circle round it;(1) Fearless pluck it, then no charm That it bears may do us harm; Place it near the sleeper's head, It will bring love's visions nigh, And when the pleasing, dreams are fled, The waking, pensive maid will sigh, Till her bosom has possessed, The form that made her dreams so blest. And when a maiden finds a lover, Her happy days are nearly over: Nature hath unchaste desires, Love awakes her slumbering fires, And the bosom that is true in Love is ever near its ruin; Passion's pleading melts the frost Of chilliest hearts, and all is lost: For, once vice blots a maiden's name, She soon forgets her maiden shame. III. Haunt the debauchee with dreams, Of the victim of his schemes; Paint her with dishevelled hair, Streaming eyes, and bosom bare, And with aspect pale and sad, As a spectre's from the dead, Weeping o'er her new-born, child, Her name reproached, her fame despoiled: Let her groanings reach his ear, Pierce his heart, and rouse his fear Of the retribution given, To such deeds as his, by Heaven. IV. Around the drunkard's tattered couch, Let pale-faced want and misery crouch, His children shivering o'er the hearth, Cheered by no sound of social mirth, Upbraiding, with their timid glances, The author of their sad mischances; And she to whom the holy vow Of the altar bound him, now With sunken eye, and beauty faded, Tresses silvered, brow o'ershaded, Clinging to him fondly still, With a love that mocks each ill, Which would vainly strive to tear Her soul from one who once was dear. Now haste we, each our task to do, Ere the starry hours wane through! [They fly off, singing as they disappear. Ere the Morning's rosy wing, Has brushed the damp night-shades away, Ere the birds their matins sing, Choiring to the new-born day, Though its bright birth-hour be near, Many a sigh, and many a tear, Shall attest the mystic might, Of those who walk the world by night. Werner (solus). The ruin of the living! if that be Your only task, you have a poor employ. Give man his three score years, and he will make A wreck, the skill of hell might show forth as A sample of its handiwork, and then, Exult at the completeness of its ruin. The troubling of the dead!--if memory lives In that far world, to which the spirit hastens, When she casts off the clay that clogs her wings, E'en there ye are forestalled, for man will need No curse, to make his second life a hell, If be retains the memory of his first. Had the clear waters of this gurgling brook, The pow'r to wash time's blots from th' mind's page, And all earth's mountains were compact of gold, Her rivers nectar, and her oceans wine, Her hills all fruitful, and her valleys fresh, And full of loveliness as Eden was, Ere sin's sad blight fell on its living bow'rs, And all were mine, I'd give them but to lay My weary limbs along this streamlet's bed, And sleep in full forgetfulness awhile. But, I forget my task--now let me to it! [He takes a vial from his bosom, and flings its contents into the air, chanting, Spirit Wherever be thy home, In earth or air, My message hear, And fear it. By the power which I have earned, To which thy knee has knelt, By the spell which I have learned, A spell which thou, hast felt, I bid thee hither come! [A white cloud appears in the distance, floating up the glen, and a voice is heard, singing as it approaches, I. I saw from port a vessel steer, The skies were clear, the winds were fair, More swiftly than the hunted deer, Upon her snowy wings of air, She flew along the silv'ry water, As fearlessly as if some sprite, Familiar with the deep, had taught her, A spell by which to rule the might Of winds and waves, when met to try Their strength, up midway in the sky. II. Along her trackless watery way, With unabated speed she flew, Still gay and careless, till the day Waned past: night came: the heavens grew Black, dread and threat'ning. Then the storm Came forth in its devouring wrath; Before it fled Fear's pallid form; Destruction followed in its path; It passed: the morning came: in vain, I look for that lost bark again. III. Far down beneath the deep blue waves, Within some merman's coral hall, Her fated crew have found their graves; Above them, for their burial pall, The mermaids spread their flowing tresses; The waters chant their requiem; From many an eyelid, Pity presses Her tender, dewy tears for them: The natives of the ocean weep, To view them sleeping death's pale sleep. IV. Thou, mortal, wast the bark I saw; The waters, were the sea of life; And thou, alas! too well dost know, What storms were imaged in the strife Of winds and waves. The hopes of youth, Thou, in that bark's lost crew, may'st see,-- All buried now within that smooth, Vast, boundless deep,--eternity:-- And I, a spirit though I be, Can pity still, and weep for thee. [The cloud settles near the fountain, and, unclosing, discovers a beautiful form looking steadily at Werner. WERNER (addressing it). How beautiful! If intercourse between all living worlds, Had not been barr'd by Him who gave them life, I should believe thou wert the guardian spirit, Of that which men have named the Queen of Night. Like her, thou art majestic, pale and sad, And of a tender beauty: those bright curls That press thy brow, and cling about thy neck, Seem made of sunbeams, caught upon their way To earth, by some creative hand, and woven Into a fairy web, of light and life, Conscious of its high source, and proud to be A part of aught so beautiful as thou. I have seen many full, bright mortal eyes, That were a labyrinth of witching charms, In which the heart of him who looked was lost; But none like thine; their light is not of earth; Their loveliness not like what man calls lovely. Beside the smoothness of thy brow and cheek, The lily's lip were rough; each of thy limbs, Is, in itself, a being and a beauty. If that the orb thou didst inhabit, ere Thou wert a portion of eternity, Was worthy of such dwellers, oh! how fair And glorious, must have been its fields and bow'rs! How clear its streams! how pure and fresh its airs! How mellow were its fruits! how bright its flow'rs! How strong and brave the beings, fit to share It with thee! 'Tis most strange that He, whose hand Fashions such wondrous things, should take delight In striking them to nothingness again! Perchance the author of all evil had Invaded it, and made it quite unfit To be a part of God's great universe. And yet thou lookest as if thou wert beyond The power of temptation to assail. Hast thou too sinned? Spirit. I have lived as thou livest, died as thou Wilt have to die, and am what thou shalt be. Werner I have not questioned thee of life or death, Nor of the state which shall succeed them both; I care not for the first, nor fear the second; The last I leave to Him who gave to man Eternity for his inheritance. But I would know if the unceasing war, Which good and evil wage upon the earth, Has reached beyond, its confines. Spirit. Have I not answered thee? The Begetter of worlds, stars, suns, and systems! The Father of Creation! the Bridegroom Of the Spirit! hath He not written that Death has dominion only over sin? And thou would'st know if other worlds have felt The curse that fell upon, and blighted thine. Poor simple child of clay! no doubt thou know'st The story of the Eden of thy sire, And think'st that there, in its fresh, stainless breast, The baleful seeds of evil first were sown, Which since have spread so fearfully abroad,-- When the sad doom, that came on him and his, Was but the spray, cast from the wave of fate, Which just then reached thy newly finished orb. Where it first started--whither tends its course-- Where it shall stop--how many wrecks of worlds-- Once fairer far than thine was at its birth-- Shall strew its desolate way,--is not for things Brought forth from dust to know. What wouldst thou of me? Werner. The sole remaining good, if good it be, That yet is mine to share. I have tried all That earthly hope holds out to satisfy The longings of man's nature. I have loved, And made an idol of the thing I loved, And worshipped it with all my soul's intensity; And, for awhile, the frenzy of my dream Shut out all other thoughts. But it was short; Death plucked my lovely flower from my grasp, And then, the icy chill of desolation Came, like a snowy avalanche, upon My heart, and froze the fountains of its feeling. I was ambitious. I have striven for, And worn, the gaudiest wreath of fame, and when I would have placed it on my brow, it grew A mountain in its weight. I courted much The notice of the world, and when men praised, The very breath that bore their praise to me, Seemed clogged with pestilence. Wealth, too, I coveted, And heaped its shining dust in hoards around me, And yet it was but dust, as barren of Enjoyment as the ground we tread upon. I clad myself in purple--heaped my board With all the fairest, sweetest fruits of earth, And filled my golden goblets with bright juice, Pressed from the goodliest grapes, and made my couch Of down, and yet, I was most wretched still. My garments were but cumbersome; my couch Could give no rest, and e'en my generous wines Could not remove the crushing weight that sat, Nightmare-like, on my heart, until it grew A palpable and keenly aching pang. There is, one path which yet remains untrod; To be my guide in it, I called thee hither,-- 'Tis that of knowledge. Spirit. The same In which the mother of thy race was lost, With e'en a wiser, mightier guide than I. She thirsted, too, for knowledge, and she gave Her innocence--her home in Paradise-- The happiness of him--who shared her lot-- To know--what? That her own rebellious hand Had raised the flood-gates of a sea of crime, Which would for ever pour its bitter waves Upon the helpless unprotected race, Which her rash deed had ruined. Think of the sighs--the groans--the floods of tears-- The woes--too deep for these--which have no end, Save but in heart-breaks! Think upon the toil-- The sweat--the pain--the strife--the crime--the blood-- The myriads of souls with which this one Sad lesson was obtained! whose price is yet Not fully paid, nor shall be so, until The last poor son of earth mingles with dust! Dost thou not fear to tread a path like this? Werner. I have no fear; It is so long since I have felt its thrill That 'twere a pleasure now to feel it. Spirit. What wouldst thou know? Thou art familiar with all earthly lore. More: Thou hast gained, and wield'st a power, to which The rulers of the elements do bow; The hurricane, at thy command goes forth, Walking where'er thou bid'st it, and the storm Ceases to howl when thou hast said,--"Be still!" Thine anger stirs the ocean, and thy wrath Finds out the deep foundations of the mountains, And shakes them with its strength; the subtle fire, That lights the tempest on its gloomy way, Starts from its cloud-rocked slumber, at thy call, To be thy messenger. Canst thou not be content when thou art feared By those who rule a world? What is there yet Which thy insatiate mind desires to know? Would'st learn immortal mysteries? Reflect Thou art but mortal. Werner. Spirit, why dost thou Taunt me with my mortality? "Weak things, Brought forth from earth,"--"Poor simple child of clay,"-- These are thy words, when well thou knows't that I, Though bound to earth by bonds made of its mire, Am mightier than thou. Were it not so, Thou would'st not now be face to face with one Of mortal birth. Thou, too, canst feel revenge, And knowest how to wreak it; but, take heed,-- The power which brought thee hither, can, and may Deal harshly with thee. If thou knowest aught Worthy of an immortal mind to know, To which I have not pierced, reveal thy knowledge. Spirit. We may not tell the secrets of eternity; But I can show thee things thou hast not seen, And they may profit thee, although 'twill shake Even thy proud heart to look upon them. Would'st see them? Werner. It is my wish. Spirit. Come then. Werner. Lead on; Although thy path be through hell's gloomy gate, I too will pass its portals at thy back. Thou canst not enter where I dare not pass. [The cloud closes around them, and moves away, and a voice sings as it disappears. To the region of shadow, The region of death, Where dust is a stranger, And life has no breath; Where darkness and silence Their dim shrouds have cast Round the phantoms of worlds That belong to the past; Spirits who sit on The thrones of the air, Guide ye our chariot, Waft ye us there. [Exeunt. ACT II. The verge of Creation. Enter Werner and Spirit. Werner. We have outtravelled light and sound: The harmonies that pealed around us, as Through yon array of dim and distant worlds We winged our flight, have wholly died away, Or come to us so faintly echoed, that Our ears must watch and wait to catch them. Those stars are now like watch-fires, which though seen Blazing afar, send not their light to make The path of the benighted wanderer More plain and cheerful. Before us stretches one vast field of gloom, So dense as to appear impenetrable:-- Darkness, that has a body and a form, Both palpable to touch and sight, across Our path a barrier rears that seems to bar Our farther progress. If there be, beyond This wall of blackness, aught of mystery, What power shall guide us to it? Spirit. Thy mind Which, from the influence of matter, free As it is now and shall be till again Though art returned unto thy native orb, Is its own master, and its will is now Its only needed guide. Strange things are hidden by that ebon veil, To which a single wish of thine may bear us. Werner. Then let us on: Since we our search for knowledge have begun, Wherever there is aught that Power has made, Which Time has ruined, or which Fate has damned, There let us go, that we may look on it, And learn its history. What intense glooms We now are passing through! I feel them part Before, and close behind us, as we fly, As plainly as the swimmer feels the waves That lave his gliding limbs. This sure must be The home of Death--no voice, no sound, no sigh, Not ev'n so much of breath as would suffice To make a lily tremble! Spirt. Though say'st true, This is indeed the realm of Death,--at least It has no more of life than what though hast Brought here with thee,--I speak of mortal life: We now are near the Hades of past worlds, Whose spirits have a life which cannot die. You laugh! and show the haughty arrogance Which in your mortal brethren you cotemn. Think you that he who gave to man his mind, The undying spark that quickens his clay frame, Would fashion from the same material Such mighty wonders as the spheres which go Hymning around his everlasting throne! Giving to them a beauty which alone Could be conceived by him, which has great hand Alone could mould into reality, And yet deny them what he gave to thee, Intelligence! a thing that knows not death? Hast though not seen thine earth put forth her leaves, Clothing her rugged mountain tops and sides, Her forests in the vale, each tree and shrub, With a fair foliage? hast though not beheld Her weaving, in the sunny springtide hours, A fairy web of emerald-bladed grass To robe her valleys in? With every flow'r Of graceful form, and soft and downy leaf, And tender hue, and tint, that Beauty owns, To deck her gentle breast? When Autumn came, With its rich gifts of pleasant, mellow fruits, Hast though not seen her wipe her sunburnt brow, And shake her yellow locks from every hill? Hast though not heard her holy songs of peace And plenty warbled from each vocal grove, And murmured by her myriads of streams? Hast though not seen her, when the hollow winds, Which moan the requiem of the dying year, Raved through her leafless bowers, wrap about Her breast a mantle, wherewith to protect And nurse the seed, the trusting husbandman Hath given to her keeping? Are thine acts As full of wisdom, and as free from blame? If not, then why deny to her the life And spirit you possess? Werner. I did not laugh In disbelief of what thy words declare, But they stir such strange thoughts within my mind, That, as I will not weep, I can but smile. Methinks the darkness has grown less profound,-- A heavy, dim, and shadowy light, like that Which, when the storm has chosen midnight's hour Of stilly gloom, to hold its revel in, First glimmers through the clouds which have been rent, And torn by their own fierceness, hands about us. The light increases still, and in the distance, Enormous shadows, wearing distinct shapes, Since seemingly immovable, and others Like mighty, mastless, sailless, vessels, moved By magic o'er a tideless, waveless ocean, In calm, majestic silence float along! Spirit. Let us go nearer, Now what seest though? Werner. Worlds like to that I live on, save that these Seem made of living shades instead of dust; Vast mountains, with tall trees and mighty rocks, And fountains, gushing from their very summits; Huge, towering cliffs, and deep and lonely glens, And wide-mouthed caves that hold a deeper gloom,-- With precipices from whose edges soft And silvery cataracts are leaping down; Swift streams, that rush adown their rugged sides, And quiet lakelets, that appear to sleep In the embrace of the surrounding hills; The cottage of the hardy hunter, perched High on the rocks, like to an eagle's nest: The shepherd's humble shieling, and his fold, And, half-way up, broad vineyards, with their vines Bending with purple clusters of ripe fruit;-- Wide valleys, with green meadows, and pure streams, And gentle hills, where ripening harvests stand; Majestic rivers, with their verdant banks Studded with towns, and rural villages; Motionless lakes, and seas without a wave, And oceans pulseless as a dead man's heart! And mighty cities, standing on their coasts, With vasty walls and gilded palaces, And giant tow'rs, and tapering spires, that seem The guardians of all they overlook. Churchyards, with their pale gravestones, that appear Like watchers of the dead whose names they bear! All these are there, but not a sign of life, No living thing that creeps along the ground, Or flies the air, or swims the wave, is seen. It seems as if on all things some strong spell Had in the twinkling of a star came down And rocked them to an everlasting sleep! Spirit! tell me if what I see is more Than a delusion; if it be, whence came These shades? Spirit. And have I not already said That these things are, that they are quick with life,-- Such life as disembodied spirits have,-- That they are deathless? Thou need'st not inquire Of me whence they are come, for thou hast seen One of their number on its journey hither. The period may not be far remote When thine own planet, starting from its sphere, Shall fright the dwellers of the stars that skirt Its destined pathway to these silent realms! Thou'st seen the comet rushing through the sky, And, gazing on the glowing track which it Had branded on the azure breast of space, Thinking thy words were wisdom, thou hast said, "When its full term of years has been fulfilled, It shall return again." Not knowing that The light thou sawest was reflected from That sacred fire, which, in the end, shall purge The spirit essence which pervades creation, From the dull dust with which a wayward fate Has clogged its being! Question me no more-- Remember what I said--I dare not tell The secrets of Eternity. Look on And learn whate'er thou canst. Werner. There is one thing which I at last have learned,-- To feel that with the increase of our knowledge Our sorrows must increase. I oft have heard, But never before have felt the truth of this. To know that were it not for this clay mask, I even now might pierce the shadowy veil That wraps in mystery the things I see, And comprehend their secret principle, Will make life doubly hard to bear, and tempt Me much to shake it prematurely off, And snatch wings for my spirit ere its time. A total ignorance were better than The flash which from its slumber wakes the mind, And then, departing, leaves it to itself, In the wide maze of error, darkly groping. Wisdom is not the medicine to heal A discontented mind. I now know more Than when I left the earth, but feel that I Have bought my knowledge with increase of sorrow. Spirit. Did I not tell thee that its path were steep, And hard to climb, and thick beset with thorns,-- And that its tempting, longed-for fruit, tho' bought With a great price, is full of bitterness? If though art satisfied, let us retrace Our way to earth again; wert thou to go Yet farther on, thou might'st regret the more Our coming hither. Werner. What! is there aught still more remote than these From the great centre of the universe,-- The fair domain of life and living things? Spirit. There is,-- A kingdom tenanted with such dark shapes, That angels shudder when they look on them! Thou surely dost not wish to visit it. Werner. Why not? There is within my mind a void Whose vacant weight is harder to be borne Than the keen stingings of more active pangs; When it has traced the mystic chain of being To its last link, it may perchance shake off The misery of restless discontent,-- Its fulness then may sink it into rest. Spirit. I have no power to disobey thy word; If thou wilt on, I must proceed with thee, Even though in looking on I share the pangs Of those who suffer. Werner. Come, then, I too must see them, tho' it cost Me years of pain to gaze but for a moment. Spirit. 'Twere harder now to find Eve's' buried dust, Than to declare who has inherited The largest portion of her prying spirit. (Sings.) Where Pain keepeth vigil With Sorrow and Care, And Horror sits watching By dull-eyed Despair,-- Where the Spirit accurst Maketh moan in its wo, Thy wishes direct us, And thither we go. [Exeunt. ACT III. Scene I. Near the place of the damned. Enter Werner and Spirit. Werner. What piercing, stunning sounds assail my ear! Wild shrieks and wrathful curses, groans and prayers, A chaos of all cries! making the space Through which they penetrate to flutter like The heart of a trapped hare,--are revelling round us. Unlike the gloomy realm we just have quitted, Silent and solemn, all is restless here, All wears the ashy hue of agony. Above us bends a black and starless vault, Which ever echoes back the fearful voices That rise from the abodes of wo beneath. Around us grim-browed desolation broods, While, far below, a sea of pale gray clouds, Like to an ocean tempest beaten, boils. Whither shall we direct our journey now? Spirit. Right down through yon abyss of boiling clouds, If though hast courage to attempt the plunge, Our pathless way must be. A moment more And we shall stand where angels seldom stand, And devils almost pity when they stand,-- Behold! Werner. Eternal God! Whose being, is of love, whose band is pow'r, Whose breath is life, whose noblest attribute,-- The one most worthy of thyself~-is mercy! Were these of thine immortal will conceived? Has thy hand shaped them out the forms they wear? Has thy breath made them quick with, breathing life? And is thy mercy to their wailings deaf? Poor creatures! I bad deemed that in my breast Grief had congealed the hidden fount of tears, But ye have drawn them from their frozen source And I do weep for you! Spirit. What moves thee thus? I thought thy heart so steeled in hardihood Of universal hate, and pride, and scorn, That even were the woes, which thou dost here Behold endured by others, heaped on thee, Thy haughty soul unmoved would feel them all; Accounting its development of strength To bear the worst decrees of ruthless fate, Sufficient recompense! Werner. Misdeem me not, If I have wept involuntary tears O'er pangs beyond my pow'r to mitigate, Believe me, 'twas in pity, not in fear. But tell me, Spirit! is all hope extinct In those who here sojourn, or do they look Yet forward to some blest millennial day, Which shall redeem them from this horrid place. Spirit. Best ask your theologians that question. Some say that there are places purgatorial, Where Error pays the price of her transgressions In sufferings that efface the effects of sin. And other some declare that when the soul And clay are parted, heaven seals the doom Of both, beyond repeal. Let thy own mind Sit arbiter 'twixt these, and choose the truth. Mark what approaches us, and mark it well. Werner. I cannot turn my gaze from it, and yet It makes the warm blood curdle in my veins. Than it, hell cannot hold a fouler form-- A thing of more unholy loathsomeness! Its heavy eyes are dim and bleared with blood, Its jaws, by strong convulsions fiercely worked, Are clogged and clotted with mixed gore and foam! A nauseous stench its filthy shape exhales, And through its heaving bosom you may mark The constant preying of a quenchless flame That gnaws its heartstrings! while a harsh quick moan Of mingled wrath, and madness, and despair, Perpetually issues from its lips;-- And with unequal but unceasing steps, It chases through the hot, sulphureous gloom, A mocking phantom,--fair as it is foul! With naked arms, white breast, and ebon locks, And big black eyes that dart the humid flame Which sets the heart ablaze; and red moist lips, And checks as spotless as the falling flake Ere it has touched the earth, and supple form Wherein is knit each grace of womanhood In its perfection! and with wanton looks That speak the burning language of desire, It seems to woo its loathsome follower,-- Yet ever from his foul embraces flies. And on his brow his name is written, "Lust!" Dismiss the spectre, for it blasts my sight, And sears my brain with its dark hideousness! Spirit. 'Tis gone; look up and see what next appears. Werner. A frame which may be that of Hercules, It hath such giant members! and its port Is martial as e'er marked a Caesar's moving. Its sandals are of brass, its massive brow Is helmeted in steel, and in its hand It bears a sword with which, in idle strokes, It vainly beats the unresisting air, As if in battle with some phantom foe; And at each blow it deals, a strong fatality Turns back its sword's keen point on its own breast, Which deep it gashes,--then in mournful tone, It mutters o'er and o'er again these words,-- "I fought for fame and won unending wo." His agonies seem like himself, immortal. Spirit. Justice is blameless of his sufferings: For many years his busy, plotting brain, Made discord out of union, strife from peace, And set the nations warring till the earth Was crimson with the blood poured out for him! He bears what he inflicted,--let him pass And mark what follows him. Werner. A goodly shape, More fit to string and strike Apollo's lyre, Than bear the shield or wield the sword of Mars! A broken harp, suspended at his side, A faded garland, wreathed about his brow, Tell what he was, and still employ his care. With thin white hand, that trembles at its task, In vain he strives to bind the broken chords, And to their primal melody attune them;-- In vain,--for to his efforts still replies A boding strain of harsh, discordant sound. And then, with hot tears coursing down his cheeks, He lifts his faded wreath from his pale brow, And gazing on its withered leaves, exclaims,-- "For earthly fame I sung the songs of earth, Forgetful of all higher, holier themes,-- 'Tis meet the meed I won should perish thus." Is not the justice which confines him here Akin to cruelty? for his sad heart Seems, as his earthly strains were, full of softness. Spirit. Each thought, and word, and deed of mortal man, Is but a moral seed, which, in due season, Must bring forth fruit according to its kind. The soil wherein those seeds are sown is Time,-- Death is the reaper of the ripened harvest,-- The fruits are garnered in Eternity, To be, or good or bad, the spirit's food! If then our thoughts, and words, and deeds have been Of corrupt tendency, or evil nature,-- What marvel if we feed on bitterness?-- What shadow next appears? Werner. An aged man, Lean-framed and haggard-visaged, bowed beneath The weight of years, or worldly cares that press Still heavier than the iron hand of time. His tottering form is fearful to behold! If the fierce scourge which men on earth call famine, Could incarnate itself, methinks 'twould choose Just such a shape, so worn and grim and gaunt, And wo-begone of aspect. Groping round He gathers from the burning floor of hell Some shining pebbles, which his fond conceit Transmutes to gold, and these with constant care He watches, counting and recounting them, Till suddenly a whirlwind, sweeping by, Bears with it all his fancied hoards away, Leaving him to renew his bootless task, Which ever he renews with this complaint,-- "Alas! how speedily may wealth take wing." And on his front his name is written, "Avarice." Spirit. There yet is, in this shadowy land of shades, One form which I would have thee look upon. Behold it cometh! mark and scan it well. Werner. Never before in all my wanderings Through earth, or other regions, where abide Things now no more of earth, have I beheld Aught so profoundly mournful or so lone! So dark a cloud o'erhangs his haggard brow, That where he turns a dunner, murkier gloom Prevails along hell's blasting atmosphere! Surrounded by some goodly forms he moves, Forms bright as his is dark, who each in turn Woo his acceptance of the gifts they proffer. Love stretches out his dimpled band, wherein He holds his emblematic rose, and Hope, Bright Hope, that might renew again the pulse Of life within the frozen veins of Death! Beckons him to the future,--and calm Faith Kindles beneath his eye her beacon blaze; Yet, with such anguish as hell only holds, He turns him from all these, and will not take Love's proffered rose, lest 'neath its blushing leaves Should lurk the stinging thorn of sly deceit. Hope's smile to him is disappointment's signal,-- And the bright beacon Faith so kindly lights To guide us o'er the treacherous sea of life, To him is but a cheat, a mockery, An ignis fatuus, kindled to mislead. And yet he seems as one who in his life Had nursed bright dreams, and cherished lofty aims,-- Had dreamed of love, or wooed Ambition's smiles, Or to the sway of empires had aspired, Or, higher still, the sway of human hearts! Why gazest thou on me and not on him? Spirit. To mark if in thine aspect I might not Detect a consciousness that I thy own soul Claimed brotherhood with his! Thou too hast scoffed At human love, and hope, and faith, and truth, Nursing within thy bosom pride, and scorn, And rankling hate, I till these at length became Fiends which thou could'st not master! Thou art warned, Be wise and heed the warning. Let us now Return unto thy far off, native orb, O'er which the rosy smile of morn is breaking, Waking its teeming millions to renew Their daily rounds of toil and strife and crime. [Exeunt. ACT IV. Scene I. A peak of the Alps. Werner alone. Time, morning. Werner. How gloriously beautiful is earth! In these her quiet, unfrequented haunts, To which, except the timid chamois' foot, Or venturous hunter's, or the eagle's wing, Naught from beneath ascends. As yet the sun But darts his earliest rays of golden light Upon the summits of the tallest peaks, Which robed in clouds and capped with glittering ice, Soar proudly up, and beam and blaze aloft, As if they would claim kindred with the stars! And they may claim such kindred, for there is Within, around, and over them, the same Supreme, eternal, all-creating spirit Which glows and burns in every beaming orb That circles in immeasurable space! Far as the eye can trace the mountain's crest On either hand, a gorgeous, varied mass Of glowing, cloud-formed ranges are at rest, Reflecting back in every hue and tint, Purple and crimson, orange and bright gold, The sunny smile with which Morn hails the world. Beneath me all is quiet yet and calm, For the dim shadow of the silent night Still rests upon the valley, still the flock Sleeps undisturbed within the guarded fold, The lark yet slumbers in her lowly nest, The dew hangs heavy upon leaf and blade, The gray mist still o'erveils the unruffled lake, And all is tranquil as an infant's sleep; Tranquil around me, but not so within, For in my breast a thousand restless thoughts Conflict in wild, chaotical confusion. Thoughts of long bygone years, and things that were But are no more, and thoughts that sternly strive To grapple with the mysteries I late Have looked upon; for I, since yesternight, Have traversed the wide sea of space that rolls Between the shores of this and other worlds; Have gazed upon and scanned those worlds, or shades That wear the lineaments of such; have seen The damned in their own place, and marked the deep, Terrific retribution Error brings To such as are her votaries in life. And now I feel how baseless was my hope That Peace, the solitary boon I crave, Might spring from knowledge. Tis a fatal tree, Which ever hath borne bitter fruit, since first 'Twas set in Paradise. But I must seek The cottage of some honest mountaineer, Who may afford me nurture and repose, For I am weary, both in mind and frame. [Exit. Scene II. A chamber in the cottage of Manuel. Albert asleep. Rebecca standing by his couch. Rebecca. My boy! my beautiful, my dearest hope! The garner where my trust of future joy Is treasured. Heaven bless thee! May thy life, If it seem good to Him who gave it, be Blest to the fulness of a mother's prayer! [She stoops to kiss him, and continues. How well his sleep portrays a quiet mind, The embodied image of a sunny day, A day without a cloud, whose only voices Arise from sighing airs, and whispering leaves, And tell-tale brooks that of their banks beseech A gift, a wreath of their sweet flowers, wherewith To soothe the angry Geni of the deep! And free, glad birds that flit from bough to bough, And ring their songs of love in the clear air, Till heaven is filled with gushing melody, And the all-glowing horizon becomes A thing of life, whose breath is sweetest music! [Kisses him again, and continues. His brow to me is as a spotless page, Whereon is traced the story of my first And only love, the bright and holy dream That stole into my bosom, when beside The crystal stream that threads a neighbouring vale, I and his father watched our fathers' flocks, And he would lay aside his shepherd's pipe, And in low words, far sweeter than its music, Talk of the sun and stars and gentle moon, The earth and all its loveliness, the trees And shrubs and flowers; how these were all pervaded And quickened by the spirit of deep love; Till, by the frequent blush that tinged my cheek, The light that would break from my downcast eyes, And the quick beat of my too happy heart, Emboldened, he poured out his own pure passion, On my enchanted ear! Since then my life Has had no eras,--days, and months, and years, Have all gone by uncounted, in the full, Deep, fervent, soul-sufficing happiness, Of all I prayed for, panted for, obtained! But I must rouse him, it is time his flock Should leave the fold, and-- [The boy starts and murmurs in his sleep. Down by yonder stream, Where the green willows cluster thickest, there They dwell. 'Tis scarce so far as I could cast A pebble from my sling. Seek it, and they Will minister to thee what thou mayest need. [He awakes, and recognising his mother, exclaims-- Ah, mother! I have dreamed so strange a dream, So strange, and yet so palpable, that I Believed it a reality. Methought As closely followed by my bleating flock, I climbed the rugged mountain side where spring Our greenest pastures, singing as I went, I met a lonely wanderer in my way, Of brow so pale, and eye so darkly sad, That my own heart, to sadness little used, Grew heavy at the sight; and he seemed worn And very weary, not so much with toil As by some hidden, inward strife of soul, Which even then seemed raging in his breast. He stayed to question me where he might find The cottage of some honest mountaineer, Where he might crave the boons of rest and food,-- And mindful of the lesson taught by thee, To give the hungry bread, the weary rest, I pointed him to where our cottage stands, Assuring him that thou and my sweet sister,-- Fair as aught earthly, and as pure as fair,-- Would entertain him as a welcome guest: And so we parted. Rebecca. Thou didst well to mind The lesson I so often have repeated. It is our first of duties to give aid To those who beg for succour at our hands; For we ourselves, whatever we possess, Are but the stewards of the bounteous Lord Who giveth to his creatures all good gifts. But it is time that thou shouldst seek the hills, So take thy crook and pipe and hie away. [Exeunt. Scene III. The side of a mountain. Werner descending. Enter a shepherd boy, followed by his flock, singing. I. When the Morning starts up from her couch on the deep, Where through the dim night hours, she pillows her sleep, I start from my slumbers, and hie me away Where the white torrent dashes its feathery spray,-- I quaff the fresh stream as it bursts from the hill,-- I pluck the fresh flowers that spring by the rill,-- I watch the gray clouds as they curl round the peak That rises high over them, barren and bleak; And I think how the worldling who courts fortune's smile, In his heart, like that peak, may be lonely the while; And then my own heart sings aloud in its joy, That Heaven has made me a free shepherd boy! II. When the horn of the hunter resounds from on high, Where the tall giant ice-cliffs ire piled to the sky, Where, shunning the verdure of valleys and dells, The brave eagle builds, and the shy chamois dwells,-- I list to its gay tones, as by me they float, And I echo them merrily back, note for note; With the wild bird a song full as gladsome I sing, I crown me with flowers, and sit a crowned king,-- My flock are my subjects, my dog my vizier, And my sceptre--a mild one--the crook that I bear; No wants to perplex me, no cares to annoy, I live an unenvying, free shepherdboy! Werner (meets and addresses him). Thou'rt merry, lad. Albert. Ay, I have cause to be so. (Aside.) It is the wanderer of my last night's dream, The same pale brow, and darkly mournful eye, And weary gait, and melancholy voice,-- If he seeks friendly guidance, food, or shelter, He shall not want them long. Werner. So thou hast cause For merriment,--then thou perchance hast wealth, Broad, fruitful lands, and tenements, and all Which wealth confers. Albert. Nay, I have none of these, And yet have more than all which thou hast named. I have a father, whose unsullied name No tongue has ever spoken with reproach, A mother, whose idea is with me A holy thing, and a dear sister, who Is fair as pure, and pure as is the snow Upon the summit of the tallest peak Of these my native mountains. I have health, And strength, and food, and raiment, and employ, And should I not then have a joyous heart? Werner. Yea, verily thou shouldst. Albert. And there is yet, Among the blessings Heaven has given to me, One which I have not named to thee; it is An humble home, whose hospitable door Was never closed against the wayfarer,-- If thou hast need of aught which it affords, Seek it, my mother and my sister will Delight to minister unto thy wants. There where the wide-armed willows cluster thickest Upon the green banks of yon crystal stream, Our cottage stands. The path to it is short And easily traversed,--so, now, farewell. Werner. Stay yet a moment. That which thou hast proffered, Is what I sought. Thou hast a noble heart, One fit to fill the bosom of a king,-- I fain would give thee guerdon,--here is gold. Albert. Keep it for those who covet it. If ever Thou meet'st with one, bowed down by suffering, Who calls on thee for pity and relief, Then if thou heed'st his prayer for my sake, I shall be well repaid. Again, farewell. {Exeunt. Scene IV. After a lapse of time. A rustic arbour near the cottage of Manuel. Enter Rose and Werner. Rose. Nay, let my silent blushes plead with thee That thou wilt be as silent. Werner. Rather let My ardent love, which will not be repressed, Plead with thee for acceptance of my suit; For I do love thee with such passionate love, That life itself, if weighed against that love, Were scarce a feather in the scale. Rose. Alas! I'm but a simple shepherd's simple child, Unused to courtly speeches, and they say That in the world thy name and rank are high, And that when such as thou do proffer love And faith to lowly maidens, 'tis a jest,-- And that when they have won our honest love, They cast it from them with unpitying hands, As idly as they would a withered flower. Werner. Nay, maiden, let me tell thee of the past, Let me lay bare my heart beneath thy gaze, And thou wilt pity if thou canst not love. I loved in youth with love as fond and deep As ever made the heart of man its slave, But, ere my hopes could ripen to fruition, Death came and made my worshipped one his prize; And though my peace departed when she died, Yet I was proud, and would not bond to sorrow, But with calm brow and eye, and smiling lip, I mingled with the giddy thoughtless world, Seeking from out its varied realms to wring Some recompense for that which I had lost. Wealth, fame, and power, I sought for and obtained, Yet found them only gilded mockeries. The paths of hidden knowledge I essayed, And trod their mazy windings till they led My footsteps--whither I may not disclose,-- But all availed me nothing, still my heart Ached with the dreary void lost love had made, Ached ever till that void was filled by thee! Since first fate led me to your kindly door, Three times the moon with full-orbed light hath shone, Thrice thirty times, with song of merry birds And breath of fragrance, Morn has blest the earth And all its dwellers with her radiant presence; Thrice thirty times, with star-bound brow, dim Night Hath kept her tearful watch above the earth; And every time the full-orb'd moon hath shone, And every time the merry Morn hath smiled, And every time dim Night with star-bound brow Above the earth hath kept her tearful watch, My heart has added to its store of love, Its pure, deep, fervent, passionate love for thee! By all my hopes of heaven, my words are true. Dost thou not pity now? Rose. Ay, more! My heart, And its full treasury of maiden love, Never before surrendered to another, I pledge to thee, as thine, for evermore! [Exeunt. An Aerial Chorus. Seek the dell and seek the bower, Pluck the bud and pluck the flower, Search for buds of sweetest breath, Search for flowers of brightest hue; Fit to weave the bridal wreath, Of a maid so fair and true. She has bowed the haughty heart, Won the stubborn will from guile, With no aid of other art Than the sweet spell of her smile! Seek the dell and seek the bower, Pluck the bud and pluck the flower, Search for buds of sweetest breath, Search for flowers of brightest hue; Fit to weave the bridal wreath, Of a maid so fair and true! [Exeunt. Note to the Misanthrope "Then seek we, for the maiden's pillow, Far beyond the Atlantic's billow, Love's apple,--and when we have found it, Draw the magic circles round it." Considering the Mandrake, many fabulous notions were entertained by the ancients; and they never attempted to extract it from the earth, without the previous performance of such ceremonies as they considered efficacious in preventing the numerous accidents, dangers, and diseases, to which they believed the person exposed who was daring enough to undertake its extraction. The usual manner of obtaining it was this:--When found, three times a circle was drawn around it with the point of a naked sword, and a dog was then attached to it and beaten, until by his struggles it was disengaged from the earth. It was supposed to be useful in producing dreams, philters, charms &c.; and also to possess the faculties of exciting love, and increasing population. The Emperor Adrian, in a letter to Calexines, writes that he is drinking the juice of the Mandrake to render him amorous: hence it was called Love-apple. It grows in Italy, Spain, and the Levant. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS TO ISABEL A Beautiful Little Girl. Fair as some sea-child, in her coral bower, Decked with the rare, rich treasures of the deep; Mild as the spirit of the dream whose power Bears back the infant's soul to heaven, in sleep Brightens the hues of summer's first-born flower Pure as the tears repentant mourners weep O'er deeds to which the siren, Sin, beguiled,-- Art thou, sweet, smiling, bright-eyed cherub child. Thy presence is a spell of holiness, From which unhallowed thoughts shrink blushing back,-- Thy smile is a warm light that shines to bless, As beams the beacon o'er the wanderer's track,-- Thy voice is music, at whose sounds Distress Unbinds her writhing victim from the rack Of misery, and charmed by what she hears, Forgets her woes, and smiles upon her tears. And when I look upon thee, bearing now The promise of such loveliness, I ask If time will blight, that promise; if thy brow, So sunny now, will learn to wear the mask Of hollow smiles, or cold deceit, whilst thou Art learning in thy soul the bitter task Time teaches to all bosoms, when the glow Of hope is o'er--but this I may not know. My path will not be near to thine through life,-- Kind ones will guard and fondly shelter thee; Me bitterness awaits, and care and strife, And all that sorrow has of agony; My future, as my past was, will be rife With heartaches, and the pangs that "pass not by;" Each hour shall give thee some new pleasure; years, Long years can bring me only toil 'and tears. 'Tis meet that it should be so,--I have made A wreck of my own happiness, and cast Across my heart, in youth, the dull, deep shade That wrinkled age flings over all at last But let it go,--I have too long delayed The remedy, and what is past is past;-- And could I live those vanished moments o'er, My heart would wander as it strayed before. I know not how it is,--my heart is stern, And little giv'n to thoughts of tenderness; Yet looking on thy young brow it will yearn, And in my bosom's innermost recess, Thoughts that have slumbered long awake and burn With a wild strength which nothing can repress! Be still, worn heart, be still; does not the cold And heavy clay--clod mingle with her mould? Yes, 'tis that in thy soft check's tender bloom, Thy black eyes' brightness, in each graceful move, I trace the lineaments of one to whom My soul was wedded in an early love,-- 'Twas in my boyhood; but the insatiate tomb Claimed her fair form, and for the realms above Her spirit fled the earth; oh! how I wept That mine should in its bondage still be kept. I mind the hour I stood beside the clay I had so loved in life--it still was fair, Surpassing fair, in death; and as she lay With the thick tresses of her long dark hair Gathered above the brow whence feeling's ray Had fled, because death's shadow darkened there, Her more than earthly beauty made her seem The incarnation of some pure bright dream. I stood and gazed: the pale grave sheet was wound About the form from which life's spark was fled, For ever fled,--wet eyes were weeping round, And voices full of sorrow mourned the dead; I could not weep; a sadness more profound Than that from which those heart-drops, tears, are shed, Was in my soul,--for then the icy spell Of desolation freezing o'er me fell. And from that hour I have been alone, Alone when crowds were round me. May thy fate Be coloured with a brighter hue, and strown With flowers where mine is thorns;--where mine is hate, And strife, and bitter discord, may thine own Be love, and hope, and peace--for these create The sunshine of existence; may their light Beam ever round thee, warm, and glad, and bright. THE LOCK OF HAIR. It is in sooth a lovely tress, Still curled in many a ring, As glossy as the plumes that dress The raven's jetty wing. And the broad and soul-illumined brow, Above whose arch it grew, Was like the stainless mountain snow, In its purity of hue. I mind the time 'twas given to me, The night, the hour, the spot; And the eye that pleaded silently, "Forget the giver not." Oh! myriads of stars, on high, Were smiling sweetly fair, But none was lovely as the eye That shone beside me there! Above our heads an ancient oak Its strong, wide arms held out, And from its roots a fountain broke, With a tiny laughing shout; And the fairy people of the wild Were bending to their rest, As trustingly as sleeps the child Upon its mother's breast. Soft, silvery cloudlets, pure and white, Along the sky were hung, As if the spirits of the night Their mantles there had flung; And then the night-breeze pensively Sighed from its unseen throne, And far o'er field, and flower, and tree, A hallowed light came down. But in our breasts was springing up A something lovelier far, Than field, or tree, or flow'ret's cup, Or sun, or moon, or star! We heeded not the fountain near, Its song of gladness singing, For in our hearts a fount more dear, And pure, and sweet, was springing. And she was one whom fortune's smile Had gladdened from her birth, Yet her high spirit knew no guile, No blot nor stain of earth; And I was but a friendless boy, And yet her heart was mine; I knew it, and the thought was joy, A joy all, all divine! From out a braided mass she took This single lock of jet, And gave it with that pleading look Which, said, "Do not forget." Forget! as soon the waves that roll The ocean's caves above, May tell their secrets, as the soul Forget its earliest love. It has been with me now for years, Long years of care and strife, And shall be with me till time wears Away my web of life. And when death's keen, resistless dart, Shall bid its sorrows cease, This tress shall rest upon my heart, Its talisman of peace. "'Twas little she thought that I stood breathless by her side listening to the song she sang as she sat by the sea's edge, pondering so deeply, upon me too perhaps, that the white foam glimmered on her brow unheeded." Onagh, The Pale Child of the Brehon King. She stood beside the wide wild sea, The winds howled hoarse and high, And dark clouds, drifting drearily, Swept o'er the starless sky. Her breast was white as mountain snow, Her locks hung loose and free, The foam that glimmered on her brow, Was scarce so pale as she. She sang a mournful song of love, Of trusting love betrayed; Ah, why did he who won her, prove So faithless to the maid? "Why pines my heart so wearily, Why heaves my aching breast, And why is sleep so far from me, When others are at rest? "Thou, truant wanderer o'er the deep, The cause of all my cares; For thee at night I wake and weep, When none may mark my tears. "I seek the festive hall no more, Its mirth no more I crave; My heart is lonely as the shore, And restless as the wave. "My soul has struggled to forget Its sleepless, fatal flame; I know thy vows were false, and yet My love is still the same. "Still o'er the dream I nursed too well, My bursting heart will yearn; For ever with me must it dwell,-- Oh, wanderer, return!" A white sail fluttered in the wind, A light bark skimmed the sea,-- It came like hope across the mind, As swift and silently. The shell-strewn beach that edged the main, A manly footstep pressed; The wanderer had returned again,-- The maiden's heart was blessed! THE DESERTED. "Come, sit thee by my side once more, 'Tis long since thus we' met; And though our dream of love is o'er, Its sweetness lingers yet. Its transient day has long been past, Its flame has ceased to burn,-- But Memory holds its spirit fast, Safe in her sacred urn. "I will not chide thy wanderings, Nor ask why thou couldst flee A heart whose deep affection's springs Poured forth such love for thee! We may not curb the restless mind, Nor teach the wayward heart To love against its will, nor bind It with the chains of art. "I would but tell thee how, in tears And bitterness, my soul Has yearned with dreams, through long, long, years, Which it could not control. And how the thought that clingeth to, And twineth round the past, For ever in my heart shall glow, And be save one my last. "They say thou hast another's love,-- Well, cherish it, but thou Its lack of strength and depth wilt prove, Should sorrow cloud thy brow. Though she may own a statelier form, A fairer cheek than mine, Her heart cannot so well and warm, Respond each throb of thine." Her words were gentle, but their tone Was sad as sorrow's sigh,-- A tear-drop trembled in his own As he sought her downcast eye. A chord was struck within his breast That long untouched had lain, Old memories started from their rest,-- The maid was loved again. Stanzas. On! there are hours of sadness, when the soul, Torn from its every stay, and crushed beneath Its many griefs, and spurning faith's control, Pants with an earnest longing for the death Which would for ever close its dark career, With the pale shroud and the remorseless bier; When the harsh, sterile nothingness of life, First breaks upon the hope-deluded breast, And the heart sickens with the bootless strife That wrings its chords, and longs to be at rest; Ev'n if the blow that frees it from distress, Should strike it into utter nothingness. Ah, nothingness! The thought at times will come, The mind will wrestle with the mystery That clouds its being! from its clay-made home, Its dwelling of a moment, it will flee Into the far depths of the vast UNKNOWN, In its vain searchings for th' eternal throne Of that Omnipotence which gave it birth, And, giving it a nature which might suit A seraph, bound its destiny to earth! And a few years, in which to eat the fruit Of life's strange tree, so bitter at its core, Then death, the quiet grave, sleep, and--what more? Whence came we? whither go we? All is still And voiceless in the past! A veil is drawn Across the future! by life's mystic rill We sit and ponder, watching for the dawn Of some yet unconceived, far-reaching thought, By which our nature's secret shall be taught! Why sorrow is our element--why sin Is native in us--by what curse we bear An ever aching, crushing void within Our secret souls! and why the little share Of happiness that mingles with our fate, Is of such fleeting, transitory date 1 Our loves! our hopes! what are they? fruits which turn To ashes on our lips! illusive lights That cast a moment's brightness while they burn, Then die, and leave a darkness which affrights Our spirits with its thrice redoubled gloom, Making the sky a pall--the earth a tomb! And yet these are the all of life for which 'Tis worth the wearing of its chain to know, Wealth, fame, and power are but toys! the rich, The high and mighty, with the base and low, Alike before the reaper Death must fall,-- So be it! in the grave is rest for all. Stanzas. When the leaf is on the tree, And the bird is in the bower, And the butterfly and bee, Bear its treasures from the flower; When the fields put on the sheen, That to young-eyed Spring belongs; When the groves and forests green, Echo with a thousand songs; When wild Beauty wanders forth, Giving, with no stinted care, All her loveliness to earth, All her sweetness to the air: Then the heart, with gladness stirred, Mindful of its griefs no more, Mounts and carols, like a bird When the pearly shower is o'er! But the summer's sunny hours, As we count them, pass away; And its fairest fruits and flowers, Are but food for stern decay. Then with wailings, deep and loud, Like the sea's in its unrest, Winter spreads his icy shroud, O'er the bare earth's frozen breast. Thus the spirit's early gladness, Sorrow chills or time removes; And the soul, in tears and sadness, Mourns its perished joys and loves. Hope will lose its trusting boldness, One by one its beams depart, And Despair, with icy, coldness, Winds its mantle round the heart. AFTER WITNESSING A DEATH-SCENE. Press close your lips, And bow your heads to earth, for Death is here! Mark ye not how across that eye so clear, Steals his eclipse? A moment more, And the quick throbbings of her heart shall cease, Her pain-wrung spirit will obtain release, And all be o'er! Hush! Seal ye up Your gushing tears, for Mercy's hand hath shaken Her earth-bonds off, and from her lip hath taken Grief's bitter cup. Ye know the dead Are they who rest secure from care and strife,-- That they who walk the thorny way of life, Have tears to shed. Ye know her pray'r, Was for the quiet of the tomb's deep rest,-- Love's sepulchre lay cold within her breast, Could peace dwell there? A tale soon told, Is of her life the story; she had loved, And he who won her heart to love, had proved Heartless and cold. Lay her to rest, Where shines and falls the summer's sun and dew; For these should shine and fall where lies so true And fond a breast! A full release From every pang is given to the dead,-- So on the stone ye place above her head, Write only "Peace."* When Spring comes back, With music on her lips,--joy in her eye,-- Her sunny banner streaming through the sky,-- Flow'rs in her track-- Then come ye here, And musing from the busy world apart, Drop on the turf that wraps her mouldering heart, Sweet Pity's tear. * The most touchingly beautiful epitaph I have ever read, was written in that one word, "Peace." It seemed like the last sigh of a departing spirit, over the clay which it was about to abandon for ever. LOVE AND FANCY. "Whenever, amid bow'rs of myrtle, Love, summer-tressed and vernal-eyed, At morn or eve is seen to wander, A dark-haired girl is at his side." De La Hogue. One morn, just as day in the far east was breaking, Young Love, who all night had been roving about, A charming siesta was quietly taking, His strength, by his rambles, completely worn out. Round his brow a wreath, woven of every flower That springs from the hillside, or valley, was bound; In his hand was a rose he had stol'n from some bower, While his bow and his quiver lay near on the ground. Wild Fancy just came from her kingdom of dreams, The breath of the opening day to enjoy, And to catch the warm kiss of its first golden beams On her cheek, caught a glimpse of the slumbering boy! With a light, noiseless step she drew near to the sleeper, And gazed till her snowy-breast heaved a soft sigh; Then she bade sleep's dull god bring a sounder and deeper And heavier trance for Love's beautiful eye. Then back to her shadowy kingdom she flow, And called up the bright mystic forms she has there; And filling an urn from a fountain of dew, She bade them all straight to Love's couch-side repair. They came, and stood round, as her hand, o'er his pillow, From a chalice of pearl, poured its magical stream: While his red rosy lips, that now sighed like a billow At play with the breeze, told how sweet was his dream. He dreamed that he sat on a shining throne, wrought Of the purest of gold that the earth could supply, While a trio of beautiful maids, who each brought A gift for his shrine, in succession past by. First Fame, with the step and the glance of a queen, Came up, and before him bent down her proud knee, And held up a garland, whereon played the sheen Of the beams which insure immortality! Next Wealth, the stern mistress of men, for whose smile They toil like the galley slave,--brought in her hand The fair gems of many an ocean isle, And the diamonds of many a far off land. And Beauty came too, with her blue, laughing eye, Her fair flowing locks, and her soft rosy cheek, And red lips, whose sweet smile told silently The tale which they seemed ashamed to speak. 'Neath the shade of a palm branch a fourth one stood by, With locks like in hue to the tresses of Night, With a pale, pensive brow, and a dark dreamy eye, Where the soul of sweet softness lay gleaming in light! It was Fancy: Love gazed, and his eager eye shone With a lustre of feeling, deep, fervent, and sweet; And he thought it were better to give up his throne For a place, on his knees, at the coy maiden's feet. And from that bright hour, through calm and through storm, Through the sunlight of summer, and winter's dark reign, These twain have been bound by ties, tender and warm, Which ne'er through all time shall be severed again. And ever where Love weaves his fond witchery, Will Fancy the aid of her brightness bestow, And give the loved object, whatever it be, A purer, a dearer, a heavenlier glow! LINES WRITTEN IN A YOUNG LADY'S ALBUM 'Tis not in youth, when life is new, when but to live is sweet, When Pleasure strews her starlike flow'rs beneath our careless feet, When Hope, that has not been deferred, first waves its golden wings, And crowds the distant future with a thousand lovely things;-- When if a transient grief o'ershades the spirit for a while, The momentary tear that falls is followed by a smile; Or if a pensive mood, at times, across the bosom steals, It scarcely sighs, so gentle is the pensiveness it feels It is not then the, restless soul will seek for one with whom To share whatever lot it bears, its gladness or its gloom,-- Some trusting, tried, and gentle heart, some true and faithful breast, Whereon its pinions it may fold, and claim a place of rest. But oh! when comes the icy chill that freezes o'er the heart, When, one by one, the joys we shared, the hopes we held, depart; When friends, like autumn's withered leaves, have fallen by our side, And life, so pleasant once, becomes a desert wild and wide;-- As for her olive branch the dove swept o'er the sullen wave, That rolled above the olden world--its death-robe and its grave!-- So will the spirit search the earth for some kind, gentle one, With it to share her destiny, and make it all her own! TO A LADY. Suggested By Hearing Her Voice During Services At Church. At night, in visions, when my soul drew near The shadowy confines of the spirit land, Wild, wondrous notes of song have met my ear, Wrung from their harps by many a seraph's hand; And forms of light, too, more divinely fair Than Mercy's messenger to hearts that mourn, On wings that made sweet music in the air, Have round me, in those hours of bliss, been borne, And, filled with joy unutterable, I Have deemed myself a born child of the sky. And often, too, at sunset's magic hour, When musing by some solitary stream, While thought awoke in its resistless pow'r, And restless Fancy wove her brightest dream: Mysterious tongues, that were not of the earth, Have whispered words which I may not repeat,-- But Thought or Fancy ne'er have given birth To form and voice like thine,--so fair and sweet! Nor have I found them when my spirit's flight Had borne me to the far shores of delight. Above the murmurs of an hundred lips, They rose, those silvery tones of praise and pray'r, Soft as the light breeze, when Aurora trips The earth, and, lighting up the darkened air, Carols her greetings to the waking flow'rs! They fell upon my heart like summer rain Upon the thirsting fields,--and earlier hours, When I too breathed th' adoring pray'r and strain, Came back once more; the present was beguiled Of half its gloom, and my worn spirit smiled. Pray, lady, that the sad, soul-searing blight, Which comes upon us when we tread the ways Of sin, may not be suffered to alight On thy pure spirit in its youthful days; Or like the fruitage of the Dead Sea shore, Tho' outward bloom and freshness thou may'st be, Stern bitterness and death will gnaw thy core, And thou wilt be a heart-scathed thing like me, Bearing the weight of many years, ere thou Hast lost youth's rosy cheek and lineless brow. IMPROMPTU, On The Reception Of A Letter. I would love to have thee near me, But when I think how drear Is each hope that used to cheer me, I cease to wish thee here. I know that thou, wouldst not shrink from The storms that burst on me, But the bitter chalice I drink from, I will not pass to thee. I would share the world with thee, were it With all its pleasures mine, But the sorrows which I inherit, I never will make thine! THE OLD MAN AND THE BOY. "Glenara, Glenara, now read me my dream." Campbell. Father, I have dreamed a dream, When the rosy morning hour Poured its light on field and stream, Kindling nature with its pow'r;-- O'er the meadow's dewy breast, I had chased a butterfly, Tempted by its gaudy vest, Still my vain pursuit to ply,-- Till my limbs were weary grown, With the distance I had strayed, Then to rest I laid me down, Where a beech tree cast its shade, Soon a heaviness came o'er me, And a deep sleep sealed my eyes; And a vision past before me, Full of changing phantasies. First I stood beside a bower, Green as summer bow'r could be; Vine and fruit, and leaf and flower, Mixed to weave its canopy. And within reclined a form, As embodied moonlight fair, With a soft cheek, fresh and warm, Deep blue eye and sunny hair. By her side a goblet stood, Such as bacchanalians brim; High the rich grape's crimson blood, Sparkled o'er its gilded rim. As I gazed, she bowed her head, With a gay and graceful move, And in words of music said, "Drink, and learn the lore of love!" Next I stood beside a mountain, Of majestic form and height; Cliff and crag, and glen and fountain, Mingled to make up its might. On its lofty brow were growing Flowers never chilled by gloom, For the sky above them glowing, Dyed them with a deathless bloom. And I saw the crystal dome, Wondrous in its majesty, Where earth's great ones find a home, When their spirits are set free. By its portals, I espied One who kept the courts within; High he waved a wreath and cried, "Come up hither,--strive and win!" Then my vision changed again: In a fairy-coloured shell, O'er the wide sea's pathless plain, I was speeding, fast and well. Suddenly, beneath its prow, Parted were the azure waves, And I saw where, far below, Yawn the vast deep's secret caves. Where the Syren sings her song, To old Ocean's sons and daughters; And the mermaids dance along, To the music of the waters. Where the coral forest o'er, Storm or tempest ne'er is driven And the gems that strew its floor, Sparkle like the stars in heaven. Treasures, such as never eye Of the earth has looked upon, Gold and pearls of many a dye, There in rich profusion shone. And a voice came to my ear, Saying, in a stern, cold tone, Such as chills the heart with fear, "Seize and make the prize thine own." Then across a clouded wild, Lone and drear and desolate, Where no cheerful cottage smiled, I pursued the steps of fate. Ever bearing in my breast, Thoughts almost to madness wrought; Ever, ever seeking rest, Never finding what I Sought-- Till I gave my wanderings o'er, By a black and icy stream,-- Deep I plunged and knew no more:-- Father, read me now my dream. The old man bowed his head, And pressed his thin hand to his withered brow, As if he struggled with some rising thought Which should have kept its place in memory's urn Till he had cast the shadow from his soul, Which for a while had bound it in a spell Born of the bygone years,--then thus he spoke: Now listen, boy, and I will show to thee The import of thy vision,--I will tell Thee what its scenes and shapes of mystery Foreshadow of the future,--for full well I know the wizard lore, whose witchery Binds e'en the time to come in its wild spell! And from approaching years a knowledge wrings Of what they bear upon their viewless wings. Along life's weary way of pain and care, From earliest infancy to eldest age, Forms, viewless as the soft-breathed summer air, Attend man's footsteps in his pilgrimage; And if his destiny be dark or fair, If Pleasure gilds, or Sorrow blots the page Whereon is traced his history, still his ear Will ever catch their warning voices near. And they--those guardian ones, who, while thy sleep Hung o'er thee like a curtain, came around And fanned thee till thy slumber grew more deep,-- Flung o'er thy rest, so perfect and profound, A dream whose mem'ry thou shouldst ever keep Bound to thy spirit, for altho' it wound, Thy young heart now, perchance, in after years, 'Twill save thee much of toil, and many tears. It was a dream of life: of boyhood's strong And soul-consuming yearnings after love! His eager search to find, amid the throng, Some heart to give him thought for thought--to move And mingle with his own, as twines the song From Beauty's lyre and lips! to know and prove The dearest joy to care-cursed mortals given, The one with least of earth, and most of heaven Of manhood's ceaseless strivings after fame,-- The veriest phantom of all phantasies-- For which he wields the sword, or lights the flame Whose red glare mocks a nation's agonies,-- Or by his star-outwatching taper, plies His pen or pencil, to gain--what? a name, A passing sound--an echo--a mere breath, Which he, vain fool, dreams mightier than death! And of a later period, when the soul Forsakes its high resolves and wild desires, When stern Ambition can no more control, And Love has shrouded o'er its smothered fires; When Expectation ceases to console, And Hope, the last kind comforter, expires; And Avarice, monster of the gilded vest, Creeps in and occupies the vacant breast. And then the last sad scene: The sick heart, sore And fainting from its wounds--the palsied limb-- The brow whose death-sweat peeps from every pore-- The eye with its long, weary watch grown dim-- The withered, wan cheek, that shall bloom no more-- The last dregs dripping slowly from the brim Of life's drained cup,--behind all gloom, before A deep, dark gulf--we plunge, and all is o'er! ACLE AT THE GRAVE OF NERO. It is a circumstance connected with the history of Nero, that every spring and summer, for many years after his death, fresh and beautiful flowers were nightly scattered upon his grave by some unknown hand. Tradition relates that it was done by a young maiden of Corinth, named Acle, whom Nero had brought to Rome from her native city, whither he had gone in the disguise of an artist, to contend in the Nemean, Isthinian, and Floral games, celebrated there; and whence he returned conqueror in the Palaestra, the chariot race, and the song; bearing with him, like Jason of old, a second Medea, divine in form and feature as the first, and who like her had left father, friends, and country, to follow a stranger. Even the worse than savage barbarity of this sanguinary tyrant, had not cut him off from all human affection; and those flowers were doubtless the tribute of that young girl's holy and enduring love! Whose name is on yon lettered stone? whose ashes rest beneath? That thus you come with flowers to deck the mournful home of death; And thou--why darkens so thy brow with grief's untimely gloom? Thou art fitter for a bride than for a watcher by the tomb! "It is the name of one whose deeds made men grow pale with fear, And Nero's, stranger, is the dust that lies sepulchred here; That name may be a word of harsh and boding sound to thee, But oh! it has a more than mortal melody for me! "And I,--my heart has grown to age in girlhood's fleeting years, And has one only task--to bathe its buried love in tears; The all of life that yet remains to me is but its breath; Then tell me, is it meet that I should seek the bridal wreath?" But maiden, he of whom you speak was of a savage mood, That took its joy alone in scenes, of carnage, tears and blood; His dark, wild spirit bore the stain of crime's most loathsome hue, And love is for the high of soul--the gentle and the true. "The voice that taught an abject world to tremble at its words, To me was mild and musical, and mellow as a bird's-- A bird's--that couched among the green, broad branches of the date, Tells, in its silvery songs, its gushing gladness to its mate. "I saw him first beside the sea; near to ray father's home, When like an ocean deity he bounded from the foam; Ev'n then a glory seemed to breathe around him as he trod, And my haughty soul was bowed, as in the presence of a God. I knew not, till my heart was his, the darkness of his own, Nor dreamed that he who knelt to me was master of a throne! And when the fearful knowledge came, its coming was in vain,-- I had forsaken all for him, and would do so again." Is love the offspring of the will? or is it, like a flower, So frail that it may fade and be forgotten in an hour? No, no! it springs unbidden where the heart's deep fountains play, And cherished by their hallowed dew, it cannot pass away! THE VENETIAN GIRL'S EVENING SONG. Unmoor the skiff,--unmoor the skiff,-- The night wind's sigh is on the air, And o'er the highest Alpine cliff, The pale moon rises, broad and clear. The murmuring waves are tranquil now, And on their breast each twinkling star With which Night gems her dusky brow, Flings its mild radiance from afar. Put off upon the deep blue sea, And leave the banquet and the ball; For solitude, when shared with thee, Is dearer than the carnival. And in my heart are thoughts of love, Such thoughts as lips should only breathe, When the bright stars keep watch above, And the calm waters sleep beneath! The tale I have for thee, perchance, May to thine eye anew impart The long-lost gladness of its glance, And soothe the sorrows of thy heart; Come, I will sing for thee again, The songs which once our mothers sung, Ere tyranny its galling chain On them, and those they loved, had hung. Thou'rt sad; thou say'st that in the halls Which echoed once our father's tread, The stranger's idle footstep falls, With sound that might awake the dead! The mighty dead! whose dust around An atmosphere of reverence sheds; If aught of earthly voice or sound, Might reach them in their marble beds. That she to whom the deep gave birth,-- Fair Venice! to whose queenly stores The wealth and beauty of the earth Were wafted from an hundred shores! Now on her wave-girt site, forlorn, Sits shrouded in affliction's night,-- The object of the tyrant's scorn, Sad monument of fallen might. Well, tho' in her deserted halls The fire on Freedom's shrine is dead, Tho' o'er her darkened, crumbling walls, Stern Desolation's pall is spread; Is not the second better part, To that which rends the despot's chain, To wear it with a dauntless heart, To feel yet shrink not from its pain? Then let the creeping ivy twine Its wreaths about each ruined arch, Till Time shall crush them in the brine, Beneath its all-triumphant march! Then let the swelling waters close Above the sea-child's sinking frame, And hide for ever from her foes, Each trace and vestige of her shame. Shall we at last less calmly sleep, When in the narrow death-house pent, Because the bosom of the deep Shall be our only monument? No! by the waste of waters bid, Our tombs as well shall keep their trust, As tho' a marble pyramid Were piled above our mangled dust! Written in the National Gallery, at the city of Washington, on looking at a Mummy, supposed to have belonged to a race extinct before the occupation of the Western Continent by the people in whose possession the Europeans found it. Sole and mysterious relic of a race That long has ceased to be, whose very name, Time, ever bearing on with steady pace, Has swept away from earth, leaving thy frame, Darkened by thirty centuries, to claim, Among the records of the things that were, Its place,--Tradition has forgot thee--Fame, If ever fame was thine, has ceased to bear Her record of thee,--say, what dost thou here? Three thousand years ago a mother's arms Were wrapped about that dark and ghastly form, And all the loveliness of childhood's charms Glowed on that cheek, with life then flushed and warm; Say, what preserved thee from the hungry worm That haunts with gnawing tooth the gloomy bed Spread for the lifeless? Tell what could disarm Decay of half its power, and while it fed On empires--races--make it spare the dead! How strange to contemplate the wondrous story, When those deep sunken eyes first saw the light, Lost Babylon was in her midday glory,-- Upon her pride and power had fall'n no blight; And Tyre, the ancient mariner's delight, Whose merchantmen were princes, and whose name Was theme of praise to all, has left her site To utter barren nakedness and shame,-- Yet thou, amid all change, art still the same. And she who, by the "yellow Tiber's" side, Sits wrapped in her dark veil of widowhood, With scarce a glimmer of her ancient pride, To cheer the gloom of that deep solitude Which o'er the seat of vanquished pow'r doth brood, Since thou wast born has seen her glories rise, Burn, and expire! quenched by the streams of blood Which her slaves drew from her own veins, the price Of usurpation, proud Ambition's sacrifice! And darker in her fate, and sadder still, The sacred city of the minstrel king, That proudly sat on Zion's holy hill, The wonder of the world! Destruction's wing Hath from her swept each fair and goodly thing; Her palaces and temples! where are they? Her walls and marble tow'rs lie mouldering, Her glory to the spoiler's hand a prey,-- And yet time spares a portion of thy clay! And thou art here amid a stranger race, To whom these shores four centuries ago, Tho' now proud Freedom's boasted dwelling-place, Were all unknown; the wide streams that now flow Where Cultivation's hand has steered her plough, Had then but seen the forest huntsman guide His light canoe across the waves which now Reflect the snowy sails that waft in pride The stately ship along their rippling tide. Thou art the silent messenger of ages, Sent back to tread with Time his constant way, To shame the wisdom of conceited sages, Whose lore is but a thing of yesterday; What would their best, their brightest visions weigh Beside the fearful truths thou couldst reveal? The secrets of eternity now lay Unveiled before thee, and for we or weal, Thy doom is fixed beyond ev'n heaven's repeal. I will not ask thee of the mysteries That lie beyond Death's shadowy vale; but thou Mayst tell us of the fate the Destinies Wove for thine earthly sojourn. Was thy brow Graced with the poet's, hero's garland? How Dealt Fortune with thee? Did she curse or bless Thee with her frown or smile? Speak! thou art now Among the living,--they around thee press. Still silent? Then thy lot we can but guess. Perhaps thou wast a monarch, and hast worn The sceptre of some real El Dorado! Perhaps a warrior, and those arms have borne The foremost shield, and dealt the deadliest blow That drew the life-blood of a warring foe! Perhaps thou wor'st the courtier's gilded thrall,-- Some glittering court's gay, proud papilio! Perchance a clown, the jester of some hall, The slave of one man, and the fool of all! Oh life! and pride! and honour! come and see To what a depth your visions tumble down! Behold your wearer,--who shall say if he Were monarch, warrior, parasite, or clown! And ye, who talk of glory and renown, And call them bright and deathless! and who break Each dearer tie to grasp fame's gilded crown, Come, hear instruction from this shadow speak, And learn how valueless the prize ye seek! See where ambition's loftiest flight doth tend, Behold the doom perhaps of blood-bought fame, And know that all which earth can give must end, In dust and ashes, and an empty name! Ye passions! which defy our pow'r to tame Or curb your headlong tides, behold your home! Love! see the breast where thou didst light thy flame! Immortal spirit! see thy shattered dome! When shall its hour of renovation come? Shall life possess, and beauty deck again That withered form, and foul and dusky cheek? Will Death resign his dull and frozen reign, And the immortal soul return to seek Her long-deserted dwelling, and to break The bondage which has held in icy chains All that was mortal of thee? will she make Her home in thee, and shall these poor remains Share with her heaven's pleasures or hell's pains? Wonder of wonders! who could look on thee And afterward survey with curious eye The mouldering shrines where dupes have bent the knee, Where superstition, by hypocrisy Nurtured and fed with tales of mystery, Has oft with timid footstep trembling trod,-- All these are worse than nothing; come and see Where once a deathless soul held its abode,-- The wrecked and ruined palace of a God! Farewell! Not idly has this hour been spent. Thy silent teachings I may not forget,-- More deeply, strangely, truly eloquent, Than all the babbled words which ever yet Have fall'n from living lips,--they shall be set With the bright gems which Wisdom loves to keep; And when my spirit against fate would fret, My eyes shall turn to thee and cease to weep, Till I too sleep death's deep and dreamless sleep! TO ISABEL. Come near me with thy lips, and, breathe o'er mine Their breath, for I consume with love's desire,-- Thine ivory arms about me clasp and twine, And beam upon mine eye thine eye's soft fire; Clasp me yet closer, till my heart feels thine Thrill, as the chords of Memnon's mystic lyre Thrilled at the sun's uprising! thou who art The lone, the worshipped idol of my heart! There! balmier than the south wind, when it brings The scent of aromatic shrub and tree, And tropic flower on ifs glowing wings, Thine odorous breath is wafted over me; How to thy dewy lips mine own lip clings, And my whole being is absorbed in thee; And in my breast thine eyes have lit a fire That never, never, never shall expire! Eternal--is it not eternal--this Our passionate love? what pow'r shall part us twain? Not even Death! Life could bestow no bliss Like death with thee, and I would rend its chain If thou shouldst perish, for my heaven is To gaze upon thee! I could bear all pain Unsighing, so not parted from thy side, My beautiful! my spirit's chosen bride! They try to woo me from thy fond embrace, To lure me from the light of those dear eyes; They tell me that in fortune's arduous chase, I have such fleetness as would win the prize;-- But all the pomps of circumstance and place, A glance, a word, a smile of thine outvies! Leave Fortune to her parasites! mine be The blessed lot to dwell with love and thee. To lead thee on through life, and to enlarge Thy soul with added knowledge, day by day, To guard thee, as an angel guards his charge, From every ill that lurks along the way! To smooth that rugged way, and strew its marge With the bright flowrs that never can decay,-- This were a lot too glorious, too divine, And yet Hope whispers that it shall be mine. Now listen, love,--this plan shall rule my life And thine:--In some remote and sunny dell, Far from the crowded city's silly strife, My hands shall rear the home where we will dwell; Shall till the soil, with fertile fruitage rife, And teach the golden ear to shoot and swell; And my sole wished for recompense shall be My ever growing, deep'ning love for thee. Thy task shall be to train the trailing vine, To watch, and cherish in its growth, the flow'r Whose breath and cheek are sweet and fair as thine; To bless and brighten the domestic bow'r Where we will build to Love a hallowed shrine, And bow us, in his worship, every hour; Till, chastened by thy smile, my heart has grown As pure, and soft, and sinless as thine own. Oh, hasten, love! to realize the dream,-- Come from the world,--the crowd is not for thee; Forsake it then, ere the contagious steam Of its foul breath has soiled thy purity;-- Come, for my heart would burst could I but deem That such as they are, thou couldst ever be! Come, for my soul adores thee with a love As burning as the seraphs feel above. These lines are inscribed to the memory of John Q. Carlin, killed at Buena Vista. Warrior of the youthful brow, Eager heart and eagle eye! Pants thy soul for battle now? Burns thy glance with victory? Dost thou dream of conflicts done, Perils past and trophies won? And a nation's grateful praise Given to thine after days? Bloodless is thy cheek, and cold As the clay upon it prest; And in many a slimy fold, Winds the grave-worm round thy breast. Thou wilt join the fight no more,-- Glory's dream with thee is o'er,-- And alike are now to thee Greatness and obscurity. But an ever sunny sky, O'er thy place of rest is bending; And above thy grave, and nigh, Flowers ever bright are blending. O'er thy dreamless, calm repose, Balmily the south wind blows,-- With the green turf on thy breast, Rest thee, youthful warrior, rest! When the alarum first was sounded, Marshalling in arms the brave, Forth thy fearless spirit bounded, To obtain thee--what? A grave! Fame had whispered in thine ear, Words the high-souled love to hear,-- But the ruthless hand of death From thee snatched the hero's wreath. Often will the grief-shade start O'er thy sister's mood of joy, Vainly will thy mother's heart Yearn to greet her absent boy; Never sister's lip shall press On thine own its fond caress,-- Never more a mother's eye Flash in pride when thou art by! Where the orange, bending lowly With its golden fruit, is swaying; And the Indian maiden, slowly By her native stream is straying; O'er thy dreamless, calm repose, Balmily the South wind blows,-- With the green turf on thy breast, Rest thee, youthful warrior, rest! A LEGEND OF THE HARTZ. Many ages ago, near the high Hartz, there dwelt A rude race of blood-loving giants, who felt No joy but the fierce one which Carnage bestows, When her foul lips are clogged with the blood of her foes. And fiercer and bolder than all of the rest Was Bohdo,(1) their chieftain;--'twas strange that a breast, Which nothing like kindness or pity might move, Should glow with the warmth and the rapture of love. Yet he loved, and the pale mountain-monarch's fair child Was the maid of his heart; but tho' burning and wild Was the love that he bore her, it won no return, And the flame that consumed him was answered with scorn. Now the lady is gone with her steed to the plain,-- Save the falcon and hound there is none in her train; She needs none to guide, or to guard her from harm There's no fear in her heart, there is strength in her arm. From her white wrist unhooded her falcon she threw, Her bow like Diana, the huntress, she drew; And fleet as the fetterless bird swept the sky, So on her proud steed swept the fair lady by. See how her eye sparkles, and how her cheek glows, As onward so fearless and proudly she goes, With her locks streaming back like a banner of gold, Were she not, say, a bride meet for Nimrod(2) of old? And he saw her--the chief, from his tower afar-- As she glanced o'er the earth like some wandering star; And he swore she should come in that tower to dwell, Or his soul be a prize to the spirits of hell. His war-horse he mounted, and, swift as the shoot Of the night-gathered meteor, he sped in pursuit,-- Breathing out, as he went, mad with love and with hate, Bitter curse upon curse against heaven and fate. Urging on his fleet courser with spur and with rein, He swept o'er the earth as the storm sweeps the plain,-- And the fair lady knew, by the gleam of his shield, It was Bohdo, the scourge of the red battle field! Then spurred she her steed over valley and hill, Over rock, marsh and moor, over river and rill, Yet still her eye sparkled, and still her cheek glowed, As onward so fleetly and bravely she rode. Thus over Thuringia sped she away, With the speed of the hawk when he darts on his prey,-- Or an arrow let loose from a warrior's bow, When it speeds with sure aim to the heart of his foe. Then the Hartz, the wild Hartz--the terrific--the proud! Where the mist-spirit dwells in his palace of cloud! Where the evil ones gather in envious wrath, To blight and to blast,--towered up in her path. Still her cheek kept its glow, still her eye flashed in pride, As onward she flew up the steep mountain side; And fierce as the tempest, and fleet as the wind, Stern Bohdo, the ruthless, still followed behind. To a fearful abyss, whose unhallowed name(3) By the powers of darkness was given, she came, And the whirlpool's wild voice, from the dark gulf below, Came up like the wail of a soul in its we. Beyond rose the rocky shelf, barren and bare, Beneath lay the whirlpool, around her despair, Behind her came one, sweeping on in the chase, Whose grasp was more dreaded than death's cold embrace. Then she called on the spirits who watch round the brave, In peril to nerve, to assist and to save, Closed calmly her eyes, as one sinking in sleep, And urged her proud steed to the terrible leap! A moment it paused on the high precipice, Then sprang, boldly sprang, o'er the frightful abyss! And struck its firm hoof in the rock till the sound Shook the hills, and the sparks flew like lightning around! And the foot-print it left has remained to this day, And no rain-flood or tempest shall wear it away; She was saved--the brave Emma was saved--but her crown, From her fair brow unloosed, in the whirlpool sank down. On, on came the chief, in his fierceness and wrath, Nor saw he the wide gulf that yawned in his path,-- And soon, in the depths of its fathomless tide, The warrior and war-steed were laid side by side. And the mountaineer tells how in sullen despair, His ghost, imannealed of its sins, lingers there; Ever watching, pale, silent, untiring, unmoved, The bright golden crown of the maiden he loved. A diver once, lured by the wealth of the prize, Sought out the deep cave where it lay, and still lies, And where, chained by a spirit-breathed spell, it shall stay, Till the whirlpool and mountain alike pass away. Twice he rose with the crown, till its gleaming points blazed On the eyes of the wondering thousands who gazed, Twice it fell from his grasp, and sank quickly again To the bed where for years undisturbed it had lain. He followed,--this effort the treasure may earn-- But vainly they watch who await his return; A red hue of blood tinged the deep waters o'er, But the diver came up from their dark depths no more. 1. Bohdo. This hero, as his character is drawn in the original legend, or tradition, from which the material of these verses was taken (a tradition which gives the popular account of the formation of an immense mark or cavity in a rock, called the "Rosstrappe" or "Horse's footstep,") is worthy of being enrolled among Odin's Berserker. 2. Nimrod. "A mighty hunter before the Lord." He built Babylon and founded that royal line which terminated with the death of Sardanapalus; whose gentleness and aversion to blood spilling, together with his passion for his "Ionian Myrrha," cost him an empire, and gained him an immortality. 3. "It was named," says the tradition, "The Devil's dancing-place, from the triumph there of the spirits of hell." 
27293	----	A SKETCH OF THE LIFE AND SERVICES OF Gen. Otho Holland Williams, READ BEFORE THE Maryland Historical Society, ON THURSDAY EVENING, MARCH 6, 1851. By OSMOND TIFFANY. [Illustration] BALTIMORE: PRINTED BY JOHN MURPHY & CO. No. 178 MARKET STREET. 1851. MR. PRESIDENT: The events of the American Revolution are so nearly connected with our own times, that the actors in that great struggle seem yet to be to us as living men. We open the portal of the past century, and are with those who once like ourselves, breathed and thought, and who now, lie not silent or forgotten in the tomb. Their deeds live in our memory; their examples are glorious as of old: their words of hope in dark hours, and of their joy in success, still burn before us:--they have become the great historians of their age. Among this band of gallant men, who gave themselves with all their soul to liberty, I could name none of our native State, who displayed a more patient, disinterested, and zealous spirit, than the pure and chivalrous Otho Holland Williams. He was born in the county of Prince George's, in March, 1749. His parentage was highly respectable, his ancestors emigrating from Wales, and he being of the second generation after their settlement in Maryland. Had his days been wholly passed in the enjoyment of peace, his influence would not have been lost. He would still have left to his friends the same invaluable legacy of a good name, but it was his fortune to deserve and gain a wider celebrity. He was his father's oldest son, and in the year succeeding his birth, his home was changed to the mouth of the Conococheague Creek, in Frederick, near Washington county. In that beautiful region of country, watered by the stream that lends its name to the valley, were spent the few short years of his boyhood. There he learned to love the aspect of fields and groves, the memory of which was his solace long after, in many dark and trying hours, for we find in the midst of the toils of the camp, that his spirit yearns for rural peace and solitude. The love of nature is ever ennobling; it perhaps contributed to form the character of the future hero. It is a favorite theme with biographers to dwell on parental precepts, especially on those of the mother. We have no anecdotes of this period, but we may yield to a happy idea, and imagine young Williams listening to the accents of a mother's lip, with the true deference which he always paid to goodness. We may see him, among his little playmates on his father's farm, already showing those traits of character, which guided him in the path to honor: that love of truth, that physical and moral courage, which won in time the confidence of his great commander-in-chief, who had himself early shone in the same qualities. We may picture him crossing the fields, at early morning hours, to the rustic school, there to recite the simple lesson, and to be instructed in his mother tongue, which he afterwards used with the grace of a scholar. But the sunshine of his boyhood was soon clouded--his father, Joseph Williams, died, leaving but a small property to seven children; and Otho at the age of thirteen, was thrown upon his own exertions. He was placed with his brother-in-law, Mr. Ross, in the Clerk's Office of Frederick county. Here he remained several years, diligently occupied in studying the duties of the bureau, and when he was duly qualified, took charge of it himself, for a while, until removed to a similar situation in Baltimore. It was in this vocation that he acquired those habits of regularity and method, which were so signally manifested when called to situations of the highest trust. His appearance at this time, when about eighteen years of age, is thus described by his friend and fellow-soldier, Gen. Samuel Smith: "He was," says the writer, "about six feet high, elegantly formed; his whole appearance and conduct much beyond his years; his manner, such as made friends of all who knew him." Thus does he appear before us, while to use Burke's apt expression, he was yet in the gristle, and had not hardened into the bone of manhood. But he was already a man in his high sense of honor, his unsullied integrity, and the polish of his address: if he had not won laurels, he had acquired the esteem of the worthy. Thus endowed, we learn that he entered into commercial life, in Fredericktown, shortly before the commencement of the American Revolution. There is little doubt, that had this course been pursued, it would have been crowned with eminent success, for he afterwards united, to an extraordinary degree, military genius with scientific business habits. But when the clouds, which had so long been gathering over the sun of peace, burst at last, all thought of pursuing quiet trade was abandoned. The spirit that prompted Putnam to reverse the Scriptural promise, and beat the plough-share into the sword, kindled kindred feelings in the breast of Williams. A company was formed in Fredericktown, and under the command of Capt. Price, marched for Boston. Williams might easily have obtained the captaincy, but with the modesty which always kept pace with his success, he declined to press a claim to command, saying to the committee, that though ambitious to lead, he was willing to serve. This spirit uniformly attended him--he deferred cheerfully to authority himself, and exacted obedience from those whom he commanded. He was a strict disciplinarian, as all good officers are, but governed his own conduct by his rigid adherence to the rules of superiors. In reporting an officer to Gen. Greene, for disobedience, he says: "When orders are received with contempt, and rejected with insolence, examples are requisite to re-establish subordination, the basis of discipline." But, before attempting to trace the career of the soldier, it will be by no means uninteresting, or uninstructive, to depict the man. His letters to his family and friends, are true mirrors in which he was reflected, and we cannot more fully present him, than by a few sentences from his correspondence. Indeed, I have found his letters so graphic and elegant in style, so illustrative of any subject on which they touch, that I have made large extracts, believing that they would be of much greater historic value, concerning the scenes and actions of which they treat, than any description of mine. His views of life were most cheerful and happy--he writes to his brother thus: "I have seen a great variety of life, and profess most seriously, that there is more true felicity to be found in a bare competence and domestic industry, than in any other circumstances. My observations on others confirm this opinion, and I wish to have an opportunity of experiencing the satisfaction which I am sure is to be found in rural employments. We should not hope to be wealthy, or fear to be poor; we never shall want; and whoever considers the true source of his happiness, will find it in a very great degree, arising from a delicate concern for those dependent upon him, useful employments, and the approbation of his friends." He was ambitious, but his ambition never led him astray: and through all circumstances of life, he was governed by a deeply religious faith. His own words precisely express his feelings: "It would give me pain, if the world should believe any person, with the same advantages, may do more than I may. Fortune does a great deal in all military adventures, and, therefore, I am not to say whether this reproach will come upon me or not. But you may rely upon it, my good friend, discretion and fortitude shall govern my conduct; and in the interim, I commit myself to that Power whose eye is over all his works, and by whose goodness I have been preserved in numerous perils." We do not learn that Williams was engaged in any very noted service until the following year, but he acquired the confidence and esteem of his superiors--among others Gen. Gates, whose friendship often professed, was afterwards proven. In 1776 he was promoted to the rank of Major, in a rifle regiment formed from Maryland and Virginia troops, and we learn that his first trial in actual battle, occurred at the fall of Fort Washington, on the Hudson River. He was stationed in a wood with his troops, in advance of the Fort, and was attacked by the Hessian allies. They were several times repulsed with heavy loss, but being reinforced, they succeeded in beating back Williams and his company into the Fort, where all were eventually taken prisoners. The enemy accomplished this by reinforcements, as has been already mentioned, and from the unfortunate condition of the rifles of the attacked party. By long continued and incessant fire, these had become so foul as to be nearly useless, and Williams reluctantly retreated at the last moment, only to delay capture for a short period. The feelings of an officer, when obliged to yield his sword, and suffer an imprisonment, he knows not how long or cruel it may be, must be sufficiently agonizing to feel that utter inactivity is forced upon him, at the very instant that his country is most in need of the services he would cheerfully render. In the last attack of the Hessians, Williams received a severe and dangerous shot wound in the groin, though he entirely recovered from its effects in due time. His career was suddenly checked, and he was doomed to languish fifteen months, before he again saw the sun shine on his freedom. The first half of his captivity, though painful enough to an ardent patriot, was not total eclipse. He was placed on Long Island on parole, and among many annoyances, there occurred some incidents which cheered him in captivity. He formed the acquaintance of Major Ackland, a British officer, and they became firm friends. The elegant person, and finished manners of Williams, procured him access to circles as a gentleman, which would have closed to him solely as a prisoner; and under the guidance of Ackland, visiting the opposite city of New York, he sometimes appeared in the fashionable houses, which reversing the present order, were then measured on the scale of style, by proximity to the battery. It is related that on one occasion, after Williams had been dining with Lady Ackland, his good friend the Major, and he, sallied forth for a ball, and that although the company were much struck with the elegant figures and demeanor of the two friends, and although the Briton made all effort to introduce the captive, the gentlemen of the party could not forget the enemy to welcome the stranger, and the ladies treated him with extreme coldness. Ackland finding that all his efforts were vain, took Williams by the arm and led him from the room, saying, "Come, this company is too exclusive for us." This was not the only occasion on which Major Ackland proved his friendship and sympathy for Americans. His fate was a melancholy one, and such as he little deserved. After the war of the Revolution, and when he had returned to his own country, on the occasion of a dinner, the valor of American soldiers became the subject of conversation. On their merit being denied, Ackland defended them, and in the warmth of argument with a brother officer, to some assertion, replied that he lied. The insult was of course unpardonable, and could only be settled by a duel, in which he was shot dead. During the period of Williams' confinement on Long Island, it was the pleasure of some of the British officers to stroll among the American prisoners, and tauntingly ask them in what trade they had been employed. When Williams was asked this impertinent question by a titled officer, he replied, that he had been bred in that situation which had taught him to rebuke and punish insolence, and that the questioner would have ample proof of his apprenticeship on a repetition of his offence. The noble did not attempt it, or demand satisfaction for the contempt with which he had been treated, but it is probable, that through his instrumentality, Williams was accused of carrying on a secret correspondence with Washington. There was, indeed, some apparent foundation for suspicion in Williams' superior ability, and from the respect paid to him by his fellow-prisoners. He was seized, and without one word of defence on his part being listened to, without being suffered to confront his accusers, he was suddenly removed to the provost jail in New York. Here he was delivered to the tender mercies of harsh turnkeys, and confined in a room about sixteen feet square that was seldom visited by the breath of heaven, and always remaining in a state of loathsome filth. Among other prisoners, was the celebrated Ethan Allen, and he shared the miserable den, in which Williams was confined. Their only visitors were wretches who came to glut their brutal curiosity, and to torture their victims with loud sentiments of delight in the anticipation of seeing them hanged. Letters complaining of such cruel treatment were repeatedly but vainly addressed to the commandant of New York, and they thus suffered for seven or eight months. Their health was much impaired, for their food was of the vilest sort, and scarce enough to keep soul and body together, and to add to these discomforts, the anxiety that preyed upon their minds, was terrible in the extreme. The naturally fine constitution of Williams was much impaired, and he never recovered entirely from the effects of his imprisonment. But he is still full of hope, to which, though not written at the time of his incarceration, his own words to one of his family thus bear witness: "I flatter myself I shall still see a day, a prosperous day, when we shall all be assembled in some agreeable spot in the neighborhood of Hagerstown, where we shall mutually embrace each other, with joy and tenderness, and cheerfully recount the tedious hours which the distresses of our country oblige us to pass in absence, and when the dangers that are passed will serve as a subject for an evening tale." But finally, the doors of his prison-house were thrown asunder and he was free. After the surrender of Burgoyne, Gen. Gates proved his friendship by stipulating positively for Williams' release, and he was exchanged for his old friend Major Ackland, who had been taken prisoner with the British army. Gen. Phillips, the commandant of New York, anxious to offer some excuse for the rigor with which Williams had been treated, asked him to dine with him, but the invitation was properly rejected. During his captivity his native State had not been unmindful of him, he had been appointed to the command of the 6th regiment of the Maryland line, and he joined the army in New Jersey, shortly before the battle of Monmouth, fought in June, 1778. The result of this engagement is well known: it gave great encouragement to the American troops, and Col. Williams has left a little description of the joy with which the following anniversary of Independence was celebrated, a joy enhanced by the favorable issue of the late conflict, and moreover, is one of the few instances on record in which the day has been celebrated without a patriotic oration. His letter is dated Camp New Brunswick, July 6th, 1778:-- "On the 4th inst. the anniversary of American Independence was celebrated in the following manner. At 3 o'clock in the afternoon, a cannon was discharged as a signal for the troops to get under arms, half an hour afterwards, the second fire was a signal for the troops to begin their march, and at four the third signal was given, for the troops to be drawn up in two lines, on the west side of the Raritan, which they did in beautiful order. A flag was then hoisted for the _feu de joie_ to begin. Thirteen pieces of artillery were then discharged, and a running fire of small arms went through the lines, beginning at the right of the front line, catching the left, and ending at the right of the second line. The field pieces in the intervals of brigades, were discharged in the running fire, thus affording a harmonious and uniform display of music and fire, which was thrice well executed. After the _feu de joie_ the general officers and officers commanding brigades, dined with his Excellency. Yesterday a number of field officers shared the same fate, and I had the satisfaction of seeing the old warrior in very fine spirits." During the remainder of Col. Williams' sojourn in the Northern States, we do not learn that he was in any position to prove his skill as a soldier, excepting in those qualities which are too often under-estimated by the public. His regiment when he took command of it, was rather noted for looseness of discipline, and did not stand upon a mark with others of the line, but in a very short time, under Williams' prompt and active organization, it became equal if not superior, in thorough discipline, to any in the whole army. A soldier should certainly not be deemed unable, who has few opportunities of any brilliant success, and who is only known by the admirable order of his troops. From several of Williams' letters written about this time, we learn that if there was little chance of fame, he found time to fall in love, proving that though ambitious of the glory of Mars, he was not insensible to the blandishments of Venus. But it is time, that we approach the sphere of action in which Williams was particularly distinguished, and where he acquired such honor, as to raise him to eminence among the greatest Generals of this country. We allude to the war in the Southern States, particularly the Carolinas, in which some of the bloodiest and most obstinate battles were fought, during the whole revolution. The entire country in that portion of the States, was completely reduced and subdued by the superior generalship of Sir Henry Clinton, who had left New York, for the express purpose of subjugating the Carolinas. He had been eminently successful, and it will not be unimportant to pass briefly in review, the condition to which those States had been reduced, when Congress determined to succor them, by reinforcements of Northern troops, among which were the Maryland and Virginia lines. On receipt of the news of Clinton's expedition, Charleston, then in possession of the Americans, had been placed in a state of defence, in the manner deemed best calculated to resist the enemy, though the garrison was enfeebled by disease, want of money, and want of enthusiasm among the soldiery. Many refused to serve again, after the late campaign in Georgia, unwilling to leave their homes, and having no faith in their own strength, against a powerful and amply munitioned foe. They also had strong grounds, through the proclamations of the English, to believe that non-resistance to the Crown would purchase security from fire and pillage, for it was the policy of the English utterly to destroy, as far as possible, all kinds of property belonging to the Republicans. The garrison of Charleston consisted of scarcely five thousand men, under command of General Lincoln, while Clinton's force alone, amounted to upwards of eight thousand. The garrison, after an obstinate defence of forty days, was obliged to surrender to the enemy, before which time, all hope of succor or escape was reluctantly abandoned. Various expeditions were planned by the American troops, but almost every one was prevented, or destroyed, by the ceaseless vigilance and activity of the British, among whom none was ever more conspicuous than the well remembered Tarlton. No sooner did the British standard wave over the ramparts of Charleston, than Clinton determined to use the most energetic means, to ensure the reduction of the entire province. To this end, he planned several expeditions, all of which succeeded even beyond his own hopes. The royalists joined his army in great numbers, and the Americans were defeated at all points. The complete rout and terrible slaughter of the Republicans, under Col. Buford, at Wacsaw, the enemy being led on by Tarlton, for a time utterly prostrated the vigor of the Carolinians, who thereupon submitted in despair. Clinton, then by promise of amnesty, endeavored to maintain the authority which British bayonets had again acquired, but he excepted those who had been instrumental in the defence of Charleston. This measure was productive, as we shall see, of the most fatal consequences, and in time overturned all hopes of those which he so strenuously endeavored to introduce. His object was to put down the slightest attempt at rebellion, and those who had lately fought for Congress, were forced to take up arms for the Crown, instead of being suffered to remain as prisoners of war, on parole. This unexpected act of tyranny produced a state of society of which, at this period, we can have but little idea. Those who had fought bravely in defence, were treated with the most cruel persecutions, their property plundered and destroyed, while those who submitted supinely to their fate, were sometimes rewarded, or at least suffered to remain undisturbed. This naturally engendered a bitter feeling, even between families, and the complete separation of members of the same flock, were but the happiest results: their hate was frequently kindled into a flame, only quenched in blood. Williams has left a graphic picture of the state of society at that time, and it may be remarked, that his opinion of the inhabitants was by no means high. He says, writing to his brother:--"There are a few virtuous good men in this State, and in Georgia; but a great majority of the people is composed of the most unprincipled, abandoned, vicious vagrants that ever inhabited the earth. The daily deliberate murders committed by pretended Whigs, and reputed tories, (men who are actually neither one thing nor the other in principle,) are too numerous and too shocking to relate. The licentiousness of various classes and denominations of villains, desolate this country, impoverish all who attempt to live by other means and destroy the strength and resources of the country, which ought to be collected and united, against a common enemy. "You may rely on it, my dear brother, that the enemy have had such footing and influence in this country that their success in putting the inhabitants together by the ears, has exceeded even their own expectations: the distraction that prevails surpasses any thing I ever before witnessed, and equals any idea, which your imagination can conceive, of a desperate and inveterate civil war." But horrible as this state of society was, it had some redeeming features; fire might consume, a savage soldiery might plunder, the sun might scorch and not gladden, and the rivers might run with blood, instead of water, but the women of the Carolinas stood superior to their husbands, their sons, and their brothers, and were unconquered, unconquerable. They indeed, bore the fiery trial, and preferred exile to submission, death to slavery. They incited their kindred never to lay down their arms, until the last foe had vanished from their soil. They would with the courage of Joan of Arc, have grasped the sword, and perished at the stake. They would not give their hand in the light dance to a Briton; they gave their heart with their hand to the meanest of their countrymen. They threw the gold bracelet into the scale to lighten the iron fetter. They feared not the contagion of the prison ships, nor the damp of the dungeon. They instilled into their drooping relatives new hopes, and urged them once more to draw the sword, and throw away the scabbard. It is related that Col. Tarlton once asked a lady in Charleston, the name of the Camomile blossom. "It is called," answered the noble woman, "the Rebel flower, because it flourishes best when most trampled on." The influence of woman prevailed, the sword seemed sharpened, instead of blunted by the blows it had taken, and the spirit of '76 again animated the soldiery. The arrival of Lafayette about this period, was most welcome: he brought encouraging news, and instilled into the colonists hopes which were soon verified by the arrival of the French fleet, commanded by Admiral de Tiernay, in Newport harbor. Then the people once more flew to arms, and The war that for a space did fail Now trebly thundering swelled the gale. General Gates took command in July, 1780, superseding Baron de Kalb; and Col. Williams with his regiment appears at the seat of war, in the Southern States, about that time. He assumed by appointment the important post of deputy Adjutant General, which added greatly to his duties, but which he discharged through his whole period of service, with exemplary fidelity. He has left a detailed narrative of the campaign of 1780, (published in Johnston's Life of Greene,) and his letters give most graphic accounts of the battles in which he was engaged, and the trials in other forms, through which he passed. The sharp action where blows were given and taken, proved less arduous and scarce more dangerous, than the sufferings of the army without an enemy in sight. He writes soon after his arrival--"The affairs of our little southern army are much deranged, and we find ourselves under very considerable embarrassments in our present position; the want of provisions is an inconvenience we have often experienced, but we have never been in a country so unwilling to supply us as at present. By military authority, we collect a kind of casual subsistence that can scarcely be called our daily bread. The fatigue of campaigning in this country is almost inconceivable. I have slept, when I have had time to sleep, in my clothes. I seldom divest myself of my sword, boots or coat; my horse is constantly saddled, and we eat when provisions are to be got, and we have nothing else to do. The dangers of the field are neither more frequent, nor more fatal, than those attending the fatigues and accidents that reduce an army--from long experience, I find myself so capable of sustaining the fatigue, and by my good fortune (the favor of Providence) I have so often escaped the danger, that I am contented to do my duty, and submit myself to that fate which Heaven ordains." The campaign of 1780 was a most unfortunate one for the Southern States, as that of 1776 was for the Northern. Soon after General Gates took command, the battle of Camden was fought, which resulted in the total defeat of the Americans. Col. Williams gives an account of it in his sketch of the campaign, but I have not been able to find any of his private letters on the subject. The battle was fought on the 16th of August, and from returns which Williams collected, the actual number of fighting men or rather of able bodied troops, for some did not fight at all, amounted only to three thousand and fifty-two, about one-half of the nominal strength of the army. The numbers of the enemy were much superior, and at the very time that Gen. Gates had determined to march upon Camden, Lord Cornwallis, commander-in-chief, (Clinton having returned to New York,) apprised of all that was passing in the interior of the States, determined to march himself to reinforce Lord Rawdon, thinking it highly probable from the position of the American army, that Camden would be a point of speedy attack. He arrived there two days before the battle, and unwilling to hazard an assault, determined to surprise the rebels in their place of encampment at Clermont. Thus both armies, ignorant of each other's intentions, moved about the same hour of the night, and approaching each other, met half way between their respective encampments at midnight. An exchange of fire between the advanced guards was the first notice that either army had of the other. Hostilities were for the time suspended, and from one of the prisoners taken in the skirmish, Williams learned that Lord Cornwallis led the army with three thousand troops under his especial command, besides those of Lord Rawdon's. This intelligence threw consternation into the American army, and Gen. Gates called a council of war. It was decided that the time had passed for any course but fighting. Frequent skirmishes occurred throughout the night, which served to display the relative force and situation of the two armies. Col. Williams narrates another circumstance which contributed to distress the Americans, and he says: "Nothing ought to be considered as trivial in an army which in any degree affects the health or spirit of the troops, upon which often, more than upon number, the fate of battles depends. The troops of Gen. Gates' army had frequently felt the consequence of eating bad provisions, but at this time a hasty meal of quick baked bread and fresh meat, with a dessert of molasses mixed with mush or dumplings, operated so cathartically as to disorder very many of the men, who were breaking the ranks all night, and were certainly much debilitated before the action commenced in the morning." On the morning of the 16th, the two armies came together, and Williams at the very onset distinguished himself by his valor, and by his suggestion to Gen. Gates that the enemy should be attacked while displaying by Gen. Stevens' brigade, already in line of battle, as first impressions were very important. Gen. Gates at once replied, "that's right, let it be done." This, however, could not be accomplished until the right wing of the British was discovered in line, too late to attack them while displaying. Williams at the head of forty or fifty men then commenced the attack, and kept up a brisk fire. But the militia no sooner beheld the enemy advance impetuously, than they threw down their arms without firing and fled instantly. This was followed by others, acting in the same pusillanimous style, and at least two-thirds of the army never fired a shot. Williams writes: "He who has never seen the effect of a panic upon a multitude can have but an imperfect idea of such a thing. The best disciplined troops have been enervated and made cowards by it. Armies have been routed by it, even where no enemy appeared to furnish an excuse. Like electricity, it operates instantly; like sympathy, it is irresistible where it touches." The regular troops, including those of Maryland, stood their ground, and by tremendous fires of musketry kept the enemy for a while in check. Several times did the British give way and as often rallied. But two brigades of American troops remained firm upon the field. Williams called upon his regiment not to fly; he saw that to avoid retreat was impossible but wished it to be accomplished with credit. The troops stood well and returned the hot fire of the enemy with zeal, until Cornwallis, charging with his whole force of dragoons and infantry, put them to total rout. Not a company retired in good order, but Williams attributed this not to want of courage; they had fought against desperate odds, besides having to fight for those who so ingloriously fled, but it appears that there was no command to retreat from any general officer until it became too late to retire in order. Williams gained in this action, unfortunate as it proved, a character for cool courage, for discretion, and that thorough knowledge of tactics so essential in the officer, and without which impetuosity would be but an explosive gas, but which, guarded by the master-hand of the philosopher, burns steadily through the thickest gloom. Never off his guard, he knew when and where to strike, and when to reserve the blow that opportunity only served to encourage; for it is hard for the brave in battle to retain the gauntlet of defiance, and so armed, "out of the nettle danger pluck the flower safety." General Gates never entirely recovered from the odium showered upon him by the event of the battle of Camden, and the consequences finally led to his displacement, and the appointment of Gen. Greene to the command of the Southern army, but Williams always continued his firm friend, and speaks of him in several instances as the "good old man." (It is impossible, in a sketch so brief as this, to give any detailed account of the war in the Carolinas; it will be sufficient to introduce successively Col. Williams' graphic pictures of the battles and scenes in which he was engaged.) The tide of fortune could not flow forever with the English, and at the battle of King's Mountain, in which Williams took part, they were utterly defeated; this victory proved a severe blow to the interests of Lord Cornwallis. Sometimes by good luck, advantages were gained, as in the following circumstance during the same year, and of which Williams gives this account, dated 7th Dec. 1780: "A few days ago Gen. Morgan, with the Light Infantry of our army and a party of Light Dragoons under Lieut. Col. Washington, moved towards Camden. Col. Rugely's farm was defended by a strong block house, which was garrisoned by Col. Rugely and a party of new levies. A good block house is proof against musketry and sometimes against light artillery. Therefore Gen. Morgan would not risk his troops in an assault, but had recourse to stratagem, and Lieut. Col. Washington executed the plan. He paraded the cavalry in view of the block house and mounted the trunk of a pine tree upon three prongs, instead of a field piece, and which he manned with dismounted dragoons, then summoned Rugely to surrender, which the poltroon did, without hearing a report of this new invented piece of ordnance, and submitted himself with about 100 officers and men to be taken as prisoners of war." The battle of Cowpens was another blow--perhaps the most decisive victory gained by the Americans during the whole war, and in which the hitherto terrible and fortunate Tarlton was put to total rout. The retreat of the army through North Carolina, which, so admirably executed, had the effect of leading Cornwallis into Virginia, followed the battle of Cowpens, and gave Williams an opportunity of displaying those qualities of tact, vigilance and prudence, which gain for an officer a fame as deserved as the laurels won in battle. He commanded the rear guard, and succeeded in eluding every effort of the enemy in pursuit. Greene, with a keen eye, early distinguished his abilities, and he became, as long as he remained with the army, one of his general's few and constant advisers. He appointed him Adjutant General, as he had been Deputy under Gates. The next engagement of consequence is that of Guilford Court House, and Williams has left a short account of it in a hasty letter to his brother. His letter is dated from Camp at Speedwell's furnace, ten miles from Guilford Court House, 1st March, 1781: "The Southern army has once more come off second best in a general action. Gen. Greene being reinforced with a few small detachments of new levies, which gave the regular battalion a respectable appearance, and a sufficient number of militia to make his force apparently superior to the British army, made the best possible arrangement of his troops, and for many reasons which rendered it almost absolutely necessary, came to a resolution of attacking Lord Cornwallis the first opportunity. When both parties are disposed for action all obstacles are soon overcome. The two armies met at Guilford Court House yesterday at 12 o'clock. Our army was well posted; the action was commenced by the advanced parties of infantry and cavalry, in which our troops were successful, but the situation of the ground not being favorable in our front, our army kept its position and waited the attack of the British. They were opposed wherever they appeared. The militia of North Carolina behaved as usual, but those of Virginia distinguished themselves by uncommon bravery. The regular troops were the last that had come to action and generally behaved well, but as these were the most inconsiderable in number, the general chose rather to retire than risk a defeat. The retreat was made in tolerable good order, and so stern was the appearance of our regular force, that the enemy did not think proper to press our rear, nor continue the pursuit more than three miles. Our greatest loss is four pieces of artillery and the field." During the next month another ineffectual attempt was made upon Camden, and pursuing the plan formed of allowing the actors in these scenes to speak for themselves, we have Col. Williams' account of the efforts of the army as follows: "CAMP BEFORE CAMDEN, _27 April, 1781_. "_Dear Elie_--We have been here ever since the 19th instant, and have made several manoeuvres, upon different quarters of the town, but have neither been able to discover advantages, that promised success by a storm, nor to completely invest the place. The town is flanked on the West by the Wateree, and on the East by two deep creeks; the other quarters are strongly fortified. A villain of a drummer went in to the enemy on the the 24th, when we were encamped within a mile of the town, and gave them such information of our circumstances, position and numbers, as induced Lord Rawdon to sally with all his best troops the next morning, about eleven o'clock. "This was what we wished, and the only hope we had of a speedy reduction of the post. Lieut. Col. Washington was ordered to pass the right flank of the enemy with his cavalry, which he did, and threw himself in their rear. Capt. Kirkwood, with two small companies of light infantry, was behaving bravely in front, and the picquets were doing their duty upon the flanks, when the line was ordered to advance, and the artillery to play upon the enemy. The first Maryland regiment particularly, was ordered to charge bayonets, without firing, but for some cause not yet clearly ascertained, the regiment received orders to retire and then broke. The second regiment retired in consequence. The second Virginia regiment was ordered off, and the first broke. The unfavorable consequences were, that the army lost a glorious opportunity of gaining a complete victory, taking the town, and biasing the beam of fortune greatly in favor of our cause. "The action was at no time very warm, but it was durable, and our troops by the gallant exertions of our officers, were rallied frequently, but always fought at long shot. A convincing testimony that this was generally the case, is that none or very few of our men were wounded with buck shot or bayonet. The baggage of our army was sent off to Rugely's, and the troops halted at Saunder's Creek, about two miles South of where we fought last year, and about five miles from Camden. The loss was nearly equal on both sides, if we do not consider the loss of opportunity. We lost about 130 killed and wounded, and from every account the enemy were not more lucky. "The cavalry, the light infantry, and the guards, acquired all the honor, and the infantry of the battalions all the disgrace that fell upon our shoulders. The cavalry, led on by Washington, behaved in a manner truly heroic. He charged the British army in the rear, took a great number of prisoners, sent many of them off with small detachments, and when he saw we were turning our backs upon victory in front, by a circuitous manoeuvre, he threw his dragoons into our rear, passed the line and charged the York volunteers, (a fine corps of cavalry,) killed a number and drove the rest out of the field. Washington is an elegant officer; his reputation is deservedly great. Many of our officers are mortally mortified at our late inglorious retreat. I say mortally, because I cannot doubt that some of us must fall, in endeavoring the next opportunity, to re-establish our reputation. Dear Reputation, what trouble do you not occasion, what danger do you not expose us to! Who but for it, would patiently persevere in prosecuting a war, with the mere remnant of a fugitive army, in a country made desolate by repeated ravages, and rendered sterile by streams of blood. Who but for reputation would sustain the varied evils that daily attend the life of a soldier, and expose him to jeopardy every hour. Liberty, thou basis of reputation, suffer me not to forget the cause of my country, nor to murmur at my fate." The events of this campaign being active, and following in quick succession, we have an account of the siege of Ninety-six, a very important post. The fortunes of the war had turned generally in favor of the Americans, although their troops were several times defeated in this campaign. Lord Rawdon was forced to abandon Camden shortly after the events narrated by Williams, and the posts of Fort Watson, Fort Mott, Fort Granby, Nelson's Ferry, Georgetown, Fort Dreadnought and Augusta were all reduced or deserted, and there remained only Charleston and Ninety-six in South Carolina, and Savannah, in Georgia, in the hands of the enemy. The post of Ninety-six was closely besieged for three weeks, and without reinforcements, which the Americans hardly expected, would certainly have been taken. But it so happened, unfortunately, that the garrison was strongly reinforced by Lord Rawdon, and the Americans were obliged to abandon the siege. Col. Williams writes thus: "BUSH RIVER, _June 23d, 1781_. "_Dear Bro._--The circumstances of the war, in this part of the world, have had a material alteration since I had the pleasure to write you. After Lord Rawdon's retreat from Camden, Gen. Greene pushed his operations southwardly, and has obliged the enemy to abandon or surrender all their posts in South Carolina, except Charleston and Ninety-six. On the 22d ult. our little army invested the last mentioned place, and continued the siege with infinite labor and alacrity till the 20th inst., when we were obliged to relinquish an object, which, if attained, would not only have given peace to this distracted country, but would have added a lustre to our former services, sufficiently brilliant to have thrown a proper light upon the character of our excellent General, and reflected a ray of glory upon the reputation of each inferior officer. Though we have been greatly disappointed, no troops ever deserved more credit for their exertions. The operations were prosecuted with indefatigable zeal and bravery, and the place was defended with spirit and address. Our loss is Capt. Armstrong, of the Maryland Line, killed; Capt. Benson, dangerously wounded, and Lieut. Duvall, also wounded. Besides officers, we lost fifty-eight men killed, sixty-nine wounded, and twenty missing. From this account you will conclude that a day seldom passed without execution, and I can assure you that each night rather promoted than diminished the mischief. We succeeded so far as to take one of the enemy's redoubts, and in all probability a few days more would have happily concluded the business. But Lord Rawdon had received a strong reinforcement, and by making forced marches, arrived in time to avert the impending fate of the garrison. I cannot ascertain the loss the enemy may have sustained, but judging by our own, it cannot be inconsiderable. Our approaches were carried by two trenches and a mine to within a few feet of the ditch of their strongest fort, and our troops once took possession of it, but their works were too strong to be escaladed. Instances of consummate bravery were exhibited, but their fire was too fatal for our people to remain in their fosse, and we were obliged to leave it with loss." But the most important battle, and the last of consequence, was that of Eutaw. It was by no means as decisive as that of Cowpens, but it was instrumental in putting an end to the war. Col. Williams displays his knowledge of the enemy, and his skill as a soldier, in this prognostic of the battle, which happened four days after that he writes as follows from: "FORT MOTT, on the Congaree River, _Sept. 4th, 1781_. "I wrote last from the high hills of Santee, from which the army moved the 23d of August, with the view of attacking the enemy at Thompson's Farm, which is within half a mile of this place, but having a large circuit to make before we could pass the Wateree and Congaree rivers, which lay between us, the enemy took the opportunity of retiring to Nelson Ferry, which is on the Santee River, about forty miles below the confluence of the first mentioned rivers, which form the last, within sight of our present position. "Having got the enemy so low down the country, a great point is gained, and puts the laboring oar into their hands. "We shall not be under the necessity of fighting, neither shall we avoid it if a favorable opportunity offers. These large rivers, which have all extensive marshy shores and but few ferries, embarrass us on account of transporting our baggage, and will subject the army to some inconvenience, but our circumstances, taken altogether, are very different from what they were three months ago, and are indeed a perfect contrast to the adverse fortune that followed the heels of our retreating troops last winter. If Col. Stewart, who has commanded the army since Lord Rawdon's departure for Europe, thinks proper to risk an action, he will be beaten." Here we have his account of the battle itself: "The British army, being reinforced by the 3d regiment, contrary to my expectations, advanced from Orangeburgh to Congaree, and encamped at Col. Thompson's, about one mile from Fort Mott, which we had reduced some time before. It is said they exultingly gave three cheers upon regaining that position. The two armies remained neighbors, and were separated by the Santee, from early in August till the 23d of that month, when Gen. Greene took the resolution to remove Col. Stewart, (who succeeded Gen. Rawdon in command,) or give him battle. "It was impossible to pass the rivers Wateree and Congaree immediately in front, and as their confluence is but a little to our left, it was not considered eligible to cross the Santee below the enemy for obvious reasons: we had a junction to form with the State troops and militia, whose numbers were not ascertained, and without them we were greatly inferior in force to the enemy. Therefore the General ordered us to march by the right, and we passed the rivers above, which induced the British army to retire to Eutaw Springs, about thirty-five miles from Thompson's and about two from Nelson's Ferry over the Santee. Gen. Greene did not approve of their holding that post, and as his forces were now collected, he determined to prosecute his plan of giving battle or removing them to a more peaceful distance. By easy marches we arrived at Burdell's, seven miles from Eutaw, in the afternoon of the 7th inst., and orders were given for marching again next morning, at four o'clock, to attack the enemy. "At four o'clock next morning we were under arms, and moved in order of battle about three miles, when we halted, and took a little of that liquid which is not unnecessary to exhilarate the animal spirits upon such occasions. Again we advanced, and soon afterwards our light troops met the van of the enemy, who were marching out to meet us. "Very serious, very important reflections began to obtrude. But liberty or death; peace and independence; or glory and a grave. The enemy's van was soon driven to their line, and our troops displayed. Our militia, which composed the front line, seconded the attack, and behaved better than usual. The North Carolina brigade of Continentals were next engaged, and acquired honor by their firmness. The Virginians advanced with impetuosity, and beat their foes wherever they found them. And the little remnant of Maryland troops, with an intrepidity which was particularly noticed by our gallant commander, advanced in good order, with trailed arms, and without regarding or returning the enemy's fire, charged and broke their best troops. Then, indeed, we fired and followed them into their camp, near which is a thick wood, very unfavorable to cavalry. But Col. Washington, impatient perhaps for a more favorable opportunity, charged upon the enemy's right, where unluckily their flank companies were posted. He received a very galling fire, by which his horse fell in front of his dragoons. In an instant his breast was pierced by a bayonet, which however wounded him but slightly. His cavalry was repulsed, and that excellent officer became a captive. "Our loss in officers killed and wounded was very considerable, and the eagerness of the pursuit had thrown most of the troops into disorder, which could not now be remedied. Some were taking prisoners, and others plundering the enemy's camp, while they in despair sought refuge in and about a strong brick house which stood in the midst of it, and from whence their fire began to gall us exceedingly. About this time General Greene had brought our two six pounders within one hundred yards of the house, and I believe by accident or mistake, two others which we had taken were brought to the same place. At this critical juncture the enemy made a conclusive effort, which not only did them great honor, but, in my opinion, was the salvation of their whole army. Major Majoribanks sallied briskly from behind a picket garden, charged our artillery, and carried the pieces, which they immediately secured under the walls of their citadel. "As our two three pounders and one which we had taken in the field, were all dismounted, it was useless to attempt any thing further with the small arms. The General, therefore, ordered the troops to retire, which was done gradually, the enemy not presuming to follow. The cavalry of the legion kept that of the enemy in awe, but found no good opportunity to cut them. "The Delaware battalion and legion infantry acted with their usual vivacity, and were among those who did the most execution. As the Eutaw Spring was within fifty yards of the house, and there was no other water nearer than Burdell's, we retired in the afternoon to that place, which gave the enemy an opportunity of burying as many of their dead as their stay would admit. They abandoned the post early on the night of the 9th, leaving upwards of sixty of their dead unburied, and sixty or seventy wounded that could not be carried off. We pursued them about thirty-five miles, and though their army was reinforced by Major McArthur's detachment of 300 or 400 men from Monks' Corner, they thought proper to retire to a strong position on the south side of Ferguson's swamp, in the night of the 10th, when we lay at the Trout Spring, within five miles of them. "They retired to Fair Lawn, below Monks', and on the morning of the 13th the General ordered the army to return to its former position at the high hills of Santee. This expedition was made in the season of the year which is most sickly in this country; and you cannot conceive how much more lamentable it is to lose an officer in sick quarters, than to see him fall in the field. There, there is no duration of that toilsome anxiety which we suffer for a languishing friend, besides his exit is glorious and, we believe, happy. "Upon re-perusal of this circumstantial sheet, I do not think I have said enough of the bravery of the American troops. To have an idea of their vivacity and intrepidity, you must have shared their danger and seen their charge, which exceeded any thing of the sort I ever saw before. "The battle of Eutaw, was an example of what I conceive to be obstinate fair field fighting, and it is worthy of remark, that it happened on the same spot of ground where, according to the tradition of this country, a very bloody, desperate battle was fought about a century ago, between the savage natives and the barbarous Europeans who came to dispossess them of their property, which, in soil, is as rich as any upon the continent, or can be any where else. On the spot where the conflict of bayonets decided the victory, is a monument or mound of earth, said to have been erected over the bodies of the brave Indians who fell in defence of their country. Will any such honorable testimony be erected to the memory of our departed heroes?" Both parties claimed the victory, and according to Gen. Tarlton's narrative, it was a most brilliant triumph for the British. It had, however, great weight in favor of the Americans. Williams' conduct in this engagement was most distinguished, and won for him the entire approbation and praise of General Greene and the army. Indeed, Greene says: "I cannot help acknowledging my obligations to Col. Williams for his great activity on this and many other occasions, in forming the army, and for his uncommon intrepidity in leading on the Maryland troops to the charge." Williams might, indeed, well be proud of such commendation, but he now knew that he had done all in his power for the country, and he yearned to return to the bosom of his family. A sense of duty alone made him a soldier; there was in him no desire of mere military distinction, but of "that good fame, Without which glory's but a tavern song." He would have chosen to live on the old homestead, had not the cry of his country rung in his ears, and when he was at last free to set his face homewards, how gladly did he depart. He writes to his brother: "My disposition is wholly domestic; my feelings flow with excess of tenderness whenever I indulge the thoughts of home. There I will be as soon as I can quit the field with honor, and sooner you don't expect me. The hope of terminating this tour of service with a little good fortune, and of returning once more to my friends, supports me under all my anxiety and danger. I am happy in my office, in my command, and in my connections. My health is seldom impaired, though my feelings are wounded every day by such circumstances as I have frequently related--so that I have a mixture of pleasure and pain in the exercise of my profession, which I ardently wish I may soon have an honorable opportunity of changing for some silent, sweet domestic occupation. Then will I take you and my fond sisters in my arms, and live with you in peace." The military career of Williams now drew rapidly to a close, and the remainder of his days were passed in the repose he so ardently loved. But toward the close of the war he was sent by Greene with despatches to Congress, and became Brigadier General by brevet. Much as he merited the honor, it caused some dissatisfaction among his brother officers, and Greene writes to him on this subject, in connection with others, as follows: "I wrote you, my dear General, some time past, in answer to your letter. In mine I congratulated you on your promotion, from which I felt a singular happiness, but observed at the same time, that the manner was more honorable to you, than satisfactory to the other Colonels of the army. Your right of promotion, which took place from the United States being formed into districts, was repealed before your promotion took place, and being promoted upon a principle of merit, the Colonels feel an injury in the comparison that their merit is less conspicuous than yours. Col. Pinkney wrote me on the subject, and I believe has written to Congress. I gave him copies of my letters to Congress, which were satisfactory. I expect other Colonels will feel the same injury, and very likely make the same application. "The love of rank is so strong a principle in the breast of a soldier, that he who has a right to promotion will never admit another over his head upon a principle of merit. You are not to expect that every body will subscribe to the justice of your promotion. You must content yourself with having obtained it, and that no man is without his enemies but a fool. I am glad to hear the sentiments of the public are so flattering to the Southern army. The Southern States have acted generously by me, and if I can close the business honorably here, I shall feel doubly happy, happy for the people and happy for myself. I think the public are not a little indebted for our exertions. The Southern States were lost, they are now restored; the American arms were in disgrace, they are now in high reputation. The American soldiery were thought to want both patience and fortitude to contend with difficulties: they are now remarkable for both. That sentiment had taken deep root in Europe, but it is now totally changed. Indeed, the change of British administration is in a great degree owing to our efforts, and the consequences resulting from them. "I hope I don't arrogate too much in saying this, and in saying we have contributed not a little to the glory of the nation and the American arms. I find by a Parliamentary Register, that there were 18,000 troops and upwards, in the Southern department last year, besides the militia which acted with the enemy, and those amounted to not less than 2,000, exclusive of the negroes, and they had more than 1,000 of them on the different military departments of the army. This includes Lord Cornwallis' army in Virginia. At the time the battle of Eutaw was fought by the enemy, from returns laid before Parliament, it appears they had in Charleston and in their advanced army, 6,700 men fit for duty, besides all the militia and negroes. What an amazing difference between their force and ours! From these authorities, I find our operations were much more glorious than ever we considered them." Gen. Greene and Gen. Williams were equally zealous in defending each other's reputation, and at a later period when Greene himself was made the subject of animadversion, Williams defends him in a strain of indignation and sarcasm, in the following letter to Maj. Edwards: "The late revolution in South Carolina is owing not only to a change of circumstances, but to a change of men in the government of that country. How daringly impudent it is for those who have been rescued from misery and dejection, to arraign the virtue that saved them. Gen. Greene exercised a superior judgment, changed the system of military operations in that country, and used the only possible means of recovering it--and dare the ingrates now accuse him of any interested design, or any view of ambition, other than that which receives its highest gratification from the thanks and approbation of a free people? And do the devils dare to treat with neglect and contempt that little corps of gallant men who saved them from despair and slavery? Their ingratitude proves manifestly, how well they deserved the chains which have been taken off their necks. There are many sensible, amiable characters in Carolina, but I always feared the majority were envious, jealous, malicious, designing, unprincipled people. Come one, come all of you away and leave them. I am glad to hear the Northern troops are returning. Though I cannot flatter myself with the pleasure of seeing them rewarded as they deserve, there will be something done for them, they will not starve on the same fields in which they have bled." It will not be of purpose to dwell much longer upon the subject before us, for Gen. Williams did not live many years more to enjoy the fruits of his hard toil. He settled in Baltimore and was appointed to the collectorship of the port, by the Governor of the State, the duties of which he discharged with the same exemplary fidelity which had attended his military career. When the Federal Constitution was adopted, he was re-appointed to the same office, which he continued to hold as long as he lived. In 1786, he was happily married to the second daughter of Mr. William Smith, a very wealthy and influential merchant, and his union was productive of the complete felicity he so well deserved. His habits of industry, economy and method, joined to the lucrative office he held, enabled him among much other property, to buy the old home of his father, on the banks of the Potomac, which in the midst of the battle field's "dreadful array," he had so often fondly returned to in imagination. Here he was pleasantly employed in improving the condition of the farm, and in laying out the present town of "Williamsport," called after his own name. It was at one time thought that the seat of government would be at Williamsport, and there are several letters from the General's brother on the subject, and written in a very hopeful strain: one of great length detailing an account of Gen. Washington's visit to Springfield's farm, (for such is its name,) with speculations on the site of the Federal seat. On this letter Gen. Williams has endorsed the words "All a Hum," and Williamsport has remained to this day, rather a village than a city of magnificent distances. The health of Gen. Williams became much impaired, and disease attacked his lungs, but he still continued his duties. He had many friends in and out of the army, and he delighted to keep up a correspondence with them. None thought more highly of him as a soldier and a man, than Washington, and such names as Greene, Knox, Lincoln, Lee, Steuben, Kosciusko, and many more, form those of intimate and tried associates. Nor was he less solicitous to preserve unbroken friendship with many unknown to fame, and with a large family circle. The wealth that he acquired was liberally dispensed, and his bounty was always readily extended to the deserving. To his brother he says in one of his letters--"Whatever is mine in Maryland is yours, and I really don't know what you mean by my money in your hands." So highly was he esteemed by Gen. Washington; that in 1792, on the refusal of Gen. Morgan to accept the actual rank of Brigadier General, Gen. Knox being then Secretary of War, wrote to Williams that the President would be highly pleased to appoint him to the post, which would make him the eldest Brigadier General, and second in command, and he was accordingly actually so nominated. But this honor he positively declined in several letters to the President and Secretary Knox, on account of ill health and family duties; and he also adds that it would be no stimulus to his ambition to be second in command. His illness still increasing upon him, he was induced in 1793 to try the effect of sea air, and a voyage to Barbadoes had some benefit, but of very short duration. And now the light which he created and shed around him, was to be withdrawn from those who looked as upon the rainbow's glories after a stormy day; for just as they were encircled by its arch of splendor, in radiant promise of sunny skies, they beheld its brilliant hues melting into air, as the luminary whence they emanated sunk solemnly from their sight. In the next year, 1794, while on his way to the Sweet Springs, in Virginia, on reaching the little town of Woodstock, he became too ill to proceed farther, and on the 16th of July, at the early age of 45, he died. He was prepared; he had lived the full measure of his fame; his life had been glorious and happy; he had shrunk from no responsibility; he had feared nothing but to do wrong; he had gained "honor, love, obedience, troops of friends," and when at last he met the unconquerable foe, it was with the same calm courage and reliance on a higher power, that had been his trust when he had rushed into mortal battle. He left an ample fortune to his four sons, and committed them to their mother's father, saying in his will, that he could do so with entire trust, "as soon as it should please Heaven to remove him from that endearing office." In the eloquent language of the Spaniard, himself a soldier as well as a poet, "As thus the dying warrior prayed, Without one gathering mist or shade Upon his mind; Encircled by his family, Watched by affection's gentle eye So soft and kind-- "His soul to him who gave it, rose: God lead it to its long repose, Its glorious rest! And though the warrior's sun is set, Its light shall linger round us yet, Bright, radiant, blest." On the banks of the lordly Potomac his remains repose, beneath a simple monument crowning the summit of a hill, overlooking a wild expanse of waving woods and pleasant fields, and distant mountains, which he once delighted to look upon. The setting sun sheds its glories over that peaceful landscape; the river flows calmly by many a pleasant village, by the marble palaces of the busy Metropolis, and by the tomb of him who has given it his name. Heroes, patriots and friends, both sleep by the same river; both firm in love of peace but hatred of tyranny, and both spared to be cheered by the smiles of their country, whose battles they had fought while she pined in fetters and in tears. 
22113	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 22113-h.htm or 22113-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/2/1/1/22113/22113-h/22113-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/2/1/1/22113/22113-h.zip) PEGGY STEWART AT SCHOOL by GABRIELLE E. JACKSON Author of "Peggy Stewart at Home," "Silver Heels," "Three Graces" Series, "Capt. Polly" Series, etc. The Goldsmith Publishing Co. New York N. Y. Made in U.S.A. Copyright, 1918 by Barse & Hopkins CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. THE BAROMETER FALLING 1 II. RECONSTRUCTION 16 III. HOSTILITIES SUSPENDED 32 IV. HOSTILITIES RESUMED 48 V. RUCTIONS! 64 VI. A NEW ORDER OF THINGS 81 VII. COLUMBIA HEIGHTS SCHOOL 97 VIII. A RIDING LESSON 114 IX. COMMON SENSE AND HORSE SENSE 131 X. TZARITZA AS DISCIPLINARIAN 149 XI. BEHIND SCENES 167 XII. CHRISTMAS AT SEVERNDALE 184 XIII. YULETIDE 202 XIV. AT SEVERNDALE 221 XV. IN SPRING TERM 239 XVI. A MIDNIGHT SENSATION 256 XVII. A SEND-OFF WITH FIREWORKS 274 CHAPTER I THE BAROMETER FALLING The September morning was warmer and more enervating than September mornings in Maryland usually are, though the month is generally conceded to be a trying one. Even at beautiful Severndale where, if at any point along the river, a refreshing breeze could almost always be counted upon, the air seemed heavy and lifeless, as though the intense heat of the summer had taken from it every particle of its revivifying qualities. In the pretty breakfast room the long French windows, giving upon the broad piazza, stood wide open; the leaves upon the great beeches and maples which graced the extensive lawn beyond, hung limp and motionless; the sunlight even at that early hour beat scorchingly upon the dry grass, for there had been little rain during August and the vegetation had suffered severely; every growing thing was coated like a dusty miller. But within doors all looked most inviting. The room was scrupulous; its appointments indicated refined taste and constant care; the breakfast table, laid for two, was dainty and faultless in its appointments; our old friend, Jerome, moved about noiselessly, giving last lingering touches, lest any trifle be omitted which might add to the comfort and sense of harmony which seemed so much a part of his young mistress's life. As he straightened a fruit knife here, or set right a fold of the snowy breakfast cloth, he kept up a low-murmured monologue after the manner of his race. Very little escaped old Jerome's sharp eyes and keen ears, and within the past forty-eight hours they had found plenty to see or hear, for a guest had come to Severndale. Yes, a most unusual type of guest, too. As a rule Severndale's guests brought unalloyed pleasure to its young hostess and her servants, or to her sailor father if he happened to be enjoying one of his rare leaves, for Captain Stewart had been on sea-duty for many successive years, preferring it to land duty since his wife's death when Peggy, his only child, was but six years of age. Severndale had held only sad memories for him since that day, nearly ten years ago, in spite of the little girl growing up there, cared for by the old housekeeper and the servants, some of whom had been on the estate as long as Neil Stewart could remember. But nine years had slipped away since Peggy's mother's death, and the little child had changed into a very lovely young girl, with whom the father was in reality just becoming acquainted. He had spent more time with her during the year just passed than he had ever spent in any one of the preceding nine years, and those weeks had held many startling revelations for him. When he left her to resume command of his ship, his mind was in a more or less chaotic state trying to grasp an entirely new order of things, for this time he was leaving behind him a young lady of fifteen who, so it seemed to the perplexed man, had jumped over at least five years as easily as an athlete springs across a hurdle, leaving the little girl upon the other side forever. When Neil Stewart awakened to this fact he was first dazed, and then overwhelmed by the sense of his obligations overlooked for so long, and, being possessed of a lively sense of duty, he strove to correct the oversight. Had he not been in such deadly earnest his efforts to make reparation for what he considered his inexcusable short-sightedness and neglect, would have been funny, for, like most men when confronted by some problem involving femininity, he was utterly at a loss how to set about "his job" as he termed it. As a matter of fact, a kind fate had taken "his job" in hand for him some time before, and was in a fair way to turn out a pretty good one too. But Neil Stewart made up his mind to boost Old Lady Fate along a little, and his attempts at so doing came pretty near upsetting her equilibrium; she was not inclined to be hustled, and Neil Stewart was nothing if not a hustler, once he got under way. And so, alack! by one little move he completely changed Peggy's future and for a time rendered the present a veritable storm center, as will be seen. But we will let events tell their own story. Old Jerome moved about the sunny breakfast-room; at least it would have been sunny had not soft-tinted awnings and East-Indian screens, shut out the sun's glare and suffused the room in a restful coolness and calm, in marked contrast to the vivid light beyond the windows. Jerome himself was refreshing to look upon. The old colored man was quite seventy years of age, but still an erect and dignified major-domo. From his white, wool-fringed old head, to the toes of his white canvas shoes, he was immaculate. No linen could have been more faultlessly laundered than Jerome's; no serviette more neatly folded. All was in harmony excepting the old man's face; that was troubled. A perplexed pucker contracted his forehead as he spoke softly to himself. "'Taint going to do _no_ how! It sure ain't. She ain't got de right bran', no she ain't, and yo' cyant mate up no common stock wid a tho'oughbred and git any sort of a span. No siree, yo' cyant. My Lawd, what done possess Massa Neil fer ter 'vite her down hyer? _She_ cyant 'struct an' guide _our_ yo'ng mist'ess. Sho! She ain' know de very fust _rudimints_ ob de qualities' ways an' doin's. Miss Peggy could show her mo' in five minutes dan she ever is know in five years. She ain't,--she ain't,--well I ain't jist 'zackly know how I'se gwine speechify it, but she ain't like _we_ all," and Jerome wagged his head in deprecation and forced his tongue against his teeth in a sound indicating annoyance and distaste, as he moved his mistress' chair a trifle. Just then Mammy Lucy stuck her white-turbaned head in at the door to ask: "Whar dat chile at? Ain't she done come in fer her breckfus yit? It's nine o'clock and Sis Cynthia's a-stewin' an' a steamin' like her own taters." "She say she wait fer her aunt, an' her aunt say she cyant breckfus befo' half-pas' nine, no how," answered Jerome. "Huh, huh! An' ma chile gotter wait a hull hour pas' her breckfus time jist kase Madam Fussa-ma-fiddle ain't choose fer ter git up? I bait yo' she git up when she ter home, and I bait yo' she ain't gitting somebody ter dress her, an' wait on her han' an' foot like Mandy done been a-doin' sense yistiddy; ner she ain' been keepin' better folks a-waiting fer dey meals. I'se pintedly put out wid de way things is been gwine in dis hyer 'stablishmint fer de past two days, an' 's fur 's _I_ kin see dey ain' gwine mend none neider. No, not fer a considerbul spell lessen we has one grand, hifalutin' tornader. Yo' hyar me!" "I sho' does hyar yo' Mis' Lucy, an' I sho' 'grees wid yo' ter de very top notch. Dere's gwine ter be de very dibble--'scuse me please, ma'am, 'scuse me, but ma feelin's done got de better of ma breedin'--ter pay ef things go on as dey've begun since de Madam--_an' dat dawg_--invest deyselves 'pon Severndale. But yonder comin' our yo'ng mistiss," he concluded as a clear, sweet voice was heard singing just beyond the windows, and quick decisive footsteps came across the broad piazza, and Peggy Stewart, only daughter and heiress of beautiful "Severndale," entered the room. By her side Tzaritza, her snowy Russian wolfhound, paced with stately mien; a thoroughbred pair indeed. "Oh, Jerome, I am just starved. That breakfast table is irresistible. Mammy, is Aunt Katherine ready?" "I make haste fer ter inquire, baby," answered the old nurse, hurrying from the room. "I trus' she is," was Jerome's comment, adding: "Sis Cynthia done make de sallylun jist ter de perfection pint, an' she know dat pint too." Peggy made no comment upon the implied reproach of her guest's tardiness, but crossing the room to a big chair, whither Tzaritza had already preceded her to rub noses with a magnificent white Persian cat, she stooped to stroke Sultana, who graciously condescended to purr and nestle her beautiful head against Peggy's hand. Sultana had only been a member of the Severndale household since July, Mr. Harold having sent her to Peggy as "a semi-annual birthday gift," he said. She had adapted herself to her new surroundings with unusual promptitude and been adopted by the other four-footed members of the estate as "a friend and equal." The trio formed a picturesque group as they stood there. The dark-haired, dark-eyed young girl of fifteen, with her rich, clear coloring, her cheeks softly tinted from her brisk walk in the morning sunshine was very lovely. She wore a white duck skirt, a soft nainsook blouse open at the throat, the sailor collar knotted with a red silk scarf. Her heavy braids were coiled about her shapely head and held in place with large shell pins, soft little locks curling about her forehead. The past year had wrought wonderful changes in Peggy Stewart. The little girl had vanished forever, giving place to the charming young girl nearing her sixteenth milestone. The contact with the outer world which the past three months had given, when she had made so many new friends and seen so much of the service and social world, had done a great deal towards developing her. Always exceptionally well poised and sure of herself, the summer at Navy Bungalow in New London, at Newport, Boston, and at other points at which the summer practice Squadron had touched, had broadened her outlook, and helped her gauge things from a different and wider viewpoint than Severndale or Annapolis afforded. Though entirely unaware of the fact, Peggy had few rivals in the world of young girls. Presently a step sounded upon the polished floor of the broad hall and Mrs. Peyton Stewart, Peggy's aunt by marriage, stood in the doorway. Under one arm she carried her French poodle. Stooping she placed it upon the floor with the care which suggested a degree of fragility entirely belied by the bad-tempered little beast's first move, for as Peggy advanced with extended hand to greet her aunt, Toinette made a wild dash for the Persian cat, which onset was met by one dignified slap of the Sultana's paw, which left its red imprint upon the poodle's nose and promptly toppled the pampered thing heels-over-head. Tzaritza stood watching the entire procedure with dignified surprise, and when the yelping little beast rolled to her feet, she calmly gathered her into her huge jaws and stalking across the room held her up to Peggy, as though asking: "What shall I do with this bad-mannered bit of dogdom? Turn her over to your discipline, or crush her with one snap of my jaws?" "Oh you horrible, savage beast! You great brute! Drop her! Drop her! Drop her instantly! My precious Toinette. My darling!" shrieked Toinette's doting mistress. "Peggy, how _can_ you have such a savage creature near you? She has crushed every bone in my pet's body. Go away! Go away!" The scorn in Tzaritza's eyes was almost human. With a low growl, she dropped the thoroughly cowed poodle at Peggy's feet and then turned and stalked from the room, the very picture of scornful dignity. Mrs. Stewart snatched the poodle to her breast. There was not a scratch upon it save the one inflicted by Sultana, and richly deserved, as the tuft of the handsome cat's fur lying upon the floor testified. "I hardly think you will find her injured, Aunt Katherine. Tzaritza never harms any creature smaller than herself unless bidden to. She brought Toinette here as much for the little dog's protection as for Sultana's." "Sultana's! As though she needed protection from _this_ fairy creature. Horrible, vicious cat! Look at poor Toinette's nose." "And at poor Sultana's fur," added Peggy, pointing to the tuft upon the floor and slightly shrugging her shoulders. "She deserved it for scratching Toinette's nose." "I'm afraid the scratch was the second move in the onslaught." "We will not argue the point, but in future keep that great hound outside of the house, and the cat elsewhere than in the dining-room, I beg of you--I can't have Toinette's life endangered, or my nerves shocked in this manner again." For a moment Peggy looked at her aunt in amazement. Keep Tzaritza out of the house and relegate the Sultana to the servant's quarters? What had become of the lady of smiles and compliments whom she had known at New London, and who had been at such infinite pains to ingratiate herself with Neil Stewart that she had been invited to spend September at Severndale? And, little as Peggy suspected it, with the full determination of spending the remainder of her days there could she contrive to do so. Madam Stewart had blocked out her campaign most completely, only "the best laid plans," etc., and Madam had quite forgotten to take Mrs. Glenn Harold, Peggy's stanchest champion and ally, into consideration. Mrs. Harold had been Peggy's "guide, philosopher and friend" for one round year, and Mrs. Harold's niece, Polly Howland, was Peggy's chum and crony. Mrs. Stewart felt a peculiar sensation pass over her as she met the girl's clear, steady gaze. Very much the sensation that one experiences upon looking into a clear pool whose depth it is impossible to guess from merely looking, though one feels instinctively that it is much deeper, and may prove more dangerous than a casual glance would lead one to believe. Peggy's reply was: "Of course if you wish it, Aunt Katherine, Tzaritza shall not come into the house during your visit here. I do not wish you to be annoyed, but on the contrary, quite happy, and, Jerome, please see that Sultana is taken to Mammy, and ask her to keep her in her quarters while Mrs. Stewart remains at Severndale. Are you ready for your breakfast, Aunt Katherine?" "Quite ready," answered Mrs. Stewart, taking her seat at the table. Peggy waited until she had settled herself with the injured poodle in her lap, then took her own seat. Jerome had summoned one of the maids and given Sultana into her charge, while Tzaritza was bidden "Guard" upon the piazza. Never in all her royal life had Tzaritza been elsewhere than upon the rug before the fireplace while her mistress' breakfast was being served, and it seemed as though the splendid wolfhound, with a pedigree unrivalled in the world, stood as the very incarnation of outraged dignity, and a protest against insult. Perhaps some vague sense of having overstepped the bounds of good judgment, if not good breeding, was beginning to impress itself upon Mrs. Peyton Stewart. Certainly she had not so thoroughly ingratiated herself in the favor of her niece, or her niece's friends during that visit in New London the previous summer, as to feel entirely sure of a cordial welcome at Severndale, and to make a false start at the very outset of her carefully formed plans was a far cry from diplomatic, to say the least. During those weeks at New London, when a kind fate had brought her again in touch with her brother-in-law after so many years, Mrs. Stewart had done a vast deal of thinking and planning. There was beautiful Severndale without a mistress excepting Peggy, a mere child, who, in Madam's estimation, did not count. Neil Stewart was a widower in the very prime of life and, from all Madam had observed, sorely in need of someone to look after him and keep him from making some foolish marriage which might end in--well, in _not_ keeping Severndale in the family; "the family" being strongly in evidence in Mrs. Peyton. Her first step had been to secure an invitation to visit there. That done, the next was to remain there indefinitely once she arrived upon the scene. To do this she must make herself not only desirable but indispensable. Certainly, the preceding two days had not promised much for the fulfillment of her plan. So being by no means a fool, but on the contrary, a very clever woman in her own peculiar line of cleverness, she at once set about dispelling the cloud which hung over the horizon, congratulating herself that she had had sufficient experience to know how to deal with a girl of Peggy's age. So to that end she now smiled sweetly upon her niece and remarked: "I am afraid, dear, I almost lost control of myself. I am so attached to Toinette that I am quite overcome if any harm threatens her. You know she has been my inseparable companion in my loneliness, and when one is so utterly desolate as I have been for so many years even the devotion of a dumb animal is valued. I have been very, very lonely since your uncle's death, Peggy, dear, and you can hardly understand what a paradise seems opening to me in this month to be spent with you. I know we are going to be everything to each other, and I am sure I can relieve you of a thousand burdens which must be a great tax upon a girl of your years. I do not see _how_ you have carried them so wonderfully, or why you are not old before your time. It has been most unnatural. But now we must change all that. Young people were not born to assume heavy responsibilities, whereas older ones accept them as a matter of course. And that's just what _I_ have come way down here to try to do for my sweet niece," ended Mrs. Stewart smiling with would-be fascinating coyness. The smile would have been somewhat less complacent could she have heard old Jerome's comment as he placed upon the pantry shelf the fingerbowls which he had just removed from the table. "Yas, yas, dat's it. Yo' needn't 'nounce it. We knows pintedly what yo's aimin' ter do, an' may de Lawd have mussy 'pon us if yo' _suc_ceeds. But dere's shorely gwine be ructions 'fore yo' does, er my name ain't Jerome Randolph Lee Stewart." CHAPTER II RECONSTRUCTION "I have to ride into Annapolis, this morning, Aunt Katherine. Would you like to drive in?" asked Peggy, when the unpleasant breakfast was ended. "I should be delighted to, dear," answered Mrs. Stewart sweetly, striving to recover lost ground, for she felt that a good bit had been lost. "At what time do you start?" "Immediately. I will order the surrey." She left the room, her aunt's eyes following her with a half-mystified, half-baffled expression: Was the girl deeper than she had given her credit for being? Had she miscalculated the depth of the pool after all? All through the breakfast hour Peggy had been a sweet and gracious young hostess, anticipating every want, looking to every detail of the service, ordering with a degree of self-possession which secretly astonished Mrs. Stewart, who felt that it would have been difficult for her, even with her advantage of years, to have equaled the girl's unassuming self-assurance and dignity, or have rivaled her perfect ability to sit at the head of her father's table. A moment later Mrs. Stewart went to her room to dress for the drive into town, her breakfast toilet having been a most elaborate silk negligee. Twenty minutes later the surrey stood at the door, but, contrary to Mrs. Stewart's expectations, her niece was not in it: she was mounted upon her beautiful black horse Shashai, at whose feet Tzaritza lay, her nose between her paws, but her ears a-quiver for the very first note of the low whistle which meant, "full speed ahead." On either side of Shashai, a superb bodyguard, stood Silver Star, Polly Howland's saddle horse, though he was still quartered at Severndale, and Roy, the colt that Peggy had raised from tiny babyhood, and which had followed her as he would have followed his dam, ever since the accident that had made him an orphan. Perhaps the reader of "Peggy Stewart" will recall Mrs. Stewart's horror upon being met at the railway station by "the wild West show," as she stigmatized her niece's riding and her horses, for rarely did Peggy Stewart ride unless accompanied by her two beautiful horses and the wolfhound, and her riding was a source of marvel to more than one, her instructor having been Shelby, the veteran horse-trainer, who had been employed at Severndale ever since Peggy could remember, and whose early days had been spent upon a ranch in the far West where a man had to ride anything which possessed locomotive powers. At the present moment a more appreciative observer would have thrilled at the sight, for rarely is it given to mortal eyes to look upon a prettier picture than Peggy Stewart and her escort presented at that moment. Given as a background a beautiful, carefully preserved estate, which for generations has been the pride of its owners, a superb old mansion of the most perfect colonial type, a sunny September morning, and as the figures upon that background a charming young girl in a white linen riding-skirt, her rich coloring at its best, her eyes shining, her seat in her saddle so perfect that she seemed a part of her mount, and you have something to look upon. To this add three thoroughbred horses and a snowy dog, an old colored servitor, for Jerome had come out with a message from Harrison, and it is a picture to be appreciated. Had the tall woman standing upon the broad piazza been able to do so, many things which happened later might never have happened at all. Mrs. Stewart was elaborately gowned in a costume better suited for a drive in Newport than Annapolis, especially Annapolis in September. It was a striking creation of pale blue linen and Irish point lace, with a large lace hat, heavy with nodding plumes and a voluminous white lace veil floating out about it. She was a handsome woman in a certain conspicuous way, and certainly knew how to purchase her apparel, though, not above criticism in her selection of the toilet for the occasion, as the present instance evinced. She now walked to the piazza steps, and had anyone possessing a sense of humor been a witness of it, the transformation which passed over the lady's face en transit would have well nigh convulsed him, for the smile which had illumined her countenance at the door had gradually faded as she advanced until, when the steps were reached, it had been transformed into a most disapproving frown. To Peggy the reason was a mystery, for she had not overheard her aunt's comments upon the occasion of the drive from the railway station three days before. Of course Jess had, and they had been freely circulated and keenly resented in the servants' quarters, but no whisper of them had been carried to the young mistress. Nevertheless, Peggy was beginning to discover that a good many of her actions, and also the order of things at Severndale, had brought a cloud to her Aunt's brow, and a little sigh escaped her lips as she wondered what the latest development would prove. It seemed so easy for things to go amiss nowadays, when heretofore nearly everything had seemed, as a matter of course, to go right. Then the self-elected dictator spoke: "Peggy, dear, are you not to drive with me?" "Thank you, Aunt Katherine, but I always ride, and I have several errands to do which I can better attend to if I am mounted." "Well, it can hardly be necessary for you to have _three_ saddle horses at once. It seems to me unnecessarily conspicuous, and in very bad taste for a young girl to go tearing about the country, and especially into Annapolis--the capital City of the State--in the guise of a traveling circus." A slight smile curved Peggy's lips as she answered: "Annapolis is _not_ New York, Aunt Katherine. What might be out of place in such a city would be regarded as a matter of course in a little town where everybody knows everybody else, and they all know me, and the Severndale horses. Nobody ever gives us a thought. Why should they? I'm nothing but a girl riding into town on an errand." "You are extremely modest, I must say. Is it quite native or well--we'll dismiss the question, but I must ask you to do me the favor of leaving your bodyguard behind today; it may not seem conspicuous for you to play in a Wild West Show, but I must decline to be an actor. You are growing too old for such mad pranks, and are far too handsome a girl to invite observation." Peggy turned crimson. "Why, Aunt Katherine, I never regarded it as a prank in the least. I have ridden this way all my life and no one has ever commented upon it. Daddy Neil knows of it--he has ridden with me hundreds of times himself--and never said one word against it. And you surely do not think I do it to invite observation? Why, there isn't anything to _observe_. I am certainly no better looking than hundreds of other girls; at least, you are the only one who has ever commented upon my personal appearance. But I beg your pardon; you are my guest. I am sorry. Bud, please call Shelby to take Star and Roy back; I don't dare trust them to you." The little negro boy who had brought Shashai to the doorstep, and who had been staring popeyed during the conversation, dashed away toward the paddock, to rush upon Shelby with a wild tale of "dat lady f'om de norf was a-sassin' Missie Peggy jist scan'lous and orderin' Shelby fer to come quick ter holp her." "What you a-talking about, you little fool nigger?" demanded Shelby. Then gathering that something was amiss with the little mistress whom all upon the estate adored, he hastened to the house, his face somewhat troubled, for hints of the doings up there had penetrated even to his quarters. "Shelby, please take Star and Roy back to the paddock and be sure to fasten them in." "Ain't they a-goin' with you, Miss Peggy?" "Not this morning, Shelby." The man looked from the girl to the lady now settling herself in the carriage. Toinette still stood upon the piazza waiting to be lifted up to her mistress, too fat and too foolish to even go down the steps alone. As Shelby stepped toward the horses Mrs. Stewart waved her hand toward the dog and said to him: "Lift Toinette into the surrey." Shelby paid no more attention to her than he paid to the quarreling jays in the holly trees, and the order was sharply repeated. "Oh, are you a-speakin' to me, ma'am?" he then said. "Certainly. I wish my dog handed to me." Shelby looked at the pampered poodle and then at its mistress. Then with a guileless smile remarked: "Now you don't sesso? Well, when I git back to the paddock with these here horses what can't go 'long with Miss Peggy, I'll send a little nigger boy up here for ter boost your dog up to you, but _I_ tend _horses_ on this here place." The man's dark skin grew several shades darker owing to the blood which flooded his cheeks, and his eyes narrowed as he looked for one second straight into Mrs. Stewart's. What possessed the woman to antagonize everyone with whom she came in touch? Shelby had never laid eyes upon her until that moment, but that moment had confirmed his dislike conceived from the reports which had come to him. He now went up to the horses. Knowing that neither of them had halters on, he had brought two with him and now slipped them over his charges' heads, saying as he did so: "You've got to come 'long back with me and keep company manners, do you know that, you disrepu'ble gad-abouts? You ain't never had no proper eddicatin' an' now it's a-goin' to begin for fa'r. You-all are goin' ter be larnt citified manners hot off the bat. So come 'long back to the paddock an' git your fust lesson." The horses toyed and played with him like a couple of children, but went pacing away beside him, now and again pulling at his sleeve, poking at him with their soft muzzles or mumbling at his cheeks with their velvety lips, a pair of petted, peerless creatures and as beautiful as any God had ever created. Now and again they stopped short to neigh a peremptory call, as though asking the reason of this surprising conduct. "Are you ready, Aunt Katherine?" asked Peggy. "As soon as Jerome takes your hound in charge. I don't care to have Toinette driven frantic with fear by the sight of her. She will grow so excited that I shall be unable to hold her." Now the past two hours had held a good many annoyances for Peggy Stewart to whom annoyances had been almost unknown. Perhaps they constitute the discipline of life, but thus far Peggy Stewart had apparently gotten on pretty well without any radical chastening processes. Her life had been simply, but well, ordered, and her naturally sunny soul had grown sweet and wholesome in her little world. If correction had been necessary Mammy's loving old heart had known how to order it during Peggy's babyhood; Harrison had carefully watched her childhood, and her young girlhood had been most beautifully developed by her guardian, good Dr. Llewellyn, who loved her as a grand-daughter. Then had come Mrs. Harold, who had done so much for the young girl. Why could it not have gone on? Perhaps the ordering of Peggy's life had been too smooth to develop the best in her character, so Kismet, or whatever it is which shapes the odd happenings of our lives, had stepped in to lay a hurdle or two to test her ability to meet obstacles. Since seven-thirty that morning she had met little else in one form or another, and had taken them rather gracefully, all things considered. Her breakfast had been delayed an hour; the breakfast itself had been far from the pleasant meal it usually proved; she had been needlessly criticised for her habit of riding with her beloved horses; and now poor Tzaritza, after being banished the house, was to be debarred from following her young mistress; something unheard of, since the hound had acted as Peggy's protectress ever since she could follow her. The blood flooded into the girl's face, as turning to her Aunt she said very quietly, but with a dignity which Mrs. Stewart dared not encroach upon: "I am very sorry to seem in any way discourteous or disobliging, Aunt Katherine, but Daddy Neil and Compadre, have always wished Tzaritza to accompany me when I ride. I have never felt any fear but they feel differently, as there are, of course, some undesirable characters between Severndale and Annapolis, and they consider Tzaritza a great protection against any possible annoyance. We will ride on ahead, since it is likely to annoy you, but I must go into Annapolis this morning. Another time I shall drive with you, but I can't ask you to drive where I must ride today. When you see some of the Annapolitan streets you will understand why. They have not been re paved since the first pavements were laid generations ago, and you would be most uncomfortable. Be careful where you drive, Jess. I will meet you at the Bank." There was a graceful bow to Mrs. Stewart, a slight pressure of the knee against Shashai, a low whistle to Tzaritza and she had whirled and was away like the wind. Madam Stewart drew a quick breath and compressed her thin lips until they formed barely a line, and during that drive into Annapolis did some rapid thinking. Evidently she had made another mistake. As Peggy rode along the highway which led to Annapolis, the usual merry, lilting songs, to which Shashai's hoofbeats kept time, were silenced, and the girl rode in deep thought. Shashai tossed his head impatiently as though trying to attract her attention, and now and again Tzaritza bounded up to her with a deep, questioning bark. Peggy smiled a little abstractedly and said: "Your Missie is doing some hard thinking, my beauties and doesn't feel songful this morning." Then after a moment she resumed: "O Shashai, what _is_ the matter with everything? Am _I_ all wrong, or is Aunt Katherine different from everybody else? I have never met anyone just like her before, and I feel just exactly as though someone had drawn a file across my teeth, and I dare say that's all wrong too. If the Little Mother and Polly were only here they'd know how to make me see things differently, but I seem to get in wrong at every turn. Aunt Katherine has been here only two days, but what days they have been! And ten times more to follow before the month ends!" Shashai had gradually slowed down until he was walking with his own inimitably dainty step, his hoofs falling upon the leaf-strewn road with the lightness of a deer's. Presently they came to a pretty wood-road leading almost at angles to the highway, but Peggy was again too occupied to notice that Tzaritza had turned into it and that Shashai, as a matter of course, had followed her. Annapolis could be reached by this less frequented way but it made a wide detour, leading past Nelly Bolivar's home. As they struck the refreshing coolness of the byway Shashai broke into what Peggy called his "rocking-chair gait," though she was so much a part of him that she was hardly aware of the more rapid motion. Her first clear intimation that her route had changed occurred when a cheerful voice called out: "And she wandered away and away into the land o' dreams, my princess." Peggy raised her head quickly and the old light flashed back into her eyes, the old smile curved her lips as she cried: "Why, Nelly Bolivar! How under the sun came I here?" "In the usual way, I reckon, Miss Peggy. I don't often see you come in any other. But this time you sure enough look as though you had been dreaming," laughed Nelly, coming close to Shashai, who instantly remembered his manners and neighed his greeting, while Tzaritza thrust her head into the girl's arms with the gentlest insinuation. Nelly held the big head close, rested her face against it a second, then took Shashai's soft muzzle in both hands and planted a kiss just where it was most velvety, saying softly: "I can't imagine you three separated. The picture would not be complete. But what is wrong, Miss Peggy? You look so sober you make me feel queer," for the smile had gone from the girl's face and Nelly was quick to feel the seriousness of her expression. "Perhaps I'm cross and cranky, Nelly. At any rate I've no business to be here this minute. I started for Annapolis, but my wits got wool-gathering, I reckon, and I let Shashai turn in here without noticing where he was going. Aunt Katherine will reach Annapolis before I do and--then--" and Peggy stopped and wagged her head as though pursuit of the subject would better be dropped. Nelly's face clouded. It had not required the two days of Mrs. Stewart's visit to circulate a good many reports concerning her. Indeed both Jerome and old Mammy had described her at length, and the description had lost nothing upon their African tongues, nor had the experiences of the three months spent up north: Madam Stewart had figured rather conspicuously in their pictures of the "doin's up yander." Had she suspected how accurately the old colored people had gauged her, or how great an influence their gauging was likely to have upon the plans she had so carefully laid, she might have been a little more circumspect in her conduct toward them. But to her they were "just black servants" and she was entirely incapable of weighing their influence in the domestic economy, or of understanding their shrewd judgment as to the best interests of the young girl whom each, in common with all the other old servants upon the estate, loved with a devotion absolutely incomprehensible to most northern-born people. And another potent fact, entirely absent from the characteristics of the northern negro, is the fact that the southern negro servants' "kinnery" instantly adopts and maintains the viewpoint of those "nearest the throne." It is a survival of the old feudal system, unknown in the cosmopolitan North, but which even in this day, so remote from the days of slavery, makes itself very distinctly felt in many parts of the South. And many of the servants upon the Severndale estate had been there for three generations. Hence Peggy was their "chile," and her joys or sorrows, happiness or unhappiness, were theirs, and all their kin's, to be talked over, remedied if possible, but shared if not, or made a part of their own delight in living, as the case might demand. And the ramifications of their kinship were amazing. No wonder the report that "an aunt-in-law ob de yo'ng mistress yonder at Severndale, had done come down an' ondertuck fer ter run de hull shebang _an'_ Miss Peggy inter de bargain, what is never been run by nobody," had circulated throughout the whole community, and met with a resolute, though carefully concealed opposition--subtle, intangible, but sure to prove overwhelming in the end--the undertow, so hidden but so irresistible. All this had stolen from one pair of lips to another and, of course, been related with indignant emphasis to Jim Bolivar, Nelly's father, one of the tenants of Severndale's large estate. And he, in turn, had discussed it with Nelly, who worshipped the very ground Peggy chose to stand upon, for to Peggy Stewart Nelly owed restored health, her home rescued when ruin seemed about to claim everything her father owned, and all the happiness which had come into her lonely life. No wonder she now looked up to the deep brown eyes with her own blue ones troubled and distressed. CHAPTER III HOSTILITIES SUSPENDED During her drive into Annapolis Madam Stewart did more deep thinking than it was generally given to her shallow brain to compass. Like most of her type, she possessed a certain shrewdness, which closely touched upon cunning when she wished to gain her ends, but she had very little real cleverness, and practically no power of logical deduction. Today, however, she had felt antagonism enveloping her as a fog, and would have been not a little surprised to realize that its most potent force lay in Peggy's humble servitors rather than in Peggy herself. From the old darkey driving her, so deferentially replying to her questions, and at such pains to point out everything of interest along the way, she felt it radiate with almost tangible scorn and hostility, and yet to have saved her life she could not have said: "He is remiss in this or that." They drove into Annapolis by the bridge which crosses the Severn just above the Naval Hospital, and from which the whole Academy is seen at its best, with the wide sweep of the beautiful Chesapeake beyond. Jess pointed out everything most carefully. Then on they went across College Creek bridge, up College Avenue, by historic old St. Ann's and drew up at the Bank to meet Peggy. Mrs. Stewart looked about her in undisguised disappointment and asked: "Is _this_ the capital city of the State of Maryland? _This_ little town?" Jess' mouth hardened. He loved the quaint old town and all its traditions. So did his young mistress. It had always meant home to her, and to many, many generations of her family before her. The old "Peggy Stewart" house famous in history, though no longer occupied by her own family, still stood, a landmark, in the heart of the town and was pointed to with pride by all. "Dis sho' is de capital city ob de State, Ma'am. Yonder de guv'nor's mansion, jist over dar stan' de co't house, an' yonder de Cap'tal an' all de yether 'ministrashum buildin's, an' we'all's powerful proud ob 'em." Mrs. Stewart smiled a superior smile as she replied: "I have heard that the South is not progressive and is perfectly apathetic to conditions. It _must_ be. Heavens! Look at these streets! They are perfectly disgusting, and the odor is horrible. I shall be glad to drive home." "De town done been pave all mos' all new," bridled Jess. "Dis hyar pavement de bes' ob brick. Miss Peggy done tole me ter be keerful whar I drive yo' at, an' I tecken yo' on de very be's." "And what, may I inquire, is your very worst then? Have you no street cleaning department in your illustrious city?" "We suttenly _has_! Dey got six men a-sweeping de hull endurin' time." "What an overwhelming force!" and Mrs. Stewart gave way to mirth. It was fortunate that Peggy should have arrived at that opportune moment, for there is no telling what might have occurred: Jess's patience was at the snapping-point. But Peggy's talk with Nelly Bolivar had served to restore her mental equilibrium to a certain degree--and her swift ride into Annapolis had completed the process. It was a sunny, smiling face which drew up to the surrey and greeted Mrs. Stewart. Peggy had made up her mind that she would not let little things annoy her, and was already reproaching herself for having done so. She had resolved to keep her temper during her aunt's visit if a whole legion of tormenting imps were let loose upon her. Three weeks of Mrs. Stewart's visit passed. Upon her part, three weeks of striving to establish a firmer foothold in the home of her brother-in-law; to obtain the place in it she so ardently coveted--that of mistress and absolute dictator. But each day proved to her that she was striving against some vaguely comprehended opposition. It did not lie in Peggy, that she had the grace to concede, for Peggy had complied with every wish, which she had graciously or otherwise, expressed, except the one debarring Tzaritza from following Shashai when she rode abroad, and be it said to Peggy's credit that she had held to her resolution in spite of endless aggravations, for Madam was a past mistress of criticism either spoken or implied. Never before in all her sunny young life had Peggy been forced to live in such an atmosphere. Little by little during those weeks Mrs. Stewart had pre-empted Peggy's position as mistress of the household; a position held by every claim of right, justice and natural development, for Peggy had grown into it, and its honors and privileges rested upon her young shoulders by right of inheritance. She had not rushed there, or forced her claim to it, hence had it been gradually given into her hands by old Mammy, her nurse, Harrison, the trusty housekeeper, and at length, as she had more and more clearly demonstrated her ability to hold it, by Dr. Llewellyn, her guardian, who regarded it as an essential part of a Southern gentlewoman's education. Then had come Mrs. Harold, whose tact and affection seemed to supply just the little touch which the young girl required to round out her life, and fit her to ultimately assume the entire control of her father's home. But all this was entirely beyond Mrs. Stewart's comprehension. Her own early life had been passed in a small New Jersey village in very humble surroundings. She had been educated in the little grammar school, going later to an adjoining town for a year at high-school. In her home, domestic help of any sort had been unknown, she and her mother, an earnest, hard-working woman, having performed all the household work. There were no traditions connected with that simple home; it was just an everyday round of commonplace duties, accepted as a matter of course. Then Mrs. Stewart, at that time "pretty Kitty Snyder," went as a sort of "mother's helper" to a lady residing in Elizabeth, whose brother was in a New Jersey College. Upon one of his visits to his sister he had brought Peyton Stewart home for a visit: Peyton, the happy-go-lucky, irresponsible madcap. Kitty Snyder's buxom beauty had turned all that was left to be turned of his shallow head and she had become Mrs. Peyton Stewart within a month. The rest has been told elsewhere. For a good many years she had "just lived around" as she expressed it, her income from her husband's share of the very comfortable little fortune left him by his father, being a vast deal more than she had ever dreamed of in her youthful days. She felt very affluent. All things considered, it was quite as well that Peyton had quit this earthly scene after two years of married life for "Kitty" had rapidly developed extravagant tastes and there were many "scenes." Her old associates saw her no more, and later the new ones often wondered why the dashing young widow did not marry again. They did not suspect how often her plans laid to that end had misscarried, for her ambitions were entirely out of proportion to her qualifications. Now, however, chance had brought her once more in touch with her husband's family, and she was resolved to make hay while the sun shone. If Neil Stewart had not been an odd mixture of manly strength and child-like simplicity, exceptional executive ability and credulity, kindliness and quick temper, he would never in the wide world have become responsible for the state of affairs at present turning his old home topsy-turvy, and in a fair way to undo all the good works of others, and certainly make Peggy extremely unhappy. But he had "made a confounded mess of the whole job," he decided upon receiving a letter from Peggy. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say upon reading between the lines, because it was not so much what Peggy had _said_ as that which she left unsaid, which puzzled him, and to which puzzle Harrison supplied the key in her funny monthly report. Never in all the ten years of her stewardship had she failed to send her monthly letter. Harrison was a most conscientious old body if somewhat below par in educational advantages. Nevertheless, she had filled her position as nurse, maid and housekeeper to Peggy's mother for over thirty years, and to Peggy for ten more and her idea of duty was "Peggy first, Martha Harrison second." Her letter to Neil Stewart, which he read while his ship was being overhauled in the Boston Navy Yard, set him thinking. It ran: Severndale, Maryland. September 21, 19-- Captain Neil Stewart, U. S. N. Respected Sir:-- As has been my habit these many years, I take my pen in hand to make my monthly report concerning the happenings and the events of the past month. Most times there isn't many of either outside the regular accounts which, praises be, ain't never got snarled up none since I've had the handling of them. As to the past three weeks considerable has took place in this quiet, peaceful (most times, at least) home, and I ain't quite sure where I stand at, or am likely to. Things seem sort of stirred round. Like enough we-all are old-fashioned and considerable sot in our ways and can't rightly get used to new-fangled ones. Then, too, we--I speak for everybody--find it kinder hard to take our orders from anybody but Miss Peggy, who has got the right to give them, which we can't just see that anybody else _has got_. Howsoever, some folks seem to think they have, and what I am trying to get at is, _have they_? If I have got to take them from other folks, why, of course I have got to, but it has got to be _you_ that tells me I must. Up to the present time I seem to have been pretty capable of running things down here, though I am free to confess I was right glad when Mrs. Harold come along as she done, to give me a hint or two where Miss Peggy was concerned, for that child had taken to growing up in a way that was fair taking the breath out of my body, and was a-getting clear beyond _me_ though, praises be, she didn't suspicion the fact. If she had a-done it _my_ time would a-come for sure. But the good Lord sent Mrs. Harold to us long about that time and she was a powerful help and comfort to us all. _He_ don't make no mistakes as a rule and I reckon we would a done well to let well enough alone and not go trying to improve on his plans for us. When we do that the _other one_ is just as likely as not for to take a hand in the job and if he ain't a-kinder stirring round on these premises right this very minute I'm missing my guess and sooner or later there is going to be ructions. Cording to the way _we_-all think down here Miss Peggy's mighty close to the angels, but maybe we are blinded by the light o'love, so to speak. Howsoever and nevertheless, we have got along pretty comfortable till _lately_ when we have begun to discover that our educasyons has been terribl neglected and we have all got to be took in hand. _And we are being took powerful strong, let me tell you!_ It is some like a Spanish fly blister: It may do good in the end but the means thereto is some harrowing to the flesh and the spirit. I don't suppose there is no hope of your a-visiting your home before the ship is ordered South for the fall target practice, more is the pity. Tain't for me to name nothing but I wish to the Lord Mrs. Harold was here. SHE is a lady--Amen. Your most humble and obedient housekeeper, Martha Harrison. The day after this letter was written Dr. Llewellyn 'phoned to Peggy that he would return at the end of the week and if quite agreeable would like to pass a few days at Severndale with her, as his own housekeeper had not yet returned from her holiday. Peggy was in an ecstasy of joy. To have Compadre under her own roof from Saturday to Monday would be too delightful. Brimful of her pleasurable anticipations, and more like the natural, joyous girl of former days than she had been since leaving Mrs. Harold and Polly, she flew to the piazza where her aunt, arrayed in a filmy lingerie gown, reclined in one of the big East India chairs. For a moment she forgot that she did not hold her aunt's sympathies as she held Mrs. Harold's, and cried: "Oh, Aunt Katherine, Compadre will be here on Friday evening and will remain until Monday! Isn't that too good to believe?" "Do you mean Dr. Llewellyn?" asked Mrs. Stewart, coldly. "Yes, Aunt Katherine, you had no chance to know him before he went away, but you will just love him." "Shall I?" asked Mrs. Stewart with a smile which acted like a wet blanket upon poor Peggy. "But why do you call him by that absurd name? Why not call him Dr. Llewellyn?" "Call him Dr. Llewellyn?" echoed Peggy. "Why, I have never called him anything else since he taught me to call him by that dear name when I was a wee little thing." "And do you expect to cling to childish habits all your days, Peggy dear? Isn't it about time you began to think about growing up? Sit here upon this cushion beside me. I wish to have a serious talk with you and this seems a most opportune moment. I have felt the necessity of it ever since my arrival, but have refrained from speaking because I feared I might be misjudged and do harm rather than good. Sit down, dear." Mrs. Stewart strove to bring into her voice an element of deep interest, affection was beyond her,--and Peggy was sufficiently intuitive to feel it. Nevertheless, if anything could have appealed to this self-centered woman's affection it ought surely to have been the young girl who obediently dropped upon the big Turkish cushion, and clasping her hands upon the broad arm of the chair, looked up into the steely, calculating eyes with a pair so soft, so brown, so trustful yet so perplexed, that an ordinary woman would have gathered her right into her arms and claimed all the richness and loyalty of affection so eager to find an outlet. If it could only have been Mrs. Harold, or Polly's mother, how quick either would have been to comprehend the loving nature of the girl and reap the reward of it. Mrs. Stewart merely smiled into the wild-rose face in a way which she fondly believed to accentuate her own charms, and tapping the pretty brown hands with her fan, said: "I am growing extremely proud of my lovely niece. She is going to be a great credit to me, and, also, I foresee, a great responsibility." "A responsibility, Aunt Katherine?" asked Peggy, a perplexed pucker upon her forehead. "Have I been a responsibility to you since you came here? I am sorry if I have. Of course I know my life down here in the old home is quite different from most girls' lives. I didn't realize that until I met Mrs. Harold and Polly and then, later, went up to New London and saw more of other girls and the way they live. But I have been very happy here, Aunt Katherine, and since I have known Mrs. Harold and Polly a good many things have been made pleasanter for me. I can never repay them for their kindness to me." Peggy paused and a wonderfully sweet light filled her eyes, for her love for her absent friends was very true and deep, and speaking of them seemed to bring them back to the familiar surroundings which she knew they had grown to love so well, and where she and Polly had passed so many happy hours. Mrs. Stewart was not noted for her capacity for deep feeling and was more amused than otherwise affected by Peggy's earnest speech, classifying it as "a girl's sentimentality." Finer qualities were wasted upon that lady. So she now smiled indulgently and said: "Of course I can understand your appreciation of what you consider Mrs. Harold's and her niece's kindness to you, but, have you ever looked upon the other side of the question? Have you not done a great deal for them? It seems to me you have quite cancelled any obligation to them. It must have been some advantage to them to have such a lovely place as this to visit at will, and, if I can draw deductions correctly, to practically have the run of. It seems to me there was considerable advantage upon _their_ side of the arrangement. You, naturally, can not see this, but I'll venture to say Mrs. Harold was not so unsophisticated," and a pat upon Peggy's hand playfully emphasized the lady's charitable view. Peggy felt bewildered and her hands fell from the arm of the chair to her lap, though her big soft eyes never changed their gaze, which proved somewhat disconcerting to the older woman who had the grace to color slightly. Peggy then rallied her forces and answered: "Aunt Katherine, I am sure neither Mrs. Harold nor Polly ever had the faintest idea of any advantage to themselves in being nice to me. Why in this world should they? They have ten times more than _I_ could ever give to them. Why think of how extensively Mrs. Harold has traveled and what hosts of friends she has! And Polly too. Goodness, they let me see and enjoy a hundred things I never could have seen or enjoyed otherwise." Mrs. Stewart laughed a low, incredulous laugh, then queried: "And you the daughter of Neil Stewart and a little Navy girl? Really, Peggy, you are deliciously _ingenue_. Well, never mind. It is of more intimate matters I wish to speak, for with each passing day I recognize the importance of a radical reconstruction in your mode of living. That is what I meant when I said I foresaw greater responsibilities ahead. You are no longer a child, Peggy, to run wild over the estate, but--well, I must not make you vain. In a year or two at most, you will make your _début_ and someone must provide against that day and be prepared to fill properly the position of chaperone to you. Meantime, you must have proper training and as near as I can ascertain you have never had the slightest. But it can not be deferred a moment longer. It is absolutely providential that I, the only relative you have in this world, should have met you as I did, though I can hardly understand how your father overlooked the need so long. Perhaps it was from motives of unselfishness, though he must have known that I stood ready to make any sacrifice for my dear dead Peyton's brother." Just here Mrs. Peyton's feelings almost overcame her and a delicate handkerchief was pressed to her eyes for a moment. Ordinarily tender and sympathetic to the last degree, Peggy could not account for her strange indifference to her aunt's distress. She simply sat with hands clasped about her knees and waited for her to resume the conversation. Presently Madam emerged from her temporary eclipse and said: "Forgive me, dear, my feelings quite overcame me for a moment. To resume: I know dear Neil would never ask it of me, but I have been thinking very seriously upon the subject and have decided to forget self, and my many interests in New York, and devote my time to you. I shall remain with you and relieve you of all responsibility in this great household, a responsibility out of all proportion to your years. Indeed, I can not understand how you have retained one spark of girlish spontaneity under such unnatural conditions. Such cares were meant for older, more experienced heads than your pretty one, dear. It will be a joy to me to relieve you of them and I can not begin too soon. We will start at once. I shall write to your father to count upon me for everything and, if he feels so disposed, to place everything in my hands. Furthermore, I shall suggest that he send you to a fine school where you will have the finishing your birth and fortune entitle you to. You know absolutely nothing of association, with other girls,--no, please let me finish," as Peggy rose to her feet and stood regarding her aunt with undisguised consternation, "I know of a most excellent school in New York, indeed, it is conducted by a very dear friend of mine, where you would meet only girls of the wealthiest families" (Mrs. Stewart did not add that the majority had little beside their wealth to stand as a bulwark for them; they were the daughters of New York City's newly rich whose ancestry would hardly court inspection) "and even during your school days you would get a taste of New York's social advantages; a thing utterly impossible in this dull--ahem!--this remote place. I shall strongly advise dear Neal to consider this. You simply cannot remain buried here. _I shall_, of course, since I feel it my duty to do so, but I can have someone pass the winter with me, and can make frequent trips to Washington." Mrs. Stewart paused for breath. Peggy did not speak one word, but with a final dazed look at her aunt, turned and entered the house. CHAPTER IV HOSTILITIES RESUMED As Peggy left the piazza her aunt's eyes followed her with an expression which held little promise for the girl's future happiness should it be given into Mrs. Stewart's keeping. A more calculating, triumphant one, or one more devoid of any vestige of affection for Peggy it would have been hard to picture. As her niece disappeared Mrs. Stewart's lips formed just two words, "little fool," but never had she so utterly miscalculated. She was sadly lacking in a discrimination of values. Peggy had chosen one of two evils; that of losing her temper and saying something which would have outraged her conception of the obligations of a hostess, or of getting away by herself without a moment's delay. She felt as though she were strangling, or that some horrible calamity threatened her. Hurrying to her own room she flung herself upon her couch and did that which Peggy Stewart was rarely known to do: buried her head in the cushions and sobbed. Not the sobs of a thwarted, peevish girl, but the deeper grief of one who feels hopeless, lonely and wretched. Never in her life had she felt like this. What was the meaning of it? Those who were older and more experienced, would have answered at once: Here is a girl, not yet sixteen years of age, who has led a lonely life upon a great estate, remote from companions of her own age, though adored by the servants who have been upon it as long as she can remember. She has been regarded as their mistress whose word must be law because her mother's was. Her education has been conducted along those lines by an old gentleman who believes that the southern gentlewoman must be the absolute head of her home. About this time there enters her little world a woman whose every impulse stands for motherhood at its sweetest and best, and who has helped all that is best and truest in the young girl to develop, guiding her by the beautiful power of affection. All has been peace and harmony, and Peggy is rapidly qualifying in ability to assume absolute control in her father's home. Then, with scarcely a moment's warning, there is dropped into her home and daily life a person with whom she cannot have anything in common, from whom she intuitively shrinks and cannot trust. Under such circumstances the present climax is not surprising. Peggy's whole life had in some respects been a contradiction and a cry for a girl's natural heritage--a mother's all-comprehending love. The love that does not wait to be told of the loved one's needs and happiness, but which lives only to foresee what is best for her and to bring it to pass, never mind at what sacrifice to self. Peggy had missed _that_ love in her life and not all the other forms combined had compensated. Until the previous year she had never felt this; nor could she have put it into words even at the present moment. She only knew that in Polly's companionship she had been very, very happy and that she was terribly lonely without her. That in Mrs. Harold she had found a friend whom she had learned to love devotedly and trust implicitly, and that in the brief time Mrs. Howland, Polly's mother, had been in Annapolis and at New London, she had caught a glimpse of a little world before undreamed of; a world peculiarly Polly's and her mother's and which no other human being invaded. Mrs. Howland had just such a little world for each of her daughters and for the son-in-law whom she loved so tenderly. It was a world sacred to the individual who dwelt therein with her. There was a common world in which all met in mutual interests, but she possessed the peculiar power of holding for each of her children their own "inner shrine" which was truly "The Holy of Holies." Although Peggy had known and loved Mrs. Harold longest, there was something in Mrs. Howland's gentle unobtrusive sweetness, in her hidden strength, which drew Peggy as a magnet and for the first time in her life she longed for the one thing denied her: such a love as Polly claimed. But it seemed an impossibility, and her nearest approach to it lay in Mrs. Harold's affection for her. Peggy was not ungrateful, but what had befallen the usual order of things? Was this aunt, with whom, try as she would, she could not feel anything in common, about to establish herself in the home, every turn and corner of which was so dear to her, and utterly disrupt it? For this Peggy felt pretty sure she would do if left a free hand. Already she had most of the old servants in a state of ferment, if not open hostility. They plainly regarded her as an interloper, resented her assumption of rule and her interference in the innumerable little details of the household economy. Her very evident lack of the qualities which, according to their standards, stood for "de true an' endurin' quality raisin'," made them distrust her. Now the "time was certainly out of joint" and poor little Peggy began to wonder if she had to complete the quotation. All that has been written had passed like a whirlwind through Peggy's harassed brain in much less time than it has taken to put it on paper. It was all a jumble to poor Peggy; vague, yet very real; understood yet baffling. The only real evidences of her unhappiness and doubt were the tears and sobs, and these soon called, by some telepathic message of love and a life's devotion, the faithful old nurse who had been the comforter of her childish woes. For days Mammy had been "as res'less an' onsettled as a yo'ng tuckey long 'bout Thanksgivin' time," as she expressed it, and had found it difficult to settle down to her ordinary routine of work during the preceding two weeks. She prowled about the house and the premises "fer all de 'roun worl' like yo' huntin' speerits," declared Aunt Cynthia, the cook. "Huh!" retorted Mammy, "I on'y wisht I could feel dat dey was frien'ly ones, but I has a percolation dat dey's comin' from _below_ stidder _above_." So perhaps this explains why she went up to Peggy's room at an hour which she usually spent in her own quarters mending. Long before she reached the room she became aware of sounds which acted upon her as a spark to a powder magazine, for Mammy's loving old ears lay very close to her heart. With a pious "Ma Lawd-God-Amighty, what done happen?" she flew down the broad hall and, being a privileged character, entered the room without knocking. The next second she was holding Peggy in her arms and almost sobbing herself as she besought her to tell "who done hurt ma baby? Tell Mammy what brecken' yo' heart, honey-chile." For a few moments Peggy could not reply, and Mammy was upon the point of rushing off for Harrison when Peggy laid a detaining hand upon her and commanded: "Stop, Mammy! You must not call Harrison or anyone else. There is really nothing the matter. I'm just a silly girl to act like this and I'm thoroughly ashamed of myself." Then she wiped her eyes and strove to check a rebellious sob. "Quit triflin'! Kingdom-come, is yo' think I'se come ter ma dotage? When is I see you a cryin' like dis befo'? Not sense yo' was kitin' roun' de lot an' fall down an' crack yo' haid. Yo' ain' been de yellin', squallin' kind, an' when yo' begins at dis hyar day an' age fer ter shed tears dar's somethin' pintedly wrong, an' yo' needn' tell me dar ain't. Now out wid it." Mammy was usually fiercest when she felt most deeply and now she was stirred to the very depth of her soul. "Why, Mammy, I don't believe I could tell you what I'm crying for if I tried," and Peggy smiled as she rested her head upon the shoulder which had never failed her. "Well, den, tell me what yo' _ain't_ cryin' fo', kase ef yo' ain't cryin' fer somethin' yo' _want_ yo' shore mus' be a-crying fo' somethin' yo' _don't_ want," was Mammy's bewildering argument. "An' I bait yo' I ain't gotter go far fer ter ketch de thing yo' _don'_ want neither," and the old woman looked ready to deal with that same cause once it came within her grasp. Peggy straightened up. This order of things would never do. If she acted like a spoiled child simply because someone to whom she had taken an instinctive dislike had come into her home, she would presently have the whole household demoralized. "Mammy, listen to me." Instinctively the blood of generations of servitude responded to Peggy's tone. "I have been terribly rude to a guest. I lost my temper and I'm ashamed of myself." "What did you say to her, baby?" "I didn't say anything, I just acted outrageously." "An' what _she_ been a-sayin' ter yo'?" Peggy only colored. Mammy nodded her bead significantly. "Ain't I _know_ dat! Yo' cyant tell _me_ nothin' 'bout de Stewart blood. No-siree! I know it from Alphy to Omegy; backards an' forrards. Now we-all kin look out fer trouble ahead. But I'se got dis fer ter say: Some fools jist nachelly go a-prancin' an' a-cavortin' inter places whar de angils outen heaven dassent no mo'n peek. If yo' tells me I must keep ma mouf shet, I'se gotter keep it shet, but Massa Neil is allers a projectin' 'bout ma safety-valve, an' don' yo' tie it down too tight, honey, er somethin' gwine bus' wide open 'fore long. Now come 'long an' wash yo' purty face. I ain' like fer ter see no tears-stains on _yo'_ baby. No, I don'. Den yo' go git on Shashai an' call yo' body-gyard and 'Z'ritza an' yo' ride ten good miles fo' yo' come back hyer. By _dat_ time yo' git yo' min' settle down an' yo' stummic ready fo' de lunch wha' Sis' Cynthia gwine fix fo' yo'. I seen de perjections ob it an' it fair mak' ma mouf run water lak' a dawg's. Run 'long, honey," and Mammy led the way down the side stairs, and watched Peggy as she took a side path to the paddock. As she was in and out of her saddle a dozen times a day she wore a divided skirt more than half the time--another of Mrs. Stewart's grievances--and upon reaching the paddock her whistle soon brought her pets tearing across it to her. Their greeting was warm enough to banish a legion of blue imps, and a joyous little laugh bubbled to her lips as she opened the paddock gate and let the trio file through. Then in the old way she sprang upon Shashai's back and with a gay laugh cried: "Four bells for the harness house." Away they swept, as Peggy's voice and knees directed Shashai, Tzaritza, who had joined Peggy as she stepped from the side porch, bounding on ahead with joyous barks. Peggy called for a bridle, which Shelby himself brought, saying as he slipped the light snaffle into Shashai's sensitive mouth and the headstall over his ears: "So you've bruck trainin', Miss Peggy, an' are a-going for a real old-time warm-up? Well, I reckon it's about time, an' the best thing you can do, for you look sort o' pinin' an' down-in-the-mouth. Light out, little girl, an' come back lookin' like you uster; the purtiest sight God ever created for a man, woman or child ter clap eyes on. Take good care of her, Shashai, and you too, Tzaritza, cause you won't get another like her very soon." Shelby's eyes were quick to discern the traces of Peggy's little storm, and he was by no means slow in drawing deductions. Peggy blushed, but said: "I guess Daddy was right when he said I'd better go to school this year. You-all will spoil me if I stay here. Good-by, dear old Shelby, I love everyone on the place even if they do spoil me," and away she swept, as bonny a little bareback rider as ever sat a horse. Meanwhile, up at the house events were shaping with the rapidity of a moving picture show. When Peggy left her so abruptly Madam Stewart sat still for a few moments, pondering her next step. She had arrived at some very definite conclusions and intended carrying them out without loss of time. Her first move in that direction led her into the library where she wrote a letter to her brother-in-law. It was while she was thus occupied that Mammy had found Peggy and sent her for her ride. Then Mammy sought Harrison. Ordinarily, Mammy would have died before consulting Harrison about anything concerning Peggy, but here was a common issue, and if Mammy did not know that a house divided against itself must fall, she certainly felt the force of that argument. In Harrison she found a sympathetic listener, for the old housekeeper had been made to feel Mrs. Stewart's presence in the house in hundreds of irritating little ways. Mammy told of finding Peggy in tears, though she could not, of course, tell their cause. But Harrison needed no cause: the tears in themselves were all the cause she required to know. Their conversation took place in the pantry and at the height of Harrison's protest against the new order of things a footfall was heard in the dining-room beyond. Thinking it Jerome's and quite ready to add one more to their league of defenders of Peggy's cause, Harrison pushed open the swinging door and stepped into the dining-room with all of her New England-woman's nervous activity. Mrs. Stewart stood in the room surveying with a critical, calculating eye, every detail of its stately, chaste appointments, for nothing had ever been changed. Mrs. Stewart looked up as Harrison bounced in. "O Harrison, you are exactly the person I wished to speak with," she said. "There are to be a few changes made in Mr. Stewart's domestic arrangements. In future I shall assume control of his home and relieve Miss Peggy of all responsibility. You may come to me for all orders." She paused, and for the moment Harrison was too dumbfounded to reply, while Mammy in the pantry, having overheard every word, was noiselessly clapping her old hands together and murmuring: "Ma Lawd! Ma Lawd! _Now_ I knows de sou'ce ob dat chile's tears." Before Harrison could recover herself Mrs. Stewart continued: "Dr. Llewellyn will be here tomorrow for the weekend, and as I am to be mistress of the household it is more seemly that I preside at the head of the table. Tell Jerome that I shall sit there in future. And now I wish you to take me through the house that I may know more of its appointments than I have thus far been able to learn." Without a word Harrison led the way into the hall, and up the beautiful old colonial stairway. Peggy's sitting-room and bed-room were situated at the south-east corner of the house overlooking the bay. Back of her bath and dressing-rooms were two guest rooms. A broad hall ran the length of the second story and upon the opposite side of it had been Mrs. Neil Stewart's pretty sitting-room, which corresponded with Peggy's and her bed-room separated from her husband's by the daintiest of dressing and bath-rooms. Neil Stewart's "den" was at the rear. Beyond were lavatories, linen-room, house-maid's room and every requirement of a well-ordered home. Mrs. Peyton began by entering Peggy's sitting-room, a liberty she had not hitherto taken, but she felt pretty sure Peggy was not in the house. At any rate she had made her plunge and did not mean to be diverted from her object now. Martha Harrison was simply boiling with wrath at the intrusion. "You are a wonderfully capable woman, Martha. I see I shall have very light duties," was Mrs. Peyton's patronizing comment. "_Harrison_, if you please, ma'am," emphasized that person. "Oh, indeed? As you prefer. Now let me see the rooms on the opposite side of the hall." Perhaps had Mrs. Peyton asked Harrison to lead her into the little mausoleum, built generations ago in the whispering white pine grove upon the hill back of the house, it could not have been a greater liberty or sacrilege. Not so great, possibly. In all the nine years nothing had been changed. They were sacred to the entire household and especially sacred to Harrison who had held it her especial privilege to keep them immaculate. In the bed-room the toilet and dressing tables held the same articles Mrs. Neil had used; her work-table stood in the same sunny window. In the sitting-room the books she loved and had read again and again were in the case, or lying upon the tables where she had left them. It seemed as though she might have stepped from the room barely ten minutes before. There was nothing depressing about it. On the contrary, it impressed upon the observer the near presence of a sweet, cultivated personality. The sitting-room was a shrine for both Peggy and her father, and it was his wish that it be kept exactly as he had known and loved it during the ideal hours he had spent in it with wife and child. He and Peggy had spent many a precious one there since its radiant, gracious mistress had slept in the pine grove. Harrison crossed the hall and opened the door, still mute as an oyster. Mrs. Stewart swept in, Toinette, who had followed her, tearing across the room ahead of her and darting into every nook and corner. At that moment the obnoxious poodle came nearer her doom than she had ever come in all her useless life, for Harrison was a-quiver to hurl her through the open window. "What charming rooms," exclaimed Madam, trailing languidly from one to the other, touching a book here, some exquisite curio there, the carved ivory toilet articles on the dresser. The morning sunlight, tempered by the green and white awnings at the great bowed-windows filled the tastefully decorated rooms with a restful glow. They were beautiful rooms in every sense of the word. "Very charming indeed and very useless apparently. They seem not to have been occupied in months. They are far more desirable than those assigned to me at the North side of the house. The view of the bay is perfect. As I am to be here indefinitely, instead of one month only, you may have my things moved over to this suite, Harrison. I shall occupy it in future." "Occupy _this_ suite?" Harrison almost gasped the words. "Certainly. Why not? You need not look as though I had ordered you to build a fire in the middle of the floor," and Mrs. Peyton laughed half scornfully. "Excuse me, ma'am, but when _Mr. Neil_ gives the order to move your things into this suite, I'll move them here. These was his wife's rooms and his orders to me was never to change 'em and I never shall 'till _he_ tells me to. There's some things in this world that can't be tampered with. Please call your dog, ma'am; she's scratchin' that couch cover to ribbons." The enemy's guns were silenced for the time being. She picked up her poodle and swept from the room. Harrison paused only long enough to close all the doors, lock them and place the keys in her little hand bag. Then she departed to her own quarters to give vent to her pent-up wrath. Mrs. Stewart retired to her own room. The next evening Dr. Llewellyn arrived and when he took his seat at the table his gentle face was troubled: Mrs. Peyton had usurped Peggy's place at the head. Peggy sat opposite to him. She had accepted the situation gracefully, not one word of protest passing her lips and she did her best to entertain her guests. But poor old Jerome's soul was so outraged that for the first time in his life he was completely demoralized. Only one person in the entire household seemed absolutely and entirely satisfied and that was Harrison, and her self-satisfaction so irritated Mammy that the good old creature sputtered out: "Kingdom come, is yo' gittin' ter de pint when yo' kin see sich gwines-on an' not r'ar right spang up an' _sass_ dat 'oman?" "Just wait!" was Harrison's cryptic reply. CHAPTER V RUCTIONS! Jerome had just passed a silver platter to Madam Stewart, his hands trembling so perceptibly as to provoke from her the words: "Have you a chill, Jerome?" as she conveyed to her plate some of Cynthia's delicately fried chicken. Jerome made no answer, but started toward Peggy's chair. He never reached it, for at that moment a deep voice boomed in from the hall: "Peggy Stewart, ahoy!" With the joyous, ringing cry of: "Daddy Neil! Oh, Daddy Neil!" Peggy sprang from the table to fling herself into her father's arms, and to startle him beyond words by bursting into tears. Never in all of his going to and fro, however long his absences from his home, had he met with such a reception as this. Invariably a smiling Peggy had greeted him and the present outbreak struck to the very depth of his soul, and did more in one minute to reveal to him the force of Harrison's letter than a dozen complaints. The tears betrayed a nervous tension of which even Peggy herself had been entirely unaware, and for Peggy to have reached a mental condition where nerves could assert themselves was an indication that chaos was imminent. For a moment she could only sob hysterically, while her father held her close in his arms and said in a tone which she had never yet heard: "Why, Peggy! My little girl, my little girl, have you needed Daddy Neil as much as this?" Peggy made a gallant rally of her self-control and cried: "Oh, Daddy, and everybody, please forgive me, but I am so surprised and startled and delighted that I don't know what I'm doing, and I'm so ashamed of myself," and smiling through her tears she strove to draw away from her father that he might greet the others, but he kept her close within his circling left arm, as he extended his hand in response to the effusive greeting of his sister-in-law. With what she hoped would be an apologetic smile for Peggy's untoward demonstration, Mrs. Stewart had risen to welcome him. "We must make allowances for Peggy, dear Neil. You came so very unexpectedly, you know. I hardly thought my letter would be productive of anything so delightful for us all." "I fear it was not wholly, Katherine. I had several others also. How are you, Doctor? I see you haven't quite abandoned the ship. Well, I'm glad of that; I need my executive officer and my navigator also." At the concluding words Mrs. Peyton smiled complacently. Who but she could fill that office? But Captain Stewart's next words dissipated that smile as the removal of a lantern slide causes the scene thrown upon the screen to vanish. "Yes, indeed, my navigator must get busy. She's had a long leave, but I need her now and she's never failed me in heavy weather. She'll report for duty on the thirtieth, thank the powers which be. Hello, Jerome! What's rattled you like this? Next time I set my course for home I'd better send a wireless, or I'll demoralize the whole personnel," and Neil Stewart's hearty laugh brought a sympathetic smile to Dr. Llewellyn's and Peggy's lips. And well it might, for in the background the minor characters in the little drama had filled a rôle all their own. In the doorway stood Harrison, bound to witness the outcome of her master-stroke and experiencing no small triumph in it. Behind her Mammy, with characteristic African emotion, was doing a veritable camp-meeting song of praise, though it was a _voiceless_ song, only her motions indicating that her lips were forming the words, "Praise de Lawd! Praise Him!" as she swayed and clasped her hands. But Jerome outdid them all: At his first glimpse of the master he was so flustered that he nearly collapsed where he stood, and his platter had a perilous moment. Then, crying, "Glory be!" he beat a hasty retreat intending to place it upon his serving table, but growing bewildered in his joy, inadvertently set it upon a large claw-foot sofa which stood at the end of the dining-room, where Toinette, ever upon the alert, and _not_ banished from the dining-room as poor Tzaritza had been, promptly pounced upon the contents, and in the confusion of the ensuing ten minutes laid the foundation for her early demise from apoplexy. "Brace up, Jerome, I'm too substantial to be a ghost, and nothing short of one should bowl you over like this," were Captain Stewart's hearty words to the old man as he shook his hand. "Asks yo' pardon, Massa Neil! I sho' does ask yo' pardon fer lettin' mysef git so flustrated, but we-all's so powerful pleased fer ter see yo', an' has been a-wanting yo' so pintedly, that--that--that--but, ma Lawd, I--I--I'se cla'r los' ma senses an', an--Hi! look yonder at dat cusséd dawg _an'_ ma fried chicken!" For once in her useless life Toinette had created a pleasing diversion. With a justifiable cry of wrath Jerome pounced upon her and plucked her from the platter, in which for vantage she had placed her fore feet. Flinging her upon the floor, he snatched up his dish and fled to the pantry, Neil Stewart's roars of laughter following him. Toinette rolled over and over and then fled yelping into her mistress' lap to spread further havoc by ruining a delicate silk gown with her gravy-smeared feet. Tzaritza, who had followed her master into the room, looked upon the performance with a superior surprise. Neil Stewart laid a caressing hand upon the beautiful head and said laughingly: "You'd blush for that little snippin-frizzle if you could, wouldn't you, old girl? Well, it's up to you to teach her better manners. She's young and flighty. The next time she starts in on any such rampage, just pick her up and carry her out, as any naughty child should be carried. Understand?" "Woof-woof," answered Tzaritza, deep down in her throat. "She's wise all right. After this you can leave that midget of yours in her care, Katherine. But now let's get busy. I'm upon the point of famishing. Come, Peggy, honey; rally your forces and serve your old Daddy." Peggy turned toward her aunt. Not until that moment had her father been aware of the change made at his table. Then it came to him in a flash, and Mrs. Peyton was hardly prepared for the change which overspread his countenance as he asked: "Peggy, why have you allowed your aunt to assume the obligations of hostess? Have you lost your ability to sit at the head of my table, daughter?" Poor Peggy! It was well she understood or she would have been nearly heartbroken at the rebuke. Mrs. Peyton answered for her: "Little Peggy had far too much upon her young shoulders, dear Neil. So I have volunteered to relieve her of some of her duties. I am happy to be able to do so." "Indeed, Katherine, we are all under deep obligation to you, I am sure, but Peggy hardly seems overborne by her burdens, and it is my wish that my daughter shall preside in her mother's place at my table. Jerome, Mrs. Stewart is to be relieved of this obligation after this meal. You are to be quite free of all responsibility during your visit with us, Katherine. And now, little girl, let me look at you. July, August, and, let me see, twenty-five days of September since I left you? Nearly three months. You manage to do remarkable things in a brief time, little daughter. But I fancy by the time I get back here again they will be more remarkable. Great plans are simmering for you; great plans," and her father nodded significantly across at her. Peggy was too happy to even ask what they were. She could only smile and nod back again. Meanwhile Mrs. Stewart had used her napkin to scrub off her besmirched poodle's feet and had then surreptitiously thumped her down upon her lap where the table-cloth would conceal her. At Captain Stewart's concluding words she felt her hopes revive a trifle. She was a fair actress when it served her turn. So now smiling across the table she said: "So you have decided to consider my suggestion, Neil?" "In one respect, yes, Katherine. I see plainly that things can no longer go on as they have been going. Llewellyn concurs in that." He glanced toward the Doctor, who nodded gravely. "I do most fully. Our halcyon days must end, I fear, as all such days do eventually, and we must meet the more prosaic side of life. Let us hope it will assume a pleasing form. I am loth to hand in my resignation as Dominie Exactus, however," he ended with a smile for Peggy. Peggy looked puzzled, and glanced inquiringly from one to the other. Her father stretched forth a hand and laid it over hers which rested upon the edge of the table: "Smooth out the kinks in your forehead, honey. Nothing distressing is to happen." "Hardly," agreed Mrs. Stewart. "On the contrary, if your father acts upon my suggestion something very delightful will be the outcome, I am sure. I feel intuitively that you approve of my plan regarding the school, Neil." Peggy started slightly, and looked at her father. He nodded and smiled reassuringly, then turning toward his sister-in-law, replied: "Your letter, Katherine, only served to convince me that Peggy must now have a broader horizon than Severndale, or even Annapolis affords. Dr. Llewellyn and I talked it over when I was home over a year ago, and again last June. When we first discussed it we were about as much at sea as the 'three wise men of Gotham' who launched forth in a tub. We needed a better craft and a pilot, and we needed them badly, I tell you, and at that time we hadn't sighted either. Then the 'Sky Pilot' took the job out of our hands and He's got it yet, I reckon. At any rate, indications seem to point that way, for on my way down here He ran me alongside my navigator and it didn't take her long to give me my bearings. She got on board the limited at Newark, N. J., and we rode as far as Philly together. She had three of her convoys along and they're all to the good, let me tell you." "Oh, Daddy, did you really meet Mrs. Harold and Polly, and who was with them?" broke in Peggy eagerly. "I surely did, little girl; Mrs. Harold, Polly, Ralph and Durand. She was on her way for a week's visit with some relatives just out of Philly--in Devon, I believe, a sort of house-party, she's chaperoning--and a whole bunch of the old friends are to be there. Well, I got the 'Little Mother' all to myself from Newark to Philly and we went a twenty-knot clip, I tell you, for big as I am, I was just bursting to unload my worries upon someone, and that little woman seems born to carry the major portion of all creation's. She gets them, any way, and they don't seem to feaze her a particle. She bobs up serene and smiling after ever comber. But I've yet to see the proposition she wouldn't try to tackle. Oh, we talked for fair, let me tell you, and in those two hours she put more ideas into this wooden old block of mine than it's held in as many months. Did your ears burn this afternoon, Peggy? You are pretty solid in _that_ direction, little girl, and you'll never have a better friend in all your born days, and don't you ever forget _that_ fact. Well, the upshot is, that next Friday, one week from today, Middie's Haven will have its tenant back and, meantime, she is to write some letters and lay a train for _your_ welfare, honey. That school plan is an excellent plan, Katherine, but not a New York school: New York is too far away from home _and_ Mrs. Harold. Peggy will go to Washington this winter. Hampton Roads is not far from Washington and the ---- will put in there a number of times this winter. That gives _me_ a chance to visit my girl oftener and also gives Peggy a chance to visit Mrs. Harold, and run out here now and again if she wishes, though the place will be practically closed up for the winter. It was very good of you to offer to remain here but I couldn't possibly accept that sacrifice; for all your interests lie in New York, as you stated in your letter to me. You still have your apartments there, you tell me, and to let you bury yourself down here in this lonely place would be simply outrageous. Even Peggy has been here too long, without companions." Neil Stewart paused to take some nuts from the dish which Jerome, now recovered and beaming, held for him. Mrs. Stewart could have screamed with baffled rage, for, now that it was too late, she saw that she had quite overshot the mark, and given her brother-in-law a complete advantage over her designs. "And that hateful, designing cat!" as she stigmatized Mrs. Harold "had completed her defeat." She had gauged her brother-in-law as "a perfect simpleton where a woman was concerned," and never had she so miscalculated. He _was_ easygoing when at home on leave, or off on one of his outings, as he had been when she met him in New London. Why not? When he worked he worked with every particle of energy he possessed, but when he "loafed," as he expressed it, he cast all care to the winds and was like an emancipated school-boy. It was the school-boy side of his nature she had gauged. She knew nothing of Neil Stewart the Naval Officer and man; hadn't the very faintest conception of his latent force once it was stirred. And she little guessed how she _had_ stirred it by her letter written the morning she had made Peggy so unhappy. It was the one touch needed to bring the climax and it had brought it with a rush which Mrs. Peyton had little anticipated. What the outcome might have been had Neil Stewart not met Mrs. Harold on that train is impossible to surmise further than that he had fully decided to free himself of all connection with Peyton's widow. He had always disliked and distrusted her, but now he detested her. Peggy's letters had revealed far more than she guessed, though they had not held one intended criticism. She had written just as she had written ever since she promised him when he visited her the previous year, to send "a report of each day, accurate as a ship's log." But she could not write of the daily happenings without giving him a pretty graphic picture of Mrs. Stewart's gradual usurpation, and Harrison had felt no compunction in expressing _her_ views. And so the "best laid plans o' mice and (wo)men" had "gone agley" in a demoralizing manner, and Neil Stewart had come down to Severndale "under full headway," and wasted no time in "laying hold of the helm." That talk upon the train had been what he termed "one real old heart-to-hearty," for Mrs. Harold had foreseen just such a crisis and felt under no obligation to refrain from speaking her mind where Mrs. Stewart was concerned. She had seen just such women before. Captain Stewart had asked her to read the letters sent to him. She nearly had hysterics over Harrison's, but Peggy's brought tears to her eyes, for she loved the girl very dearly and understood her well. Mrs. Stewart's letter made her eyes snap and her mouth set firmly, as she said: "Captain Stewart, you have asked my advice and I shall give it exactly as though Peggy were my daughter, for I could hardly love her and Polly more dearly if they were my own children. I am under every obligation of affection to Peggy but not the slightest to Mrs. Stewart, and from all I observed in New London she is by no means the woman to have control over a girl like Peggy. She is one of the most lovable girls I have ever known, but at the same time has one of the most distinct personalities and the strongest wills. She can be easily guided by combined wisdom and affection, but she would be ruined by association with a calculating, unrefined, or capricious nature, and, pardon my frankness, I consider Mrs. Peyton Stewart all of these. Peggy needs association with other girls--that is only natural--and we must secure it at once for her." Neil Stewart laid her words to heart, and the ensuing week brought to pass some radical changes. On the thirtieth of September the whole brigade of midshipmen came pouring back to Annapolis, the academic year beginning on October first. On the thirtieth also came Mrs. Glenn Harold and her niece Polly Howland, brown, happy and refreshed by their summer's outing, and Polly eager to meet her old friends at the Academy and her chum Peggy. October first falling upon Sunday that year the work at the Academy would not begin until Monday, and, although the midshipmen had to report on September thirtieth, Sunday was to a certain extent a holiday for them and on that afternoon a rare treat was planned for some of them by Captain Stewart. On Sunday morning Neil Stewart, with Mrs. Stewart and Peggy drove into Annapolis to attend service at the Naval Academy Chapel where their entrance very nearly demoralized Polly Howland, no hint of their intention having been given her. They were a little late in arriving and the service had already begun. As Polly was rising from her knees after the first prayer Peggy was ushered into the pew, and Polly, _Polly_ under all circumstances, cried impulsively: "Oh, lovely!" her voice distinctly audible in the chancel. Whether the Chaplain felt himself lauded for the manner in which he had read the prayer, or was quick to guess the cause of that unusual response, it is not necessary to decide. Certain, however, were two or three distinct snickers from some pews under the gallery, and Polly nearly dove under the pew in front of her. There was no chance for the thousand and one topics of vital importance to be even touched upon while the service was in progress, but once the recessional rolled forth Peggy's and Polly's tongues were loosened and went a-galloping. "Oh, Daddy has a plan for the afternoon which is the dearest ever," announced Peggy, the old light back in her eyes, and the old enthusiasm in her voice. "Tell it right off then. Captain Stewart's plans are the most wonderful ever. I'll never forget New London," cried Polly. "Why, he wants you and the Little Mother and Durand and Ralph and Jean and Gordon--" "Gordon?" echoed Polly, a question in her eyes. Peggy nodded an emphatic little nod, her lips closing in a half-defiant, half who-dares-dispute-his-judgment little way, then the smile returned to the pretty mouth and she continued, "Yes, Gordon Powers and his room-mate, great, big Douglas Porter, and Durand's new room-mate, Bert Taylor, he comes from Snap's old home, so Daddy learned, to come out to Severndale this afternoon for a real frolic." She got no further for they had reached the terrace in front of the Chapel by that time where greetings were being exchanged between many mutual friends and the two girls, so widely known to all connected with the Academy were eagerly welcomed back. Meanwhile, out on the main walk the Brigade had broken ranks and the midshipmen were hurrying up to greet their friends. Captain Stewart was a favorite with all, and one of the very few officers who could recall how the world looked to him when _he_ was a midshipman. Consequently, he was able to enter into the spirit and viewpoint of the lads and was always greeted with an enthusiasm rare in the intercourse between the midshipmen and the officers. Mrs. Harold was their "Little Mother," as she had been for the past five years, and Peggy and Polly the best and jolliest of companions and chums, their "co-ed cronies," as they called them. Mrs. Stewart they had met in New London, but there was a very perceptible difference in their greeting to that lady: It was the formal, perfunctory bow and handclasp of the superficially known midshipman; not the hearty, spontaneous one of the boy who has learned to trust and love someone as Mrs. Harold's boys loved and trusted her. The crowd which had poured out of the Chapel was soon dispersed, as everybody had something to call him elsewhere. Our group sauntered slowly toward the Superintendent's home where Captain Stewart left them and went in to make his request for the afternoon's frolic. It was promptly granted and orders were given to have a launch placed at his disposal at two-thirty P.M. Such a treat, when least expected, sent the boys into an ecstatic frame of mind, and when the bugle sounded for dinner formation they rushed away to their places upon old Bancroft's Terrace as full of enthusiasm as though averaging eight and ten instead of eighteen and twenty years of age. CHAPTER VI A NEW ORDER OF THINGS That Sunday afternoon of October first, 19-- was vital with portent for the future of most of the people in this little story. It took but a short time to run out to Severndale, and once there Neil Stewart made sure of a free hour or two by ordering up the horses and sending the young people off for a gallop "over the hills and far away." Shashai, Silver Star, Pepper and Salt for Peggy, Polly, Durand and Ralph, who were all experienced riders, and four other horses for Douglas, Gordon, Jean and Bert, of whose prowess he knew little. He need not have worried, however, for Bert Taylor came straight from a South Dakota ranch, Gordon Powers had ridden since early childhood and Douglas Porter had left behind him in his Southern home two hunters which had been the joy of his life. But Jean Paul Nicholas, Ralph's little pepper-pot of a room-mate, had never ridden a horse in his life, and the running he would come in for at the hands of his fellow midshipmen if they suspected that fact might have made almost any other lad hesitate before taking his initial spin in the company of experts. Not so little Jean Paul with his broad shoulders, the brace of an Admiral and his five-feet-six-inches; a veritable little bantam-cock, and game to the finish. As the happy cavalcade set off, waving merry farewells to the older people gathered upon the piazza, Tzaritza bounding on ahead, their route led them past the paddock where Shelby and old Jess, with several others connected with the estate, stood watching them. Shelby as an old hand and privileged character, took off his hat and waved it hilariously, as he called out: "Well _that_ is one sight worth while, Miss Peggy. We've got our _own_ girl back again, praises be!" while old Jess echoed his enthusiasm by shouting: "Praise de Lawd we _has_, an' we got de boss yander, too!" "Sure thing, Shelby!" answered Durand. "He's all right, Shelby!" cried Ralph. "Nicest Daddy-Neil in the world," was Polly's merry reply, then added, "Oh, Peggy, look at Roy! He's crazy to come with us," for Roy, the little colt Peggy had raised, was now a splendid young creature though still too young to put under the saddle. Peggy looked toward the paddock where Roy was running to and fro in the most excited manner and neighing loudly to his friends. "Let him come, Shelby, please," she called, and the foreman opened the gate. Roy darted through like a flash, giving way to all manner of mad antics, rushing from one four-footed companion to another, with a playful nip at one, a wild Highland-fling-of-a-kick at another, a regular rowdy whinny at another, until he had the whole group infected, but funniest of all, Jean Paul's mount, the staid, well-conducted old Robin Adair, whose whole fifteen years upon the estate had been one long testimony to exemplary behavior, promptly set about demonstrating that when the usually well-ordered being does "cut loose" he "cuts loose for fair." Jean Paul was essentially a sailor-laddie, the direct descendant of many sailor-laddies, and he was "built upon nautical lines," so said Ralph. On the summer cruise just ended he had demonstrated his claim to be classed among his sire's confrères, for let the ship pitch and toss as it would, his legs never failed him, his stomach never rebelled and his head remained as steady and clear as the ship's guiding planet. But he found navigating upon land about as difficult as a duck usually finds it, and was about as well qualified to bestride and ride a horse as that waddling bird is. Consequently, he had "heaved aboard" his mount with many well concealed misgivings, but up to the present moment none of his friends had even suspected his very limited experience as a horseman, but truth to tell, never before in his life had Jean Paul's legs crossed anything livelier than one of the gymnasium "side horses." Now, however, the cat was about to escape from the bag, for Robin Adair, flinging decorum and heels behind him, set forth on a mad gallop to overhaul Roy, who had elected to set the pace for the others. Whinnying, prancing, cavorting, away Roy tore in the lead, Robin Adair hot-foot upon him, Jean Paul striving manfully to keep his pitching seat, which he felt to out-pitch any deck ever designed by man. In about two minutes the pair were a hundred yards in the lead, Jean's cap had sailed airily from his head, and after flaunting into Silver Star's face, had roosted upon a near-by shrub. Jean himself promptly decided that reins were a delusion and a snare (Robin's mouth _was_ hard) and let them go to grasp the pommel of his Mexican saddle. But even that failed to steady him in that outrageous saddle, nor were stirrups the least use in the world; his feet were designed to stick to a pitching deck, not those senseless things. In a trice both were "sailing free" and--so was Jean. As Robin's hind legs flew up Jean pitched forward to bestride the horse's neck; as he bounded forward Jean rose in the air to resume his seat where a horse's crupper usually rests. Oh it was one electrifying performance and not a single move of it was lost upon his audience which promptly gave way to hoots and yells of diabolical glee, at least the masculine portion of it did, while Polly and Peggy, though almost reduced to hysterics at the absurd spectacle, implored them to "stop yelling like Comanches and _do_ something." "_Aren't_ we doing something? Aren't we encouraging him and helping on a good show?" "Oh, get onto that hike!" "Gee whiz, Commodore, if you jibe over like that you'll go by the board." "Put your tiller hard a-port." "Haul in on your jib-sheet," "Lash yourself to the main-mast or you'll drop off astern," were some of the encouraging words of advice which rattled about Jean's assailed ears, as the space grew momentarily wider between him and his friends, those same friends wilfully holding in their mounts to revel in "the show." But Jean's patience and endurance were both failing. He could have slain Robin Adair, and he was confident that his spine would presently shoot through the crown of his head. So flinging pride to the four winds, he shouted: "Hi, come on here one of you yelling chumps, this craft's steering-gear's out of commission! Overhaul her and take her in tow. I'd rather pay a million salvage than navigate her another cable's length." "'Don't give up the ship!'" "'Never say die!'" "Belay, man, belay!" were the words hurled back until Peggy crying: "You boys are the very limit!" pressed one knee against Shashai's side and said softly: "Four Bells, Shashai." Robin Adair was no match for Shashai. Robin was as good a hackney as rider ever bestrode, but Shashai was a thoroughbred hunter with an Arab strain. Ten mighty bounds took him to Robin's head and for Peggy to swing far out of her saddle, grasp the dangling reins, speak the word of command which all her horses knew, loved and obeyed, took less time than it has taken to write of it. "One Bell, Shashai. Robin, halt! Steady!" and Jean Paul's mount came to a standstill with Jean Paul sitting upon its haunches, and Jean Paul's eyes snapping, and Jean Paul's teeth biting his tongue to keep from uttering words "unbecoming an officer and a gentleman;" for "being overhauled by a girl" after he had "made a confounded fool of himself trying a land-lubber's stunt" was not a rôle which seemed in any degree an edifying one to him. To her credit be it said, Peggy managed to keep a straight face as she turned to look at her disgruntled guest, which was more than could be said of his companions who came crowding upon him, even Polly's self-control being taxed beyond the limit. "Why didn't you tell me you'd never ridden?" asked Peggy, her lips sober but her eyes dancing. "Because it would have knocked the whole show on the head," answered Jean, yanking himself forward into the saddle which only a moment before had seemed to be in forty places at once. "So you decided to be the whole show yourself instead! You're a dead game sport, Commodore. Bully for you!" cried Durand, slipping from his mount to examine the "rigging of the Commodore's craft." "Do you want to try it again?" asked Polly. "Will a fish swim?" answered Jean. "Do you think I'm going to let this side-wheeler shipwreck me? Not on your life, Captain. Clear out, the whole bunch of you chumps. If I've got to cross the equator I'll have the escort of ladies, not a bunch of rough-necks. Beat it! You let a _girl_ overhaul and slow down this cruiser and now you're all ready to come in for a share of the salvage. Get out! Clear out! Beat it! Take 'em away, Captain, and leave me the Admiral. She can give everyone of you the lead by a mile and then overhaul you on the first tack. Get out, for I'm going to take a riding lesson and I'm going to pay extra and have a private one." "Yes, do go on ahead, and, Polly, call Roy. He is responsible for Robin's capers but he will behave if you take him in charge." "Come on, Roy--and all other incorrigibles," laughed Polly, unsnapping her second rein and slipping it around Roy's silky neck. Roy loved and obeyed Polly almost as readily as Peggy, and cavorted off beside her as gay as a grig. "We'll report heavy weather and a disabled ship, messmate," called Ralph. "Report and hanged. You'll see us enter port all skee and ship-shape, and don't you fool yourself, my cock sure wife (Bancroft Hall slang for a room-mate), so so-long. Now come on, Peggy, and put me wise to navigating this craft, for it has me beat to a standstill." "Go on, people; we'll follow presently and when we overhaul you you'll be treated to a demonstration of expert horsemanship," called Peggy after the laughing, joking group, her own and Jean's laughs merriest of all. "Now get busy in earnest," she said to the half-piqued lad, whose face wore an expression of "do or die" as he again mounted his steed. "You can just bet your last nickel I'm going to! Great Scott, do you think I'm going to let _this_ beat me out, or that yelling mob out yonder see me put out of commission? Now fire away. Show me how to keep my legs clamped and to sit in the saddle instead of on this beast's left ear." As Peggy was a skilled teacher and Jean an apt pupil the combination worked to perfection, and when in a half-hour's time they joined the main body of the cavalcade, Jean had at least learned where a saddle rests and had trained his legs to "clamp" successfully. Meanwhile, back on Severndale's broad piazza Peggy was the subject of a livelier discussion than she would have believed possible, and the upshot of it was a decision which carried Neil Stewart, Mrs. Harold, herself, and Polly off to Washington early the following morning to visit a school of which Mrs. Harold knew. Mrs. Stewart was very courteously asked to accompany the party of four, which was to spend three or four days in the Capital, but Mrs. Stewart was distinctly chagrined at her failure to carry successfully to a finish the scheme which she felt she had so carefully thought out. Alas, she could not understand that she sorely lacked the most essential qualities for its success--unselfishness, disinterestedness, the finer feeling of the older woman for the younger, and all that goes to make womanhood and maternal instinct what they should be. She felt that her reign at Severndale was ended and nothing remained but to make as graceful a retreat as possible. So she declined the invitation, stating that she was very anxious to visit some friends in Baltimore and would take this opportunity to do so, going by a later train. Neil Stewart did not press his invitation. He wanted Mrs. Harold and the girls to himself for a time and knowing that it would be his last opportunity to see them for many months, resolved to make the most of it. Not by word or act had he expressed disapproval of Mrs. Stewart's rather extraordinary line of conduct since her arrival at Severndale, though evidences of it were to be seen at every turn, and both Harrison's and Mammy's tongues were fairly quivering to describe in detail the experiences of the past month. Harrison was wise enough not to criticise, but she lost no opportunity for asking if she were to carry out this, that, or some other order of Mrs. Stewart's, until poor Neil lost his temper and finally rumbled out: "Look here, Martha Harrison, how long have you been at Severndale?" "Nigh on to twenty years, sir, and full fifteen years with that blessed child's mother before she ever heard tell of this place. I took care of her, as right well you know, long before she was as old as Miss Peggy." "And have I ever ordered any changes made in her rules?" "None to my knowledge, sir. They was pretty sensible ones and there didn't seem any reason to change them." "Well, you're pretty long-headed, and until you _do_ see reason to change 'em let 'em stand and quit pestering _me_. You're the Exec. on this ship until I see fit to appoint a new one and when I think of doing that I'll give you due notice." But Mammy would have exploded had she not expressed her views. Harrison had chosen the moment when Captain Stewart had gone to his room just before supper that eventful Sunday evening, but Mammy spoke when she carried up to him the little jug of mulled cider for which Severndale was famous and which, when cider was to be had, she had never failed to carry to "her boy," as Neil Stewart, in spite of his forty-six years, still seemed to old Mammy. Tapping at the door of his sitting-room, she entered at his "Come in." She found him standing before a large silver-framed photograph of Peggy's mother. It had been taken shortly before her death and when such a tragic ending to their ideal life had least been dreamed possible. A fancy-dress ball had been given by the young officers stationed at the Academy and Mrs. Stewart had attended it gowned as "Marie Stuart," wearing a superb black velvet gown and the widely-known "Marie Stuart coif and ruff" of exquisite Point de Venice lace. She had never looked lovelier, or more stately in her life, and that night Neil Stewart was the proudest man on the ballroom floor. Then he had insisted upon a famous Washington photographer taking this beautiful picture and--well, it was the last ever taken of the wife he adored, for within another month she had dropped asleep forever. Good old Mammy's eyes were very tender as she looked at her boy, and instead of saying what she had come to say: "ter jist nachelly an' pintedly 'spress her min'," she went close to his side and looking at the lovely face smiling at her, said: "Dar weren't never, an' dar ain' never gwine ter be no sich lady as dat a-one, Massa Neil, lessen it gwine be Miss Peggy. She favor her ma mo' an' mo' every day she livin', an' I wisht ter Gawd her ma was right hyer dis minit fer ter _see_ it, dat I do." "Amen! Mammy," was Captain Stewart's reply. "Peggy needs more than we can give her just now, no matter how hard we try. The trouble is she seems to have grown up all in a minute apparently while we have been thinking she was a child." Neil Stewart placed the photograph back upon the top of the bookshelf and sighed. "No, sir, _dat_ ain't it. Deed tain't. She been a-growin' up dis long time, but we's been dozin' like, an' ain't had our eyes open wide 'nough. An' now we's all got shook wide awake by _somebody else_." Mammy paused significantly. Neil Stewart frowned. "Just as well maybe. But don't light into me. I'm all frazzled out now. Harrison's hints are like eight inch shells; Dr. Llewellyn's like a highly charged electric battery; Jerome fires a blunderbuss every ten minutes and even Shelby and Jess use pop-guns. Good Lord, are you going to let drive with a gatling? Clear out and let me drink my cider in peace, and quit stewing, for I tell you right now the fire-brand which has kept the kettles boiling is going to be removed." "Praise de Lawd fo' _dat_ blessin' den. It was jist gwine ter make some of dem pots bile over if it had a-kep' on, yo' hyer me? Good-night, Massa Neil, drink yo' cider an' thank de Lawd fo' yo' mercies." "Good-night, Mammy. You're all right even if I do feel like smacking your head off once in a while. Used to do it when I was a kid, you know, and can't drop the habit." The following morning the party of four set off for Washington, Polly sorely divided in her mind regarding her own wishes. To have Peggy elsewhere than at Severndale was a possibility which had never entered into her calculations. How would it seem to have no Severndale to run out to? No Peggy to pop into Middie's Haven? No boon companion to ride, walk, drive, skate with, or lead the old life which they had both so loved? Polly did some serious thinking on the way to the big city, and wore such a sober face as they drew near the end of their journey that Captain Stewart asked, as he tweaked a stray lock which had escaped bonds: "What's going on inside this red pate? You look as solemn as an ostracized owl." "I'm trying to think how it is going to seem without Peggy this winter and I don't like the picture even a little bit," and Polly wagged the "red pate" dubiously. "Better make up your mind to come along with your running-mate. By Jove, that's a brain throb, Peggy! How about it? Can't you persuade this girl of ours to give up the co-ed plan back yonder in Annapolis,--she knows all the seamanship and nav. that's good for her already,--and you'll need a room-mate up here at Columbia Heights School if we settle upon it," and Captain Stewart looked at Polly half longingly, half teasingly. Polly had grown very dear to the bluff, sincere man during her companionship with Peggy, and had crept into a corner of his heart he had never felt it possible for anyone but Peggy herself to fill. Somehow, latterly when thinking and planning for Peggy's well-being or pleasure, visions of Polly's tawny head invariably rose before him, and Polly's happy, sunny face was always beside the one he loved best of all. The two young girls had become inseparable in his thoughts as well as in reality. "Oh, Polly, will you? Will you?" begged Peggy, instantly fired with the wildest desire to have Polly enter the school which it had been decided she should enter if at closer inspection it proved to be all the catalogues, letters and dozens of pamphlets sent to Mrs. Harold represented it to be. "If I go to the Columbia Heights School what will Ralph say? And all the others, too? They'll say I've backed down on my co-ed plan and will run me half to death. Besides, Ralph needs me right there to let him know I'm keeping a lookout." "He doesn't need you half as much as this girl of mine needs you. You just let Ralph do a little navigating for himself and learn that it's up to him to make good on his own account. He's man enough to; all he needs now is to find it out. Will you let him do so by coming down here with Peggy?" CHAPTER VII COLUMBIA HEIGHTS SCHOOL As Captain Stewart asked the question which ended the last chapter the W. B. & A. electric car came to a standstill in the heart of Washington and as he assisted his charges to descend the steps, Polly was the last. As she placed her hand in his she looked straight into his kind eyes and said: "I'm just ready to fly all to bits. I love Peggy and want to be with her; I love Aunt Janet and old Crabtown and everything connected with it; I've always kept neck-and-neck with Ralph in his work and I hate the thought of dropping out of it, but, oh, I do want to be with Peggy." "Come along out to the school and see what you think of it before you decide one way or the other; then talk it all over with your aunt and you won't go far amiss if you follow _her_ advice, little girl." "I'll do it," answered Polly, with an emphatic wag of her head, and Peggy who overheard her words nearly pranced with joy. Hailing a taxicab Captain Stewart directed the chauffeur to drive them to an address in the outskirts of the city and away they sped. It was only a short run in that whirring machine over Washington's beautiful streets and when the school was reached both Peggy and Polly exclaimed over the beauty of its situation, for Columbia Heights School was in the midst of spacious grounds, the buildings were substantial and attractive, giving the impression of ample space, all the fresh air needed by vigorous, rapidly developing bodies, and the sunshine upon which they thrive. Beautiful walks and drives led in every direction and not far off lovely Stony Brook Park lay in all the beauty of its golden October glow. Mrs. Harold and Captain Stewart were graciously welcomed by its charming principal who promptly led the way to her study, a great room giving upon a broad piazza, where green wicker furniture, potted plants and palms suggesting a tropical garden. When Polly's eyes fell upon it she forgot all else, and cried impulsively: "Oh, how lovely! Can't we go right out there?" And then colored crimson. Mrs. Vincent smiled as she slipped an arm across Polly's shoulder and asked: "Are you to be my newest girl? If so, I think we would find something in common." Polly raised her big eyes to the sweet, strong face smiling upon her and answered: "I hadn't even thought of coming until an hour ago. It was all planned for Peggy, but, oh, dear, if I _only_ could be twins! How am I ever to be a co-ed in Annapolis and a pupil here at the same time? Yet I want dreadfully to be both, I'm so fond of Peggy." "I fear we cannot solve that problem even in Columbia Heights School, though we try pretty hard to solve a good many knotty ones. Suppose I talk it over with the grown-ups and meantime arrange for your entertainment by two or three of the girls. We think they are rather nice girls too," and Mrs. Vincent pressed an electric button which promptly brought a neat maid to the door. "Hilda, ask Miss Natalie and Miss Marjorie to step to my study." Within a few moments two girls appeared in the doorway, the taller one asking: "Did you wish to see us, Mother?" Introductions followed, whereupon the Principal said: "Natalie, please take Miss Stewart and Miss Howland for a walk through the grounds. It is recreation period and they will like to meet the other girls and see the buildings also, I think. And remember, you are to picture everything in such glowing colors, and be so entertaining that they will think there is no other place in all the land half so lovely, for I have fully decided that we must have sweet P's in our posy bed. We have a Rose, a Violet, a Lily, Myrtle, Hazel, Marguerites,--oh, a whole flower garden already--but thus far no sweet-peas." "We will, Mrs. Vincent. Please come with us," said Marjorie cheerily, no trace of self-consciousness or the indefinable restraint so much oftener the rule than the exception between teacher and pupil. Mrs. Harold had been observing every word and action as it was a part of her nature to observe--yes, intuitively _feel_--every word and action of the young people with whom she came in touch, and the older ones who were likely to bring any influence to bear upon their lives, and this little scene did more to confirm her in the belief that she had not been amiss when she selected Columbia Heights School for Peggy than anything else could have done. Next to her husband, her sister and her nieces, Peggy was the dearest thing in the world to her, and the past year had shown her what tremendous possibilities the future held for the young girl if wisely shaped for her. The two ensuing hours were pleasant and profitable for all concerned and when they ended and Captain Stewart and his party re-entered the taxicab to return to their hotel in Washington, it was decided that Peggy should come to Columbia Heights School on October fifteenth, but Polly's decision was still in abeyance. She wished to have one of her long, quiet talks with her aunt before "shifting her holding ground," she said, and that could only be up in Middie's Haven, cuddled upon a hassock beside Mrs. Harold's easy chair, with the logs lazily flickering upon the brass andirons. So the ensuing two days in Washington were given over to sightseeing and "a general blow-out," as Captain Stewart termed it, insisting that he could not have another for months and meant to make this one "an A-1 affair." Then back they went to Severndale where Mrs. Stewart, to their surprise, had returned the previous day, having failed to find her friend in Baltimore. As she had already overstayed the length of time for which her invitation to Severndale had been extended, she had no possible excuse for prolonging it, and deciding that her schemes had met with defeat largely owing to her own impolitic precipitation in forcing the situation, she did not mean to make an ignominious retreat. So, with well assumed suavity she told her brother-in-law that some urgent business matters claimed her attention in New York, and asked if he could complete his arrangements for Peggy's departure without her aid, as she really ought to go North without delay. If Neil Stewart was amused by this sudden change in the lady's tactics, to his credit be it said that he did not betray any sign of it. He thanked her for her kind interest in Peggy and his home, for all she had done for them, and left nothing lacking for her comfort upon her homeward journey, even shipping to the apartment in New York enough fruit, game and various other good things from Severndale to keep her larder well supplied for weeks, and supplementing all these with a gift which would be the envy of all her friends. But when he returned to Severndale after bidding the lady farewell at the station, he breathed one mighty sigh of relief. He had escaped a situation of which the outcome was a good deal more than problematical for everyone concerned, and most vital for Peggy. Then came busy days of preparation for Peggy and Polly, for the outcome of that fireside powwow had been a decision in favor of Columbia Heights School for Polly also, for that winter at least, and when the fifteenth dawned bright and frosty, Mrs. Harold accompanied the girls to Washington, Captain Stewart's leave having meantime expired. But he had gone back to his ship in a very different frame of mind from that in which he had returned to it in July, and with a comforting sense of security in the outcome of his present plans for Peggy. The longer he knew Mrs. Harold the greater became his confidence in her judgment, and she had assured him that Peggy should be her charge that winter exactly as Polly was. Moreover, Mrs. Harold had persuaded Mrs. Howland to close her house in Montgentian for the winter and come to Annapolis, bringing Gail with her, for Constance had decided to follow the _Rhode Island_ whenever it was possible for her to do so, and this decision left Mrs. Howland and Gail alone in their home. So to Wilmot Hall came Polly's mother and pretty sister, the former to spend a delightfully restful winter with her sister and the latter to take her first taste of the good times possible for a girl of twenty-one at the Naval Academy. The first breaking away from Severndale was harder for Peggy than anyone but Mrs. Harold guessed. Somehow intuition supplied to her what actual words could never have conveyed, even had they been spoken, but Peggy, once her resolution had been taken to go away to school, was not a girl to bewail her decision. And now she was a duly registered pupil at Columbia Heights with Polly for her room-mate in number 67, her next-door neighbor Natalie Vincent, Mrs. Vincent's daughter, a jolly, honest, happy-go-lucky girl, who looked exactly as her mother must have looked at fifteen. A long line of rooms extended up and down, both sides of the corridor, the end one, No. 70, with its pretty bay-window overlooking the lawn and Stony Brook beyond, was occupied by Stella Drummond, a tall, striking brunette of eighteen. To the hundred-fifty girls in Columbia Heights School this story can only allude in a brief way but of those who figure most prominently in Polly's and Peggy's new world we'll let Polly give the general "sizing-up." These girls were all about the same age, and, excepting Stella, juniors, as were Peggy and Polly, whose previous work under tutors and in high school had qualified them to enter that grade at Columbia Heights. It was their first night at the school, and "lights-out" bell had rung at ten o'clock, but a glorious October moon flooded the room with a silvery light, almost as bright as day. Peggy in one pretty little white bed and Polly in the one beside it were carrying on a lively whispered conversation. "Well, we're _here_," was Polly's undisputable statement as she snuggled down under her bed-covers, "and now that we are what do you think of it?" "I'm glad we've come. It will seem a lot different, and rather queer to do everything by rules and on time, but, after all, we had to do almost everything by rule up home." "Yes, but they were nearly always our _own_ rules; yours, anyway. Why, Peggy, I don't believe there is a girl in this school who ever had things as much her own way as you have had them." "Maybe that's the reason I didn't get along with Aunt Katherine," answered Peggy whimsically. "Aunt Katherine!" Polly's whisper suggested italics. "Do you know Miss Sturgis, the math. teacher, makes me think of her a little. Miss Sturgis is strong-minded, I'll bet a cookie. Did you hear what she said when she was giving out our books on sociology--doesn't it seem funny, Peggy, for us to take up sociology?--'She hoped we would become good American citizens and realize woman's true position in the world.' Somehow I've thought Tanta has always had a pretty clear idea of 'woman's position in the world.' At any rate she seems to have plenty to do in her own quiet way and I've an idea that if anyone ever hinted that she ought to go to the polls and vote she'd feel inclined to spell it pole and use it to 'beat 'em up' with, as Ralph and the boys would say. Oh, dear, how we are going to miss 'the bunch,' Peggy." "We certainly are," was Peggy's sympathetic reply, and for a moment there was silence in the moonlit room as the girls' thoughts flew back to Annapolis. Then Peggy asked: "What do you think of the girls? You've been to school all your life, but it is all new to me." Polly laughed a low, little laugh, then replied: "They are about like most school-girls, I reckon. Let's see, which have we had most to do with since we came here twenty-four hours ago? There's Rosalie Breeze. She's named all right, sure enough, and if she doesn't turn out a hurricane we'll be lucky. We had one just like her up at High. And Lily Pearl Montgomery. My gracious, what a name to give a girl! She needs stirring up. She's just like a big, fat, spoiled baby. I feel like saying 'Goo-goo' to her." "Don't you think Juno Gibson is handsome?" asked Peggy. "Just as handsome as she can be, but I wish she didn't look so discontented all the time. Why, she hasn't smiled once since we came." "I wonder why not?" commented Peggy. "Maybe we'll find out after we've been here a while. But I tell you one thing, I like her better without any smiles than that silly Helen Gwendolyn Doolittle with her everlasting affected giggling at nothing. She is the kind to do some silly thing and make us all ashamed of her." "How about Stella Drummond?" "She is a puzzle to me. Doesn't she seem an awful lot older than the rest of us? Rosalie says she is eighteen and that's not so much older, but she seems about twenty-five. I wonder why?" "Maybe she has lived in cities all her life and gone out a lot. You know most of the girls we met up at New London seemed so much older too, yet they really were not. They looked upon us as children, though the Little Mother said we were years older in common sense while they were years older in worldly experience,--I wonder what she meant?" "Tanta meant that we had stayed young girls and could enjoy fun and frolic as much as ever, but those girls were not satisfied with anything but dances and theatres and all sorts of grown-up things. We have our fun with our horses, dogs and the nonsense with the boys up home. We want our skirts short and our hair flying and to romp when we feel like it." "Picture Helen or Lily Pearl romping," and Peggy dove under the covers to smother her laughter at the thought of the fat, pudgy Lily Pearl attempting anything of the sort. Polly snickered in sympathy and then said in her emphatic way: "I tell you, Peggy, which girls I _do_ like and I think they will like us: Marjorie Terry and Natalie Vincent. Marjorie is awfully sober and quiet, I know, but _I_ believe she's sort of lonely, or homesick or something. Natalie seems more like our own kind than any girl in the school and I'll wager my tennis racquet she'll be lots of fun if she is the Principal's daughter. But we'd better go to sleep this minute. We've made a sort of hash of seven girls, and if we try to size up the whole school this way it will be broad daylight before we finish. Good-night. It's sort of nice to be here after all, and nicer still to have you for a room-mate, old Peggoty." An appreciative little laugh was the only answer to this and five minutes later the moon was looking in upon a picture hard to duplicate in this great world: Two sweet, unspoiled, beautiful girls in the first flush of untroubled slumber. The following morning being Saturday and Peggy's and Polly's belongings having arrived, the girls set about arranging their room, half a dozen others having volunteered assistance. For convenience in reaching "up aloft" Peggy and Polly had slipped off their waists and were arrayed in kimonos which aroused the envy of their companions. Captain Stewart had given them to his "twins" as he now called the girls. Peggy's was the richest shade of crimson embroidered in all manner of golden gods and dragons; Polly's pale blue with silver chrysanthemums. "Oh, _where_ did they come from?" cried Natalie. "Daddy Neil brought them to us," answered Peggy, as she stepped toward the door to take an armful of pictures and pillows from old Jess who had followed his young mistress to Washington to care for Shashai and Silver Star, the horses having been sent on also, for Columbia Heights School had large stables for the accommodation of riding or driving horses for the use of its pupils, or they could bring their own if they preferred. So Shashai and Silver Star had been ridden down by Jess, taking the journey in short, easy stages, and arriving the previous evening. Tzaritza, to her astonishment had not been allowed to accompany them, and Roy was inconsolable for days. Peggy's departure from Severndale had left many a grieving heart behind. "What I gwine do wid all dis hyer truck, Missie-honey?" asked Jess, coming in from the corridor with a second armful: riding-crops, silver bits, a fox's brush, books and what not. "Just plump it down anywhere, Jess. We'll get round to it all in due time," laughed Peggy from her perch upon a small step-ladder where she was fastening up some hat-bands of the _Rhode Island_, _New Hampshire_, _Olympia_ and the ships which had comprised the summer practice squadron, the girls all gathered about her asking forty questions to the minute and wild with curiosity and excitement. Never before had two "really, truly Navy girls" been inmates of Columbia Heights and it sent a wild flutter through many hearts. What possibilities might lie at the Annapolis end of the W. B. & A. Railroad! Jess's white woolly head was bent down over the armful of books he was placing upon the floor; Peggy had returned to her decorating; Polly had draped her flag upon the wall and was standing her beloved bugle and a long row of photographs upon book-shelves beneath it, several girls following her with little squeals of rapture, when a pandemonium of shrieks and screams arose down the corridor and the next second a huge creature bounded into the room, tipping Jess and his burden heels over head, and flinging itself upon Peggy. Down came ladder, Peggy, and the white mass in a heap, the girls scattering in a shrieking panic to whatever shelter seemed to offer, confident that nothing less than a wolf had invaded the fold. But Tzaritza was no wolf even if her beautiful snowy coat was mud-bedraggled and stuck full of burrs, nor was Peggy being "devoured alive," as Lily Pearl, who had actually _run_ for once in her life, was hysterically sobbing into Mrs. Vincent's arms. No, Peggy, rather promiscuous as to ladder, hammer, hat-bands and general paraphernalia, was lying flat upon her back, her arms around Tzaritza, half-sobbing, half-laughing her joy into the beautiful creature's silky neck, while Tzaritza whimpered and whined for joy and licked and dabbed her mistress with a moist tongue. "It is a wolf! A wolf!" shrieked Lily Pearl, who had returned to the scene, "and he is killing her." "It is a horrid, dirty dog! Why doesn't that man drive him out?" demanded Miss Sturgis, who had followed Tzaritza hot foot, having been in the main hall when the great hound went tearing through and up the stairs, nose and ears having given her the clue to her mistress' whereabouts. "No, it's only a wolf_hound_!" laughed Polly, dropping her pictures to fly across the room and fall upon Tzaritza. Then explanations followed. Tzaritza had been left in Shelby's care, but finding it impossible to restrain her when Jess was about to leave with the horses, he had tied her in the barn. The rope was bitten through as clean as a thread and Tzaritza's coat told of the long journey on the horses' trail. After her wild demonstrations of joy had calmed down, Tzaritza stood panting in the middle of the wreck which her cyclonic entrance had brought about, her great eyes pleading eloquently for restored favor. Polly still clasped her arms about the big shaggy neck, while Miss Sturgis alternately protested and commanded Jess to "remove that dirty creature at once." Happily, Mrs. Vincent entered the room at this juncture and it must have been the god of animals, of which Kipling tells us, which inspired Tzaritza's act at that moment. Or was it something in the fine, strong face which children and animals in common all trust with subtle intuition? At all events, Tzaritza looked at Mrs. Vincent just one moment and then greeted her exactly as at home she would have greeted Dr. Llewellyn or Captain Stewart; by rising upon her hind legs, placing her forepaws upon Mrs. Vincent's shoulders and nestling her magnificent head into the amazed woman's neck as confidingly as a child would have done. A less self-contained woman would have been frightened half to death. Miss Sturgis came near swooning but Mrs. Vincent just gathered the great dog into her arms as she would have gathered one of her girls and said: "Without the power of human speech you plead your cause most eloquently, you beautiful creature. Peggy, has she ever been separated from you before, dear?" "Never, Mrs. Vincent. She has slept at my door since she was a wee puppy." "She shall be appointed guardian of the West Wing of Columbia Heights, and may turn out a guardian for us all. Now, Jess, take her to the stables and make her presentable to polite society. Poor Tzaritza, your journey must have been a long, hard, dusty one, for your silken fringes have collected many souvenirs of it." CHAPTER VIII A RIDING LESSON In spite of the Sturgeon's protests that "it was _most_ impolitic to establish a precedent in the school," Tzaritza became a duly enrolled member of the establishment, and from that moment slept at Peggy's door, a welcome inmate of Columbia Heights. Welcome at least, to all but one person. Miss Sturgis loathed all animals. In the ensuing weeks Peggy and Polly slipped very naturally into their places. In her own class and in the West Wing Natalie Vincent had always been the acknowledged leader, for, even though the daughter of the Principal, not the slightest partiality was ever shown her and she was obliged to conform as strictly to the rules as any girl in the school. She was full of fun, eternally in harmless mischief, and, of course, eternally being taken to task for her misdeeds. By the usual order of the attraction of opposites Marjorie Terry and Natalie had formed a warm friendship. Marjorie the quiet, reserved, rather shrinking girl from Seattle. She never joined in any of Natalie's wild pranks, but on the other hand was a safe confidant, and if she could not follow her more spontaneous friend's lead, she certainly never balked or betrayed her. The other girls had christened them Positive and Negative and they certainly lived up to their names. The girls whom Peggy and Polly had discussed so frankly the night after their arrival all roomed in the West Wing. Stella in her own large, handsome room, for her father was manager of an immense railroad system in the middle West. Rosalie Breeze and oh "cursed spite!" Isabel Boylston--"_Is_-a-bel," as she pronounced it,--roomed together and squabbled incessantly. At least, Rosalie did the squabbling, _Is_-a-bel affected the superior, self-righteous air which acted upon Rosalie's peppery temper as a red rag upon a bull. It was Miss Sturgis, of course, who had advised placing them together. Isabel was a great favorite of Miss Sturgis, and Rosalie was the reverse. Mrs. Vincent had not entirely approved the arrangement, but the school was unusually crowded this year and two of the girls' parents had insisted upon single rooms for their daughters. Juno Gibson, from New York, had announced very positively that unless she could have a room to herself in Columbia Heights School she would pack her three trunks and go elsewhere, and Papa Gibson was not in the habit of disputing his daughter's will or wishes unless they conflicted with his own. In this matter he didn't care a straw, so Miss Juno was not compelled to have "a dozen girls eternally under foot and ruining my clothes by crowding the closets full of theirs." Lily Pearl, "Tootsy-wootsy," as her companions had dubbed her, roomed with Helen Gwendolyn Doolittle, "Cutie," and a sweet, sentimental pair they made, though Helen spent every possible moment with the latest object of her adoration, Stella Drummond, for whom she had instantly conceived an overwhelming infatuation; a pronounced school-girl "crush." Of the other girls in the school only a passing glimpse need be given. Saturday afternoons were always perfectly free at Columbia Heights, and the girls could do practically as they chose. There was one rule, or rather the absence of it, which had appealed very strongly to Mrs. Harold and gone a long way toward biasing her choice in favor of the school. If the girls wished to go into the city--that is, the girls in the Sophomore, Junior and Senior grades--to do shopping or make calls, they were entirely at liberty to do so unattended by a teacher, though Mrs. Vincent must, of course, know where they were going. With very rare exceptions this rule had always worked to perfection. The very fact that they might do as they chose, and were put upon their honor to uphold the reputation and dignity of the school, usually acted as an incentive to them to do so, whereas the eternal surveillance and suspicion of the average school acts as a mighty inspiration to circumvent all regulations. Another pleasant feature of Saturday afternoons were the long riding excursions through the beautiful surrounding country, with a groom accompanying the party and with one of the girls acting as riding mistress. Besides Peggy and Polly, Stella was the only girl who had her own horse at Columbia Heights, the others riding those provided by the school. They were good horses and the riding-master, Albert Dawson, was supposed to be a good man, conscientious, painstaking, careful. He was conventional to a degree. He taught the English seat, the English rise, the English gait, and his horses were all docked and hogged in the English fashion. Dawson would doubtless have taught them to drop their H's as he himself did, had he been able to do so. When Shashai and Silver Star arrived upon the scene, manes and forelocks long and silky as a girl's hair, tails almost sweeping the ground and flowing free, poor Dawson nearly died of outraged conventions, though he was forced to admit that the Columbia Heights stables held no horseflesh to compare with these thoroughbreds. "But oh, my 'eart, look at that mess o' 'air and mind their paces. They lopes along for all the world like them blooming little jackals we used to 'ave bout in Hindia when I was in 'is Lordship's service. They'd ruin my reputation if they was to be seen in the Row," he deplored to Jess, who was grooming his pets as carefully as old Mammy would have brushed Peggy's hair. Jess gave a derisive snort. He had lived a good many more years than Dawson and his experience with horseflesh was an exceptionally wide one. "Well, yo'-all needn't be a troublin' yo' sperrits 'bout de gait ob dese hyer horses. Dey kin set de pace fo' all dat truck yonder, an' don' yo' fergit dat fac'. Yo's got some fairly-middlin'-good ones hyer," and Jess nodded toward the stalls, "but dey's just de onery class, not de quality. No-siree. Now, honey, don' yo' go fer ter git perjectin' none cause I'se praisin' yo' to yo' face. Tain't good manners fer ter take notice when yo's praised. Yo' mistiss 'll tell yo' dat," admonished Jess, as Shashai reached forward and plucked his cap from his head. "Yo' gimme dat cap, yo' hyer me!" But Shashai's teeth held it firmly as he tossed it playfully up and down, to Jess' secret delight in his pet's cleverness, though he outwardly affected strong disapproval, after the manner of his race. The horses were like playful, fearless children with him, and Jess was bursting with pride at the result of his handiwork. And certainly, it was worth looking upon, for no finer specimens of faultlessly groomed horseflesh could have been found in the land. "Yes, but think of the figure I'll be cutting when I take my young ladies for a turn in the park or on the havenue," protested Dawson. "Couldn't ye just knot hup them tails a bit, and mebbe braid that fly-away mane down along the crest? If I'm bordered to take my young ladies into the park or the city this hafternoon, I swear I'll hexpire of mortification with them 'orses." But this was too much for Jess. Dawson had at last touched the match, and he caught the full force of Jess's wrath: "Sp-sp-spire ob--ob mortification! Shamed ob dese hyer hosses! Frettin' cause yo's gotter 'scort a pair of animals what's got pedigrees dat reach back ter Noah's Ark eanemost! Why, dey blood kin make you-all's look lak mullen sap, an' dey manners, even if dey ain' nothin' but hosses, jist natchelly mak' yo' light clean outer sight. Sho'! Go long, chile! Yo' gotter live some. Dar, it done struck five bells--_dat_ mean ten-thirty, unerstan'--an' you's gotter git half-a-dozen ob yo' bob-tailed nags ready fo' de ridin' lessons yo' tells me yo' gives de yo'ng ladies at _six_ bells,--_dat's_ eleben o'clock,--Sattidy mawnin's. I's pintedly cur'us fer ter see dem lessons, _I_ is. Lak 'nough befo' de mawnin's ober _yo'll_ take a lesson yo'-self," and Jess ended his tirade by throwing an arm across each silky neck and saying to his charges: "Now, come 'long wid ole Jess, honeys. Yo's gwine enter high sassiety presen'ly, and yo's gotter do Severndale credit. Yo' hyer me?" Poor Dawson was decidedly perturbed in his mind. Hitherto he had been the autocrat of "form and fashion," the absolute dictator of the proper style. Under his ordering, horses had been bought for the school, cropped, docked and trimmed on the most approved lines, until nothing but a hopeless, forlorn stubble indicated that they had once boasted manes or forelocks, and poor little affairs like whisk-brooms served for tails, or rather did not serve, especially in fly-time. But that was a minor consideration. Fashion's dictates were obeyed. With the aid of his grooms Dawson soon had five horses saddled and bridled, curbs rattling and saddles creaking. There were only two cross saddles. Then he turned to Jess. "Ye'd better be gettin' them hanimals ready, for I dare say I've to give the young ladies their lessons too." "Hi-ya!" exploded Jess. Then added: "Come 'long, babies, an' git dressed up. Yo' all's gwine git yo' summons up yonder presen'ly." Shashai and Star obediently walked over to the bar upon which their light headstalls hung, sniffed at them with long audible breaths, then each selecting his own carried it to Jess in his teeth. "Well, Hi'll be blowed!" murmured Dawson. Jess pretended not to notice, but saying unconcernedly: "Dat's all right. Now put 'em on lak gentlemen," he held one in each hand toward his pets. They took the bits in their mouths, slipped their heads into the headstalls and then waited for Jess to buckle the throat-latches, for that was a trifle beyond them. "Now fotch yo' saddles," ordered Jess, pleased to the point of foolishness. The horses went to the saddle blocks, selected their saddles, lifted them by the little pommel and carried them to Jess like obedient children. No mother was ever more gratified than Jess. "Now honeys, yo' stan' right whar yo's at twell yo' summons come from over yander. Yo's gwine hyar it all right," and with this parting admonition to good behavior, Jess went unconcernedly about his business of putting away the articles of his pets' toilets. "They'll be a-boltin' and raisin' the very mischief if you leave them alone," warned Dawson. "What dat yo' say? I reckons yo' ain' got _yo'_ horses trained like we-all back yonder got _ours_. Paht ob dey eddications must a-been neglected ef dey gotter be tied up ter keep 'em whar yo' wants 'em fer ter _stay_ at. Yo' need'n worry 'bout Shashai and Star. _Dey's_ got sense." Dawson vouchsafed no reply. One must be tolerant with garrulous old niggers, but he'd keep an "hey on them 'orses" all the same. The riding school used in stormy weather and the circle for fine, were not far from the house. At five minutes before eleven the girls who were to have their Saturday morning lessons prior to the ride in the afternoon, went over to the school and an electric bell notified Dawson that his young ladies awaited their mounts. With due decorum and self-importance he and Henry, the groom, led the horses from the stable, Dawson calling over his shoulder: "You'd better come on with your Harabs, I can't be waitin' with my lessons." "We-all'll come 'long when we's bid," was Jess' cryptic retort. Dawson scorned to reply, but mounted on his big dapple-gray horse, Duke, body bent forward and elbows out, creaked away. When he reached the big circle where a group of girls stood upon the platform for mounting, Peggy and Polly, in their trim little divided skirts, looked inquiringly for Shashai and Silver Star. Peggy asked: "Are our horses ready, Dawson?" "Yes, Miss, I believe so, Miss, but your man seemed to think I'd best let you ring, or do--well, I don't rightly know _what_ 'ee hexpected you to do, Miss. But 'ee didn't let me bring the 'orses, beggin' your pardon, Miss." "Oh, that's all right, Dawson; Jess is just silly about the horses and us. You mustn't mind his little ways. It's only because he loves us all so dearly. Besides it isn't necessary for anyone to bring them. I'll call them," and placing a little silver bo's'n's whistle to her lips Peggy "piped to quarters." It was instantly answered by two loud neighs and the thud of rapid hoofbeats as Shashai and Silver Star came sweeping up the broad driveway from the stables, heads tossing, manes waving and tails floating out like streamers. The girls with Peggy and Polly clapped their hands and shrieked with delight. "One bell, Shashai! Halt, Star!" cried Peggy and Polly in a breath. The splendid animals came straight to them, stopped instantly, dropped to their knees and touched the ground with their soft muzzles in sign of obeisance. The girls all scrambled off the platform as one individual, riding lesson and everything else utterly forgotten; here was a new order of things hitherto utterly undreamed of in the school. It had been a case of "pigs is pigs" or "horses is horses" with them. That the animals they were learning to ride _à la mode_ might be something more than mere delightful machines of transportation had never entered their heads. "Oh, how did you make them do it? Will you show us? Will any horse come if you know how to call him? Can they all do that? Didn't it take you forever and ever to teach them? Aren't they beauties! What are they trying to do now?" were the questions rattling like hail about Peggy's and Polly's ears. For answer Peggy opened a little linen bag which she carried, handing to Polly three lumps of sugar and taking three out for her own pet. The horses crunched them with a relish, their light snaffle bits acting as only slight impediments to their mastication. "Do you always give them sugar? Oh, please give us some for our horses," begged the girls. "Young ladies, I don't 'old with givin' the 'orses nothin' while in 'arness and a-mussin' them up. They'll be a-slobberin' themselves a sight," expostulated Dawson. "But Miss Stewart's and Miss Howland's horses are not slobbered up," argued Natalie. "They've not got curb bits. Just them snaffles which is as good as none whatever," was Dawson's scornful criticism. "Well, why must ours have curbs if theirs don't," argued Juno Gibson, whose habitual frown seemed to have somewhat lessened during the past five minutes. If Juno had a single soft spot in her heart it was touched by animals. She did not have a horse of her own, though she insisted upon always having the same mount, to Dawson's opposition, for he contended that to become expert horsewomen his pupils must change their mounts and become accustomed to different horses. In the long run the argument was a good one, but Miss Juno did not yield readily to arguments. Therefore she invariably rode Lady Belle, a light-footed little filly, with a tender mouth and nervous as a witch. Her big gentle eyes held a constant look of appeal, she was chafed incessantly by the heavy chain curb, and if anyone approached her suddenly she started back, jerking up her head as though in terror of a blow. But with Juno she was tractable as a lamb, and the pretty creature's whole expression changed when the girl was riding her. Juno had a light, firm hand upon the bit and in spite of Dawson's emphatic orders to "'old 'er curb well in 'and perpetual," she rarely used it, and Lady Belle obeyed her lightest touch. "Our 'orses are 'arnessed as they had orter be, Miss Gibson, and as the Queen 'erself rides them in the hold country. 'Hi'm doing my best to teach you young ladies proper, and I can't 'old with some of these loose Hamerican 'abits. They wouldn't be 'eld with for a minute in the Row." "Oh, a fig for your old Row, Dawson! _We're_ all American girls and there's more snap-to in us in one of your 'minutes' than in all the English girls I've ever seen in my life, and I've seen a good many--_too_ many for my peace of mind. I lived there two years," broke in Rosalie Breeze. "I'll bet Miss Howland and Miss Stewart can show you some stunts in riding which would make your old queen's eyes pop out. Why don't you quote Helen Taft to us instead of Queen Mary? We don't care a whoop for the queen of England, but Helen Taft is just a Yankee girl like ourselves and we can see her ride almost any day if we want to. She is big enough for us to see, goodness knows. But come on, girls. Let's do our stunts," and Rosalie scrambled upon the platform once more, ready to mount Jack-o'-Lantern, the horse she was to ride. Meanwhile Lady Bell sniffing something eatable, had drawn near Peggy, half doubtful, half trustful. At that instant Peggy turned rather quickly, entirely unaware of the filly's approach. With a frightened snort the pretty creature started back. Peggy grasped the situation instantly. She made a step forward, raised her arm, drew the silky neck within her embrace, whispered a few words into the nervously alert ear, and the hour was won. Lady Belle nestled to her like a sensitive, frightened child. "'Ave a care, Miss Stewart! 'Ave a care! She's a snappy one," warned Dawson with bristling importance as he turned from settling _Is_-a-bel Boylston upon a big, white, heavy-footed horse, where she managed to keep her place with all the grace of outline and poise of a meal sack. Now Peggy had been sizing things up pretty thoroughly during the past fifteen minutes, and her conclusions were not flattering to Dawson. There was a cut upon Lady Belle's sensitive nostril which told its little story to her. Jack-o'-Lantern's hoofs were varnished most beautifully, but when he lifted them one glimpse told Peggy the condition of the frogs. The silver mounting upon "The Senator's," Isabel's horse's harness were shining, but his bit was rusty and untidy. A dozen little trifles testified to Dawson's superficiality, and Peggy had been mistress of a big paddock too long to let this popinjay lord it over one whom he sized up as "nothin' but a school girl." Consequently, her reply to his warning slightly upset his equanimity. "You need not be alarmed, Dawson, but if Lady Belle turns fractious I'll abide the consequences." "Yes, Miss, yes, Miss, but _'Hi'm_ responsible, you understand." "What for? The horse's well-being or mine? I'll relieve you of mine, and give you more time to care for the horses. Lady Belle's muzzle seems to have suffered slightly. Jack-o'-Lantern's hoofs need your attention, and at Severndale a bit like the Senator's would mean a bad quarter of an hour for _some_body. So, you'd have a hard time 'holding down your job' there. That's pure American slang. Do you understand it?" and shrugging her shoulders slightly, Peggy cried: "Come on, girls! We're wasting loads of time. Attention, Shashai! Right dress! Right step! Front! Steady!" As Peggy spoke, Shashai and Silver Star sprang side by side, then stood like statues. At "right dress" they turned their heads toward the group of horses. At "right step," they closed up until they stood in perfect line beside them. At "front," "steady" they stood facing the two girls, waiting the next command. "Come up to the platform. Come up and be ready to mount, young ladies," ordered Dawson. "We'll mount when you give the word," answered Polly, her hand, like Peggy's, upon her horse's withers. "You'll never be able to from the ground, Miss." A ringing laugh from the girls, sudden springs and they were in their saddles. "Four bells!" they cried and swept away around the ring, their gay laughter flung behind them to where their companion's horses were fidgeting and chafing under Dawson's highly conventional restraint, while that disconcerted man whose veneer had so promptly been penetrated by Peggy's keen vision, forgot himself so far as to mutter under his breath: "These Hamerican girls are the limit, and I'm in for a ---- of a time if I don't mind my hey. And she Miss Stewart of Severndale, and I not hon to that before! 'Ere's a go and no mistake." CHAPTER IX COMMON SENSE AND HORSE SENSE As has no doubt already been suspected, Alfred Dawson, Riding Master at the Columbia Heights School, was such a complete impostor that he actually imposed upon himself. He is by no means the only one on record. Oddly enough we are all more or less impostors, blind to our own pet foibles, deluded as to our own little weaknesses. Dawson's methods with his charges, both two-footed and four, were the methods of thousands of others, whether they have the directing of young people, or the training of animal's entrusted to them. Like grains of corn--pour them into a hopper and they come out at the other end meal--of some sort--good--bad or indifferent as it happens--that was not _his_ concern; his job was to pour in the grains and he knew of but one way to pour--just as someone else had poured before him. That he might devise new and better methods of pouring never entered his square-shaped head. It was left for a fifteen-year-old girl, and an old darky, whom in his secret heart he regarded as no better than the dirt beneath his feet, to start volcanic eruptions destined to shake the very foundations of his self-complacence. Hitherto he had simply been lord of his realm. He had come to Columbia Heights highly recommended by the father of one of its pupils and had assumed undisputed control. Mrs. Vincent, like hundreds of other women who own horses, but who know about as much concerning their care and well-being as they know of what is needful for a Rajah's herd of elephants, judged wholly by the outward evidences. The horses came to the house in seemingly faultless condition: their coats shone, their harness seemed immaculate; they behaved in a most exemplary manner. Nor had anything ever happened to the young ladies while they were in Dawson's care. What more could a conscientious school Principal ask of her riding master? It had never occurred to her to appear in the stables when least expected; to examine harness, saddles, stalls, feed mangers, bedding; to study the expressions of her horses' faces as she would have studied her girls. How many women ever think of doing so? It never entered her head to argue that there was more reason for it. Few of her girls would have hesitated to express their minds had any one misused them, or to insist upon comfortable conditions should uncomfortable ones exist for them. Yet Mrs. Vincent, sweet, strong, kind, and just to everyone, was as blind as a babe to the impositions practiced by the oily-tongued, deferential Dawson. True, he did 'get upon her nerves' now and again, but she secretly reproached herself for what she felt to be her American prejudices, and by way of self-discipline overlooked in Dawson many little aggravating peculiarities which she would have felt it her duty to instantly correct in the other servants. And no doubt things would have gone on in exactly the same way indefinitely had not a little lassie who loved horses and animals as she loved human beings, and whose understanding of them and their understanding of her was almost uncanny, chosen Columbia Heights School for her Alma Mater. That was a red letter hour for Dawson. He had a vague feeling that some influence, perhaps his evil genius, was bestirring itself. At all events, he was ill at ease, something of his accustomed self-conceit was lacking and he was, as the result, somewhat irritable, though he dared not manifest open resentment. Now it need hardly be stated that Peggy had no premeditated intention of antagonizing the man. He meant no more to her than dozens of other grooms, for after all he was merely an upper servant, but her quick eyes had instantly made some discoveries which hurt her as a physical needle prick would have hurt her. Peggy had employed too many men at Severndale under Shelby's wonderful judgment and experience of both men and animals, not to judge pretty accurately, and _most_ intuitively, the type of man mounted upon big, gray "Duke." Duke's very ears and eyes told Peggy and Polly a little story which would have made Dawson's pale blue eyes open wider than usual could he have translated it. As Peggy and Polly went cavorting away across the ring, Dawson called rather peremptorily: "Young ladies, you will be good enough to come back and take your places beside the others. This is a riding lesson, not a circus show, _hif_ you please." Polly shot a quick glance at Peggy. There was the slightest possible pressure of their knees and Shashai and Silver Star glided back to their places beside the other four horses. "Now you will please 'old your reins and your bodies as the other young ladies do," commanded Dawson. "Never could do it in this world, Dawson. I'd have a crick in my back in two minutes. Besides, we're not out here for lessons, Miss Stewart and I, but just as spectators. We'll look on and see the other girls learn the proper caper," laughed Polly. "Then I can't for the life of me hunderstand why you came hout at all. Hit's just a-stirrin' hup and a-fidgeting the other 'orses. They're not used to the goin's hon of 'alf broke hanimals." "Half broken! It seems to me, Dawson, that most horses are _wholly_ broken but very few wholly _trained_. If we disturb the others, however, we'll go off for a spin by ourselves. Come, Polly. Full speed, Tzaritza! Four bells, Shashai!" and away sped the trio, Tzaritza, like the obedient creature she was, bounding from the platform where Peggy had bidden her "charge," lest she startle the horses. "I'll hopen the gate for you, Miss," Dawson hastened to call, a trifle doubtful as to whether he had not been just a little too dictatorial. "No need. This gate is nothing," called Peggy and as one, they skimmed over the four-foot iron gate as though it were four inches, hands waving, eyes alight, lips parted in gay laughter. Tzaritza's joyful bark mingling with their voices as she rushed away. The girls' cries of admiration or amazement drowned Dawson's: "Well, 'Hi'll be blowed! Hi couldn't a done hit like that to save me 'ead," which was quite true, for very few could ride as these young girls rode. Meanwhile back in the circle two of Dawson's pupils were expressing themselves without reserve. "I mean to learn to ride like _that_," announced Rosalie Breeze. "The idea of bouncing up and down in a stupid old side-saddle when we could just as well sit as Polly and Peggy do. Why, I never saw anything as graceful as those two girls in my life. Can't _you_ show me how, Dawson? If you can't you can just make up your mind I am going to find someone who _can_. Jack-o'-Lantern's sure enough disgusted with _this_ show-down, and I believe that's the reason he has no more spirit than a bossy-cow." "I'm going to speak to Mrs. Vincent," announced Juno. "This may be all very conventional and correct, but all I can do is rise and fall in a trot; I'm petrified if Lady Belle breaks into a canter, and if she were to leap over that fence, I'd break my neck. Yet did you ever _see_ anything so graceful as those two girls and that magnificent dog when they went over? I tell you, girls, we've got something worth while in this school now, believe me. And just you wait!" and with this cryptic ending Juno jockeyed ahead of her companions. "I wish mother could have seen and heard it all," whispered Natalie. "Then why don't you tell her, and ask her to come out and see those girls ride," demanded Rosalie. "That's exactly what I mean _to_ do," replied Natalie, with an emphatic little nod. "I'm beginning to believe we don't know half we should know about the stables." "I should imagine that Mrs. Vincent would be a far better judge of what was proper for young ladies than a couple of perfectly lawless girls who have been brought up on a Southern ranch or something. _I_ call them perfect hoydens and they would not be countenanced a moment in the Back Bay," was Isabel's superior opinion. "A Southern ranch?" echoed Rosalie, "You're mixed in your geography, Isabel. They have plantations and estates in the South, but the ranches are out West. But I don't wonder you prefer bumping along as you do on the old Senator. You match him all right, all right. But just you wait until we leave you behind when we've learned to ride like Peggy and Polly, for we're going to do it, you can just bet your best hat." "Thank you, I never indulge in betting or slang. Both are vulgar in the extreme. And as to riding like a circus performer, I have higher aims in life." "Going in for the trapeze? They say it's fine to reduce embonpoint." No reply was made to Rosalie's gibe and the lesson went on in its usual uneventful manner. Meanwhile Peggy and Polly were having a glorious game of tag, for the Columbia Heights grounds were very extensive, and drives led in every direction. When pursued and pursuer were in a perfect gale of merriment, and Tzaritza giving way to her most joyous cavortings, a sudden turn brought them upon Mrs. Vincent. She was seated upon a rustic bench in one of the cosy nooks of the grounds and Tzaritza, bounding ahead, was the first to see her, and Tzaritza never forgot a kindness. The next second she had dropped upon the ground at Mrs. Vincent's feet, her nose buried in her forepaws--Tzaritza's way of manifesting her allegiance and affection. Then up she rose, rested her feet upon the bench and for the second time laid her head upon Mrs. Vincent's shoulder. Before that gratified lady had time to do more than place an arm about the big dog's neck, Peggy's and Polly's chargers had come to a halt in front of her and at word of command stood as still as statues. The girls slipped from the horses' backs, as bonny a pair as ever thrilled an older woman's soul. "Oh, Mrs. Vincent, we've had such a race!" cried Polly, smiling into Mrs. Vincent's face with her irresistible smile. "Isn't it good just to be alive on such a day?" smiled Peggy, turning to her as she would have turned to Mrs. Harold, her face alight. Aunt Katherine had been Peggy's only "wet blanket" and, it had not been wrapped about her long enough to destroy her absolute confidence in grown-ups. Perhaps Miss Sturgis would threaten it, but all that lay in the future. "And to be just fifteen with all the world before you, and such animals beside you," answered Mrs. Vincent, stroking Tzaritza and nodding toward the horses. "Yes, aren't they just the dearest ever? Who could help loving them?" "Will they stand like that without being tied?" "Oh, yes, they have always obeyed me perfectly. I wish you could see Roy and the others. Some day you must come out to Severndale, Mrs. Vincent, and see my four-footed children. I've such a lot of them." "Tell me something of your home and home-life, dear. We are not very well acquainted, you know, and that is a poor beginning." It was a subject dear to Peggy's heart, and she needed no urging. Seated beside Mrs. Vincent, for half an hour she talked of her life at Severndale, Polly's interjections supplying little side-lights which Mrs. Vincent was quick to appreciate, though Polly did not realize how they emphasized Peggy's picture of her home. "And you really raised those splendid horses yourself? I have never seen their equal." "But if you only knew how wonderfully intelligent they are, Mrs. Vincent! Of course, Silver Star is now Polly's horse, but she has learned to understand him so perfectly, and ride so beautifully, that he loves her as well as he loves me and obeys her as well." For a moment or two Mrs. Vincent's face wore an odd expression. "Understand" a horse? To be "loved" by one? Did she "understand" those in her stable? Did they "love" her? She almost smiled. It was such a new viewpoint. Yet, why not? The animals upon her place were certainly entirely dependent upon her for their happiness and comfort. But had she ever given that fact a serious thought? Slipping an arm about each girl as they sat beside her she asked: "What do you think of our horses, and of Dawson? For a little fifteen-year old lassie you seem to have had a remarkable experience." Peggy colored, but Polly blurted out: "I think he's a regular old hypocrite and so does Peggy. Why, Shelby would have forty fits if any of our horses' feet were like Jack-o'-Lantern's, or their bits as dirty as the Senator's." "Oh, Polly, please don't!" begged Peggy. But it was too late. "What is this?" asked Mrs. Vincent quickly. "Well, I dare say I've made a mess of the whole thing. I generally do, but Peggy and I do love animals so and hate to see them abused." "Are _ours_ abused, Polly?" "I don't suppose that generally speaking people would say they were. Most everybody would say they were mighty well cared for, but that's because people don't stop to think a thing about it. My goodness, _I_ didn't till Peggy made me. A horse was just a horse to me--any old horse--if he could pull a wagon or hold somebody on his back. That he could actually _talk_ to me never entered my head. Have you ever seen one _do_ it?" asked Polly, full of eager enthusiasm. "I can't say that I ever have," smiled Mrs. Vincent, and Polly quickly retorted, though there was no trace of disrespect in her words: "Now you are laughing at us. I knew you would. Well, no wonder, most people would think us crazy for saying such a thing. But truly, Mrs. Vincent, we're not. Peggy, make Shashai and Star talk to you. I'd do it, only I'd sort of feel as though I were taking the wind out of your sails. You are the teacher and I'm only your pupil." "Do you really wish me to show you something of their intelligence, Mrs. Vincent? I feel sort of foolish--as though I were trying to show off, you know." "Well, you are _not_, and I've an idea that for a few moments we can exchange places to good advantage. It looks as though I had spent a vast deal of my time acquiring a knowledge of higher mathematics and modern languages, at the expense of some understanding of natural history and now I'll take a lesson, please." "Of course I don't mean to say that every animal can be taught all the things _our_ horses have learned any more than all children, can be equally taught. You don't expect as much of the child who has been, misused and neglected as you do of the one who has been raised properly and always loved. It depends a whole lot on that. Our horses have never known fear and so we can do almost anything with them. Shashai, Star, come and make love to Missie." As one the two beautiful creatures came to the seat and laid their soft muzzles upon Peggy's shoulders. Then raising their heads ran their velvety lips over her cheeks with as gentle, caressing a touch as a little child's fingers could have given, all the time voicing the soft, bubbling whinney of a trustful, happy horse. Peggy reached an arm about each satiny head. After a moment she said: "Attention!" Back started both horses to stand as rigid as statues. "Salute Mrs. Vincent." Up went each splendid head and a clear, joyous neigh was trumpeted from the delicate nostrils. "Call Shelby!" What an alert expression filled the splendid eyes as the horses, actually a-quiver with excitement, neighed again, and again for the friend whom they loved, and looked inquiringly at Peggy when he failed to appear. "Where's Jess?" Eager, impatient snorts replied. Peggy rose to her feet and carefully knotting, the reins upon the saddles' pommels to safeguard accidents, said: "Go fetch him!" Tzaritza was alert in an instant. "No, not you, Tzaritza. Charge. Four bells, Shashai,--Star!" and away swept the horses. "Do you mean to say they understand and will really bring Jess here?" asked Mrs. Vincent incredulously. "Oh, yes, indeed. They have done so dozens of times at home." "Well, they are wonders!" The rapid hoofbeats were now dying away in the distance. Perhaps ten minutes elapsed when their rhythmic beat was again audible, each second growing more distinct, then down the linden-bordered avenue came Shashai and Star, Jess riding Shashai. The horses moved as swiftly as birds fly. As they caught sight of Peggy they neighed loudly as though asking her approbation. A lump of sugar awaited each obedient animal, and Jess asked: "What yo' wantin' ob Jess, baby-honey?" "Just to prove to Mrs. Vincent that the horses would bring you here if I told them to." "Co'se dey bring me if Miss Peggy bidden 'em to," answered Jess as though surprised that she should ask such a needless question. "But how did you know she wished you?" "How'd I know, Mist'ss? Why dem hawses done _tol'_ me she want me. Yas'm dey did. Dey done come t'arin' back yonder ter de stable an' dey cotch holt ob my sleefs wid dey teefs, and dey yank and tug me 'long outen de do'. Den dis hyer Shashai, he stan' lak a statyer twell I hike me up on his back, den he kite away like de bery debbil--axes yo' pardon, ma'am!--an' hyer we-all _is_. Dat's all de _how_ dar is ob it. _Dey_ knows what folks 'specs ob 'em. Dey's eddicated hawses. Dey's been _raised_ right." "I think they have been. Peggy, I want to walk back to the stables with you and Polly. I'd like to see with my own eyes some of the things you have spoken about." "O Mrs. Vincent, I am so afraid it will make a whole lot of trouble! Dawson knows I criticised him--indeed, I lost my temper and said he couldn't 'hold down a job' at Severndale. Excuse the slang, please, but he rubbed me the wrong way with all his fuss, when he really doesn't know, or doesn't want to know--I don't know which--one thing about horses." Mrs. Vincent paused a moment. "Perhaps you are right," she said. "At all events, your sense of justice seems to be one of your strong points. Go back to the house and let Jess take your 'children' to the stables. A little diplomacy can do no harm. And Jess, you need not mention seeing me with the young ladies. Your little mistress has begun my _horse_ education. I haven't been very wise about them, I fear, but now I am going to make amends." "Yas'm. Amens does help we-all a powerful lot when we's wrastlin' wid we-all's sperrits. I hopes dey fotch yo' froo yo' doubtin's. I'se done had ter say many an amen in ma day." Jess' face was full of solicitude. He had not the remotest idea of the source of Mrs. Vincent's turmoil of spirit, but if she found it necessary to say "amen," Jess instantly concluded that his sympathies were demanded. At all events he was now a part of Columbia Heights and all within it's precincts came within his kindly solicitude. Tradition was strong in old Jessekiah. Mrs. Vincent had much ado to keep her countenance. She had come to Washington from a Western city and had but slight understanding of the real devotion of the old-time negro to his "white folks." Alas! few of the old-time ones are left. It was with a sense of still having considerable to learn that she parted from the girls and Jess and made her way toward the stables, reaching there some time after Jess had unsaddled his horses and was performing their toilets with as much care as a French maid would bestow upon her mistress, though no French maid would ever have kept up the incessant flow of affectionate talk to the object of her attentions that Jess was maintaining. He took no notice of Mrs. Vincent, but _she_ did not miss one shadow or shade of the absolute understanding existing between Jess and his "babies," as he called them. "Dar now, honeys," he said, as he carefully blanketed them. "Run 'long back yander to yo' boxes. Yo' dinner's all a-ready an' a-waitin', lak de hymn chune say, an' yo's ready fo' it. Dem children ain' never gwine send yo' back to de stable, so het up, yo' cyant eat er drink fo' an hour. No siree! Not _dem_." At that moment Dawson and his assistant appeared with the horses the girls had ridden. Notwithstanding the cool crispness of the morning, Lady Belle was in a lather where her harness rested. The Senator was blowing like a grampus; Jack-o'-Lantern's bit was foam-flecked and Natalie's pretty little "Madam Goldie" looked fagged. Mrs. Vincent instantly contrasted the condition of Shashai and Star with the others. Yet Peggy and Polly had been riding like Valkyrie. As Dawson espied the lady of the manor his face underwent a change which would have been amusing had it not been entirely too significant. Mrs. Vincent made no comments whatever concerning the horses but a veil had certainly fallen from her eyes. She asked Dawson how his young ladies were coming on with their riding lessons, how many had arranged to ride in the park that afternoon, and one or two trivial questions. Then she returned to the house a much wiser woman than she had left it an hour earlier. CHAPTER X TZARITZA AS DISCIPLINARIAN Several days had passed since the riding lesson. It was Saturday evening and study period, which began at five and lasted until six-thirty, was ended. Dinner was served at seven on Saturdays and from eight until ten o'clock the girls were perfectly free. A group was gathered in Stella Drummond's big room and preparations for a fudge party, after the hearty dinner had "somewhat shaken down," were under way. Stella's chafing dish was the most up-to-date one in the school, and Stella's larder more bountifully supplied than the other girls. Indeed, Stella never lacked for anything so far as the others could discover and had a more liberal supply of pocket money than is generally allowed. Mrs. Vincent had expressed doubts as to the wisdom of it when Stella's father mentioned the sum she was to have, but he had laughed and answered: "Oh, nonsense, my dear Madam! At home she would have double if she wished it. She knows how to use it, and remember she is all I have to spend my income upon. Don't let that little matter worry you. Just give all your attention to polishing her up a bit and teaching her the newest fol-de-rols. Living all over the country is not the best thing for a young lady, I have found out. It may be conducive to physical development, but it leaves something to be desired in educational lines." So Stella, though eighteen, and supposed to be a senior, was really taking a special course in which junior work predominated. She had selected her own room, it had been furnished exactly as she wished, and it certainly resembled a bridal apartment more than a school-girl's bed-room. A large alcove and private bath opened from it, and a balcony which commanded a beautiful view of Stony Brook Park made it luxurious to a degree. In this room, lighted by softly shaded electric drop lights, a cheery log fire blazing upon the shining brass andirons, the girls had gathered. Stella was arranging her electric chafing dish upon its little marble stand. Peggy was opening a box of shelled pecan nuts, Polly measuring out the chocolate, and the other girls were supplying all needful, or needless, advice concerning the _modus operandi_. Tzaritza, now a most privileged creature indeed, had stretched her huge length before the hearth, looking for all the world like a superb white rug, and Rosalie Breeze was flat upon her stomach, her arms around the dog's neck, her face nestled in the silky hair. Juno Gibson reclined gracefully in a luxurious wicker chair, its gorgeous pink satin cushions a perfect background for her dark loveliness--which no one understood better than Juno herself. Helen Doolittle (most aptly named) was gazing in simpering adoration upon Stella from a pillow-laden couch, and now commented: "Oh, Stella, what adorable hands you have. How do you keep them so ravishingly white and your nails so absolutely faultless? I could cover them with kisses, sweetheart." Stella's laugh held wholesome ridicule of this rhapsody and she replied: "Don't waste your emotion upon _my_ hands. Just save it until somebody comes along who wished to cover _your_ hands with kisses--I mean some one in masculine attire. For my part, I don't think I'd care to have a girl try that experiment with me." "Have you ever had a _boy_ cover your hands with kisses?" asked Helen eagerly, starting from her position. Stella, raised her head, looked at the simple, inconsequent, little doll-faced blonde and with an odd smile said: "Well, I could hardly have called him a boy." "Oh, was he a man? A real _man_? Did he wear a moustache? Just think, girls, of having a man's moustache brush the back of your hand as he covered it with kisses. Oh, how terribly thrilling. Do tell us all about it, Stella! I knew the moment I met you you must have had a romantic history. Did your father find it out, and what did he say?" "Yes, I told him all about it and he laughed at me," and again Stella laughed her mystifying laugh. "Oh, I'd just _adore_ having such a ravishing experience as that," said Lily Pearl Montgomery from the window seat, "but how can one have any thrilling experiences in a stupid old school! Now there are Polly and Peggy; think of all they could tell us if they only would. You girls must be fairly bursting with the most wonderful stories if you'd only come down off your pedestals and tell us. _I_ think you're both too tight for words. And all those darling cadets' photographs in your room. You needn't try to make _me_ believe that 'Faithfully yours, Bubbles' and 'Your chum, Ralph,' and 'For my Pilot, Captain Polly, Wheedles,' and 'For Peggy Stewart, Chatelaine, Happy,' don't mean a whole lot more." "What's that?" asked Peggy, catching her name and looking up from her occupation. She caught Polly's eyes which had begun to snap. Polly had also been too busy to pay much attention at first, but she had heard the concluding sentences. She turned and looked at Lily with exactly the expression upon her sixteen-year-old face which had overspread it years before when the thirteen-year-old Polly had surprised the sentimental "Thusan Thwingle" exchanging osculatory favors with "one of thothe horrid boyths" in the basement of the high school at Montgentian. Then she said with repressed vehemence: "I only wish our boys could have heard you say that. If you wouldn't come in for the running of your life my name's not Polly Howland. You'd suit some of the boys back yonder, but not our bunch. Of all the hot air! Stella, is your chafing-dish ready?" Peggy had colored a rosy pink. She lacked Polly's experience with other girls. Piqued by Polly's superior rebuff, Helen came to the inane Lily Pearl's support in a manner she knew would hit loyal Polly's most vulnerable spot: "Look at Peggy's face! Look at Peggy's face! Which is the particular He, Peggy? Polly may be able to put up a big bluff, but your face is a dead giveaway." "I don't think you would be able to understand if I told you. Middie's Haven and the 'bunch' are just a degree too high up for you to reach, I'm afraid, and there's no elevator in Wilmot Hall," answered Peggy quietly. Polly laid down the things she was holding for Stella, dusted her hands of chocolate crumbs by lightly rubbing her fingers together, and walked quietly over to the couch. Helen looked somewhat alarmed and drew back among her pillows. Polly, never uttering one word, bent over, swooped up Helen, pillows and all and holding her burden as she would have held a struggling baby, walked straight out of the room and down, the corridor to her own room, the shouts, screams and laughs of the girls following her. Helen was absolutely speechless at the audacity of the act. Bumping her door together by the only available means left her, since both arms were occupied, Polly then plumped Helen, now almost ready to resort to hysterical tears, upon a wooden shirt-waist box and placing herself in front of her, struck the attitude of a little red-headed goddess of vengeance as she said: "Helen Doolittle, you may run _me_ all you've a mind to--it doesn't mean a thing to me; I'm used to it; I've been teased all my life and I'm bomb-proof. But Peggy Stewart's made of different stuff. She hasn't been with girls very much, and never with a _silly_ one before. Give her time and she'll understand them a good sight better than they'll ever understand her. And the boys she has known are not the kind who are ever likely to want to know _you_. So there's not much use wasting time explaining things. But I tell you just this, I won't stand for Peggy being run even a little bit, and you can circulate that bit of information broadcast. She's the finest ever, and the girl who can call her friend is in luck up to her ears. So understand: let her alone or reckon with me." "Do you think we are a lot of crazy schoolboys and expect to settle our disagreements with a regular fist-a-cuff bout? You must come from a very queer place." "Where _I_ come from doesn't matter in the least. Peggy is the one under discussion and you know where she comes from and who she is. _What_ she is you'll never know." "I don't see why she should be so very hard to understand." "She isn't--for people with enough sense. Now just take one good look at those pictures. Is there a weak face among them? One of two things will happen to you if you ever happen to meet the originals: they'll either make you feel like a silly little kid or they won't take a bit of notice of you. It will depend upon how you happen to strike them." "Oh, are they such, wonders as all that?" "If you ever get an invitation down to Annapolis you'll have a chance to find out. Peggy and I have about made up our minds to have a house party during the holidays, but we haven't quite made up our minds which girls we are going to like well enough to ask to it. Tanta suggested it. She is anxious to know our friends, and we are anxious to have her. She sizes people up pretty quickly and we are always mighty glad to have her opinion." Polly spoke rapidly and the effect upon Helen was peculiar. From the pugnacious attitude of an outraged canary, ready to do battle, she was transformed into the sweetest, meekest love-bird imaginable. A veritable little preening, posing, oh-do-admire-me creature, and at Polly's last words she jumped from the box and clasping her hands, cried: "A house-party! You are planning a house-party? Oh, how perfectly adorable. Oh, which girls are you going to invite? Oh, I'll never, never tease Peggy again as long as I live. I'll be perfectly lovely to her and I'll make the other girls be nice too. To think of going up there and meeting all those darling boys. Oh please tell me all about it! The girls will be just crazy when I tell them. Which of these fellows will be there?" Helen had rushed over to Polly's dresser upon which in pretty silver frames were photographs of Ralph, Happy and Wheedles. On Peggy's dresser Shorty and Durand looked from their frames straight into her eyes, while several others not yet framed looked down from the top of the bookshelf. Silly little Helen was in an ecstasy. Her mamma had never believed in companions of the opposite sex for her "sweet little daughter" but had kept her in a figurative preserve jar which bore the label "you may look but you must not touch." Mamma's instructions to Mrs. Vincent upon placing Helen in the school had been an absolute ban upon any masculine visitors, or visits upon Helen's part where such undesirable, though often unavoidable, members of society might congregate. "She is so very innocent and unsophisticated, you know, and so very young," added mamma sweetly. Mrs. Vincent smiled indulgently, but made no comments: She had encountered such mammas and such sweetly unsophisticated daughters before and she then and there resolved to keep an extra watchful eye upon this innocent one. Thus far, however, nothing alarming had occurred, but Mrs. Vincent knew her material and was prepared for almost anything. She also knew Lily Pearl and felt pretty sure that if an upheaval ever took place it would turn out that Lily Pearl or Helen had touched off the mine. The foregoing scene gives some hint of the viewpoints of the young ladies in question. During this digression Helen had caught up Wheedle's picture and was pressing it rapturously to her fluttering bosom and exclaiming: "You're a perfect darling! If I could have just one dance with _you_ I'd be willing to _die_! Polly, how old is he!" But Polly had left the room and was on her way back to Stella's. As she reached it she came face to face with the Sturgeon and the Sturgeon's eyes held no "lovelight" for her. "Miss Howland, what was the cause of the wild shrieks which disturbed me a moment since? Miss Montgomery says you can tell if you will and since none of your companions seem inclined to do so, I will hear your explanation. I was on my way to inform Miss Stewart that Mrs. Vincent wished to see her in her study at once when this hideous uproar assailed my ears." Polly glanced quickly about the room. Sure enough, Peggy had left it. Some of the girls looked concerned, others quite calm; among the latter were Stella and Juno. Rosalie, with Tzaritza's head in her lap, looked defiant. She hated Miss Sturgis. Polly turned and looked squarely into Miss Sturgis' eyes. "The girls were screaming because I carried Helen out of the room," she answered quietly. "It seems to me you must be somewhat in need of exercise. I would advise you to go to the gymnasium to work off your superfluous energy. Why did you carry Helen from the room? Has she become incapable of voluntary locomotion?" "Not yet," answered Polly, a twinkle coming into a corner of the gray eyes. "_Not yet?_" emphasized Miss Sturgis. "Are you apprehensive of her becoming so?" "She needs more exercise than she gets," answered Polly, half smiling. That smile acted as salt upon a wound. Miss Sturgis' temper rose. "Please bear in mind that it does not devolve upon _you_ to decide that question." "I did not try to settle that question, Miss Sturgis. If you wish to know why I carried Helen out of the room I did it because she was running--" "Doing what? I don't think I understand your boyish slang." "Well, teasing Peggy, and I won't have Peggy teased by anybody if I can stop it. She doesn't understand girls' ways as well as I do because she hasn't been thrown with them. So when Helen teased her I picked her up and carried her down to our room and I don't reckon she will tease her any more." "So you have come into the school to set its standards and correct its shortcomings, have you? Are you so very superior to your companions--you and your protégée?" Polly looked straight into the narrow eyes looking at her, but made no reply. "Answer me, instantly." "I have never considered myself superior to anyone, but I _do_ consider Peggy Stewart superior to any girl I have ever known, and I think you will agree with me when you know her better," asserted Polly loyally. "You are insolent." "I do not mean to be. Any one who knows her will tell you the same thing." "I repeat you are insolent and you may go to your room." Polly made no reply, but started to leave the room. Tzaritza sprang to her side. Miss Sturgis interposed. "Leave that dog where she is. Go back, you horrible beast," and she raised her hand menacingly. Tzaritza was not quite sure whether the menace was intended for Polly or herself. In either case it was cause for resentment and a low growl warned against further liberties. "Be careful, Miss Sturgis. Tzaritza thinks you are threatening me," said Polly. It was said wholly in the interest of the teacher. Miss Sturgis' early training and forebears had not been of an order to develop either great dignity, or self-control. Her ability to teach mathematics was undisputed. Hence her position in Mrs. Vincent's school, though that good lady had more than once had reason to question the wisdom of retaining her, owing to the influence which she exerted over her charges. The grain beneath did not lend itself to a permanent, or high polish, and it took only the slightest scratch to mar it. Polly's words seemed to destroy her last remnant of self-control and she turned upon her in a fury of rage. As she seized her by the arm and cried, "Silence!" Polly whirled from her like a flash crying, "Charge, Tzaritza!" But it was too late, the 'hound had sprung to Polly's defense, only it was Polly's protecting arm into which Tzaritza's teeth sank. The girl turned white with pain. Instantly the beautiful dog relinquished her hold and whining and whimpering like a heartbroken thing began to lick the bruised arm. Then arose a hubbub compared to which the screams of which Miss Sturgis had complained had been infantile plaints. Lily Pearl promptly went into hysterics. Juno shrieked aloud and even the self-contained Stella cried out as she ran to catch Polly in her arms, for the girl seemed about to faint. But Miss Sturgis, now thoroughly terrified at the crisis she had brought to pass, called madly for help. Helen's screams mingled in the pandemonium, for Helen had been brought hack from her romantic air castle with a rush. Notwithstanding the fact that Mrs. Vincent's study was down one flight of stairs and at the other end of the building, she became aware of the uproar and her conversation with Peggy came to an abrupt pause. Then both hurried into the hall to see the tails of Horatio Hannibal Harrison's coat vanishing up the broad stairway and to hear Fräulein Hedwig wailing, "Oh ze house iss burning up _and_ down I am sure!" Meanwhile upon the scene of action Polly had been the first to recover her wits. The skin had not been broken, for Tzaritza had instantly perceived her error and released her grip almost as soon as it was taken. But Miss Sturgis would not have escaped so easily, as well she knew, and her hatred for Tzaritza increased tenfold. When Mrs. Vincent and the others arrived upon the scene she broke into a perfect torrent of invective against the dog, but was brought to her senses by the Principal's quiet: "Miss Sturgis, you seem to be a good deal overwrought. I will excuse you. You may retire to your room until you feel calmer." "Let me explain! Let me tell you what a horrible thing has happened!" cried Miss Sturgis. "When you are less excited I shall be glad to listen. Fräulein, kindly accompany Miss Sturgis to her room and call the housekeeper. Now, Polly, what is it?" asked Mrs. Vincent, for Polly was the center of the group of excited girls, though calmer than any of them. "Tzaritza made a mistake and caught my arm in her teeth, that is all, Mrs. Vincent. But she has done no harm. It doesn't hurt much now; she did not mean to do it any way." "What!" cried Peggy, aghast, "Tzaritza attacked _you_, Polly?" Polly nodded her head in quick negative, striving to keep Peggy from saying more. But Tzaritza had crawled to Peggy's feet and was literally grovelling there in abject misery. "Charge, Tzaritza!" The splendid creature lay motionless. "Polly, what happened?' demanded Peggy, once more the Peggy of Severndale and entirely forgetful of her present surroundings. Mrs. Vincent smiled and laying her hand gently upon Peggy's arm said: "Don't embarrass Polly, dear. Leave it to me." "Oh, I beg your pardon, Mrs. Vincent. I forgot," answered Peggy, blushing deeply. Mrs. Vincent nodded forgiveness, then turning to Stella, asked: "Were you here all the time, Stella?" "Yes, Mrs. Vincent." "Then please tell me exactly what happened." Stella told the story clearly and quietly. When she ended there was a moment's hush, broken by Rosalie Breeze crying: "And Tzaritza never, never would have done a single thing if Miss Sturgis hadn't lost her temper. She is forever scolding us about losing ours, but she'd just better watch out herself. I wish Tzaritza had bitten her!" "Rosalie!" "Well, I do, Mrs. Vincent. It was every bit her own fault. She hates Tzaritza, and I love her," was Rosalie's vehement if perplexing conclusion as she cast herself upon the big dog. Tzaritza welcomed her with a grateful whine and crept closer, though she never raised her head. She was waiting the word of forgiveness from the one she loved best of all, but Peggy was awaiting Tzaritza's exoneration. Mrs. Vincent, who had sent for the resident trained nurse, was examining Polly's arm and now said: "It is all very distressing, but I am glad no more serious for Polly. The arm is badly bruised and will be very painful for some time, but I can't discover a scratch. Miss Allen, will you please look after this little girl," she asked, as the sweet-faced trained nurse entered the room, her white uniform snowy and immaculate, her face a benediction in its sweet, calm repose. "Go with Miss Allen, dear, and have your arm dressed." Polly paused only long enough to stoop down and kiss Tzaritza's head, the caress being acknowledged by a pathetic whine, then followed the nurse from the room. Peggy was terribly distressed. "Do you think I would better send her back to Severndale, Mrs. Vincent?" she asked. "Has she ever attacked anyone before, Peggy?" "Never in all her life." "I hardly think she will again. She may remain. Come here, Tzaritza." Tzaritza did not stir. "Up, Tzaritza," commanded Peggy, and the affectionate creature's feet were upon her shoulders as she begged forgiveness with almost human eloquence. "Oh, my bonny one, how could you?" asked Peggy as she caressed the silky head. Tzaritza's whimpers reduced some of the girls to tears. "Now go to Mrs. Vincent," ordered Peggy, and the hound obediently crossed the room to lay her head in that lady's lap. "Poor Tzaritza, you did what you believed to be your duty, didn't you? None of us can do more. I wish some of my other problems were as easy to solve as the motives of your act. Go on with your fudge party, girls. It will prove a diversion. I must look to other matters now," and Mrs. Vincent sighed at the prospect of the coming interview with Miss Sturgis. It was not her first experience by any means. CHAPTER XI BEHIND SCENES The girls were hardly in a mood to return to their fudge-making, so Stella produced a box of Whitman's chocolates and the group settled down to eat them and discuss the events of the past exciting half hour. Polly squatted upon the rug and with her uninjured arm hauled about half of Tzaritza upon her lap. Tzaritza was positively foolish in her ecstatic joy at being restored to favor. "Poor Tzaritza, you got into trouble because I lost my temper, didn't you? It was a heap more my fault than yours after all." "Oh, there's nothing wrong with Tzaritza. It's the Sturgeon. Hateful old thing! I just hope Mrs. Vincent gives her bally-hack," stormed Rosalie. "Suppose we did shout and screech? It's Saturday night and we have a right to if we like. But what under the sun did Mrs. Vincent want of you, Peggy?" "Oh, nothing very serious," answered Peggy, smiling in a way which set Rosalie's curiosity a-galloping. "Yes, what _did_ she want?" demanded Polly, turning to look up at Peggy. "Can't tell anybody _now_. You'll all know after Thanksgiving," answered Peggy, wagging her head in the negative. "Oh, please tell us! Ah, do! We won't breathe a living, single word!" cried the chorus. "Uh-mh!" murmured Peggy in such perfect imitation of old Mammy that Polly laughed outright. "Aren't you even going to tell Polly?" asked Rosalie, who had arrived at some very definite conclusion regarding these friends, for Rosalie was far from slow if at times rather more self-assertive than the average young lady is supposed to be. For answer Peggy broke into a little air from a popular comic opera running just then in Washington and to which Captain Stewart had taken his little party only a few weeks before: "And what is right for Tweedle-dum is wrong for Tweedle-dee," sang Peggy in her sweet contralto voice, Polly following in her bird-like whistle. The little ruse worked to perfection. The girls forgot all about Peggy's "call down," as a summons to Mrs. Vincent's study was banned, and had a rapture over Polly's whistling and Peggy's singing, nor were they satisfied until a dozen airs had been given in the girl's very best style. Then came the story of the concerts at home, and Polly's whistling at the Masquerader's Show when Wharton Van Nostrand fell ill, and a dozen other vivid little glimpses of the life back in Severndale and up in "Middie's Haven" until their listeners were nearly wild with excitement. "And they are to have a house party there during the holidays, girls. Think of that!" cried Helen. "Honest?" cried Lily Pearl, leaning forward with clasped hands, while even Juno, the superior, became animated and remarked: "Really! I dare say you will choose your guests with extreme care as to their appeal to the model young men they are likely to meet at Annapolis, for I don't doubt your aunt, Mrs. Harold, is a most punctilious chaperon." "Juno's been eating hunks of the new Webster's Dictionary, girls. That's how she happens to have all those long words so near the top. They got stuck going down so they come up easy," interjected Rosalie. Juno merely tossed her head, but vouchsafed no answer. Rosalie's Western _gaucherie_ was beneath her notice. Juno's home was at the Hotel Astor in New York City. At least as much of "home" as she knew. Her mother had lived abroad for the past five years, and was now the Princess Somebody-or-other. Her father kept his suite at the Astor but lived almost anywhere else, his only daughter seeing him when he had less enticing companionship. A "chaperon" did duty at the Astor when Juno was in the city, which was not often. Consequently, Juno's ideas of domestic felicity were not wholly edifying; her conception of anything pertaining to home life about as hazy as the nebula. "Perhaps if you ever know Tanta you'll be able to form your own opinion," answered Polly quietly, looking steadily at Juno with those wonderfully penetrating gray eyes until the girl shrugged and colored. Stella laughed a low, odd little laugh and came over to drop upon the rug beside Polly, saying as she slipped her arm around her and good-naturedly dragged her down upon her lap: "You are one funny, old-fashioned little kid, do you know that? Some times I feel as though I were about twenty years your senior, and then when I catch that size-me-up, read-me-through, look in your eyes, I make up my mind _I'm_ the infant--not you. Where did you and Peggy catch and bottle up all your worldly wisdom?" "Didn't know _I_ had so much," laughed Polly, "but Peggy was born with hers, I reckon. If I have any it has been bumped into my head partly by mother, partly by Aunt Janet, and the job finished by the boys Juno has been referring to. It doesn't do to try any nonsense with _that_ bunch; they see through you and call your bluff as quick as a flash. We were pretty good chums and I miss them more than I could ever miss a lot of girls, I believe. Certainly, more than I missed the Montgentian girls when I left them." "Nothing like being entirely frank, I'm sure," was Juno's superior remark: "That's another thing the boys taught us," replied Polly imperturbably. Just then the bell rang for "rooms." "There's Tattoo!" cried Polly. "If I get settled down at Taps tonight I'll be doing wonders. Miss Allen has bandaged up my arm as though Tzaritza had bitten half of it off. Come on, 'Ritza. Peggy, you'll have to get me out of my dudds tonight. Good-night, girls. Sorry we didn't get our fudge made. Maybe if I'd let Helen alone you would have had it," and with a merry laugh Polly ran from the room, all animosity forgotten. "What did she mean by 'Tattoo' and 'Taps,'" asked Natalie of Peggy. "The warning call sounded on the bugle for the midshipmen to go to their rooms, and the lights out call which follows. Have you never heard them? They are so pretty. Polly and I love them so, and you can't think how we miss them here. Polly always sounded them on her bugle at home. You've no idea how sweetly she can do it," answered Peggy as she walked toward her room beside Natalie. "Oh, I wish I _could_ hear them. I wonder if mother knows anything about them," cried Natalie enthusiastically. "Do you know, I think you and Polly are perfectly wonderful, you have so many original ideas. I am just crazy to know what mother wanted of you tonight. I'm going to ask her. Do you think she will tell me?" "Why not? The only reason I did not tell was because I felt I had no right to. If Mrs. Vincent wants the others to know she will tell them, but you are different. I reckon mothers can't keep anything from their own daughters. At least Polly and her mother seem to share everything and I know Mrs. Harold is just like a mother to me." The girls separated and Peggy and Polly were soon behind closed doors discussing Mrs. Vincent's private interview with the former. The following Tuesday was Hallow E'en and where is your school-girl who does not revel in its privileges? Mrs. Vincent, contrary to Miss Sturgis' preconceived ideas of what was possible and proper for a girls' school, though the latter never failed to quote the rigid discipline of the school which had profited by her valuable services prior to her engagement at Columbia Heights, was given to some departures which often came near reducing Miss Sturgis to tears of vexation. One of these rules, or rather the lack of them, was the arrangement of the tables in the two dining-rooms. In the dining-room for the little girls under twelve a teacher presided at each table as a matter of course, but in the main dining-hall covers were laid for six at each table, one of the girls presiding as hostess, her tenure of office depending wholly upon her standing in the school, her deportment, ability and general average of work. At the further end of the room Mrs. Vincent's own table was placed, and the staff of eight resident teachers sat with her. It was a far happier arrangement than the usual one of placing a teacher at each table and having her, whether consciously or unconsciously, arrogate the entire conversation, interests and viewpoint to herself. Of course, there are some teachers who can still recall with sufficient vividness their own school-girl life to feel keenly the undercurrent of restraint which an older person almost invariably starts when thrown with a group of younger ones, and who possesses the power and tact to overcome it and enter the girl-world. But these are the exceptions rather than the rule, and none knew this better than Mrs. Vincent. Consequently, she chose her own way of removing all possible danger of impaired digestion, believing that the best possible aid to healthy appetites and perfectly assimilated food were untrammeled spirits and hearty laughs. So she and her staff sat at their own table where they were free to discuss the entire school if they chose to do so, and the girls--for, surely, "turn-about-is-fairplay"--could discuss them. It worked pretty well, too, in spite of Miss Sturgis' inclination to keep one eye and one ear "batted" toward the other tables, often to Mrs. Vincent's intense, though carefully concealed amusement. And now came Hallow E'en, and with small regard for Miss Sturgis' prejudices, plump in the middle of the school week! At the end of the last recitation period that afternoon when the whole school of one hundred fifty girls, big and little, had gathered in the chapel, for the working day invariably ended with a few kindly helpful words spoken by Mrs. Vincent and the reading of the thirty-fourth Psalm and singing Shelley's beautiful hymn of praise, Mrs. Vincent paused for a moment before dismissing her pupils. Many of the older girls knew what to expect, but the newer ones began to wonder if their sins had found them out. Nevertheless, Mrs. Vincent's expression was not alarming as she moved a step toward them and asked: "Which of my girls will be willing to give up her afternoon recreation period and devote that time to the preparation of tomorrow's work!" The effect was amusing. Some of the girls gave little gasps of surprise, others, ohs! of protest, others distinct negatives, while a good many seemed delighted at the prospect. These had known Mrs. Vincent longest. "Those of you who are ready to return to the main hall at four o'clock and work until five-thirty may be released from all further obligations for the evening, and the attic, laundry and gymnasium will be placed at your disposal for a Hallow E'en frolic and--" But she got no further. Rosalie Breeze, sans ceremony, made one wild leap from her chair and rushed toward the platform. Miss Sturgis made a peremptory motion and stepped toward her, but Mrs. Vincent raised her hand. The next second Rosalie had flung herself bodily into Mrs. Vincent's arms, crying: "Oh, if every schoolmarm was just exactly like _you_ I'd never, never do one single bad thing to plague 'em and I'll let you use me for your doormat if you want to!" A less self-contained woman would have been staggered by the sudden onslaught and felt her rule and dignity jeopardized. Mrs. Vincent was of different fibre. She gathered the little madcap into her arms for one second, then taking the witch-like face in both hands kissed each flushed cheek as she said: "I sometimes think you claim kinship with the pixies,--you are half a witch. So you accept the bargain? Good! Have all the fun you wish but don't burn the house down." By this time the whole school had gathered around her, asking questions forty to the minute. Mrs. Vincent looked like a fly-away girl herself in her sympathetic excitement, for her soft, curly chestnut hair had somewhat escaped its combs and pins, and her cheeks were as rosy as the girls. Mrs. Vincent was only forty, and now looked about half her age. Polly and Peggy crowded close to her, Natalie shared her arms with Rosalie, quiet, undemonstrative Marjorie's face glowed with affection, while even Juno condescended to unbend, and Lily Pearl and Helen gave vent to their emotions by embracing each other. Stella, tall, stately and such a contrast to the others, beamed upon the group. But Isabel put the finishing stroke by remarking with, a most superior smile: "O Mrs. Vincent, what a perfect darling you are! Don't you perfectly dote on her girls? _I_ fell in love with her years ago when I first met her and I've simply worshiped at her shrine ever since." "Rats!" broke out Rosalie, and Mrs. Vincent had just about all she could manage for a moment. Her emotions were sadly at odds. Polly's laugh saved the day and deflected Isabel's scorn. "I really do not see what is amusing you, Miss Howland; I am sure I am only expressing the sentiments of my better poised schoolmates." "Oh, we all agree with you--every single one of us--though we are choosing different ways of showing it, you see. If Peggy and I had been down home we'd probably have given the Four-N yell. That's _our_ way of expressing our approbation. The boys taught us, and we think its a pretty good way. It works off a whole lot of pent-up steam." "What is it, Polly?" asked Mrs. Vincent. "I'm afraid you would have to hear the boys give it to quite understand it, Mrs. Vincent, but I tell you it makes one tingle right down to one's very toes--that yell!" "Can't you and Peggy give it to us on a small scale? Just as a sample of what we may hear some day? Perhaps if the girls hear it they can fall in. I'd like to hear it myself." Polly paused a moment, looking doubtfully at Peggy. That old Naval Academy Yell meant a good deal to these two girls. They had heard it under so many thrilling circumstances. "We will give it if you wish it, Mrs. Vincent, though it will sound funny I'm afraid from just Polly and me. Maybe though, the girls will try it too after we have given it." With more volume and enthusiasm than would have seemed possible from just two throats, Peggy and Polly began: "N--n--n--n! A--a--a--a! V--v--v--v! Y--y--y--y! Navy! Navy! Navy! Navy! Mrs. Vincent! Mrs. Vincent! Mrs. Vincent!" the ending being entirely in the nature of a surprise to that lady who blushed and laughed like a girl. But before she could escape, Polly had sprung to the platform and as a cheer leader who would have put Wheedler of old to shame was crying: "Come on!" The girls caught the spirit and swing with a will and the room rang to their voices. Clapping her hands and laughing happily Mrs. Vincent ran toward the door only pausing long enough to say: "Four P. M. sharp! Then from seven to ten 'the goblins will get you if you don't watch out!'" "Let Polly sound 'Assembly' at four. Please do, Mrs. Vincent. It will make us come double time," begged Peggy, running after her and detaining her by slipping her arm about her waist. "Assembly? I don't believe I quite understand." "On her bugle, you know. It's so pretty, and we did that way at home if we wanted to bring the bunch together in a hurry." "Well, I'm learning something new every minute, I believe. Yes, sound your bugle call, Polly, and be sure I shall be on the _qui vive_ to hear it. Before we know it we shall have a _girls'_ military school." "Oh, wouldn't it be perfectly splendid if we only could and all wear brass buttons!" cried Rosalie. "I think some of the discipline would be splendid for all of us, and especially the spirit of the thing," answered Stella. "The trouble with most girls lies in the fact that they don't know how to work together. There isn't much class spirit, or coöperation. Maybe if we tried some of the methods Peggy and Polly seem to know so much about we'd come closer together." "Team work, I guess you mean," said Polly quickly. "It means a whole lot." Sharply at four the staccato notes of "Assembly" rang across the terrace as Polly sounded the call upon her bugle. The girls came hurrying from every direction and the ensuing hour and a half, usually free for recreation, was cheerfully given over to study. Dinner was served at six and at seven-thirty the revels began. At Peggy's suggestion a part of the afternoon had been devoted to devising costumes out of anything at hand, for a fancy dress party had been hastily decided upon. As a result of this some unique and original Hallow E'en sprites, nymphs, dryads or witches foregathered in the big laundry, "cleared for action," Polly said, and two or three aroused little cries of admiration. Peggy was a dryad. She had rushed away to the woods on Shashai to return with her mount buried from sight in autumn leaves. The dark, rich reds of the oaks, the deep yellow of the beeches, the dogwood's and maple's gorgeous variations and the sweet-gums blood red mingled in a bewildering confusion of color. Stripping the leaves from the twigs she proceeded to sew them upon a plain linen gown, and the result was exquisite, for not a vestige of the fabric remained visible, and Peggy's piquant, rich coloring peeped from a garment of living, burning color. She herself was the only one who did not fully appreciate the picture she presented. Polly's costume was a character from one of the children's pages in a Sunday newspaper. The entire costume was made of newspapers, with "The Yellow Kid" much in evidence, Polly's tawny hair lending itself well to the color scheme. Natalie, who was fair as a lily, had chosen "sunlight," and was a bonny little sun goddess. Lily Pearl, after a great deal of fuss and fidgeting had elected to go as Titania, and Helen essayed Oberon. Juno, who was very musical, made quite a stately Sappho. Little, sedate Marjorie was an Alaskan-Indian Princess, and Rosalie rigged up a Puck costume which made her irresistible. Isabel chose to be Portia, though that erudite lady seemed somewhat out of place among the mythological characters. But Stella was a startling Sibyl, with book, staff, and a little crystal globe (removed from her paper-weight) in which to read horoscopes. The others went in all sorts of guises or disguises. In the laundry they found all properties provided. To tell of all which took place would crowd out too much which must follow. Of course apples were bobbed for, a hat pin was run through them to prod the seeds for the true lover's heart, and they were hung upon strings to be caught in one's teeth (the apples, _not_ the hearts) if luckily one did not get one's nose bumped as they swung back. Melted lead was poured through a key into cold water to take the mysterious form which would reveal the occupation, or profession, of the future _He_, and Lily Pearl was thrown into an ecstasy by having _her_ sputtering metal take very distinctly the form of a ship. _And that house party "bid" not even hinted at yet!_ They walked downstairs backward, looking into a mirror to discover the particular masculine face which would fill their live's mirrors, though, unhappily some of the potency of the charm was lost because it could not be done upon the witching stroke of midnight. Dumb cakes were made, _his_ initials pricked in the dough, while in perfect silence the cakes were baked on the laundry steam dryer, joy and rapture descending upon the fortunate she if the initials did not vanish in the baking. A ball of twine was thrown out of the kitchen window, but when the thrower hurried out to find the ardent one who had so promptly snatched it up and fled, she discovered Horatio Hannibal Harrison beating a hasty retreat. He had been playing "Peeping Tom" and the ball had caught him squarely upon his woolly crown. A doubtful conscience did the rest. A dozen other tests followed until the girls' occult knowledge reached the limit. Then they danced in the Gym to music furnished by Mrs. Vincent, who ended the prancing by sending in a huge "fate cake," a big basket of nuts, a jug of sweet cider and some of Aunt Hippy's cookies. Cutting the fate cake ended the Hallow E'en frolic. Lily Pearl was thrown into a flutter by finding the ring in her slice. Juno turned scornful when a plump raisin fell to her share, Helen drew a tiny key from her piece, and the coin dropped into Rosalie's lap. "Rubbish! I don't want riches. I want a handsome husband," she cried with refreshing frankness. "I hardly think I would noise that fact abroad," was Isabel's superior criticism. "No, I wouldn't if I were you, it would be so perfectly preposterous," retorted Rosalie. Isabel made no reply, but took care that no one else discovered who had found the thimble. CHAPTER XII CHRISTMAS AT SEVERNDALE By a lucky chance Christmas this year fell upon Monday, thus giving the midshipmen either liberty, or leave, according to their classes, or conduct grade, from Saturday at twelve-thirty to Monday at five-thirty, when those enjoying the latter rare privilege had to report for duty in Bancroft Hall. Christmas leave for the first class was an innovation, which only those on first conduct grade might hope to enjoy. That there was the ghost of a chance of any member of the lower classes coming in for such a rare treat not even the most sanguine dreamed. _But_, and that BUT was written in italics and capitals, when Captain Stewart made up his mind to do a certain thing it required considerable force of will, stress of circumstances, and concerted opposition to divert him. But the outcome lies in the near future. The excitement incident to the rescue of Columbine had barely subsided when a telegram brought Peggy the joyful news that Captain Stewart's ship, which had met with some slight accident to her machinery, was to be dry-docked at Norfolk and her father was to have two weeks' leave. The _Rhode Island_ was to be in port at the New York Navy Yard, and this meant the forgathering of all who were nearest and dearest to Peggy and Polly; a rare joy at the holiday season for those connected with the Navy. Consequently, this year's Yuletide was to be a red letter one in every sense, for Mrs. Howland and Gail, who had spent Thanksgiving in New York, would return to Annapolis for Christmas and, joy of joys! Constance, Snap, and Mr. Harold would come with them. The telegraph and telephone wires between New York, Norfolk, Washington and Annapolis were in a fair way to become fused. As many of the girls lived at great distances from Washington, the Christmas Recess began on the twenty-second. Captain Stewart had 'phoned to his party "Heavy marching orders, three P. M., Friday, Dec. 22, 19--." A wild flutter ensued. The Thanksgiving holiday at Mrs. Harold's had been widely discussed at Columbia Heights and had stirred all sorts of emotions to their very centers. At Captain Stewart's request, Mrs. Harold had sent unique invitations to each of the girls soon after their return to school. They were couched in the formal wording of an official invitation from a battle ship of the fleet and created a sensation. Natalie, Stella, Nelly, Rosalie, Juno and Marjorie were invited. Lily Pearl's and Helen's attentions to Peggy and Polly having proved abortive, they contrived ways and means of their own to reach the Land o' Heart's Desire. Helen's old bachelor uncle, a queer, dull old gentleman, whose mind was certainly _not_ active, and whom Helen could, figuratively speaking, turn and twist about her little finger, was persuaded to pass the holidays at Wilmot Hall. He knew a number of people in Annapolis, so the path to a certain extent was cleared for Lily Pearl and Helen, though they would have given up all the uncles in Christendom to have been included in that house party. But half a loaf is certainly better than no bread, and once at Annapolis they meant to make the most of that half. So it was with no small degree of triumph that they announced the fact that they, too, would be at the Christmas hop. Just how they intended to manage it they did not disclose. Sufficient unto the hour was to be the triumph thereof. Captain Stewart arrived on Friday morning in time for luncheon and, guileless man that he has already shown himself to be, promptly offered to "convoy the two little cruisers to Annapolis." His offer was accepted with so many gushing responses that the poor man looked about as bewildered as a great St. Bernard which has inadvertently upset a cage of humming birds, and finds them fluttering all about him. Lily and Helen were of a different type from the girls he knew best, but he accepted the situation gracefully and enjoyed himself hugely with the others, even Marjorie blossoming out wonderfully under his genial kindliness. Isabel amused him immensely. Isabel was to spend her holiday in Boston, _of course_, but was to meet a friend in Baltimore who would chaperone the shrinking damsel safely to Mamma's protecting arms. Captain Stewart would escort her to the Naval Academy Junction, from which point it seemed perfectly safe to let her pursue the remaining half hour's journey to Baltimore unattended. In the course of the journey from Washington to the Junction Isabel elected to make some delayed notes in her diary, greatly to the secret amusement of Captain Stewart, who happened to be sitting just behind her. "Making a list of all your dances and Christmas frolicings, little-er-ahem--, Miss?" "Boylston, Captain Stewart. Oh, no, I rarely attend dances; there is so much that is instructive to be enjoyed while at home. I am making some notes in my diary." "Don't say so. Find the outlook inspiring?" Captain Stewart laughed as he looked out upon the dreary landscape, for the afternoon was lowery, and certainly, the cheerless flat landscape between Washington and the Junction was far from thrilling. "Oh, I am not depending upon my visual sight for my inspiration, Captain Stewart. Don't you think the study of one's fellow beings intensely interesting?' "Yes, it's a heap cheerier inside the car than outside on this confoundedly soggy day," answered Captain Stewart, preparing to withdraw from an even more depressing atmosphere than that beyond the car windows, by turning to Rosalie, whose eyes were commencing to dance. But Isabel had no idea of foregoing an opportunity to make an impression, little guessing the sort of one she was in reality making. "Yes, it is exceedingly damp today, but do you think we ought to allow externals to affect us?" she asked. "Eh? What? I'm afraid you're getting beyond my bearings. Lead won't touch bottom." Isabel smiled indulgently: One must be tolerant with a person forced to spend his life within the limited bounds of a ship. "Miss Sturgis, our instructor in sociology, advises us to be very observing and to take notes of everything unusual. You know we shall graduate next year and time passes _so_ swiftly. It seems only yesterday that I entered Columbia Heights School, and here Christmas is upon us. I have so little time left in which to accomplish all I feel I should, and I could not graduate after I'd passed seventeen. I'd _die_ of mortification. And, oh, that fact holds a suggestion. Pardon me if I make a note of it, and--and--_how_ do you spell accomplished, Captain Stewart? I really have so little time to give to etymology." For one second Captain Stewart looked at the girl as though he thought she might possibly be running him. He was more accustomed to the fun-loving, joking girl than to this "cellar-grown turnip" as he mentally stigmatized her. Then the little imps in Rosalie's eyes proved his undoing: "I'm afraid I'm no good as an English prof. Reckon I'd spell it akomplish. Sounds as good as any other way. You'll know what it means when you overhaul it anyhow. But here we are at the Junction. Pipe overside, bo's'n," he cried to Peggy. Good-bys were hastily spoken and Captain Stewart soon had his party hurrying across the platform to the Annapolis car. As he settled Rosalie in her seat he asked: "How many Miss Boylstons have you got at Columbia Heights?" "Only one, thank the powers!" answered Rosalie fervently. It was nearly six when the electric cars rolled up to the rear of Wilmot Hall and the girls saw Mrs. Harold, and a number of the midshipmen of the first class lined up and eagerly watching for the particular "she" who would spend the holidays in Annapolis. A mob of squabbling boys made a mad rush for the car steps in the hope of securing suitcases to carry into the hotel, and had not the midshipmen swept them aside, further progress for the car's passengers would have been barred. The hoodlums of the town seem to spring from the very ground upon the arrival of a car at Wilmot and certainly make life a burden for travelers trying to descend the car steps. There was only time for general greetings just then, as all hurried into Wilmot to meet old friends and new ones, Mrs. Howland, Constance, Snap, Gail and Mr. Harold having already arrived. Pending the departure for Severndale, Mrs. Harold had, at Captain Stewart's request, engaged three extra rooms, thus practically preempting her entire corridor for her guests, and a jollier party it would have been hard to find than the one escorted down to the big dining-room that evening by "The Executive Officer," as Captain Stewart called Mrs. Harold, who was acting as chaperone for his party. Directly dinner ended Captain Stewart and Commander Harold left upon some mysterious mission which threw the girls into a wild flutter of curiosity. "Oh, what is it all about?" demanded Rosalie. "Can't tell one single thing until Daddy Neil says I may," laughed Peggy. "Does Polly know?" asked Natalie. Peggy nodded. "You'll have to bottle up your impatience for an hour or two. Go to your rooms and shake out your pretties for tomorrow night's frolic, for I am going to 'pipe down' early tonight. When you have finished stowing your lockers come back to the sitting-room and we'll have a quiet, cozy time until our commanding officers return. Constance, Gail and Snap must make a call this evening, but I'm not going to let anyone claim my time. It all belongs to my girls," said Mrs. Harold gaily, as she and Mrs. Howland seated themselves before the open fire. The girls hurried away to do her bidding, for it had been decided to remain at Wilmot until after the Christmas hop, all going out to Severndale by a special car when the dance was over, Harrison, Mammy and Jerome, under Mrs. Harold's tactful generalship, having made all preparations for the big house party. In a few moments the girls returned from unpacking their suitcases. The Thanksgiving visit had removed all sense of reserve or strangeness with Mrs. Harold, but they did not know Mrs. Howland, and for a moment there seemed an ominous lull. Then Peggy crying: "I want my old place, Little Mother," nestled softly upon the arm of the big morris-chair in which Mrs. Harold sat, and rested her head against Mrs. Harold. The other girls had dropped upon chairs, but Mrs. Harold was minded to have her charges pro tem at closer range, so releasing herself from Peggy's circling arm for a moment, she reached for two plump cushions upon the couch near at hand and flopping them down, one at either knee said: "Juno on this one, Rosalie on the other; Marjorie beside me and Natalie, Stella and Nelly with Polly," for Polly had already cuddled down upon her mother's chair. Before the words had well left her lips, Rosalie had sprung to her coign of vantage crying: "Oh, Mrs. Harold, you are the dearest chappie I ever knew, and it's already been ten times lovelier than Polly and Peggy ever could describe it." With a happy little laugh, Natalie promptly seated herself upon the arm of Mrs. Howland's chair, but Juno hesitated a moment, looking doubtfully at the cushion. Juno was a very up-to-date young lady as to raiment. How could she flop down as Rosalie had done while wearing a skirt which measured no more than a yard around at the hem, and geared up in an undergarment which defied all laws of anatomy by precluding the possibility of bending at the waist line? She looked at Mrs. Harold and she looked at the cushion. As her boys would have expressed it "the Little Mother was not slow in catching on." She now laughed outright. Juno did not know whether to resent it or join in the laugh too. There was something about the older woman, however, which aroused in girls a sense of camaraderie rather than reserve, though Juno had never quite been able to analyze it. She smiled, and by some form of contortion of which necessity and long practice had made her a passed mistress, contrived to get herself settled upon the cushion. "Honey," said Mrs. Harold, patting her shoulder, "if you want to live up to your name you'll discard your coat of mail. Your namesake would have scorned its limitations, and your young figure will be far lovelier and more graceful, to say nothing of the benefit to yourself and future generations, if you heave your armor plate overboard." It was all said half-jestingly, half-seriously, but Juno gave her head a superior little toss as she answered: "And go looking like a meal sack? To say nothing of flinging away twenty perfectly good dollars just paid to Madam Malone." "I'm afraid I'm a very old-fashioned old lady, but I have no notion of letting any Madam Malone, or any other French lady from Erin dictate _my_ fashions, or curtail the development and use of my muscles; I have too much use for them. Do Peggy and Polly resemble 'meal sacks?' Yet no Madam Malone has ever had the handling of their floating-ribs, let me tell you. Watch out, little girl, for a nervous, semi-invalid womanhood is a high price to pay for a pair of corsets at seventeen. There, my lecture is over and now let's talk of earthquakes." At her aunt's question regarding Peggy and herself resembling "meal sacks," Polly laughed aloud and being in a position to practically demonstrate the freedom which a sensibly full skirt afforded, cried: "If I couldn't _run_ when I felt like it I'd _die_. I tell you, when I strike heavy weather I want my rigging ship-shape. I'd hate to scud under bare poles." The subject was changed but the words were not forgotten. The other girls had all gathered about the blazing logs upon cushions or hassocks, and a pretty group they formed as they talked eagerly of the coming hop, and tried to guess what Captain Stewart was planning, Mrs. Harold and Mrs. Howland joining enthusiastically in it all. "Tanta," asked Polly, "do you know that Lily Pearl Montgomery and Helen Doolittle are here at Wilmot with Helen's uncle? We have christened him 'Foxy Grandpa.' Just wait till you see him. He looks the character exactly." "Are they to go to the hop?" asked Mrs. Harold, instantly interested, for even though she had heard amusing tales of the two girls, they were still young girls, and she was concerned for their happiness and pleasure. "We don't know and we didn't like to seem inquisitive," replied Polly. "Yes, they are going, Little Mother. Helen told me so. Foxy Grandpa knows somebody who knows somebody else, who knows the boys who are to take them, but they didn't tell us their names. I wonder if we know them," was Peggy's laughing explanation. "I hope they will have a happy time," said Mrs. Howland gently as she stroked back Polly's silky curls. "You trust them to have the time of their lives, Mumsey. But oh, _isn't_ it good to be here!" and Polly favored her mother with an ecstatic hug. "What time are we to go to Severndale tomorrow, Little Mother?" asked Peggy. "Not until after the hop, dear. It will be very late, I know, but Christmas is a special day of days. That is the reason I'm going to send you all off early tonight. Nine-thirty gunfire will see you started for the Land o' Nod." "Aren't we to wait until Daddy Neil comes back?" "Not unless he gets back before three bells and it looks doubtful, two have already struck. But you'll learn the news the first thing in the morning." But at that moment Captain Stewart came breezing into the room. Peggy and Polly flew to him crying: "Did he say yes? Did he say yes? Oh, answer, quick! Do!" they begged, each clasping arms about him. "If I answer quick you'll both cast loose but the longer I keep you in suspense the longer you'll lay hold," was his quizzical retort. "We won't stir. We won't budge. Tell us." For answer Captain Stewart drew an official-looking document from his blouse pocket and waved it high above the girls' heads. A series of ecstatic squeals arose from them. Opening the carefully folded paper he read its stereotyped phrasing, all of which is too serious to be herein repeated. Suffice it to say that it secured for Durand Leroux, Second Class Herbert Taylor, Second Class Ralph Wilber, Third Class Jean Paul Nichols, Third Class Gordon Powers, Third Class Douglas Porter, Third Class leave of absence under Captain Neil Stewart's orders from 6:30 P. M., December 23rd, to 6 P. M., December 25th, 19--. When the excitement had somewhat subsided, Captain Stewart said: "Now that I'm sure of it, I must go 'phone out to Severndale or Jerome and Harrison will be throwing fits. We'll have to quarter that bunch in the old wing, but Lord bless my soul, I reckon they'd be willing to go out to the paddock. But mind, you girls, _not one whisper of it to those boys, until I give the word_, or it will be the brig for every mother's daughter of you," and with this terrifying threat he strode off down the corridor. Just then three bells struck in the tower and at the second stroke the nine-thirty gun boomed out its welcome "Release." As the sound died away Mrs. Harold walked over to the big window calling to the girls to join her. "Stand here a moment," she said, then going over to the electric switch turned off all the lights. "Why? What?" cried all the girls excepting Peggy and Polly. "Look at the windows on the third deck of Bancroft, southwest corner," she said, unhooking a drop light from above her desk and crossing the room to the puzzled girls. "Those are Durand's and Bert's rooms. Next to them are Gordon's and Doug's. Watch closely." Presently from two of the windows lights were flashed three times in rapid succession. Then absolute darkness. Instantly Mrs. Harold turned the reflector of her drop light toward the academy in such a way that the light would be cast out across the night, then by turning the key on and off quickly she flashed its rays three times, paused a moment, then repeated the signal. Instantly from the rooms mentioned came the answering flashes, which after a brief interval were repeated, Mrs. Harold again giving her reply. "Oh, who does it? What is it for? What do they mean?" asked her visitors. "Just our usual good-night message to each other. My boys are all dear to me, but Durand and Gordon peculiarly so. Those rooms are theirs. Shall I tell you the message the flashes carry? It is just a little honor code. I want the boys to stand well this term, but, like most boys they are always ready for skylarking, and the work from seven-thirty to nine-thirty is easily side-tracked. So we have agreed to exchange a message at gunfire if 'all is well.' If they have been boning tomorrow's work my flash light is answered; if not--well, I see no answering flash." "Do you think they always live up to the agreement?" asked Rosalie. "I have faith to believe they do. Isn't it always better to believe a person honest until we prove him a thief, than to go the other way about it? Besides, they carry the Talisman." "What is it--Little Mother?" asked Juno, to the surprise of the others, slipping to Mrs. Harold's side and placing her arm about her. "Would you really like to know, dear? Suppose we throw on a fresh log and leave the lights turned off. Then we'll have a confidential ten minutes before you go to bed. You can all cuddle down in a pile on the big bearskin." A moment later the flames formed a brilliant background to a pretty picture, and Mrs. Harold was repeating softly, as the upspringing flames filled the room with, their light and rested lovingly upon the young faces upturned to here: "Each night when three bells strike the hour Up in the old clock's lofty tower, A flashing beam, a darting ray Their message of good faith convey. "Those wavering, clear, electric beams, Who'll guess how much their message means? Or dream the wondrous tale they tell? 'Dear Little Mother, all is well.' "Yes, out across the peaceful night, By moon and stars made silvery bright, This message comes in gleaming light: We've kept the faith; Good-night! Good-night! "Our token of a duty done, An effort made, a victory won; The bond on which we claim the right To flash our message, our 'Good-night.' "Dear Little Mother. Precious name! None sweeter may a woman claim, No greater honor hope to gain Than this which three short words contain. "To win and hold a love so pure, A faith so stanch, so strong, so sure-- To gain a confidence so rare-- What honors can with these compare? "No wonder as I flash my ray Across the night's dividing way, In deepest reverence I say: God keep you true, dear lads, alway." The girls' good-nights were spoken very tenderly. The message of the lights had carried one to them as well. CHAPTER XIII YULETIDE "We are one real old-timey family, sure enough," said Captain Stewart heartily, as he gathered his girls about him in Mrs. Harold's sitting-room Saturday morning. "But, my-oh, my! I wish I were that Indian-Chinese-Jap god, what's his name? who has about a dozen, arms. Two are just no account," he added laughingly as he held Peggy in one and Polly in the other, while all the other girls, Gail included, crowded around him, all talking and laughing at once, all demanding to know what would be the very first thing on the day's program. Mr. and Mrs. Harold, Mrs. Howland, Constance and Snap were seated about the room, highly amused by the group in the center, for the girls had gathered about Captain Stewart as honeybees gather about a jar of sweets. "Come close! Come close, and I'll tell you. Can't talk at long range," rumbled the kindly man, flopping his arms over Peggy's and Polly's shoulders like an amiable sea lion. Rosalie flew to snuggle beside Polly. Natalie by Peggy, the other girls drawing as close as possible, Stella excepted, who laughed, blushed prettily and said: "I think Captain Stewart has more than his arms full now, so I'll hover on the outskirts." "I used to be scared to death of him," confessed Gail, "but those weeks up in New London scared away my scare." "Well, what is it to be this morning?" asked Peggy. "Suppose we all go over and take a look around the yard. It may be rather slow with just two old fogies like Harold and me for escorts, but we'll leave the matrons at home and take Snap. That ensign's stripe on his sleeve makes him seem a gay young bachelor even if he is a staid old Benedic, and Constance can lend him to you girls for a little while, anyway." "I'm game! No telling which one will be responsible for an elopement, Connie," cried Snap, bending over his pretty young wife to rest his dark hair against hers for a second. She laughed a happy little laugh as she answered: "Go along, Sir Heartbreaker. People down here have not forgotten auld lang syne and I dare say the rocking chair fleet will at once begin to commiserate me. But you girls had better watch out; he is a hopeless flirt. So beware!" Nevertheless, the light in her eyes as she raised them to the handsome man whose hand rested upon her shoulders held little of apprehension. Ten minutes later the merry group had set forth. Mrs. Harold, Mrs. Howland and Constance were only too glad to have their lively charges out of the way for an hour or two, for a good bit must be attended to before they could leave for Severndale that evening. Captain Stewart and the girls would not return until twelve o'clock and the boys--who had been invited out for luncheon rather than to dine, former experiences having taught Mrs. Harold the folly of inviting dinner guests on a hop night--would arrive immediately after formation. At twelve o'clock the girls returned from the Yard, and when one bell struck were watching in undisguised eagerness for their luncheon guests. From Mrs. Harold's windows they could see the steady stream of men rushing from Bancroft toward the main gate, and in less time than seemed possible, footsteps were audible--yes, a trifle more than audible--as "the bunch" came piling up Wilmot's stairway; for the promptitude with which "the Little Mother's boys" responded to "a bid" to Middies' Haven was an unending source of wonder to most people and certainly to her school-girl guests. Eight midshipmen, came tramping up the stairs, eager to welcome old friends and ready to meet new ones upon the old ones' recommendations. To Peggy, Polly and Nelly the happy, laughing, joking lot of lads were an old story, but the influx came near turning some of the other girls' heads. Juno was sorely divided between Douglas Porter's splendid figure and Durand's irresistible charm, until Miss Juno began to absorb the full significance of "class rates" and gold lace. The "five-striper" or head of the entire brigade was a well set-up chap and rather good looking, though suffering somewhat from a bad attack of "stripitis," as it was termed in Bancroft Hall. He was fairly efficient, a "good enough fellow" but not above "greasing," that is, cultivating the officers' favor, or that of their wives and daughters, if thereby ultimate benefits accrued to himself. The three-striper of Ralph's, Jean's and Durand's company whom Mrs. Harold had asked to escort Stella, was an all-round popular man, and a great favorite of Mrs. Harold's for his irreproachable character, sunny, lovable disposition and unfailing kindness to the underclassmen. The others who crowded the room are old friends. Jean Paul and Rosalie chattered like a pair of magpies. Natalie was the happiest thing imaginable as she and Bert Taylor, who had found the little golden-head most enticing, laughed and ran each other like old chums. Peggy was everywhere, and although Durand strove to break away from Juno in order to "get in a few" with Peggy, he was held prisoner with "big Doug" until Guy Bennett the five-striper arrived and promptly appropriated her. Then Durand got away. Gordon Powers devoted himself to Nelly, while Ralph hovered over Polly, for they had endless interests in common. "And you made the crew, Ralph!" cried Polly. "Maybe I wasn't tickled nearly to death when you wrote me about it. And you're out for basketball too? How did you come out in Math and Mech? And who's taken Gumshoe's place this year? And you never wrote me a word about Class President Election, though I guess I've asked you in every letter. What makes you so tight with your news, any way? I write you every little thing about Columbia Heights. Come across with it." Ralph turned crimson. Polly looked first baffled then suddenly growing wise, jumped at him and shook him by the shoulders just as she used to do in the old days as she cried: "It's _you_! And you never told me! You good-for-nothing boy." "Hi! Watch out! The Captain's clearing for action," cried Jean Paul. "Told you you'd catch it when she found out." "Well, Tanta might have told me, anyhow," protested Polly. "Ralph wouldn't let me. Kept me honor bound not to. But if you are all ready for your luncheon, come down at once. There are--how many of us? Twenty-four? Merciful powers!" "No, Tanta, only twenty-three. Poor Gail's minus an escort," cried Polly, a shade of regret in her eyes, for Gail meant a great deal to this little sister. "Why, so she is. Now that's too bad of me," but something in her aunt's voice made Polly look at her keenly. A moment later she understood. As the merry, laughing, chattering group reached the last landing of the stairs leading down to the Assembly Hall, a tall, broad-shouldered man who stood at the foot looked eagerly upward. Polly gave one wild screech and nearly fell down the remaining steps, to fling herself into the arms outstretched to save her, as a deep voice said: "One bell, Captain Polly! You'll carry away your landing stage if you come head on at full speed." "Oh, Shortie! Shortie! Where did you come from?" cried Polly, nearly pumping his arm from its socket, while all the others crowded around to welcome the big fellow whom all had loved or esteemed during his undergraduate days. "Ask the Little Mother. She's responsible, and Gail needs looking after among all this bunch, I know. Come along, young lady. I've got to see you fed and cared for." And Gail seemed perfectly willing to "come along." With such an addition to her family, Mrs. Harold had made arrangements to have two large round tables reserved for her in the smaller of the two dining-rooms, the older people at one, with Gail, Stella, Juno, Shortie, Allyn and Guy to make the circle, the younger people with Peggy and Polly as hostesses at the adjoining table. In addition to her own regular waiter, the second head waiter and two assistants had been detailed to serve, but with the Christmas rush and the number of people at Wilmot for the holidays there was more or less delay between courses. "Where is John?" she demanded, as they were waiting for the salad. "Over yonder. Shall I hail him?" asked Durand, from the next table, promptly putting his fingers to his mouth as though to give one of the ear-splitting whistles which seem to carry for miles. "If you dare, you scape-grace, right here in this dining-room!" she warned. "Oh, do it!" cried Polly. "I want to learn how. Show me." "All right; stick out your tongue," directed Durand and Polly promptly fell into the trap, though unluckily she happened to be looking straight past Durand at the moment, and what proved more embarrassing, right at a table occupied by Foxy Grandpa, Helen and Lily Pearl, whom Mrs. Harold had not yet met, so, of course, did not recognize. (Helen and Lily did not mean to lose sight of Peggy and Polly if they could help it.) There are some situations where explanations only make matters worse. This was one of them. Polly was in everlasting disgrace and everyone at the table in shouts of laughter, as well as those at other tables near at hand, whose occupants could not have helped hearing and seeing if they would. But at that moment Rosalie diverted attention from Polly by trying to clap her hands regardless of the piece of luncheon roll she held, thus promptly launching it over her shoulder, where it went merrily bounding across the polished floor to be gravely rescued by the irreproachable John. But Rosalie was in the realms of the gods and far above such mundane matters as a luncheon roll's eccentricities. Mrs. Harold was no whit behind her girls in their fun, and was so well known to every guest in the hotel that her table was invariably looked upon as a source of amusement for most of the others, and the fun which flowed like an electric current came very near making them forget the good things before them, and the big dining-room full of people found themselves sympathetically affected, each gay bit of laughter, each enthusiastic comment finding an answering smile at some table. As nearly every member of the first class had gone on Christmas leave, the few who happened to be in Annapolis having remained as the guests of friends, there was a very perceptible thinning out of ranks over in Bancroft that afternoon. Nevertheless, Mrs. Harold had announced an informal tea from four to six and "general liberty" enabled all who chose to do so to attend it. And many chose! But in the interval between luncheon and four o 'clock Mrs. Harold "barred out the masculine population" and carried her girls upstairs to change their gowns for her tea. It was during the "prinking process" that some very characteristic comments were made upon the masculine guests now enjoying their post-prandial cigars, or cigarettes, in the smoking-room, below stairs. Mrs. Harold was in her element listening to the girls' frank comments. "Oh, I know I'm going to have the very time of my life, Mrs. Harold," exclaimed Natalie, giving a little bounce of rapture. "Mr. Porter is certainly a remarkably handsome man," was Juno's complacent comment. "But, Mrs. Harold, aren't first classmen really--well--don't they come in for greater privileges? Rate more? Is that what you say down here?" "Of course. Especially a five-striper, Juno. You'd better cultivate Guy Bennett. It's a great distinction to profit by a five-striper's favors. There are three girls in Annapolis who have reduced that sort of cultivation to a science and if you manage to rival them you will have scored a point, sure enough." "How many five-stripers are there?" asked Stella. "Only one, happily, or the girls to whom I allude would have nervous prostration. But the four and three-stripers save the day for them. Nothing below is worth cultivating." "Don't Polly and Peggy 'cultivate' the stripers!" asked Rosalie. "That depends," was Mrs. Harold's cryptic answer as an odd smile caused her lips to twitch. "Last year's five-striper and a good many other stripers, were with us constantly, and I miss them more than I like to dwell upon. This year's? Well--I shall endeavor to survive their departure." "Oh, but don't you just love them all!" cried Rosalie. "Which, the midshipmen or the stripes?" asked Polly. "Why, the midshipmen, of course!" "I think a whole lot of some of the boys--yes, of a good many, but there are some whom I wouldn't miss much, I reckon." "Oh, I think you are perfectly heartless, Polly. They are just the darlingest men I ever met." With what unction the word "men" rolled from Rosalie's tongue. "Men" had not figured very largely in Rosalie's world, and Mrs. Harold chuckled inwardly at the thought of classing Rosalie's particular little Jean Paul, in the category of grown-ups; anything more essentially boyish, and full to the brim of madcap pranks, than the eighteen-year-old Jean Paul, it would have been hard to picture. Mrs. Harold had dispatched notes to Helen and Lily Pearl asking them in Peggy's and Polly's name to be present at her little tea that afternoon, to meet several of the midshipmen, and, if they cared to do so, to bring with them the men who were taking them to the hop. She did not know who these men were. Shortly after four Helen and Lily Pearl arrived in a flutter. Mrs. Harold had not felt it incumbent upon her to include Foxy Grandpa, concluding that he could find diversion for an hour or two while his charges were with their school-chums. When Helen and Lily arrived upon the scene, Mrs. Harold's face was a study. Foxy Grandpa was evidently too dull to be critical and Columbia Heights was at a safe distance. Both Lily Pearl and Helen were gotten up regardless. Each wore extravagant gowns, each had done up her hair and supplemented it by wonderful creations of false puffs. Each wore dangling ear-rings and the complexion of each girl had been "assisted." Poor Mrs. Harold felt as though a couple of chorus girls had invaded her little sanctum, and Peggy and Polly were furious. But it was too late then to retreat and a few moments later the midshipmen began to pour into the sitting-room, the two who were to take Helen and Lily being men whom Mrs. Harold had always avoided, feeling that they were no companions for the frank, unaffected girls she loved so dearly. She resolved to keep her eye piped. It was a merry afternoon. Rosalie scintillated, and her scintillation proved infectious for Jean Paul, upon whom she had made a deep impression at Thanksgiving; he instantly appropriated her, greatly to Mrs. Harold's amusement, for she was never too fully occupied to notice significant signs. Quiet, dignified Bert Taylor had promptly taken bonny Natalie under his serene protection. And Juno! Well she was sorely divided between Doug's towering seventy-four inches and Gordon's sixty-nine, though she strove to conceal the exaltation which her uniformed gallants stirred in her soul by bringing to bear upon them all the superlative superiority which she had studied as the acme of success in the habitues of the Hotel Astor. With Douglas it worked to a charm. He rose to the corresponding rôle as a trout to a fly, but poor Gordon was only too thankful when the companionship and conversation became more general. The superior young lady from the metropolis was beyond his ken. Little Nelly Bolivar's sweetness and quaint humor filled his ideals to far greater satisfaction. He had met Nelly first at Severndale and several times since with Mrs. Harold, who had often invited her to spend the weekend at Wilmot, where she had looked to the young girl's welfare, knowing how much she must miss Peggy this winter. Nelly was simply dressed in a gown which had once been Peggy's, for most of Peggy's garments went to Nelly, but were given so sweetly and with such evident love, that not even the most sensitive nature could have been wounded, and they were a real blessing to her. No one ever commented upon the fact and before going to Columbia Heights, Nelly had spent many a busy hour with Mrs. Harold remodeling and working like a little beaver under that good friend's guidance, for Nelly was a skilful little needlewoman. As a result, no girl in the school was more suitably gowned. The only girls who had eyed her critically were Lily Pearl, Helen and Juno. The first because she was too shallow to do aught but follow Helen's lead, and Juno from a naturally critical disposition. Juno meant to hold her favor somewhat in reserve. She intended first to see what Nelly's standing at Severndale proved. She might be Polly's and Peggy's friend--well and good--but who was she? Would she find a welcome among the Delacys, the Vanderstacks, the Dryers and heaven knows which-or-whats of New York's glitterers? Juno was hardly in a position to gauge her standards by those who represented the big city's finest and best. She saw the patrons of the great hotels and moved among them, but of New York's sterling worth, she was as ignorant as a babe. Its superficial glamour and glitter, as well as its less desirable contingent, which she was not sufficiently experienced in the world's ways to fully understand, made the strongest appeal to her. Poor little Nelly Bolivar would have been a modest, sleek little Junco compared with the birds of paradise (?), cockatoos, and pheasants of Juno's world, but of all this Nelly was quite unaware and too happy in her present surroundings to care. It was a merry afternoon for all, but a diversion was created by Polly, shortly before it ended. She was at the tea-table pouring, and talking to Ralph like a phonograph, when Mrs. Harold became aware of a horrible odor, and cried: "What under the sun smells so abominably? Why, Polly Howland, look at my perfectly good teakettle! It is red hot, and--horrors--there isn't one drop of water in it!" True enough, absorbed in her conversation with Ralph, Polly had completely overlooked the trifling detail of keeping her kettle filled, though the alcohol lamp beneath it was doing its duty most lampfully. Damages repaired and the kettle at length filled and singing merrily, the gay little gathering took slight note of time, but soon after four bells struck in the tower clock, Mrs. Harold began to "round up" her masculine guests, for she had no notion of their being late for formation. "Take your places in the 'firing line!'" she ordered. "Oh, there's loads of time, Little Mother!" came in protest from Jean Paul. "Time to burn," from Dick Allyn, who found Stella mighty entertaining. "Now, Little Mother, you're not going to be so hard-hearted as to turn us out early tonight! Why, it's weeks since we've had the girls here," wheedled Durand. "Can't help it. Out you all go! There's too much at stake just now to risk any demerits." "At stake? What's at stake, Little Mother?" were the eager questions. "Can't tell you a single thing now. I'm tongue-tied until Captain Stewart passes the word." "Oh, what is it? Please come across with it, Little Mother. When may we know," begged Ralph. "At formation tonight perhaps. No use teasing! Join the firing line!" and with the command of a general Mrs. Harold shooed her brood out into the corridor, where overcoats and caps hung. They were used to these sudden dismissals, and so were Polly and Peggy, who were too familiar with all that which must be crowded into a limited amount of time not to appreciate what it meant to have "the decks cleared" when necessary. But Rosalie, Natalie, Juno, Marjorie, Stella and the other girls accepted the new order of things with divers emotions. Rosalie giggled, Natalie's face expressed wonder. Juno's was just a shade critical, Marjorie and Stella smiled. "Gee, if we obeyed all orders with as good grace as we obey the Little Mother's what models we'd be," was Jean Paul's jerky comment as he struggled into an overcoat, his eyes still fixed upon Rosalie's winsome face. Meanwhile, Doug Porter was clawing about among the coats to find his own, but happening to glance at Jean Paul, shouted: "Well, I'll be hanged! Say, how is it to get out of my coat, Bantam?" True enough, the garment into which the wee man was wriggling trailed upon the carpet, but Jean Paul was in a realm where overcoats 'never were or e'er had been.' At six-fifteen the lingering good-byes had been said and Mrs. Harold had dismissed those who constituted the "firing line," the name having been bestowed by Wheedles when he first witnessed the promptitude with which Mrs. Harold sent her boys to the right-about in order to avoid demerits for tardiness. "Why must they rush back on the very minute?" asked Rosalie, when all were gone, half inclined to resent an order of things which deprived her of her gallant Jean sans ceremony. "Discipline! Discipline! Little lady," laughed Mrs. Harold, coming up behind Rosalie and turning the piquant face up to hers. "I should think they'd feel like a lot of school boys to be ordered about so," was Juno's rather petulant comment. "Better feel 'like a lot of schoolboys' here, than like a lot of simpletons when they 'hit the tree,'" was Mrs. Harold's merry reply. "You've a whole lot to learn about regulations, my bonny lassie." It was all said so kindly and so merrily that Juno could not resent it. "But when will they learn about their leave? And if they are to go out to Severndale tonight how will they manage?" asked Rosalie eagerly. "Trust Daddy Neil to manage that. When they get back they'll be called to the office and the officer in charge will notify them of what has taken place and give them their orders." "Oh, I don't think I can possibly wait to hear what they'll say!" cried Polly. "I never, never knew such a lovely thing to happen before." CHAPTER XIV AT SEVERNDALE "My goodness!" cried Rosalie, "I thought I knew Peggy Stewart, but the Peggy Stewart we know at Columbia Heights, and the Peggy Stewart we saw at Wilmot, and the Peggy Stewart we've found here are three different people!" "And if you stay here long enough you'll know still another Peggy Stewart," nodded Polly sagely. "She is a wonder no matter where you find her," said Nelly quietly, "and she grows to be more and more of a wonder the longer you know her." "How long have you been observing this wonderful wonder?" asked Juno. "I think Peggy Stewart has held my interest from the first moment we came to live at Severndale," was Nelly's perfectly truthful, though not wholly enlightening, answer. Juno thought the evasion intentional and looked at her rather sharply. She was more than curious to see Nelly's home and father, and wondered if the party would be invited there. The Christmas hop, which had been a paradise within flag-draped walls for Captain Stewart's guests, was numbered among delights passed, but so many more were in store and the grand climax of the year, the New Year's eve hop, though, alack! it had to be given on the night of December thirtieth instead of the thirty-first, was looked forward to with eagerness. The party had come out to Severndale by a special car at twelve-thirty, and a "madder, merrier" group of young people it would have been hard to find. Upon their return to Bancroft Hall after Mrs. Harold's summary dismissal from "Middie's Haven" the previous Saturday night, Ralph, Jean Paul, Durand, Bert, Gordon and Doug had been ordered to report at the office and had it not been for the hint given at the tea, would have gone in trepidation of spirit. But it so happened that the officer in charge was possessed of a flickering memory of his own midshipman days, and his twinkling eyes and cheerful grin were reassuring. The boys all openly adored him, and even though they had dubbed him _Hercules_ Hugh, would have formed a door mat of their bodies had he hinted a desire for it. When the lucky six finally grasped the fact that Captain Stewart had actually obtained forty-eight hours liberty for them, and they were to go out to Severndale with the house-party, some startling things came very near taking place right in the O C's office. Luckily the favored ones restrained themselves until they reached Durand's room on the third deck, where a vent promptly presented itself, and is too good a story to leave untold. Naturally at Christmas, innumerable boxes of "eats" are shipped to the midshipmen from all over the United States, their contents usually governed by the section of the world from which they are forwarded. New England invariably sends its quota of mince pies, roast turkeys and the viands which furnish forth a New England table at Yuletide. The South and West send their special dishes. Durand's Aunt Belle never failed him. Each holiday found a box at Bancroft addressed to the lad who was so dear to her, and it was always regarded as public property by Durand's friends, who never hesitated to open it and regale themselves, sure that the generous owner of the "eats" would be only too glad to share with them everything he owned. But like most generous souls, Durand was often imposed upon, and this year the imposition went to the very limit. While Durand and his friends were over in Wilmot Hall his box was rifled, but it could hardly have been said to have been done by his friends, several men who had counted upon "Bubbles being a good old scout" having made way with practically everything the box contained. When he returned to his room the turkey carcass, picked clean as though buzzards had fallen upon it, rested forlornly upon its back in the middle of his study table. It was well for him that the midshipman on duty in his corridor had been one of the marauders, otherwise he would have been speedily reported for that which followed. When the yelling, shouting bunch rushed into Durand's room they stopped short and a few expletives expressed their opinions of the pirates. But Durand's wits worked quickly. Catching up the denuded bird by its greasy neck and giving the yell of a Comanche, he rushed out into the corridor waving his weapon over his head like a war club. The man on duty at the table at the end of the corridor saw him coming and needed no further hint that his Nemesis was upon him. Regardless of duty or anything else, he bounded from his chair and fled around the corner of the corridor, the turkey carcass speeding after him with unerring aim. Had he remained within range he would have received all and more than his share of the bird. Unluckily, a divisional officer had chosen that moment to turn into the corridor, and the turkey whizzed over his head, for he was one very tiny man. Durand did not wait to make inquiries. He had not removed cap or overcoat, a window was close at hand, the window of the adjoining room was accessible to one as agile as Durand, and the next second he was out of one and through the other, leaving his friends to make explanations. Why it did not result in Durand and all the others losing those precious forty-eight hours of liberty, only their special guardian spirits were in a position to explain, but they kept discreetly silent. The men in Durand's room could truthfully declare that they had not had a thing to do with the launching of that extraordinary projectile and also that Durand was not in his room. It was not necessary to be too explicit, they felt, and twenty minutes later all were over at Middie's Haven, Guy Bennett and Richard Allyn, to Juno's secret disgust, having shifted into civilian clothes as was the privilege of the first classmen "on leave," the difference between "leave" and "liberty" being very great indeed. Stella, although admiring the uniforms, was tantalizingly uncritical. The girls could never quite understand Stella's lack of enthusiasm over the midshipmen. And so had passed that joyful evening of the Christmas hop, the biggest surprise of all awaiting them up at Round Bay upon the arrival of the car at that station. Nearly every horse and vehicle at Severndale had been pressed into service to carry its guests from the station, and mounted on Shashai and Star, Jess having brought them home for the holidays, were Happy and Wheedles. They had been unable to leave their ships as soon as Shorty, so taking a later train had gone directly to Severndale. Their welcome by Peggy and Polly was a royal one. When the party arrived at Severndale another surprise greeted it as a very fat, very much-at-home Boston bull-terrier came tumbling down the steps to greet them. To all but Polly he was an alien and a stranger. Polly paused just one second, then cried as she gathered the little beast into her arms, regardless of the evening wrap she was wearing: "Oh, Rhody! Rhody! who brought you?" As though to answer her question, Rhody rolled his pop-eyes toward Wheedles. Of the happy Sunday and happier Christmas day space is too limited to tell. At five P. M. Durand, Ralph, Jean Paul, Bert, Gordon and Doug were obliged to bid their hostesses adieu and return to Annapolis, but each day of Christmas week held its afternoon informal dance at the auditorium, to which Mrs. Harold escorted her party, the mornings being given over to work by the midshipmen, and to all manner of frolicing out at Severndale by Happy, Wheedles, and Shortie, who seemed to have returned to their fun-loving, care-free undergraduate days. Yet how the boys had changed in their seven months as passed-midshipmen. Although full of their fun and pranks, running Peggy and Polly unmercifully, showing many little courtesies to Nelly whom all had grown to love during the old days, and playing the gay gallants to the other girls, there was a marked change from the happy-go-lucky Wheedles, the madcap Happy, and the quaint, odd Shortie of Bancroft days. But Shortie's interest was unquestionably centered on one golden-haired little lady, and many a long ride did they take through the lovely country about Severndale. Captain Stewart watched proceedings with a wise smile. Gail and Shortie were prime favorites of his. Happy and Wheedles had to do duty for many during the morning hours, but the girls' especial escorts were punctual to the minute when the launch from Severndale ran up to the Maryland Avenue float at three-forty-five each afternoon, and they had no cause to complain of a lack of attention, for many beside those who had been invited to Severndale were eager for dances with little gypsy Rosalie, tall, stately Stella, winsome Natalie, shy Marjorie or the scornful Juno, whose superiority was considered a big joke. During their week in Annapolis Helen and Lily Pearl had made tremendous strides in a certain way. Foxy Grandpa had met a gushing, gracious widow, who made Wilmot her home. That the lady's hair was of a shade rarely produced by nature, and her complexion as unusual as her innumerable puffs and curls, Foxy Grandpa was too dull of sight and mind to perceive. He had gone through life somewhat side-tracked by more brilliant, interesting people, and to find someone who flattered him and fluttered about him with the coyness of eighteen years, when three times eighteen would hardly have sufficed to number her milestones, went to the old gentleman's head like wine, and he became Mrs. Ring's slave to the vast amusement of everyone in Wilmot. And Mrs. Ring promptly took Helen and Lily Pearl under her chaperonage, introduced her son, a midshipman, to them, who in turn introduced his room-mate, and a charming sextet was promptly formed. Poor Mrs. Vincent was likely to have some lively experiences as the result of that Christmas holiday, for Paul Ring and Charles Purdy were one rare pair of susceptible simpletons, if nothing worse. And so passed the week at Severndale for Mrs. Harold's party, Peggy once more the gracious little chatelaine, sure of herself and entertaining her guests like a little queen, a perfect wonder to the other girls. Polly was happy as a grig, and all the others equally so. The older people rejoiced in this rare reunion, and Captain Stewart each day grew more devoted to his "Howland bunch" as he called them. The three girls openly adored him, and dainty, quiet little Mrs. Howland beamed upon everyone, little guessing how often the good Captain's eyes rested upon her when she was unaware of it, or how he was learning to esteem the mother of the three young girls whom he pronounced "jewels of the purest water." But that lies in the future. It is once more Saturday morning and once more a big dance is pending to which all are going. This time Shortie was taking Gail, Wheedles had asked Stella, Happy was looking after Juno, Polly would go with Ralph, Peggy with Durand, Rosalie would have cried her eyes out had any one save Jean Paul been her gay gallant, Natalie was Bert's charge, Marjorie and big Doug had become good chums, and, of course, Gordon Powers had made sure of Nelly's company. As this was to be the most magnificent affair of the holiday season, it had been decided to drive into Annapolis directly after luncheon, attend a matinee to be given at the one funny little theatre the town boasted, and for which Mrs. Harold had secured three stalls in order to include "the bunch," then to go to Wilmot to dine and dress, Mammy, Harrison and Jerome having been intrusted with the transportation of the suitcases containing the evening finery. All went merry as a marriage bell. When the matinee ended the boys were sent to the right about and the girls hurried to their rooms to make their toilets, for a six-thirty dinner had been ordered and everybody would be present. As the girls, excepting Stella and Gail, were all under seventeen, and still to make their formal bows to the big social world, their gowns were all of short, dancing length, Juno's excepted. Juno was a good deal of a law unto herself in the matter of raiment. Her father supplied her with all the spending money she asked for, and charge accounts at several of the large New York shops and at a fashionable modiste's, completed her latitude. There would be very little left for Juno to arrive at when she made her début. There was no time for comment or correction when the girls emerged from their rooms to accompany the older people to the dining-room, but at sight of Juno's gown Mrs. Harold's color grew deeper, and for a moment her teeth pressed her lower lip as though striving to hold back her words. Juno and Rosalie shared one room but Rosalie had known nothing of the contents of Juno's suitcase until it came time for them to dress, then her black eyes had nearly popped out of their sockets, for certainly Juno's gown was a startling creation for a school-girl. Needless to add, the one which she was supposed to have taken to Annapolis had been replaced by the present one at the last moment, and Mrs. Vincent was not even aware that Juno possessed such a gown as the one she was then wearing. It was a beautiful pearl white charmeuse, cut low in front and with a V in the back which clearly testified to the fact that the wearer was _not_ afflicted with spinal curvature. Its trimmings were of exquisite lace and crystals sufficiently elaborate for a bride, and the skirt was one of the clinging, narrow, beaver-tailed train affairs which render walking about as graceful as the gait of a hobbled-horse, and dancing an utter impossibility unless the gown is held up. It was a most advanced style, out-Parisianing the Parisian. When Juno prepared to get into it, even Rosalie, charming beyond words in a pink chiffon, had cried: "Why, Juno Gibson, it's lucky for you Mrs. Vincent isn't here. You'd never go to the hop in that dress." "Well, she isn't here, so calm yourself." But the climax came as they were crossing Wilmot's reception hall on their way up from dinner. Mrs. Harold was walking just behind her flock, Peggy with her, fully conscious of the tension matters had assumed, for modest little Peggy had been too closely associated with Polly and Mrs. Harold not to have stored away considerable rational worldly knowledge and some very sane ideas. As they were about to ascend the stairs Juno with well affected indifference caught up her train, thereby revealing the latest idiosyncrasy of the feminine toilet. She wore silver slippers and black silk tights and had quite dispensed with petticoats. The stage and the Hotel Astor had developed Juno's knowledge of _la mode en règle_ at a galloping pace. Some of the girls gave little gasps, and amused smiles flitted across the faces of the people within range. Mrs. Harold colored to her forehead. When they reached her corridor she said to Juno: "Little girl, will you come into my room a moment?' "Certainly, if you wish it, Mrs. Harold," was the reply in a tone which meant that Juno had instantly donned her armor of repulsion Seating herself upon a low chair, Mrs. Harold drew a hassock to her side, motioning Juno to it. The seat might have been accepted with a better grace. Mrs. Harold took the lovely, rebellious face in both her hands, pressed her lips to the frowning forehead, and said gently: "Honey, smoothe them out, please, and, remember that what I am about to say to you is said because Peggy's and Polly's friends are mine and I love them. Yes, and wish them to learn to love me if possible. Nothing is dearer to me than my young people and I long to see all that is best and finest developed in them. You have come to me as a guest, dear, but you have also come to me as my foster-daughter pro tem, and as such, claim my affectionate interest in your well-being. Mother and daughter are precious names." There was a slight pause, in which Juno gave an impatient toss of her handsome head and asked in a bitterly ironical voice: "Are they? I am afraid I'm not very well prepared to judge." Mrs. Harold looked keenly at the girl, a light beginning to dawn upon her, though she had heard little of Juno's history. "Dear heart, forgive me if I wounded you. It was unintentional. I know nothing of earlier experiences, you know. You are just Polly's friend to me. Perhaps some day, if you can learn to love and trust me, you will let me understand why I have wounded. That is for another time and season. Just now we have but a few moments in which to 'get near' each other, as my boys would say, and I am going to make a request which may displease you. My little girl, will you accept some suggestions regarding your toilet?" "I dare say you think it is too grown-up for me. I know I'm not supposed to wear a low gown or a train." "I'm afraid I should be tempted to say the gown had been sent to you before it had grown-up enough," smiled Mrs. Harold. "And certainly some of its accessories must have been overlooked or forgotten altogether." "Why, nobody wears anything but tights under a ball gown nowadays. How would it fit with skirts all bunched up under it? As to the neck, it is no lower than one sees at the opera at home. I know a dozen people who wear gowns made in exactly the same way, and Madam Marie would expire if I did not follow her dictates--why, she would never do a bit more work for me." "Then I beg of you, outrage the lady's ideas forthwith, for--" Mrs. Harold laid her hand upon Juno's--"no dressmaker living should have the power to place a refined, modest little girl in a false position, or lower her womanly standards and ideals. Not only hers, dear, but what is vastly more far-reaching, the ideals of the boys and men with whom she is thrown. You are too young to fully appreciate this; you could hardly interpret some of the comments which are sure to be made upon the ballroom floor from those who are somewhat lacking in finer feeling; nor can you gauge the influence a truly modest girl--I do not mean an ignorantly prudish one, for a limited knowledge of the facts of life is a dangerous thing--has over such lads as you meet." "You have a beautiful hand, dear," continued Mrs. Harold, taking Juno's tapering, perfectly manicured fingers in hers. "It is faultless. Make it as strong as faultless, for remember--nothing has greater power figuratively. You hold more in this pretty hand than equal franchise can ever confer upon you. See that right now you help to make the world purer--your sisters who would have the ballot are using this crying need as their strongest argument--by avoiding in word or deed anything which can dethrone you in the esteem of the other sex, whether young or mature, for you can never know how far-reaching it will prove. You think I am too sweeping in my assertion? That you never have and never could do anything to invite criticism? Dear heart, not intentionally, I know, but in the very fact that you are innocent of the influence which--say such a gown as you are now wearing, for an illustration--may have, lies the harm you do. If you fully understand you would sooner go to the hop tonight gowned in sackcloth; of this I am certain." For a moment Juno did not speak. This little human craft was battling with conflicting currents and there seemed no pilot in sight. Then she turned suddenly and placing her arms about Mrs. Harold, laid her head upon the shoulder which had comforted so many and began to sob softly. "My little girl! My dear, dear little girl, do not take it so deeply to heart. I did not mean to wound you so cruelly. Forgive me, dear." "You haven't wounded me. It isn't that. But I--I--don't seem to know where I'm at. No one has ever spoken to me in this way. I'm often scolded and lectured and stormed at, but no one cares enough to make me understand. Please show me how. Please tell me. It seems like a glimpse into a different world." "First let me dry the tears I have been the cause of bringing to your eyes--if my boys see traces of them I shall be brought to an account. Then we will remedy what might have done harm." As she spoke Mrs. Harold took a bit of absorbent cotton, soaked it in rose water and bathed the lovely soft, brown eyes. Juno smiled up at her, then nestled against her, again. "My new little foster-daughter," said Mrs. Harold, kissing the velvety cheeks. "'It's beauty, truly blent, whose red and white, Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on.' Keep it so--it needs no aid--we shall learn to know each other better. You will come again--yes, often--and where I can help, count upon me--always? And now I'll play maid." Ten minutes later when Juno entered the living-room, an exquisite bit of Venetian lace filled in the V at the back of the bodice; the softest white maline edged the front, and when, she raised her train a lace petticoat which any girl would have pronounced "too sweet for words" floated like sea-foam about her slender ankles. No comments were made and all set forth for the hop. And was the experiment a red letter one? Well! CHAPTER XV IN SPRING TERM "Well, we all came back to earth with a thud, didn't we? But, was there ever anything like it while it lasted," ended Natalie with a rapturous sigh. "And do you suppose there can ever be anything like it again?" Rosalie's tone suggested funeral wreaths and deep mourning, but she continued to brush her hair with Peggy's pretty ivory-handled brush, and pose before Peggy's mirror. The girls were not supposed to dress in each other's rooms but suppositions frequently prove fallacies in a girl's school and these girls had vast mutual interests past and pending. Several weeks had passed since the Christmas holidays, but the joys of that memorable house-party were still very vivid memories and recalled almost daily. It was the hour before dinner. The girls were expected to be ready promptly at six-fifteen, but dressing hour might more properly have been termed gossiping hour, since it was more often given over to general discussions, Stella's pretty room, or Peggy's and Polly's, proving as a rule a rendezvous. All of the Severndale house party were assembled at the moment, and two or three others beside, among them Isabel, Helen and Lily Pearl. "I hope there may be a good many times like it again," said Peggy warmly. "It was just lovely to have you all down there and Daddy Neil was the happiest thing I've ever seen. I wish we could have him at Easter, but he will be far away when Easter comes." "Shall you go home at Easter?" asked Helen, flickering hopes of an invitation darting across her mind. "I hardly think so. You see it is only two weeks off and the Little Mother has not said anything about it, has she, Polly?" "No, in her last letter she said she thought she'd come down to Washington for Easter week and stop at the Willard, but it is not settled yet. I'd rather be in Annapolis at Easter and go for some of our long rides. Wasn't it fun to have Shashai and Silver Star back there during our visit! I believe they and Tzaritza and Jess had the very time of their young--and old--lives. And wasn't Tzaritza regal with Rhody?" "It was the funniest thing I've ever seen," laughed Stella. "That dog acted exactly like a royal princess entertaining a happy-go-lucky jackie. Rhody's life on board the _Rhode Island_ since you and Ralph rescued him seems to have been one gay and festive experience for a Boston bull pup." "It surely has," concurred Polly. "Snap says he's just wise to everything, and did you ever see anything so absurd as those clown tricks the jackies taught him?" "I think you are all perfectly wonderful people, dogs and horses included," was Rosalie's climax of eulogy, if rather peculiar and comprehensive. "Well, we had one royal good time and we are not likely to forget it either. Peggy, weren't you petrified when you struck 'eight bells' at the hop, for the death of the old year? Goodness, when those lights began to go out, and everybody stopped dancing I felt so queer. And when 'taps' sounded little shivery creeps went all up and down my spine, and you struck eight bells so beautifully! But reveille drove me almost crazy. When the lights flashed on again I didn't know whether I wanted to laugh or cry I was so nervous," was Natalie's reminiscence. "It was the most solemn thing I ever heard and the most beautiful," said Marjorie softly. "It made me homesick, and yet home doesn't mean anything to me; this is the only one I have known since I was eight years old." "Eight years in one place and a school at that!" cried Juno. "Why, I should have done something desperate long before four had passed. Girls, think of being in a school eight years." Juno's tone implied the horrors of the Bastile. "If you had no other, what could you do?" Marjorie's question was asked with a smile which was sadder than tears could have been. Juno shrugged her shoulders, but Polly slipped over to Marjorie's side and with one of Polly's irresistible little mannerisms, laid her arm across her shoulder, as hundreds of times the boys in Bancroft demonstrate their good fellowship for each other. Another girl would probably have kissed her. Polly was not given to kisses. Then she asked: "Won't your father come East this spring for commencement? You said you hoped he would. "I've hoped so every spring, but when he writes he says it takes four whole months to reach Washington from that awful place in the Klondyke. I wish he had never heard of it." "I'm so glad you went to Severndale with us. We must never let her be lonely or homesick again, Peggy." "Not while Severndale has a spare hammock," nodded Peggy. Marjorie was more or less of a mystery to most of the girls, but the greatest of all to Mrs. Vincent to whom she had come the year the school was opened. Mrs. Vincent had more than once said to herself: "Well, I certainly have four oddities to deal with: _Who_ is Marjorie? She is one of the sweetest, most lovable girls I've ever met, but I don't really know a single thing about her. She has come to me from the home of a perfectly reliable Congregational minister, but even he confesses that he knows nothing beyond the fact that she is the daughter of a man lost to civilization in the remotest regions of the Klondyke. He says he believes her mother is dead. Heigho! And Juno? What is likely to become of _her_, poor child? What does become of all the children of divorced parents in this land of divorces? Oh, why can't the parents think of the children they have brought into the world but who did not ask to come? "And Rosalie? What is to become of that little pepper pot with all her loving impulses and self-will? I believe her father has visited her for about one hour in each of the four years she has been here, and I also believe his visits do more harm than good, they seem to enrage the child so. Of course, it is all wounded pride and affection, but who is to correct it? And this year comes Stella, the biggest puzzle of all. Her father? Well, I dare say it is all right, but he sometimes acts more like--" but at this point Mrs. Vincent invariably had paused abruptly and turned her attention to other matters. "Can't the boys ever get leave to visit their friends?" asked Lily Pearl. "I think it is perfectly outrageous to keep them stived up in that horrid place year in and year out for four years with only four months to call their own in one-thousand-four-hundred-and-sixty days!" "Lily's been doing the multiplication table," cried Rosalie. "Well, I counted and I think it's awful--simply awful!" lamented Lily. "I'd give anything to see Charlie Purdy and have another of those ravishing dances. I can just feel his arms about me yet, and the way he snuggles your head up against him and nestles his face down in your hair--m--m--m! Why, his clothes smell so deliciously of cigarette smoke! I can smell it yet!" A howl of laughter greeted this rhapsody from all but Helen, who bridled and protested: "Oh, you girls may laugh, but you had to walk a chalk line under the eyes of a half dozen chaperones every minute. Lily and I got acquainted with our friends." "Well, I hope we did have a chaperone or two," was Polly's retort. She had vivid memories of some of the scenes upon which she and Ralph had inadvertently blundered during the afternoon informals of Christmas week. The auditorium in the academic building where informals are held, has many secluded nooks. Upon one occasion she had run upon Helen and Paul Ring, the former languishing in the latter's arms. Perhaps mamma would not have been so ready to intrust her dear little daughter to Foxy Grandpa's protection had she dreamed of the existence of Mamma Ring and dear Paul. At all this sentimental enthusiasm Stella had looked on indulgently and now laughed outright, "What silly kids you two are," she said. "Well, I don't see that you had such a ravishing time, anyway," cried Helen. "Why, I'm sure Mr. Allyn was as attentive as anyone could be. He was on hand every minute to take me wherever I wanted to go." Stella's expression was quizzical and made Helen furious. "Oh, a paid guide could have done as much I don't doubt." "Father _is_ a little fussy at times, so perhaps it is just as well. You see I should not have been at Severndale at all if he had not been called to Mexico on business. So I'd better be thankful for what fun I did get. But there goes the first bell. Better get down toward the dining-room, girls," laughed Stella good-naturedly, and set the example. A moment later the room was deserted by all but Helen who lingered at the mirror. When the others were on their way down stairs she slipped to Nelly's room and took from her desk a sheet of the monogram paper and an envelope, which Mrs. Harold had given her at Christmas. As she passed her own room she hid them in her desk for future use. After dinner when the evening mail was delivered, Helen received a letter bearing the Annapolis postmark. Nelly had one from her father. As she read it her face wore a peculiar expression. The letter stated that her father was coming to Washington to consult with Shelby concerning a matter of business connected with Severndale's paddock. As Nelly ceased reading she glanced up from her letter to find Peggy watching her narrowly. Peggy had also received a letter from Dr. Llewellyn in which he mentioned the fact that Bolivar felt it advisable to run down to Washington. In an instant the whole situation flashed across Peggy's quick comprehension. During the girl's visit at Severndale Jim Bolivar had never come to the house. Nelly had many times slipped away for quiet little talks with her father in their own cottage and had asked him more than once why he did not come up to the big house to see her, and his reply had invariably been: "Honey, I don't belong there. No, 'tain't no use to argue,--I don't. Your mother would have; she come of quality stock, and what in the Lord's name she ever saw in me I've been, a-guessin' an' a-guessin' for the last eighteen year." "But Dad, Peggy Stewart has never, never made either you or me feel the least shade of difference in our stations. Neither has Polly Howland. They couldn't be lovelier to me, though I know you have never been at Severndale as guests have been there. But it has never seemed to strike me until now. And down at the school the girls are awfully nice to me; at least, most of them are. Those who are patronizing are that way because they are so to everybody. But the really nice girls are lovely, and I am sure they'd never think of being rude to you." "Little girl, listen to your old Dad: There are some things in this world not to be got around. I'm one of 'em. Peggy Stewart and Polly Howland are thoroughbreds an' thoroughbreds ain't capable of no low-down snobbishness. They know their places in the world and there's nothing open to discussion. An' they're too fine-grained to scratch other folks the wrong way. But, some of them girls up yonder are cross-breeds--oh, yes, I've been a-watchin' 'em an' I know,--tain't no use to argue. They kin prance an' cavort an' their coats are sleek an' shinin', but don't count on 'em too much when it comes right down to disposition an' endurance, 'cause they'll disappoint you. I ain't never told you honey, that your mother was a Bladen. Well, she was. Some day I'm going to tell you how she fell in love with a good-lookin' young skalawag by the name o' Jim Bolivar. He comes o' pretty decent stock too, only he hadn't sense enough to stay at St. John's where his dad put him, but had to go rampagin' all over the country till he'd clean forgot any bringin'-up he'd ever had, and landed up as a sort o' bailiff, as they call 'em over in the old country, on an estate down on the eastern shore. Then he met Helen Bladen and 's sure's you live she 'changed the name and not the letter and changed for a heap sight worse 'n the better' when she eloped with me. Thank the Lord she didn't live long enough to see the worst, and you hardly remember her at all. But that's my pretty history,--a no-count, ne'er do well, and if it weren't for Peggy Stewart, God bless her! you'd a been lyin' 'long side o' yo' ma out yonder this minute, for all I'd ever a-done to keep you here, I reckon, much less give you the education you're a-gettin' now. No, honey, I won't go up to the great house. If I'd a-done right when I was a boy I'd be sittin' right up there with the rest o' that bunch o' people this minute. But I was bound to have my fling, and sow my wild oats and now I can have the pleasure of harvestin' my crop. It ought to be thistles, for if ever there was a jackass that same was Jim Bolivar." Nelly had listened to the pitiful tale without comment, but when it ended she placed her arms about her father's neck and sobbed softly. She had never mentioned this little talk to anyone, but it was seldom far from her thoughts, and now her father was coming to Washington. Peggy slipped her arm about her and asked: "What makes you look so sober, Nellibus?" "Because I'm a silly, over-sensitive goose, I dare say." Peggy looked puzzled. Nelly handed her her father's letter. Peggy read it, then turned to look straight into Nelly's eyes, her own growing dark as she raised her head in the proud little poise which made her so like her mother's portrait. "When he comes I think matters will adjust themselves," was all she said. The following Friday afternoon Jim Bolivar was ushered into the pretty little reception room by Horatio Hannibal, who went in quest of Nelly. As she had no idea of the hour her father would arrive, she was preparing to go for a ride with a number of the girls, for the day was a heavenly one; a late March spring day in Washington. "Miss Bol'var, yo' pa in de 'ception room waitin' fo' to see yo', Miss," announced Horatio. "I'll go right down. Sorry I can't go with you, girls." "May we come and see him just a minute before we start!" asked Peggy quickly, while Polly came eagerly to her side. "Of course you may. Dad will love to see you," was Nelly's warm response. "We won't keep you waiting long, girls," said Peggy, "we'll join you at the porte cochere." Arrayed in their habits, Peggy, Polly and Nelly hurried away. "Wonder what he looks like," said Juno idly as she drew on her gauntlets. "Bet he's nice if he's anything like Nelly," said Rosalie. "Isn't it funny you girls never saw him while you were at Severndale?" said Lily Pearl. "Perhaps he's not the kind Nelly Bolivar cares to have seen," was Helen's amiable remark, accompanied by a shrug and a knowing look. "Why, what do you mean, Helen?" asked Natalie with some spirit. "Just what I say. _I_ believe Nelly Bolivar is as poor as Job's turkey and that Peggy Stewart pays all 'her expenses here. And I know she wears Peggy's cast-off clothes. I saw Peggy's name in one of her coats. You know Peggy has her name and the maker's woven right into the linings. Just you wait and see what her father looks like and then see if I'm far wrong." "Why, she's nothing better than a charity pupil if that's true," sneered Lily Pearl, who never failed to follow Helen's lead. "If Mrs. Vincent opens her school to such girls I think it would be well for our parents to investigate the matter," was Isabel's superior criticism. "Yes, you'd better. Mother would be delighted to have an extra room or two; she has so many applicants all the time," flashed Natalie, her cheeks blazing. "Children, children, don't grow excited. Wait until you find out what you're fuming about," said Stella in the tone which always made them feel like kids, Rosalie insisted. "And come on down. The horses have been waiting twenty minutes already and Mrs. Vincent will have a word or two to say to us if we don't watch out." As they crossed the hall to the porte cochere, Peggy, Polly and Nelly came from the reception room, Mr. Bolivar with them. The lively curiosity upon the girls' faces was rather amusing. Juno favored him with a well-cultivated Fifth Avenue stare. Helen's nose took a higher tilt if possible. Lily Pearl giggled as usual. Stella smiled at the girls and said: "Glad you're coming with us." Isabel murmured "Horrors!" under her breath and waddled with what she believed to be dignity toward the door. Marjorie only smiled, but Rosalie and Natalie stopped, the former crying impulsively: "Introduce your father to us, Nelly; we want to know him." The man the girls looked upon had changed a good deal from the despondent Jim Bolivar whom Peggy had seen sitting upon the upturned box in Market Square so long ago. Prosperity and resultant comforts had done a good deal for the despairing man. There were still some traces of the handsome Jim Bolivar with whom pretty, romantic Helen Bladen had eloped, though the intermediate years of sorrow and misfortune had changed that dapper young beau into a careless, hopeless pessimist. What the end might have been but for Peggy is hard to guess, but the past two years had made him think and think hard too. Though still slipshod of speech as the result of associating with his humbler neighbors, he was certainly making good, and few lapses occurred as he shook hands with Nelly's friends and then went out to help them mount. In his dark gray suit, Alpine hat and his gray gloves, something of the gentleman which was in him became evident. He helped each girl upon her horse, greeted Junius Augustus, patted Shashai, Star and Tzaritza; deplored poor Columbine's shorn glories, smiled an odd smile at Isabel's bulky figure upon the more bulky Senator, then said: "I'll see you when you come back, honey. I've got to have a talk with Shelby. Some things is--are--bothering me back yonder. Have a fine gallop. It's a prime day for it. Good-bye, young ladies," and raising his hat with something of the gallantry of the old Bolivar he followed Junius toward the stables. That night Mrs. Vincent asked him to dine with her, but he declined on the score of an engagement with a friend. He and Shelby dined in Washington and during that meal he made just one allusion to Nelly and her surroundings. "It's all very well for a man to make a plumb fool of himself and waste his life if he's a-mind to, but he ain't got any business to drag other folks along with him. If I hadn't a-been a fool among fools I might a-been sittin' beside my little girl this minute, and not be scared to either, Shelby. My dad used to say something about 'man being his own star,' I don't recollect it all, but I know it meant he could be one of the first magnet if he'd a mind to. I set out to be a comet, I reckon, all hot air tail, and there isn't much of me left worth looking at." "How old are you!" "Forty-four." "Well, you've got twenty-five years to the good yet. Now get busy for the little girl's sake." "Shake," cried Jim Bolivar, extending his hand across the table. Meanwhile back yonder at the school, Friday night being "home letters night" the girls were all busily writing, but Helen kept the monogram upon her paper carefully concealed. [Illustration] CHAPTER XVI A MIDNIGHT SENSATION But two weeks remained of the spring term. School would close on May twenty-eighth. Already Washington had become insufferably warm, and even Columbia Heights School situated upon its hill, was very trying. The girls were almost too inert to work and spent every possible moment out of doors. The moment school ended Peggy, Polly and Nelly would go back to Annapolis and Rosalie was to go with, them as Peggy's guest for a month. Mrs. Harold had invited Marjorie, Natalie, and Juno to be Polly's guests for June week under the joint chaperonage of herself and Mrs. Howland, after which plans were being laid for the entire party to go to Provincetown with "all the Howland outfit," as Captain Stewart and Mr. Harold phrased it, there to live in a bungalow as long as the Atlantic fleet made that jumping-off place its rendezvous. It bid fair to be a tremendous house party, though the lads whom the girls had grown to know best would not be there. The practice squadron was going to Europe this summer. However, "the old guard" as Happy, Wheedles and Shortie, as well as dozens of others from earlier classes were called, would be there and things were sure to be lively. But all this lies in the future. Helen and Lily Pearl had been invited to Annapolis for June week, by Mrs. Ring, and were to go to the June ball with dear Paul and Charles Purdy. They had not been asked to dance the German since they had made no special friends among the first classmen. Peggy and Polly were to dance it, one with Dick Allyn, the other with his room-mate, Calhoun Byrd, who, in Bancroft's vernacular "spooned on Ralph" and had always considered Polly "a clipper." Juno was to go with Guy Bennett, Nelly, Rosalie, Marjorie and Natalie had, alack! to look on from the gallery, escorted by second-classmen. But now of immediate happenings at Columbia Heights School. It had been arranged that Shelby should take Shashai, Star and Tzaritza back to Severndale on the twenty-second, as it was now far too warm to ride in Washington. Moreover, Shelby's engagement with Mrs. Vincent expired May fifteenth and he was anxious to get back to Severndale. Then at the last moment, Mrs. Vincent decided to send all the saddle horses to Severndale for the summer months and keep only the carriage horses and the white groom at the school. So Shelby wrote Jim Bolivar that "he'd better come along down and get on the job too." Consequently, about a week after the girl's visit to Annapolis and Rosalie's escapade, Jim Bolivar arrived at the school and took up his quarters in the pretty little cottage provided for Shelby. He expected to spend about two days helping to get matters closed up for the summer, then start on with Junius Augustus in charge of Columbine, Lady Belle, the Senator, and Jack-o'-Lantern, Shelby following a day later with Shashai, Star, Madame Goldie and Old Duke. So far so good out in the stables. Within the school Nelly was learning the difference between being the daughter of patrician blood come upon misfortune, and cheerfully making the best of things, and some extremely plebeian blood slopped unexpectedly into fortune, and trying to forget its origin. Had not Nelly possessed such loyal old friends as Peggy and Polly, and made such stanch new ones as Rosalie, Natalie, Stella and Marjorie, her position might have been a very trying one. And now only eight days remained before vacation would begin. Already the girls were in a flutter for June week at Annapolis. Would it be fair? Would it be scorching hot? Would there be moon-light nights? "There'll be moon-light if the old lady has half a chance to show herself," said Polly's assured voice and nod. "We had a new moon on the eighteenth," said Peggy. "That means brim-full in June week, and, oh, girls, won't it be fairy land! How I wish, though, you were all to dance the German. I can't help feeling selfish to leave you out of that fun." "You aren't leaving us out. We understand that even the Little Mother can't ask her boys to take a girl to the German! But we aren't likely to pine away with all the other fun afoot," cried Natalie gaily, doing a pirouette across the room just by way of relieving pent-up anticipation. "Helen said she might be invited to dance the German after all. Dear Paul's Mamma has a grease with a first classman," laughed Rosalie. "When I see her on the floor I'll believe it," said Juno. "Where is Helen tonight?" asked Marjorie. "Up in her room. Lily has a sick headache and she went up with her. Guess that cousin of Helen's who came down from Baltimore, Foxy Grandpa's daughter, or niece, or something, I believe, and spent this afternoon with her, gave those girls too many chocolates. Wasn't she the limit? And big? Well, I'll wager that woman was six feet tall, and she was made up perfectly outrageously. Her skin was fair enough, and her color lovely and I never saw such teeth, if they weren't store ones, but there was something about the lower part of her face that looked queer. Did you notice it, girls?" asked Polly. "I did. There was such a funny dull tinge, like a man who had just been shaved," commented Rosalie, with a puzzled frown. "Her voice struck me funniest. Do you remember Fräulein Shultz who was here the first year school opened, Marjorie?" asked Natalie. "Yes, we used to call her Herr Shultz. Such a voice you never heard, girls!" "Well, this cousin's was exactly like Herr Shultz." "Her clothes were the climax with me. I believe she must have been on the stage sometime. Oh, yes, they were up-to-date enough, but, so sort of--of--tawdry," criticised Juno. "Do you know, she reminded me of somebody I know but who it is I just can't think," and Peggy puckered her forehead into wrinkles. "Oh!" cried Nelly, then stopped short. "What's the matter? Sat on a pin?" asked Rosalie, laughing. "Something made me jump," answered Nelly, pulling her skirt as though in search of the pin Rosalie had suggested. Then in a moment she said: "Reckon I'll go in, girls, I've got to send a note home by father and he starts pretty soon." "Why do they start at night?" asked Juno. "Cooler traveling for the horses. They leave here about eight, travel about nine miles an hour, for two hours, stop at ---- for the night, start again at seven in the morning, and will reach Severndale by ten o'clock at latest. It seems like a long trip, but that makes it an easy one. Shelby will start tomorrow or next day. And won't all those horses have the time of their lives! I am so glad that they're to be there," explained Peggy. "So is mother, Peggy Stewart," cried Natalie. Meanwhile Nelly had gone to her room. It was next Helen's and Lily's. On beyond was Stella's sitting-room. Nelly roomed with a girl who had been called home by illness in her family. Consequently Nelly now had the room to herself. She wrote her note and then went to find Mrs. Vincent to ask permission to run out to the stables to give it to her father. As she passed Helen's and Lily's door she heard them whispering together and also heard a deeper voice. Whose could it be? It was so unusual that she paused a moment in the dimly lighted hall. She did not mean to be an eavesdropper, but she thought all the girls from the west wing were down on the terrace where she had left them that perfect May night. They had gone out there immediately dinner ended, for study hour had lately been held from five to seven on account of the warm evenings, Mrs. Vincent objecting to the lights which made the house almost suffocating. Presently the deep-voiced whisper was heard again. Nelly started as though from an electric shock. Had Helen's cousin returned, but when? And that whisper was a revelation. Then she went on her way. Consent was promptly given and Nelly ran across the shadow-laden lawn to the stables. She found her father, Shelby and the men just preparing to set forth. Her father was to ride the Senator to set the pace. Junius rode Jack-o'-Lantern. Columbine and Lady Belle were to be led. As Nelly drew near, Columbine neighed a welcome. "What's brought you down here, honey?" asked Bolivar. "I was going to stop at the house to say good-bye." "I wanted to see you alone a minute, daddy." "Go 'long for a little private confab with her, Bolivar. All right, Nelly, no hurry," said Shelby genially. The thin sickle of the new moon cast very little light as Nelly and her father walked a short distance down the path, Nelly, talking earnestly in a low voice. When she ceased Bolivar said: "Oh, you must be mistaken, Nelly, why, I never heard of such a fool stunt; yet that kid's capable of most any, I understand. Of course, I'll take the hint and watch out, but just like you say, it's better to keep it dark. It'd only stir up a terrible talk and make Mrs. Vincent's school,--well; she don't want that sort of thing happening. Run 'long back and keep your eyes open. Shall I say anything to Shelby?" "Not a word, daddy! Not one word! Just get him out of the way if you can." "That's easy. He's going to ride into the city when I start and none of the boys sleep in the stable. I kind of suspicion your plan but I won't ask no more questions." At eight-thirty the first "batch o' beasties" "shoved off." The girls ran down the driveway to bid them good-bye and the horses seemed to understand it all perfectly. Then Bolivar and his charges, accompanied by Shelby, set forth upon their ways. It was a wonderful, star-sprinkled night, though the moon had sunk below the horizon. When they had gone a little way Shelby bade them good-bye and good-luck and turned into the broad boulevard leading into Washington. Bolivar followed the quieter road on the outskirts of the city. Presently he said to Junius: "Land o' love, I'd as soon ride an elephant as this horse. His back's as broad. Hold on a minute, I'm going to shift my saddle to Columbine. I know her and she knows me, don't you, old girl?" "She's de quality, sure," agreed Junius. "This is something like," sighed Bolivar, falling easily into Columbine's smooth fox-trot. They had gone perhaps a mile when Bolivar suddenly clapped his hand to his breast-pocket and pulled up short. "What done happen, Mr. Bol'var?" asked Junius. "I'm seven kinds of a fool. Left my wallet in that old coat Shelby let me wear round the stable! Now that's the limit, ain't it? I got to go back. Ain't got a cent with me. You ride on slow and stop at the Pine Cliff Inn up the road a-piece, and wait there till I come. Columbine's fresh as a daisy and the three miles or so will be just a warm-up for her this night. Now wait there. Don't budge a step till I come." "I'll do like you say." Jim Bolivar started back slowly, but once beyond Junius' sight gave Columbine the rein and was soon within a quarter of a mile of Columbia Heights School. Meanwhile, in that usually well-ordered establishment some startling events were taking place. When Nelly left her father she stopped on the terrace to talk a few minutes with the girls. It was then after nine o'clock but during these long, sultry evenings Mrs. Vincent allowed the girls to remain upon the terrace until ten. Examinations were over, there was no further academic work to be done and most of the preparations for commencement were completed. Indeed, most of the little girls had already left, and several of the older ones also. A general exodus takes place from Washington early in May and the schools close early. "Whow, I'm sleepy tonight," laughed Nelly, suppressing a yawn. "Reckon I'll go upstairs. Good-night, everybody." "You'll smother and roast if you go to bed so early, Nell. Stay here with us," cried Polly, catching Nelly's skirt and trying to pull her down beside her. "Can't. I'd drop asleep right on the terrace," and turning Nelly ran in-doors. Once in her room she speedily shifted into her linen riding suit, then slipping down the back stairs, sped across the dark lawn to the stables. They were dark and silent. Not a soul was in Shelby's cottage where the stable key was kept and a moment later Nelly had taken it from its hook and was at the stable door. A bubble of nickers, or the soft munching of feeding horses, fell upon her ears. Star knew her voice as well as Polly's and Peggy's. Nelly went straight to Star's stall. In less time than it takes to tell it she had him saddled, bridled and led softly out upon the lawn. Keeping within the shadows of the trees she led him to a thick pine grove and taking his velvety muzzle in her hands planted a kiss upon it as she whispered: "Now stand stock still and don't make a sound. I may need you and I may not. If I do it will be in a hurry and you will have to make time." Then she slipped back into the house. But we must go back to the invalid, Lily Pearl, and her devoted attendant in the west wing. Also the cousin. Ten minutes after Nelly had left her room to carry her note to her father, Helen went to Mrs. Vincent's study. "Oh, Mrs. Vincent, cousin Pauline came back to see if she had left her engagement ring in my room. She did not miss it until she got back to her friends' house and then she was frightened nearly to death and came all the way back here." "Couldn't she have telephoned? "I suppose so, but she never takes it off except to wash her hands. She left it on my dresser. She is going back now. May I walk to the gate with her?" "Yes, but come directly back, Helen. How is Lily?" "She's just fallen asleep. Thank you, Mrs. Vincent." A few moments later Helen and her cousin left the house but not by the door giving upon the terrace. The side door answered far better. Then slipping around the house they paused beneath Stella's balcony and the cousin gave a low whistle. Instantly, Lily Pearl's head was bobbed up over the railing and she whispered: "Oh, take it quick! I hear Peggy's voice down in the hall!" and a suitcase was lowered from the balcony, the cousin's strong right arm grasped it, as the cousin's deep voice said: "You're a dead game sport, Lil. You bet we'll remember this." But Lil did not wait to hear more. She fled to her room pell mell, not aware that in her flight she had overturned a tiny fairy night-lamp which Stella always kept burning in her room at night. Quickly undressing, Lily dove into bed and drawing the covers over her head was instantly sound asleep. The voice which had alarmed her soon died away as Peggy rejoined her friends upon the terrace. Helen and the cousin had meanwhile reached the gate and also a cab which waited there, and were soon bowling along toward Washington. And what of Nelly? As she was returning to the house she caught sight of the two figures hurrying toward the main gate. Back she sped to Star, and mounting him, rode along the soft turf as silently as a shadow, until she saw the two figures enter the cab. For a moment she was baffled. What could she do alone? She knew it would be worse than senseless to attempt to stop the runaways unaided. She must have help. Yet if she lost sight of them what might not take place? She had long since recognized Paul Ring in spite of his make-up. She had seen him too many times in the Masquerader's Shows at Annapolis. For a short time she flitted behind the cab like an avenging shadow. It would never do to let Helen make such an idiot of herself, and bring notoriety upon the school where Peggy and Polly were pupils, or so humiliate Mrs. Vincent and Natalie. Nelly did some quick thinking. There was but one road for the elopers to follow. Her father, to whom she had confided her suspicions and begged him to aid her, must be on his way back by this time. Wheeling Star she shot back as she had come, and making a wide detour around Columbia Heights School, put Star to his best paces. Half a mile beyond the school she met her father coming at a fairly good clip. Ten words were enough. "Thank the Lord we're riding Empress stock!" ejaculated Bolivar as he and Peggy gave the two beautiful creatures their heads and they settled into the long, low stride which seems never to tire, muscles working swiftly and smoothly as the machinery of a battleship, heads thrust forward, nostrils wide and breathing deep breaths to the rhythmic heart-throbs. But the runaways had a good start. Presently Bolivar said: "If Shelby has ridden easy he's somewheres ahead on that selfsame road." "Oh, dad, if he only is!" "Well, by the god Billiken he is! Look yonder." A more dumbfounded man than Shelby it would have been hard to overtake. "Had he seen the cab?" "Certain. It was hiking along ahead. Passed him just a little time before, the horse a-lather. Wondered who the fools were." "Well, you know now. How far ahead do you reckon they are?" "Quarter mile beyond that turn if the horse ain't fell dead. Let me break away, overhaul them and then you two come in at the death," he laughed. Shelby was riding Shashai, and at his word a black streak passed out of sight around the bend of the boulevard. Star and Columbine chafed to follow, but their riders held them back for a time. True enough, as Shelby had said, the cab was still pounding along toward Washington, though the poor horse was nearly done up. Shelby came abreast the poor panting beast, leaned quietly over, caught the bridle and cried, "Whoa!" The horse was only too delighted to oblige him. Not so "Cabby." With wrath and ire he rose to mete out justice to this highwayman. Had the butt of his whip hit Shelby he would have seen more stars than twinkled overhead. But it didn't. It was caught in one hand, given a dexterous twist and sent flying into the road as Shelby said in his quiet drawl: "Don't get excited. At least, don't let _me_ excite you. I ain't got nothing against you, but you can't take those 'slopers no further this night." "'Lopers nothin'! Me fares is two ladies on their ways to the Willard. 'Tis a niece and aunt they are." "Say, you're easy. I thought you fellows wise to most any game. Niece and aunt! Shucks! Come 'long out aunt, or Cousin Pauline, or whatever you are, and you, Miss Doolittle, just don't do nothin' but live up to that name you've got. Lord, whoever named you knew his or her business all right, all right! Here come Bolivar and his daughter to bear a hand. Now don't set out to screech and carry on, 'cause if you do you'll make more trouble and it looks like you'd made a-plenty a-ready. And you shut up!" cried Shelby, now thoroughly roused, as Paul Ring, his disguise removed and stowed in his suitcase blustered from the cab. "Quit! or I'll crack you're addle-pated head for you, you young fool. Do you know what it will mean if I report you at Annapolis? Well, unless you make tracks for Bancroft P. D. Q.--that means pretty decidedly quick, Nelly,--you're going to get all that is comin' to you with compound interest. Beat it while your shoes are good. We'll escort your girl back to home and friends. Nelly, get into that cab. Cabby, these are two school girls and this man is this one's father. Now go about and head for the home port. No rowing. Yes, you'll get paid all right, all right. I'll stand for the damage and so will Bolivar here. But are _you_ going to dust?" the last words were addressed to Paul Ring to whom Helen was clinging and imploring him not to leave her. But, alas! It was four to one, for cabby's wrath was now centered upon "that hully show of a bloomin' auntie." Amidst violent protests upon Helen's part, Nelly entered the cab. She would "not go back!" And she would "go with dear Paul!" Her heart was breaking. Nelly Bolivar was "a good-for-nothing, common tattle-tale and the whole school probably knew all about her elopement already," etc., etc. Nelly tried to assure her that no one suspected a thing. Mr. Bolivar corroborated that statement, but Helen continued to sob and berate Nelly till finally Shelby's deep voice cried: "Halt, cabby!" Then dismounting he opened the cab door, took Helen by the arm and shook her soundly, then thundered: "If you was a boy I'd yank you out o' that cab and whale you well, for that's what you rate. Since you're a fool-girl I can't. Now stop that hullabaloo instanter. We'll get you back to the school and nobody'll know a thing if you keep your senses. Nelly here ain't anxious to have that school and her friends figurin' in the newspapers. Now you mind what I'm tellin' you. I've stood for all the nonsense I'm going to, and I promise to get you home without you're being missed, but if you let out another peep I'll march you straight to the Admiral's office, and don't you doubt my word for a single minute." Then Shelby remounted Shashai, and leading Star, the odd procession started back, Shelby cudgeling his brain to devise a way of getting the romantic maiden in as secretly as he had promised. He need not have worried about that. The inmates of Columbia Heights were meantime having lively experiences of their own. CHAPTER XVII A SEND-OFF WITH FIREWORKS When Lily Pearl fled from Stella's room leaving the overturned fairy lamp to bring about the climax of that evening, her one thought was to get to bed, and hardly had she tumbled into it than sleep brought oblivion of all else. Lily Pearl was a somnolent soul in many senses. Mrs. Vincent was busy in her study at the other end of the house. Miss Sturgis was dining with friends. Fräulein, who was a romantic creature, was seated under a huge copper beech tree entertaining a Herr Professor straight from the Vaterland. The other teachers were either out or in their rooms in other parts of the building, and the servants had drifted out through the rear grounds. Consequently, the fairy lamp had things pretty much its own way and it embraced its opportunity. What prompted Polly to go upstairs just at that crisis she could never have told, but she did, and a second later Peggy followed her. The moment the girls reached their corridor the odor of smoke assailed their nostrils. For an instant they stopped and looked at each other, then Peggy cried: "Polly, something's afire. Quick, the bugle call!" Polly bounded forward and, as upon another occasion back in Montgentian she had roused the neighborhood and saved the situation, now she sounded her bugle call, but this time it was "fire call," not "warning." Clear, high and sharp the notes rang through the house. Mrs. Vincent down in her study sprang to her feet. The teachers rushed to their posts, the girls ran in from the terrace. Well for Columbia Heights School that Polly had taught them the different calls and that she and Peggy had begged Mrs. Vincent to let the girls learn the fire drill as the boys in Bancroft did it. Not far off was a fire engine house and the members of the company had more than once come to see the two girls put their schoolmates through their drill. It was all a grand frolic then, for none believed it would ever be put to practical use. But the fire chief had nodded wisely and said to Mrs. Vincent: "Those two young girls have long heads. It may all be a pretty show-down now, but some day you may find it come in handy." It came in very handy this time. In two minutes an alarm was turned in and the engines were tearing toward Columbia Heights. The girls had rushed to their rooms, scrambled what they could into blankets, and ran downstairs with their burdens. At least many of them had. All the fire drills in the world will not keep some people's heads upon their shoulders in a crisis. Roused from sleep by the bugle, Lily Pearl, uttering shriek upon shriek, plunged her feet into a pair of pink satin slippers newly bought for commencement, caught up and pinned upon her head the new hat, of which Rosalie had said: "Well, of all the lids! Lily, did the milliner put the trimming on the box and forget to send home the hat?" Then grabbing her fur coat from the closet she ran screaming down to the lawn, certainly somewhat promiscuous as to raiment, for her nightie was an airy affair and she carried her coat over her arm. But the stately Juno was one of the most amusing objects. She carefully put on a pair of evening gloves and took a lace pocket handkerchief from her bureau drawer. That was all she even attempted to save. It was well for the school that Polly and Peggy had kept their wits. All were soon out of the building and the firemen battling bravely to confine the fire to the west wing, but poor Stella's room was surely doomed, for what smoke and flames might possibly spare water would certainly ruin. In the midst of the uproar Shelby, Bolivar, Nelly and Helen came upon the scene. "Good Lord Almighty! Look out for the girls, Bolivar. Guess they'll have no trouble gettin' in unnoticed now," cried Shelby, and sent Shashai speeding to the stables. Bolivar paused only long enough to hand cabby a ten-dollar bill and cry: "Clear out quick and keep your mouth shut too!" Then he hurried the terrified girls to the lawn where dozens of other girls were huddled, and nobody asked any questions about the suitcase. Nor did anyone think to ask how Bolivar and Shelby happened to be there when they were supposed to be miles away. Many details were quite overlooked that night, which was a fortunate circumstance for Miss Helen Doolittle, and her hard-hit midshipman, who had "frenched" out of Bancroft not only with mamma's knowledge, but with her coöperation. To have formed an alliance with Foxy Grandpa's niece and clinched that end of the scheme of things would have been one step in the direction of securing an ample income, and once that lover's knot was tied, Helen was to be whisked back to the school and the secret kept. Mamma was at the Willard waiting for "those darling children" to come, and when, much later than he was expected, "dear Paul" arrived alone and in a greatly perturbed state of mind, mother and son had considerable food for thought until the midnight car carried them back to Annapolis, where Paul "clomb" the wall at the water's edge and "snoke" into quarters (in Bancroft's vernacular) in the wee, sma' hours, a weary, disgusted and unamiable youth. Perhaps had he suspected what was happening back at Columbia Heights his prompt oblivion in slumber would not have taken place, though Paul was a philosopher in his way. Helen was with friends and "she'd knock off crying when she found she had to; all girls did." Selah! But during all this time things had not been moving so tranquilly at Columbia Heights. Given over a hundred girls, and a seething furnace of a building in which the belongings of a good many of them were being rapidly reduced to ashes, for the whole west wing was certainly doomed, and one is likely to witness some stirring scenes. The firemen worked like gnomes in the murk and smoke, and Shelby and Bolivar seemed to be everywhere, saving everything possible to save, with many willing hands from the neighborhood to help them. And some funny enough rescues were made. Sofa pillows were carried tenderly down two flights of stairs and deposited in places of safety upon the lawn by some conscientious mortal, while his co-worker heaved valuable cut glass from a third-story window, or pitched one of the girls' writing desks into the upstretched arms of a twelve-year-old boy who happened to stand beneath. Mrs. Vincent was everywhere at once, keeping her girls from harm's way, and the other teachers kept their heads and coöperated with her. At least all but one did, and she was the one upon whom Mrs. Vincent would have counted most surely. When the fire was raging most fiercely Miss Sturgis returned from her visit and a moment later rushed away from the group of girls supposed to be under her especial charge, and disappeared within the house in spite of the firemen's orders that all should stand clear. The girls screamed and called after her but their voices were drowned in the uproar, and none knew that the incentive which spurred the half-frantic woman on was the photograph of the professor with whom she had gone automobiling the day of the fly-paper episode. Poor Miss Sturgis. Her first and only hint of a romance came pretty near proving her last. Straight to her room in the west wing she rushed, stumbling over hose lines, battling against the stifling clouds of smoke which rolled down the corridor. The room was gained, the picture secured, and she turned to make good her escape, all other valuables forgotten. But even in that brief moment the smoke had become overpowering. Her room was dense. For a moment she sought for the door, growing more and more confused and stifled, then with a despairing moan she fell senseless. Luckily the flames were eating their relentless way in the other direction, the firemen fighting them inch by inch until they felt that they were winning the battle. Meantime, down upon the lawn, the girls had found Mrs. Vincent and told her of Miss Sturgis' folly. She was beside herself with alarm. Men were sent in every direction to find her, but none for a moment suspected her of the utter fool-hardiness of returning to her own room in the blazing wing. But there was one person who did think of that possibility and she quickly imparted her fears to one other. "She never would," cried Polly. "She had something there she wanted to save. I don't know what, but she was so excited that she acted just like a crazy person, wringing her hands and crying just before she ran back; I saw her go. Wait! Tzaritza, find Miss Sturgis," said Peggy into the ears of the splendid hound who had never for a single moment left her side, and who had more than once caught hold of her skirts to draw her backward when a sudden volume of smoke or sparks shot upward. For a moment the noble beast hesitated. Little had Miss Sturgis ever done to win Tzaritza's love and in her dog mind duty lay here. But the dear mistress' voice repeated the order and with a low bark of intelligence Tzaritza tore away into the burning building. "Oh, call her back! Call her back! She will be burned to death" cried a dozen voices. Polly dropped upon the lawn and began to sob as though her heart would break. Peggy never moved, but with hands clinched, lips set and the look in her eyes of one who has sacrificed something inexpressibly dear she stood listening and waiting. When she felt most deeply Peggy became absolutely dumb. Those minutes seemed like hours, then through an upper window giving on the piazza roof scrambled a singed, smoke-begrimed, and uncanny figure, dragging, tugging, and hauling with her a limp, unconscious woman. She made the sill, hauled her burden over to safety, then lifting it bodily carried it to the roof's edge, where putting it carefully beyond the volume of smoke now pouring from the window, she threw up her head and emitted howl upon howl for aid. It was Shelby who heard and recognized that deep bay, who rushed with a ladder to the spot, and scrambling up like a monkey, caught up Miss Sturgis' seemingly lifeless form and carried her down the ladder, where a dozen willing hands waited to receive her, while Tzaritza's barks testified to her joy. Then back Shelby fled for the faithful creature, but just as he reached the roof a sheet of flame darted out of the window and enveloped her. In a second the exquisite silky coat was a-blaze, and poor Tzaritza's joyous barks became cries of agony. "Quick, somebody down there hand me one of those blankets!" shouted Shelby. Ere the words had left his lips a little figure scrambled up the ladder, a blanket in her arms. Polly had seen all and had not waited for orders. Gym work back in Annapolis stood in good stead at that moment. Shelby flung the blanket about Tzaritza's sizzling fur, smothered out the flame, then by some herculean mustering of strength, caught the huge dog in his arms and crawled step by step down the ladder from which Polly had quickly scrambled. A dozen hands lent aid and poor burned Tzaritza was carried to the stables, Peggy and Polly close beside her. Others could now care for Miss Sturgis, who, indeed, was little the worse for her folly, while Tzaritza, the lovely coat quite gone, was moaning from her burns. "Hear, Jim, you stay here and don't you leave Miss Peggy or that dog for a minute. Now mind what I tell you," he ordered. Peggy knew exactly what to do. It was the Peggy Stewart of Severndale who worked over the suffering dog, bandaging, bathing, soothing, and Tzaritza's eyes spoke her gratitude. Several of the girls ran out to offer help or sympathy, and their tears testified to their love for Tzaritza. It was dawn before the excitement subsided, and the firemen had withdrawn, leaving one on guard against the possibility of a fresh outbreak. And that west wing and its contents? Well, let us draw a curtain, heavier even than the smoke which, so lately poured from it. Some things were saved--yes--but the commencement gowns, essays, and all which figures in Commencement Day were fluttering about in little black flakes. There would be no Commencement for Columbia Heights School this year! A telephone message brought Mrs. Harold and Mrs. Howland upon the scene before many hours, as well as a good many other interested parents. True, a large insurance covered most of the valuables and the building also, but a house after such a catastrophe is hardly prepared to hold a function, so it was unanimously agreed that the girls should all go quietly away as quickly as those whose belongings had been saved could pack them. Mrs. Harold and Mrs. Howland remained over night and on the twenty-fourth instead of the twenty-eighth escorted a nondescript sort of party up to Severndale, for wearing apparel had to be indiscriminately borrowed and lent. Helen's anxious mamma took her to Philadelphia, where June week's joys were not. Lily Pearl's parents wired her to come home at once, and Lily departed for the south-land, June week's joys lamented also. Stella's father came in instant response to her telegram and though the one to suffer the heaviest losses, made light of them and asked Stella if she couldn't tear herself from Columbia Heights without such an expensive celebration. _Is_-a-bel, who had really lost very little, was inconsolable because her "essay," to be read at Commencement, had been burned up, and departed for the Hub, still lugubrious. Mrs. Vincent asked Shelby to remain a few days longer, which he willingly did. Bolivar had gone on to look up Junius and his charges as soon as he could leave the school. Peggy insisted upon Mrs. Vincent coming to Severndale for the month when it was finally agreed that the earlier plans should hold, Juno and Natalie extending their visit. So back went the merry party to Annapolis to participate in all the delights of June week, and all which can crowd into it. So ho! for Severndale! Tzaritza conveyed there an interesting, though shorn convalescent, the horses seeming to sniff Round Bay from afar, Polly wild to see her old friends, and Peggy eager to greet those who were so much a part of her life in her lovely home. And Nelly? Well, no one has ever learned of her night ride, though Helen's peace of mind is not quite complete. Printed in the United States of America. 
2898	----	Library Of St. Gregory's University, and Alev Akman PIONEERS OF THE OLD SOUTH A CHRONICLE OF ENGLISH COLONIAL BEGINNINGS By Mary Johnston CONTENTS I. THE THREE SHIPS SAIL II. THE ADVENTURERS III. JAMESTOWN IV. JOHN SMITH V. THE SEA ADVENTURE VI. SIR THOMAS DALE VII. YOUNG VIRGINIA VIII. ROYAL GOVERNMENT IX. MARYLAND X. CHURCH AND KINGDOM XI. COMMONWEALTH AND RESTORATION XII. NATHANIEL BACON XIII. REBELLION AND CHANGE XIV. THE CAROLINAS XV. ALEXANDER SPOTSWOOD XVI. GEORGIA THE NAVIGATION LAWS BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE PIONEERS OF THE OLD SOUTH CHAPTER I. THE THREE SHIPS SAIL Elizabeth of England died in 1603. There came to the English throne James Stuart, King of Scotland, King now of England and Scotland. In 1604 a treaty of peace ended the long war with Spain. Gone was the sixteenth century; here, though in childhood, was the seventeenth century. Now that the wars were over, old colonization schemes were revived in the English mind. Of the motives, which in the first instance had prompted these schemes, some with the passing of time had become weaker, some remained quite as strong as before. Most Englishmen and women knew now that Spain had clay feet; and that Rome, though she might threaten, could not always perform what she threatened. To abase the pride of Spain, to make harbors of refuge for the angel of the Reformation--these wishes, though they had not vanished, though no man could know how long the peace with Spain would last, were less fervid than they had been in the days of Drake. But the old desire for trade remained as strong as ever. It would be a great boon to have English markets in the New World, as well as in the Old, to which merchants might send their wares, and from which might be drawn in bulk, the raw stuffs that were needed at home. The idea of a surplus population persisted; England of five million souls still thought that she was crowded and that it would be well to have a land of younger sons, a land of promise for all not abundantly provided for at home. It were surely well, for mere pride's sake, to have due lot and part in the great New World! And wealth like that which Spain had found was a dazzle and a lure. "Why, man, all their dripping-pans are pure gold, and all the chains with which they chain up their streets are massy gold; all the prisoners they take are fettered in gold; and for rubies and diamonds they go forth on holidays and gather 'em by the seashore!" So the comedy of "Eastward Ho!" seen on the London stage in 1605--"Eastward Ho!" because yet they thought of America as on the road around to China. In this year Captain George Weymouth sailed across the sea and spent a summer month in North Virginia--later, New England. Weymouth had powerful backers, and with him sailed old adventurers who had been with Raleigh. Coming home to England with five Indians in his company, Weymouth and his voyage gave to public interest the needed fillip towards action. Here was the peace with Spain, and here was the new interest in Virginia. "Go to!" said Mother England. "It is time to place our children in the world!" The old adventurers of the day of Sir Humphrey Gilbert had acted as individuals. Soon was to come in the idea of cooperative action--the idea of the joint-stock company, acting under the open permission of the Crown, attended by the interest and favor of numbers of the people, and giving to private initiative and personal ambition, a public tone. Some men of foresight would have had Crown and Country themselves the adventurers, superseding any smaller bodies. But for the moment the fortunes of Virginia were furthered by a group within the great group, by a joint-stock company, a corporation. In 1600 had come into being the East India Company, prototype of many companies to follow. Now, six years later, there arose under one royal charter two companies, generally known as the London and the Plymouth. The first colony planted by the latter was short-lived. Its letters patent were for North Virginia. Two ships, the Mary and John and the Gift of God, sailed with over a hundred settlers. These men, reaching the coast of what is now Maine, built a fort and a church on the banks of the Kennebec. Then followed the usual miseries typical of colonial venture--sickness, starvation, and a freezing winter. With the return of summer the enterprise was abandoned. The foundation of New England was delayed awhile, her Pilgrims yet in England, though meditating that first remove to Holland, her Mayflower only a ship of London port, staunch, but with no fame above another. The London Company, soon to become the Virginia Company, therefore engages our attention. The charter recites that Sir Thomas Gates and Sir George Somers, Knights, Richard Hakluyt, clerk, Prebendary of Westminster, Edward-Maria Wingfield, and other knights, gentlemen, merchants, and adventurers, wish "to make habitation, plantation, and to deduce a colony of sundry of our people into that part of America commonly called Virginia." It covenants with them and gives them for a heritage all America between the thirty-fourth and the forty-first parallels of latitude. The thirty-fourth parallel passes through the middle of what is now South Carolina; the forty-first grazes New York, crosses the northern tip of New Jersey, divides Pennsylvania, and so westward across to that Pacific or South Sea that the age thought so near to the Atlantic. All England might have been placed many times over in what was given to those knights, gentlemen, merchants, and others. The King's charter created a great Council of Virginia, sitting in London, governing from overhead. In the new land itself there should exist a second and lesser council. The two councils had authority within the range of Virginian matters, but the Crown retained the power of veto. The Council in Virginia might coin money for trade with the Indians, expel invaders, import settlers, punish ill-doers, levy and collect taxes--should have, in short, dignity and power enough for any colony. Likewise, acting for the whole, it might give and take orders "to dig, mine and search for all manner of mines of gold, silver and copper... to have and enjoy... yielding to us, our heirs and successors, the fifth part only of all the same gold and silver, and the fifteenth part of all the same copper." Now are we ready--it being Christmas-tide of the year 1606--to go to Virginia. Riding on the Thames, before Blackwall, are three ships, small enough in all conscience' sake, the Susan Constant, the Goodspeed, and the Discovery. The Admiral of this fleet is Christopher Newport, an old seaman of Raleigh's. Bartholomew Gosnold captains the Goodspeed, and John Ratcliffe the Discovery. The three ships have aboard their crews and one hundred and twenty colonists, all men. The Council in Virginia is on board, but it does not yet know itself as such, for the names of its members have been deposited by the superior home council in a sealed box, to be opened only on Virginia soil. The colonists have their paper of instructions. They shall find out a safe port in the entrance of a navigable river. They shall be prepared against surprise and attack. They shall observe "whether the river on which you plant doth spring out of mountains or out of lakes. If it be out of any lake the passage to the other sea will be the more easy, and like enough... you shall find some spring which runs the contrary way toward the East India sea." They must avoid giving offense to the "naturals"--must choose a healthful place for their houses--must guard their shipping. They are to set down in black and white for the information of the Council at home all such matters as directions and distances, the nature of soils and forests and the various commodities that they may find. And no man is to return from Virginia without leave from the Council, and none is to write home any discouraging letter. The instructions end, "Lastly and chiefly, the way to prosper and to achieve good success is to make yourselves all of one mind for the good of your country and your own, and to serve and fear God, the Giver of all Goodness, for every plantation which our Heavenly Father hath not planted shall be rooted out." Nor did they lack verses to go by, as their enterprise itself did not lack poetry. Michael Drayton wrote for them:-- Britons, you stay too long, Quickly aboard bestow you, And with a merry gale, Swell your stretched sail, With vows as strong As the winds that blow you. Your course securely steer, West and by South forth keep; Rocks, lee shores nor shoals, Where Eolus scowls, You need not fear, So absolute the deep. And cheerfully at sea Success you still entice, To get the pearl and gold, And ours to hold VIRGINIA, Earth's only paradise!... And in regions far Such heroes bring ye forth As those from whom we came; And plant our name Under that star Not known unto our north. See the parting upon Thames's side, Englishmen going, English kindred, friends, and neighbors calling farewell, waving hat and scarf, standing bare-headed in the gray winter weather! To Virginia--they are going to Virginia! The sails are made upon the Susan Constant, the Goodspeed, and the Discovery. The last wherry carries aboard the last adventurer. The anchors are weighed. Down the river the wind bears the ships toward the sea. Weather turning against them, they taste long delay in the Downs, but at last are forth upon the Atlantic. Hourly the distance grows between London town and the outgoing folk, between English shores and where the surf breaks on the pale Virginian beaches. Far away--far away and long ago--yet the unseen, actual cables hold, and yesterday and today stand embraced, the lips of the Thames meet the lips of the James, and the breath of England mingles with the breath of America. CHAPTER II. THE ADVENTURERS What was this Virginia to which they were bound? In the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries the name stood for a huge stretch of littoral, running southward from lands of long winters and fur-bearing animals to lands of the canebrake, the fig, the magnolia, the chameleon, and the mockingbird. The world had been circumnavigated; Drake had passed up the western coast--and yet cartographers, the learned, and those who took the word from the learned, strangely visualized the North American mainland as narrow indeed. Apparently, they conceived it as a kind of extended Central America. The huge rivers puzzled them. There existed a notion that these might be estuaries, curling and curving through the land from sea to sea. India--Cathay--spices and wonders and Orient wealth--lay beyond the South Sea, and the South Sea was but a few days' march from Hatteras or Chesapeake. The Virginia familiar to the mind of the time lay extended, and she was very slender. Her right hand touched the eastern ocean, and her left hand touched the western. Contact and experience soon modified this general notion. Wider knowledge, political and economic considerations, practical reasons of all kinds, drew a different physical form for old Virginia. Before the seventeenth century had passed away, they had given to her northern end a baptism of other names. To the south she was lopped to make the Carolinas. Only to the west, for a long time, she seemed to grow, while like a mirage the South Sea and Cathay receded into the distance. This narrative, moving with the three ships from England, and through a time span of less than a hundred and fifty years, deals with a region of the western hemisphere a thousand miles in length, several hundred in breadth, stretching from the Florida line to the northern edge of Chesapeake Bay, and from the Atlantic to the Appalachians. Out of this Virginia there grow in succession the ancient colonies and the modern States of Virginia, Maryland, South and North Carolina, and Georgia. But for many a year Virginia itself was the only settlement and the only name. This Virginia was a country favored by nature. Neither too hot nor too cold, it was rich-soiled and capable of every temperate growth in its sunniest aspect. Great rivers drained it, flowing into a great bay, almost a sea, many-armed as Briareus, affording safe and sheltered harbors. Slowly, with beauty, the land mounted to the west. The sun set behind wooded mountains, long wave-lines raised far back in geologic time. The valleys were many and beautiful, watered by sliding streams. Back to the east again, below the rolling land, were found the shimmering levels, the jewel-green marshes, the wide, slow waters, and at last upon the Atlantic shore the thunder of the rainbow-tinted surf. Various and pleasing was the country. Springs and autumns were long and balmy, the sun shone bright, there was much blue sky, a rich flora and fauna. There were mineral wealth and water power, and breadth and depth for agriculture. Such was the Virginia between the Potomac and the Dan, the Chesapeake and the Alleghanies. This, and not the gold-bedight slim neighbor of Cathay, was now the lure of the Susan Constant, the Goodspeed, and the Discovery. But those aboard, obsessed by Spanish America, imperfectly knowing the features and distances of the orb, yet clung to their first vision. But they knew there would be forest and Indians. Tales enough had been told of both! What has to be imaged is a forest the size of Virginia. Here and there, chiefly upon river banks, show small Indian clearings. Here and there are natural meadows, and toward the salt water great marshes, the home of waterfowl. But all these are little or naught in the whole, faint adornments sewed upon a shaggy garment, green in summer, flame-hued in autumn, brown in winter, green and flower-colored in the spring. Nor was the forest to any appreciable extent like much Virginian forest of today, second growth, invaded, hewed down, and renewed, to hear again the sound of the axe, set afire by a thousand accidents, burning upon its own funeral pyres, all its primeval glory withered. The forest of old Virginia was jocund and powerful, eternally young and eternally old. The forest was Despot in the land--was Emperor and Pope. With the forest went the Indian. They had a pact together. The Indians hacked out space for their villages of twenty or thirty huts, their maize and bean fields and tobacco patches. They took saplings for poles and bark to cover the huts and wood for fires. The forest gave canoe and bow and arrow, household bowls and platters, the sides of the drum that was beaten at feasts. It furnished trees serviceable for shelter when the foe was stalked. It was their wall and roof, their habitat. It was one of the Four Friends of the Indians--the Ground, the Waters, the Sky, the Forest. The forest was everywhere, and the Indians dwelled in the forest. Not unnaturally, they held that this world was theirs. Upon the three ships, sailing, sailing, moved a few men who could speak with authority of the forest and of Indians. Christopher Newport was upon his first voyage to Virginia, but he knew the Indies and the South American coast. He had sailed and had fought under Francis Drake. And Bartholomew Gosnold had explored both for himself and for Raleigh. These two could tell others what to look for. In their company there was also John Smith. This gentleman, it is true, had not wandered, fought, and companioned with romance in America, but he had done so everywhere else. He had as yet no experience with Indians, but he could conceive that rough experiences were rough experiences, whether in Europe, Asia, Africa, or America. And as he knew there was a family likeness among dangerous happenings, so also he found one among remedies, and he had a bag full of stories of strange happenings and how they should be met. They were going the old, long West Indies sea road. There was time enough for talking, wondering, considering the past, fantastically building up the future. Meeting in the ships' cabins over ale tankards, pacing up and down the small high-raised poop-decks, leaning idle over the side, watching the swirling dark-blue waters or the stars of night, lying idle upon the deck, propped by the mast while the trade-winds blew and up beyond sail and rigging curved the sky--they had time enough indeed to plan for marvels! If they could have seen ahead, what pictures of things to come they might have beheld rising, falling, melting one into another! Certain of the men upon the Susan Constant, the Goodspeed, and the Discovery stand out clearly, etched against the sky. Christopher Newport might be forty years old. He had been of Raleigh's captains and was chosen, a very young man, to bring to England from the Indies the captured great carrack, Madre de Dios, laden with fabulous treasure. In all, Newport was destined to make five voyages to Virginia, carrying supply and aid. After that, he would pass into the service of the East India Company, know India, Java, and the Persian Gulf; would be praised by that great company for sagacity, energy, and good care of his men. Ten years' time from this first Virginia voyage, and he would die upon his ship, the Hope, before Bantam in Java. Bartholomew Gosnold, the captain of the Goodspeed, had sailed with thirty others, five years before, from Dartmouth in a bark named the Concord. He had not made the usual long sweep southward into tropic waters, there to turn and come northward, but had gone, arrow-straight, across the north Atlantic--one of the first English sailors to make the direct passage and save many a weary sea league. Gosnold and his men had seen Cape Ann and Cape Cod, and had built upon Cuttyhunk, among the Elizabeth Islands, a little fort thatched with rushes. Then, hardships thronging and quarrels developing, they had filled their ship with sassafras and cedar, and sailed for home over the summer Atlantic, reaching England, with "not one cake of bread" left but only "a little vinegar." Gosnold, guiding the Goodspeed, is now making his last voyage, for he is to die in Virginia within the year. George Percy, brother of the Earl of Northumberland, has fought bravely in the Low Countries. He is to stay five years in Virginia, to serve there a short time as Governor, and then, returning to England, is to write "A Trewe Relacyion", in which he begs to differ from John Smith's "Generall Historie." Finally, he goes again to the wars in the Low Countries, serves with distinction, and dies, unmarried, at the age of fifty-two. His portrait shows a long, rather melancholy face, set between a lace collar and thick, dark hair. A Queen and a Cardinal--Mary Tudor and Reginald Pole--had stood sponsors for the father of Edward-Maria Wingfield. This man, of an ancient and honorable stock, was older than most of his fellow adventurers to Virginia. He had fought in Ireland, fought in the Low Countries, had been a prisoner of war. Now he was presently to become "the first president of the first council in the first English colony in America." And then, miseries increasing and wretched men being quick to impute evil, it was to be held with other assertions against him that he was of a Catholic family, that he traveled without a Bible, and probably meant to betray Virginia to the Spaniard. He was to be deposed from his presidency, return to England, and there write a vindication. "I never turned my face from daunger, or hidd my handes from labour; so watchful a sentinel stood myself to myself." With John Smith he had a bitter quarrel. Upon the Discovery is one who signed himself "John Radclyffe, comenly called," and who is named in the London Company's list as "Captain John Sicklemore, alias Ratcliffe." He will have a short and stormy Virginian life, and in two years be done to death by Indians. John Smith quarreled with him also. "A poor counterfeited Imposture!" said Smith. Gabriel Archer is a lawyer, and first secretary or recorder of the colony. Short, too, is his life. His name lives in Archer's Hope on the James River in Virginia. John Smith will have none of him! George Kendall's life is more nearly spun than Ratcliffe's or Archer's. He will be shot for treason and rebellion. Robert Hunt is the chaplain. Besides those whom the time dubbed "gentlemen," there are upon the three ships English sailors, English laborers, six carpenters, two bricklayers, a blacksmith, a tailor, a barber, a drummer, other craftsmen, and nondescripts. Up and down and to and fro they pass in their narrow quarters, microscopic upon the bosom of the ocean. John Smith looms large among them. John Smith has a mantle of marvelous adventure. It seems that he began to make it when he was a boy, and for many years worked upon it steadily until it was stiff as cloth of gold and voluminous as a puffed-out summer cloud. Some think that much of it was such stuff as dreams are made of. Probably some breadths were the fabric of vision. Still it seems certain that he did have some kind of an extraordinary coat or mantle. The adventures which he relates of himself are those of a paladin. Born in 1579 or 1580, he was at this time still a young man. But already he had fought in France and in the Netherlands, and in Transylvania against the Turks. He had known sea-fights and shipwrecks and had journeyed, with adventures galore, in Italy. Before Regal, in Transylvania, he had challenged three Turks in succession, unhorsed them, and cut off their heads, for which doughty deed Sigismund, a Prince of Transylvania, had given him a coat of arms showing three Turks' heads in a shield. Later he had been taken in battle and sold into slavery, whereupon a Turkish lady, his master's sister, had looked upon him with favor. But at last he slew the Turk and escaped, and after wandering many days in misery came into Russia. "Here, too, I found, as I have always done when in misfortune, kindly help from a woman." He wandered on into Germany and thence into France and Spain. Hearing of wars in Barbary, he crossed from Gibraltar. Here he met the captain of a French man-of-war. One day while he was with this man there arose a great storm which drove the ship out to sea. They went before the wind to the Canaries, and there put themselves to rights and began to chase Spanish barks. Presently they had a great fight with two Spanish men-of-war, in which the French ship and Smith came off victors. Returning to Morocco, Smith bade the French captain good-bye and took ship for England, and so reached home in 1604. Here he sought the company of like-minded men, and so came upon those who had been to the New World--"and all their talk was of its wonders." So Smith joined the Virginia undertaking, and so we find him headed toward new adventures in the western world. On sailed the three ships--little ships--sailing-ships with a long way to go. "The twelfth day of February at night we saw a blazing starre and presently a storme.... The three and twentieth day [of March] we fell with the Iland of Mattanenio in the West Indies. The foure and twentieth day we anchored at Dominico, within fourteene degrees of the Line, a very faire Iland, full of sweet and good smells, inhabited by many Savage Indians.... The six and twentieth day we had sight of Marigalanta, and the next day wee sailed with a slacke sail alongst the Ile of Guadalupa.... We sailed by many Ilands, as Mounserot and an Iland called Saint Christopher, both uninhabited; about two a clocke in the afternoone wee anchored at the Ile of Mevis. There the Captaine landed all his men.... We incamped ourselves on this Ile six days.... The tenth day [April] we set saile and disimboged out of the West Indies and bare our course Northerly.... The six and twentieth day of Aprill, about foure a clocke in the morning, wee descried the Land of Virginia."* * Percy's "Discourse in Purchas, His Pilgrims," vol. IV, p. 1684. Also given in Brown's "Genesis of the United States", vol. I, p. 152. During the long months of this voyage, cramped in the three ships, these men, most of them young and of the hot-blooded, physically adventurous sort, had time to develop strong likings and dislikings. The hundred and twenty split into opposed camps. The several groups nursed all manner of jealousies. Accusations flew between like shuttlecocks. The sealed box that they carried proved a manner of Eve's apple. All knew that seven on board were councilors and rulers, with one of the number President, but they knew not which were the seven. Smith says that this uncertainty wrought much mischief, each man of note suggesting to himself, "I shall be President--or, at least, Councilor!" The ships became cursed with a pest of factions. A prime quarrel arose between John Smith and Edward-Maria Wingfield, two whose temperaments seem to have been poles apart. There arose a "scandalous report, that Smith meant to reach Virginia only to usurp the Government, murder the Council, and proclaim himself King." The bickering deepened into forthright quarrel, with at last the expected explosion. Smith was arrested, was put in irons, and first saw Virginia as a prisoner. On the twenty-sixth day of April, 1607, the Susan Constant, the Goodspeed, and the Discovery entered Chesapeake Bay. They came in between two capes, and one they named Cape Henry after the then Prince of Wales, and the other Cape Charles for that brother of short-lived Henry who was to become Charles the First. By Cape Henry they anchored, and numbers from the ships went ashore. "But," says George Percy's Discourse, "we could find nothing worth the speaking of, but faire meadows and goodly tall Trees, with such Fresh-waters running through the woods as I was almost ravished at the first sight thereof. At night, when wee were going aboard, there came the Savages creeping upon all foure from the Hills like Beares, with their Bowes in their mouths, charged us very desperately in the faces, hurt Captaine Gabriel Archer in both his hands, and a sayler in two places of the body very dangerous. After they had spent their Arrowes and felt the sharpnesse of our shot, they retired into the Woods with a great noise, and so left us." That very night, by the ships' lanterns, Newport, Gosnold, and Ratcliffe opened the sealed box. The names of the councilors were found to be Christopher Newport, Bartholomew Gosnold, John Ratcliffe, Edward-Maria Wingfield, John Martin, John Smith, and George Kendall, with Gabriel Archer for recorder. From its own number, at the first convenient time, this Council was to choose its President. All this was now declared and published to all the company upon the ships. John Smith was given his freedom but was not yet allowed place in the Council. So closed an exciting day. In the morning they pressed in parties yet further into the land, but met no Indians--only came to a place where these savages had been roasting oysters. The next day saw further exploring. "We marched some three or foure miles further into the Woods where we saw great smoakes of fire. Wee marched to those smoakes and found that the Savages had beene there burning downe the grasse....We passed through excellent ground full of Flowers of divers kinds and colours, anal as goodly trees as I have seene, as cedar, cipresse and other kindes; going a little further we came into a little plat of ground full of fine and beautifull strawberries, foure times bigger and better than ours in England. All this march we could neither see Savage nor Towne."* * Percy's "Discourse." The ships now stood into those waters which we call Hampton Roads. Finding a good channel and taking heart therefrom, they named a horn of land Point Comfort. Now we call it Old Point Comfort. Presently they began to go up a great river which they christened the James. To English eyes it was a river hugely wide. They went slowly, with pauses and waitings and adventures. They consulted their paper of instructions; they scanned the shore for good places for their fort, for their town. It was May, and all the rich banks were in bloom. It seemed a sweet-scented world of promise. They saw Indians, but had with these no untoward encounters. Upon the twelfth of May they came to a point of land which they named Archer's Hope. Landing here, they saw "many squirels, conies, Black Birds with crimson wings, and divers other Fowles and Birds of divers and sundrie colours of crimson, watchet, Yellow, Greene, Murry, and of divers other hewes naturally without any art using... store of Turkie nests and many Egges." They liked this place, but for shoal water the ships could not come near to land. So on they went, eight miles up the river. Here, upon the north side, thirty-odd miles from the mouth, they came to a certain peninsula, an island at high water. Two or three miles long, less than a mile and a half in breadth, at its widest place composed of marsh and woodland, it ran into the river, into six fathom water, where the ships might be moored to the trees. It was this convenient deep water that determined matters. Here came to anchor the Susan Constant, the Goodspeed, and the Discovery. Here the colonists went ashore. Here the members of the Council were sworn, and for the first President was chosen Edward-Maria Wingfield. Here, the first roaming and excitement abated, they began to unlade the ships, and to build the fort and also booths for their present sleeping. A church, too, they must have at once, and forthwith made it with a stretched sail for roof and a board between two trees whereon to rest Bible and Book of Prayer. Here, for the first time in all this wilderness, rang English axe in American forest, here was English law and an English town, here sounded English speech. Here was placed the germ of that physical, mental, and, spiritual power which is called the United States of America. CHAPTER III. JAMESTOWN In historians' accounts of the first months at Jamestown, too much, perhaps, has been made of faction and quarrel. All this was there. Men set down in a wilderness, amid Virginian heat, men, mostly young, of the active rather than the reflective type, men uncompanioned by women and children, men beset with dangers and sufferings that were soon to tag heavily their courage and patience--such men naturally quarreled and made up, quarreled again and again made up, darkly suspected each the other, as they darkly suspected the forest and the Indian; then, need of friendship dominating, embraced each the other, felt the fascination of the forest, and trusted the Indian. However much they suspected rebellion, treacheries, and desertions, they practiced fidelities, though to varying degrees, and there was in each man's breast more or less of courage and good intent. They were prone to call one another villain, but actual villainy--save as jealousy, suspicion, and hatred are villainy--seems rarely to have been present. Even one who was judged a villain and shot for his villainy seems hardly to have deserved such fate. Jamestown peninsula turned out to be feverous; fantastic hopes were matched by strange fears; there were homesickness, incompatibilities, unfamiliar food and water and air, class differences in small space, some petty tyrannies, and very certain dangers. The worst summer heat was not yet, and the fort was building. Trees must be felled, cabins raised, a field cleared for planting, fishing and hunting carried on. And some lading, some first fruits, must go back in the ships. No gold or rubies being as yet found, they would send instead cedar and sassafras--hard work enough, there at Jamestown, in the Virginian low-country, with May warm as northern midsummer, and all the air charged with vapor from the heated river, with exhalations from the rank forest, from the many marshes. "The first night of our landing, about midnight," says George Percy in his "Discourse", "there came some Savages sayling close to our quarter; presently there was an alarm given; upon that the savages ran away.... Not long after there came two Savages that seemed to be Commanders, bravely dressed, with Crownes of coloured haire upon their heads, which came as Messengers from the Werowance of Paspihe, telling us that their Werowance was comming and would be merry with us with a fat Deere. The eighteenth day the Werowance of Paspihe came himselfe to our quarter, with one hundred Savages armed which guarded him in very warlike manner with Bowes and Arrowes." Some misunderstanding arose. "The Werowance, [seeing] us take to our armes, went suddenly away with all his company in great anger." The nineteenth day Percy with several others going into the woods back of the peninsula met with a narrow path traced through the forest. Pursuing it, they came to an Indian village. "We Stayed there a while and had of them strawberries and other thinges.... One of the Savages brought us on the way to the Woodside where there was a Garden of Tobacco and other fruits and herbes; he gathered Tobacco and distributed to every one of us, so wee departed." It is evident that neither race yet knew if it was to be war or peace. What the white man thought and came to think of the red man has been set down often enough; there is scantier testimony as to what was the red man's opinion of the white man. Here imagination must be called upon. Newport's instructions from the London Council included exploration before he should leave the colonists and bring the three ships back to England. Now, with the pinnace and a score of men, among whom was John Smith, he went sixty miles up the river to where the flow is broken by a world of boulders and islets, to the hills crowned today by Richmond, capital of Virginia. The first adventurers called these rapid and whirling waters the Falls of the Farre West. To their notion they must lie at least half-way across the breadth of America. Misled by Indian stories, they believed and wrote that five or six days' march from the Falls of the Farre West, even through the thick forest, would bring them to the South Sea. The Falls of the Farre West, where at Richmond the James goes with a roaring sound around tree-crowned islet--it is strange to think that they once marked our frontier! How that frontier has been pushed westward is a romance indeed. And still, today, it is but a five or six days' journey to that South Sea sought by those early Virginians. The only condition for us is that we shall board a train. Tomorrow, with the airship, the South Sea may come nearer yet! The Indians of this part of the earth were of the great Algonquin family, and the tribes with which the colonists had now to do were drawn, probably by a polity based on blood ties, into a loose confederation within the larger mass. Newport was "told that the name of the river was Powhatan, the name of the chief Powhatan, and the name of the people Powhatans." But it seemed that the chief Powhatan was not at this village but at another and a larger place named Werowocomoco, on a second great river in the back country to the north and east of Jamestown. Newport and his men were "well entreated" by the Indians. "But yet," says Percy, "the Savages murmured at our planting in the Countrie." The party did not tarry up the river. Back came their boat through the bright weather, between the verdurous banks, all green and flower-tinted save where might be seen the brown of Indian clearings with bark-covered huts and thin, up-curling blue smoke. Before them once more rose Jamestown, palisaded now, and riding before it the three ships. And here there barked an English dog, and here were Englishmen to welcome Englishmen. Both parties had news to tell, but the town had most. On the 26th of May, Indians had made an attack four hundred of them with the Werowance of Paspihe. One Englishman had been killed, a number wounded. Four of the Council had each man his wound. Newport must now lift anchor and sail away to England. He left at Jamestown a fort "having three Bulwarkes at every corner like a halfe Moone, and foure or five pieces of Artillerie mounted in them," a street or two of reed-thatched cabins, a church to match, a storehouse, a market-place and drill ground, and about all a stout palisade with a gate upon the river side. He left corn sown and springing high, and some food in the storehouse. And he left a hundred Englishmen who had now tasted of the country fare and might reasonably fear no worse chance than had yet befallen. Newport promised to return in twenty weeks with full supplies. John Smith says that his enemies, chief amongst whom was Wingfield, would have sent him with Newport to England, there to stand trial for attempted mutiny, whereupon he demanded a trial in Virginia, and got it and was fully cleared. He now takes his place in the Council, beforetime denied him. He has good words only for Robert Hunt, the chaplain, who, he says, went from one to the other with the best of counsel. Were they not all here in the wilderness together, with the savages hovering about them like the Philistines about the Jews of old? How should the English live, unless among themselves they lived in amity? So for the moment factions were reconciled, and all went to church to partake of the Holy Communion. Newport sailed, having in the holds of his ships sassafras and valuable woods but no gold to meet the London Council's hopes, nor any certain news of the South Sea. In due time he reached England, and in due time he turned and came again to Virginia. But long was the sailing to and fro between the daughter country and the mother country and the lading and unlading at either shore. It was seven months before Newport came again. While he sails, and while England-in-America watches for him longingly, look for a moment at the attitude of Spain, falling old in the procession of world-powers, but yet with grip and cunning left. Spain misliked that English New World venture. She wished to keep these seas for her own; only, with waning energies, she could not always enforce what she conceived to be her right. By now there was seen to be much clay indeed in the image. Philip the Second was dead; and Philip the Third, an indolent king, lived in the Escurial. Pedro de Zuniga is the Spanish Ambassador to the English Court. He has orders from Philip to keep him informed, and this he does, and from time to time suggests remedies. He writes of Newport and the First Supply. "Sire.... Captain Newport makes haste to return with some people--and there have combined merchants and other persons who desire to establish themselves there; because it appears to them the most suitable place that they have discovered for privateering and making attacks upon the merchant fleets of Your Majesty. Your Majesty will command to see whether they will be allowed to remain there.... They are in a great state of excitement about that place, and very much afraid lest Your Majesty should drive them out of it.... And there are so many... who speak already of sending people to that country, that it is advisable not to be too slow; because they will soon be found there with large numbers of people."* In Spain the Council of State takes action upon Zuniga's communications and closes a report to the King with these words: "The actual taking possession will be to drive out of Virginia all who are there now, before they are reenforced, and.... it will be well to issue orders that the small fleet stationed to the windward, which for so many years has been in state of preparation, should be instantly made ready and forthwith proceed to drive out all who are now in Virginia, since their small numbers will make this an easy task, and this will suffice to prevent them from again coming to that place." Upon this is made a Royal note: "Let such measures be taken in this business as may now and hereafter appear proper." * Brown's "Genesis of the United States", vol. 1, pp. 116-118. It would seem that there was cause indeed for watching down the river by that small, small town that was all of the United States! But there follows a Spanish memorandum. "The driving out... by the fleet stationed to the windward will be postponed for a long time because delay will be caused by getting it ready."* Delay followed delay, and old Spain--conquistador Spain--grew older, and the speech on Jamestown Island is still English. * Op. cit., vol. 1, p. 127. Christopher Newport was gone; no ships--the last refuges, the last possibilities for home-turning, should the earth grow too hard and the sky too black--rode upon the river before the fort. Here was the summer heat. A heavy breath rose from immemorial marshes, from the ancient floor of the forest. When clouds gathered and storms burst, they amazed the heart with their fearful thunderings and lightnings. The colonists had no well, but drank from the river, and at neither high nor low tide found the water wholesome. While the ships were here they had help of ship stores, but now they must subsist upon the grain that they had in the storehouse, now scant and poor enough. They might fish and hunt, but against such resources stood fever and inexperience and weakness, and in the woods the lurking savages. The heat grew greater, the water worse, the food less. Sickness began. Work became toil. Men pined from homesickness, then, coming together, quarreled with a weak violence, then dropped away again into corners and sat listlessly with hanging heads. "The sixth of August there died John Asbie of the bloodie Flixe. The ninth day died George Flowre of the swelling. The tenth day died William Bruster gentleman, of a wound given by the Savages.... The fourteenth day Jerome Alikock, Ancient, died of a wound, the same day Francis Mid-winter, Edward Moris, Corporall, died suddenly. The fifteenth day their died Edward Browne and Stephen Galthrope. The sixteenth day their died Thomas Gower gentleman. The seventeenth day their died Thomas Mounslie. The eighteenth day theer died Robert Pennington and John Martine gentlemen. The nineteenth day died Drue Piggase gentleman. "The two and twentieth day of August there died Captain Bartholomew Gosnold one of our Councell, he was honourably buried having all the Ordnance in the Fort shot off, with many vollies of small shot.... "The foure and twentieth day died Edward Harrington and George Walker and were buried the same day. The six and twentieth day died Kenelme Throgmortine. The seven and twentieth day died William Roods. The eight and twentieth day died Thomas Stoodie, Cape Merchant. The fourth day of September died Thomas Jacob, Sergeant. The fifth day there died Benjamin Beast...."* * Percy's "Discourse." Extreme misery makes men blind, unjust, and weak of judgment. Here was gross wretchedness, and the colonists proceeded to blame A and B and C, lost all together in the wilderness. It was this councilor or that councilor, this ambitious one or that one, this or that almost certainly ascertained traitor! Wanting to steal the pinnace, the one craft left by Newport, wanting to steal away in the pinnace and leave the mass--small enough mass now!--without boat or raft or straw to cling to, made the favorite accusation. Upon this count, early in September, Wingfield was deposed from the presidency. Ratcliffe succeeded him, but presently Ratcliffe fared no better. One councilor fared worse, for George Kendall, accused of plotting mutiny and pinnace stealing, was given trial, found guilty, and shot. "The eighteenth day [of September] died one Ellis Kinistone.... The same day at night died one Richard Simmons. The nineteenth day there died one Thomas Mouton...." What went on, in Virginia, in the Indian mind, can only be conjectured. As little as the white mind could it foresee the trend of events or the ultimate outcome of present policy. There was exhibited a see-saw policy, or perhaps no policy at all, only the emotional fit as it came hot or cold. The friendly act trod upon the hostile, the hostile upon the friendly. Through the miserable summer the hostile was uppermost; then with the autumn appeared the friendly mood, fortunate enough for "the most feeble wretches" at Jamestown. Indians came laden with maize and venison. The heat was a thing of the past; cool and bracing weather appeared; and with it great flocks of wild fowl, "swans, geese, ducks and cranes." Famine vanished, sickness decreased. The dead were dead. Of the hundred and four persons left by Newport less than fifty had survived. But these may be thought of as indeed seasoned. CHAPTER IV. JOHN SMITH With the cool weather began active exploration, the object in chief the gathering from the Indians, by persuasion or trade or show of force, food for the approaching winter. Here John Smith steps forward as leader. There begins a string of adventures of that hardy and romantic individual. How much in Smith's extant narrations is exaggeration, how much is dispossession of others' merits in favor of his own, it is difficult now to say.* A thing that one little likes is his persistent depreciation of his fellows. There is but one Noble Adventurer, and that one is John Smith. On the other hand evident enough are his courage and initiative, his ingenuity, and his rough, practical sagacity. Let us take him at something less than his own valuation, but yet as valuable enough. As for his adventures, real or fictitious, one may see in them epitomized the adventures of many and many men, English, French, Spanish, Dutch, blazers of the material path for the present civilization. * Those who would strike John Smith from the list of historians will commend the author's caution to the reader before she lets the Captain tell his own tale. Whatever Smith may not have been, he was certainly a consummate raconteur. He belongs with the renowned story-tellers of the world, if not with the veracious chroniclers.--Editor. In December, rather autumn than winter in this region, he starts with the shallop and a handful of men up a tributary river that they have learned to call the Chickahominy. He is going for corn, but there is also an idea that he may hear news of that wished-for South Sea. The Chickahominy proved itself a wonderland of swamp and tree-choked streams. Somewhere up its chequered reaches Smith left the shallop with men to guard it, and, taking two of the party with two Indian guides, went on in a canoe up a narrower way. Presently those left with the boat incautiously go ashore and are attacked by Indians. One is taken, tortured, and slain. The others get back to their boat and so away, down the Chickahominy and into the now somewhat familiar James. But Smith with his two men, Robinson and Emry, are now alone in the wilderness, up among narrow waters, brown marshes, fallen and obstructing tree trunks. Now come the men-hunting Indians--the King of Pamaunck, says Smith, with two hundred bowmen. Robinson and Emry are shot full of arrows. Smith is wounded, but with his musket deters the foe, killing several of the savages. His eyes upon them, he steps backward, hoping he may beat them off till he shall recover the shallop, but meets with the ill chance of a boggy and icy stream into which he stumbles, and here is taken. See him now before "Opechancanough, King of Pamaunck!" Savages and procedures of the more civilized with savages have, the world over, a family resemblance. Like many a man before him and after, Smith casts about for a propitiatory wonder. He has with him, so fortunately, "a round ivory double-compass dial." This, with a genial manner, he would present to Opechancanough. The savages gaze, cannot touch through the glass the moving needle, grunt their admiration. Smith proceeds, with gestures and what Indian words he knows, to deliver a scientific lecture. Talking is best anyhow, will give them less time in which to think of those men he shot. He tells them that the world is round, and discourses about the sun and moon and stars and the alternation of day and night. He speaks with eloquence of the nations of the earth, of white men, yellow men, black men, and red men, of his own country and its grandeurs, and would explain antipodes. Apparently all is waste breath and of no avail, for in an hour see him bound to a tree, a sturdy figure of a man, bearded and moustached, with a high forehead, clad in shirt and jerkin and breeches and hosen and shoon, all by this time, we may be sure, profoundly in need of repair. The tree and Smith are ringed by Indians, each of whom has an arrow fitted to his bow. Almost one can hear a knell ringing in the forest! But Opechancanough, moved by the compass, or willing to hear more of seventeenth-century science, raises his arm and stops the execution. Unbinding Smith, they take him with them as a trophy. Presently all reach their town of Orapaks. Here he was kindly treated. He saw Indian dances, heard Indian orations. The women and children pressed about him and admired him greatly. Bread and venison were given him in such quantity that he feared that they meant to fatten and eat him. It is, moreover, dangerous to be considered powerful where one is scarcely so. A young Indian lay mortally ill, and they took Smith to him and demanded that forthwith he be cured. If the white man could kill--how they were not able to see--he could likewise doubtless restore life. But the Indian presently died. His father, crying out in fury, fell upon the stranger who could have done so much and would not! Here also coolness saved the white man. Smith was now led in triumph from town to town through the winter woods. The James was behind him, the Chickahominy also; he was upon new great rivers, the Pamunkey and the Rappahannock. All the villages were much alike, alike the still woods, the sere patches from which the corn had been taken, the bear, the deer, the foxes, the turkeys that were met with, the countless wild fowl. Everywhere were the same curious, crowding savages, the fires, the rustic cookery, the covering skins of deer and fox and otter, the oratory, the ceremonial dances, the manipulations of medicine men or priests--these last, to the Englishmen, pure "devils with antique tricks." Days were consumed in this going from place to place. At one point was produced a bag of gunpowder, gained in some way from Jamestown. It was being kept with care to go into the earth in the spring and produce, when summer came, some wonderful crop. Opechancanough was a great chief, but higher than he moved Powhatan, chief of chiefs. This Indian was yet a stranger to the English in Virginia. Now John Smith was to make his acquaintance. Werowocomoco stood upon a bluff on the north side of York River. Here came Smith and his captors, around them the winter woods, before them the broad blue river. Again the gathered Indians, men and women, again the staring, the handling, the more or less uncomplimentary remarks; then into the Indian ceremonial lodge he was pushed. Here sat the chief of chiefs, Powhatan, and he had on a robe of raccoon skins with all the tails hanging. About him sat his chief men, and behind these were gathered women. All were painted, head and shoulders; all wore, bound about the head, adornments meant to strike with beauty or with terror; all had chains of beads. Smith does not report what he said to Powhatan, or Powhatan to him. He says that the Queen of Appamatuck brought him water for his hands, and that there was made a great feast. When this was over, the Indians held a council. It ended in a death decree. Incontinently Smith was seized, dragged to a great stone lying before Powhatan, forced down and bound. The Indians made ready their clubs; meaning to batter his brains out. Then, says Smith, occurred the miracle. A child of Powhatan's, a very young girl called Pocahontas, sprang from among the women, ran to the stone, and with her own body sheltered that of the Englishman....* * A vast amount of erudition has been expended by historical students to establish the truth or falsity of this Pocahontas story. The author has refrained from entering the controversy, preferring to let the story stand as it was told by Captain Smith in his "General History" (1624).-- Editor. What, in Powhatan's mind, of hesitation, wiliness, or good nature backed his daughter's plea is not known. But Smith did not have his brains beaten out. He was released, taken by some form of adoption into the tribe, and set to using those same brains in the making of hatchets and ornaments. A few days passed and he was yet further enlarged. Powhatan longed for two of the great guns possessed by the white men and for a grindstone. He would send Smith back to Jamestown if in return he was sure of getting those treasures. It is to be supposed that Smith promised him guns and grindstones as many as could be borne away. So Werowocomoco saw him depart, twelve Indians for escort. He had leagues to go, a night or two to spend upon the march. Lying in the huge winter woods, he expected, on the whole, death before morning. But "Almighty God mollified the hearts of those sterne barbarians with compassion." And so he was restored to Jamestown, where he found more dead than when he left. Some there undoubtedly welcomed him as a strong man restored when there was need of strong men. Others, it seems, would as lief that Pocahontas had not interfered. The Indians did not get their guns and grindstones. But Smith loaded a demi-culverin with stones and fired upon a great tree, icicle-hung. The gun roared, the boughs broke, the ice fell rattling, the smoke spread, the Indians cried out and cowered away. Guns and grindstone, Smith told them, were too violent and heavy devils for them to carry from river to river. Instead he gave them, from the trading store, gifts enticing to the savage eye, and not susceptible of being turned against the donors. Here at Jamestown in midwinter were more food and less mortal sickness than in the previous fearful summer, yet no great amount of food, and now suffering, too, from bitter cold. Nor had the sickness ended, nor dissensions. Less than fifty men were all that held together England and America--a frayed cord, the last strands of which might presently part.... Then up the river comes Christopher Newport in the Francis and John, to be followed some weeks later by the Phoenix. Here is new life--stores for the settlers and a hundred new Virginians! How certain, at any rate, is the exchange of talk of home and hair-raising stories of this wilderness between the old colonists and the new! And certain is the relief and the renewed hopes. Mourning turns to joy. Even a conflagration that presently destroys the major part of the town can not blast that felicity. Again Newport and Smith and others went out to explore the country. They went over to Werowocomoco and talked with Powhatan. He told them things which they construed to mean that the South Sea was near at hand, and they marked this down as good news for the home Council--still impatient for gold and Cathay. On their return to Jamestown they found under way new and stouter houses. The Indians were again friendly; they brought venison and turkeys and corn. Smith says that every few days came Pocahontas and attendant women bringing food. Spring came again with the dogwood and the honeysuckle and the strawberries, the gay, returning birds, the barred and striped and mottled serpents. The colony was one year old. Back to England sailed the Francis and John and the Phoenix, carrying home Edward-Maria Wingfield, who has wearied of Virginia and will return no more. What rests certain and praiseworthy in Smith is his thoroughness and daring in exploration. This summer he went with fourteen others down the river in an open boat, and so across the great bay, wide as a sea, to what is yet called the Eastern Shore, the counties now of Accomac and Northampton. Rounding Cape Charles these indefatigable explorers came upon islets beaten by the Atlantic surf. These they named Smith's Islands. Landing upon the main shore, they met "grimme and stout" savages, who took them to the King of Accomac, and him they found civil enough. This side of the great bay, with every creek and inlet, Smith examined and set down upon the map he was making. Even if he could find no gold for the Council at home, at least he would know what places were suited for "harbours and habitations." Soon a great storm came up, and they landed again, met yet other Indians, went farther, and were in straits for fresh water. The weather became worse; they were in danger of shipwreck--had to bail the boat continually. Indians gathered upon the shore and discharged flights of arrows, but were dispersed by a volley from the muskets. The bread the English had with them went bad. Wind and weather were adverse; three or four of the fifteen fell ill, but recovered. The weather improved; they came to the seven-mile-wide mouth of "Patawomeck"--the Potomac. They turned their boat up this vast stream. For a long time they saw upon the woody banks no savages. Then without warning they came upon ambuscades of great numbers "so strangely painted, grimed and disguised, shouting, yelling and crying, as we rather supposed them so many divils." Smith, in midstream, ordered musket-fire, and the balls went grazing over the water, and the terrible sound echoed through the woods. The savages threw down their bows and arrows and made signs of friendliness. The English went ashore, hostages were exchanged, and a kind of amicableness ensued. After such sylvan entertainment Smith and his men returned to the boat. The oars dipped and rose, the bright water broke from them; and these Englishmen in Old Virginia proceeded up the Potomac. Could they have seen--could they but have seen before them, on the north bank, rising, like the unsubstantial fabric of a dream, there above the trees, a vast, white Capitol shining in the sunlight! Far up the river, they noticed that the sand on the shore gleamed with yellow spangles. They looked and saw high rocks, and they thought that from these the rain had washed the glittering dust. Gold? Harbors they had found--but what of gold? What, even, of Cathay? Going down stream, they sought again those friendly Indians. Did they know gold or silver? The Indians looked wise, nodded heads, and took the visitors up a little tributary river to a rocky hill in which "with shells and hatchets" they had opened as it were a mine. Here they gathered a mineral which, when powdered, they sprinkled over themselves and their idols "making them," says the relation, "like blackamoors dusted over with silver." The white men filled their boat with as much of this ore as they could carry. High were their hopes over it, but when it was subsequently sent to London and assayed, it was found to be worthless. The fifteen now started homeward, out of Potomac and down the westward side of Chesapeake. In their travels they saw, besides the Indians, all manner of four-footed Virginians. Bears rolled their bulk through these forests; deer went whither they would. The explorers might meet foxes and catamounts, otter, beaver and marten, raccoon and opossum, wolf and Indian dog. Winged Virginians made the forests vocal. The owl hooted at night, and the whippoorwill called in the twilight. The streams were filled with fish. Coming to the mouth of the Rappahannock, the travelers' boat grounded upon sand, with the tide at ebb. Awaiting the water that should lift them off, the fifteen began with their swords to spear the fish among the reeds. Smith had the ill luck to encounter a sting-ray, and received its barbed weapon through his wrist. There set in a great swelling and torment which made him fear that death was at hand. He ordered his funeral and a grave to be dug on a neighboring islet. Yet by degrees he grew better and so out of torment, and withal so hungry that he longed for supper, whereupon, with a light heart, he had his late enemy the sting-ray cooked and ate him. They then named the place Sting-ray Island and, the tide serving, got off the sand-bar and down the bay, and so came home to Jamestown, having been gone seven weeks. Like Ulysses, Smith refuses to rust in inaction. A few days, and away he is again, first up to Rappahannock, and then across the bay. On this journey he and his men come up with the giant Susquehannocks, who are not Algonquins but Iroquois. After many hazards in which the forest and the savage play their part, Smith and his band again return to Jamestown. In all this adventuring they have gained much knowledge of the country and its inhabitants--but yet no gold, and no further news of the South Sea or of far Cathay. It was now September and the second summer with its toll of fever victims was well-nigh over. Autumn and renewed energy were at hand. All the land turned crimson and gold. At Jamestown building went forward, together with the gathering of ripened crops, the felling of trees, fishing and fowling, and trading for Indian corn and turkeys. One day George Percy, heading a trading party down the river, saw coming toward him a white sailed ship, the Mary and Margaret-it was Christopher Newport again, with the second supply. Seventy colonists came over on the Mary and Margaret, among them a fair number of men of note. Here were Captain Peter Wynne and Richard Waldo, "old soldiers and valiant gentlemen," Francis West, young brother of the Lord De La Warr, Rawley Crashaw, John Codrington, Daniel Tucker, and others. This is indeed an important ship. Among the laborers, the London Council had sent eight Poles and Germans, skilled in their own country in the production of pitch, tar, glass, and soap-ashes. Here, then, begin in Virginia other blood strains than the English. And in the Mary and Margaret comes with Master Thomas Forest his wife, Mistress Forest, and her maid, by name Anne Burras. Apart from those lost ones of Raleigh's colony at Roanoke, these are the first Englishwomen in Virginia. There may be guessed what welcome they got, how much was made of them. Christopher Newport had from that impatient London Council somewhat strange orders. He was not to return without a lump of gold, or a certain discovery of waters pouring into the South Sea, or some notion gained of the fate of the lost colony of Roanoke. He had been given a barge which could be taken to pieces and so borne around those Falls of the Far West, then put together, and the voyage to the Pacific resumed. Moreover, he had for Powhatan, whom the minds at home figured as a sort of Asiatic Despot, a gilt crown and a fine ewer and basin, a bedstead, and a gorgeous robe. The easiest task, that of delivering Powhatan's present and placing an idle crown upon that Indian's head who, among his own people, was already sufficiently supreme, might be and was performed. And Newport with a large party went again to the Falls of the Far West and miles deep into the country beyond. Here they found Indians outside the Powhatan Confederacy, but no South Sea, nor mines of gold and silver, nor any news of the lost colony of Roanoke. In December Newport left Virginia in the Mary and Margaret, and with him sailed Ratcliffe. Smith succeeded to the presidency. About this time John Laydon, a laborer, and Anne Burras, that maid of Mistress Forest's, fell in love and would marry. So came about the first English wedding in Virginia. Winter followed with snow and ice, nigh two hundred people to feed, and not overmuch in the larder with which to do it. Smith with George Percy and Francis West and others went again to the Indians for corn. Christmas found them weather-bound at Kecoughtan. "Wherever an Englishman may be, and in whatever part of the world, he must keep Christmas with feasting and merriment! And, indeed, we were never more merrie, nor fedde on more plentie of good oysters, fish, flesh, wild fowle and good bread; nor never had better fires in England than in the drie, smokie houses of Kecoughtan!" But despite this Christmas fare, there soon began quarrels, many and intricate, with Powhatan and his brother Opechancanough. CHAPTER V. THE "SEA ADVENTURE" Experience is a great teacher. That London Company with Virginia to colonize had now come to see how inadequate to the attempt were its means and strength. Evidently it might be long before either gold mines or the South Sea could be found. The company's ships were too slight and few; colonists were going by the single handful when they should go by the double. Something was at fault in the management of the enterprise. The quarrels in Virginia were too constant, the disasters too frequent. More money, more persons interested with purse and mind, a great company instead of a small, a national cast to the enterprise these were imperative needs. In the press of such demands the London Company passed away. In 1609 under new letters patent was born the Virginia Company. The members and shareholders in this corporation touch through and through the body of England at that day. First names upon the roll come Robert Cecil, Thomas Howard, Henry Wriothesley, William Herbert, Henry Clinton, Richard Sackville, Thomas Cecil, Philip Herbert--Earls of Salisbury, Suffolk, Southampton, Pembroke, Lincoln, Dorset, Exeter, and Montgomery. Then follow a dozen peers, the Lord Bishop of Bath and Wells, a hundred knights, many gentlemen, one hundred and ten merchants, certain physicians and clergymen, old soldiers of the Continental wars, sea-captains and mariners, and a small host of the unclassified. In addition shares were taken by fifty-six London guilds or industrial companies. Here are the Companies of the Tallow and Wax Chandlers, the Armorers and Girdlers, Cordwayners and Carpenters, Masons, Plumbers, Founders, Poulterers, Cooks, Coopers, Tylers and Brick Layers, Bowyers and Vinters, Merchant Taylors, Blacksmiths and Weavers, Mercers, Grocers, Turners, Gardeners, Dyers, Scriveners, Fruiterers, Plaisterers, Brown Bakers, Imbroiderers, Musicians, and many more. The first Council appointed by the new charter had fifty-two members, fourteen of whom sat in the English House of Lords, and twice that number in the Commons. Thus was Virginia well linked to Crown and Parliament. This great commercial company had sovereign powers within Virginia. The King should have his fifth part of all ore of gold and silver; the laws and religion of England should be upheld, and no man let go to Virginia who had not first taken the oath of supremacy. But in the wide field beside all this the President--called the Treasurer--and the Council, henceforth to be chosen out of and by the whole body of subscribers, had full sway. No longer should there be a second Council sitting in Virginia, but a Governor with power, answerable only to the Company at home. That Company might tax and legislate within the Virginian field, punish the ill-doer or "rebel," and wage war, if need be, against Indian or Spaniard: One of the first actions of the newly constituted body was to seek remedy for the customary passage by way of the West Indies--so long and so beset by dangers. They sent forth a small ship under Captain Samuel Argall, with instructions "to attempt a direct and cleare passage, by leaving the Canaries to the East, and from thence to run a straight westerne course.... And so to make an experience of the Winds and Currents which have affrighted all undertakers by the North." This Argall, a young man with a stirring and adventurous life behind him and before him, took his ship the indicated way. He made the voyage in nine weeks, of which two were spent becalmed, and upon his return reported that it might be made in seven, "and no apparent inconvenience in the way." He brought to the great Council of the Company a story of necessity and distress at Jamestown, and the Council lays much of the blame for that upon "the misgovernment of the Commanders, by dissention and ambition among themselves," and upon the idleness of the general run, "active in nothing but adhearing to factions and parts." The Council, sitting afar from a savage land, is probably much too severe. But the "factions and parts" cannot easily be denied. Before Argall's return, the Company had commissioned as Governor of Virginia Sir Thomas Gates, and had gathered a fleet of seven ships and two pinnaces with Sir George Somers as Admiral, in the ship called the Sea Adventure, and Christopher Newport as Vice-Admiral. All weighed anchor from Falmouth early in June and sailed by the newly tried course, south to the Canaries and then across. These seven ships carried five hundred colonists, men, women, and children. On St. James's day there rose and broke a fearsome storm. Two days and nights it raged, and it scattered that fleet of seven. Gates, Somers, and Newport with others of "rancke and quality" were upon the Sea Adventure. How fared this ship with one attendant pinnace we shall come to see presently. But the other ships, driven to and fro, at last found a favorable wind, and in August they sighted Virginia. On the eleventh of that month they came, storm-beaten and without Governor or Admiral or Sea Adventure, into "our Bay" and at last to "the King's River and Town." Here there swarmed from these ships nigh three hundred persons, meeting and met by the hundred dwelling at Jamestown. This was the third supply, but it lacked the hundred or so upon the Sea Adventure and the pinnace, and it lacked a head. "Being put ashore without their Governor or any order from him (all the Commissioners and principal persons being aboard him) no man would acknowledge a superior." With this multitude appeared once more in Virginia the three ancient councilors--Ratcliffe, Archer, and Martin. Apparently here came fresh fuel for factions. Who should rule, and who should be ruled? Here is an extremely old and important question, settled in history only to be unsettled again. Everywhere it rises, dust on Time's road, and is laid only to rise again. Smith was still President. Who was in the right and who in the wrong in these ancient quarrels, the recital of which fills the pages of Smith and of other men, is hard now to be determined. But Jamestown became a place of turbulence. Francis West was sent with a considerable number to the Falls of the Far West to make there some kind of settlement. For a like purpose Martin and Percy were dispatched to the Nansemond River. All along the line there was bitter falling out. The Indians became markedly hostile. Smith was up the river, quarreling with West and his men. At last he called them "wrongheaded asses," flung himself into his boat, and made down the river to Jamestown. Yet even so he found no peace, for, while he was asleep in the boat, by some accident or other a spark found its way to his powder pouch. The powder exploded. Terribly hurt, he leaped overboard into the river, whence he was with difficulty rescued. Smith was now deposed by Ratcliffe, Archer, and Martin, because, "being an ambityous, onworthy, and vayneglorious fellowe," say his detractors, "he wolde rule all and ingrose all authority into his own hands." Be this as it may, Smith was put on board one of the ships which were about to sail for England. Wounded, and with none at Jamestown able to heal his hurt, he was no unwilling passenger. Thus he departed, and Virginia knew Captain John Smith no more. Some liked him and his ways, some liked him not nor his ways either. He wrote of his own deeds and praised them highly, and saw little good in other mankind, though here and there he made an exception. Evident enough are faults of temper. But he had great courage and energy and at times a lofty disinterestedness. Again winter drew on at Jamestown, and with it misery on misery. George Percy, now President, lay ill and unable to keep order. The multitude, "unbridled and heedless," pulled this way and that. Before the cold had well begun, what provision there was in the storehouse became exhausted. That stream of corn from the Indians in which the colonists had put dependence failed to flow. The Indians themselves began systematically to spoil and murder. Ratcliffe and fourteen with him met death while loading his barge with corn upon the Pamunkey. The cold grew worse. By midwinter there was famine. The four hundred--already noticeably dwindled--dwindled fast and faster. The cold was severe; the Indians were in the woods; the weakened bodies of the white men pined and shivered. They broke up the empty houses to make fires to warm themselves. They began to die of hunger as well as by Indian arrows. On went the winter, and every day some died. Tales of cannibalism are told....This was the Starving Time. When the leaves were red and gold, England-in-America had a population of four hundred and more. When the dogwood and the strawberry bloomed, England-in-America had a population of but sixty. Somewhat later than this time there came from the pen of Shakespeare a play dealing with a tempest and shipwreck and a magical isle and rescue thereon. The bright spirit Ariel speaks of "the still-vex'd Bermoothes." These were islands "two hundred leagues from any continent," named after a Spanish Captain Bermudez who had landed there. Once there had been Indians, but these the Spaniards had slain or taken as slaves. Now the islands were desolate, uninhabited, "forlorn and unfortunate." Chance vessels might touch, but the approach was dangerous. There grew rumors of pirates, and then of demons. "The Isles of Demons," was the name given to them. "The most forlorn and unfortunate place in the world" was the description that fitted them in those distant days: All torment, trouble, wonder and amazement Inhabits here: some heavenly power guide us Out of this fearful country. When Shakespeare so wrote, there was news in England and talk went to and fro of the shipwreck of the Sea Adventure upon the rocky teeth of the Bermoothes, "uninhabitable and almost inaccessible," and of the escape and dwelling there for months of Gates and Somers and the colonists in that ship. It is generally assumed that this incident furnished timber for the framework of The Tempest. The storm that broke on St. James's Day, scattering the ships of the third supply, drove the Sea Adventure here and there at will. Upon her watched Gates and Somers and Newport, above a hundred men, and a few women and children. There sprang a leak; all thought of death. Then rose a cry "Land ho!" The storm abated, but the wind carried the Sea Adventure upon this shore and grounded her upon a reef. A certain R. Rich, gentleman, one of the voyagers, made and published a ballad upon the whole event. If it is hardly Shakespearean music, yet it is not devoid of interest. ... The Seas did rage, the windes did blowe, Distressed were they then; Their shippe did leake, her tacklings breake, In daunger were her men; But heaven was pylotte in this storme, And to an Iland neare, Bermoothawes called, conducted them, Which did abate their feare. Using the ship's boats they got to shore, though with toil and danger. Here they found no sprites nor demons, nor even men, but a fair, half-tropical verdure and, running wild, great numbers of swine. And then on shoare the iland came Inhabited by hogges, Some Foule and tortoyses there were, They only had one dogge, To kill these swyne, to yield them foode, That little had to eate. Their store was spent and all things scant, Alas! they wanted meate. They did not, however, starve. A thousand hogges that dogge did kill Their hunger to sustaine. Ten months the Virginia colonists lived among the "still-vex'd Bermoothes." The Sea Adventure was but a wreck pinned between the reefs. No sail was seen upon the blue water. Where they were thrown, there Gates and Somers and Newport and all must stay for a time and make the best of it. They builded huts and thatched them, and they brought from the wrecked ship, pinned but half a mile from land, stores of many kinds. The clime proved of the blandest, fairest; with fishing and hunting they maintained themselves. Days, weeks, and months went by. They had a minister, Master Buck. They brought from the ship a bell and raised it for a church-bell. A marriage, a few deaths, the birth of two children these were events on the island. One of these children, the daughter of John Rolfe, gentleman, and his wife, was christened Bermuda. Gates and Somers held kindly sway. The colonists lived in plenty, peace, and ease. But for all that, they were shipwrecked folk, and far, far out of the world, and they longed for the old ways and their own kin. Day followed day, but no sail would show to bear them thence; and so at last, taking what they could from the forests of the island, and from the Sea Adventure, they set about to become shipwrights. And there two gallant pynases, Did build of Seader-tree, The brave Deliverance one was call'd, Of seaventy tonne was shee, The other Patience had to name, Her burthen thirty tonne.... ... The two and forty weekes being past They hoyst sayle and away; Their shippes with hogges well freighted were, Their harts with mickle joy. And so to Virginia came... What they found when they came to Virginia was dolor enough. On Jamestown strand they beheld sixty skeletons "who had eaten all the quick things that weare there, and some of them had eaten snakes and adders." Somers, Gates, and Newport, on entering the town, found it "rather as the ruins of some auntient fortification than that any people living might now inhabit it." A pitiable outcome, this, of all the hopes of fair "harbours and habitations," of golden dreams, and farflung dominion. All those whom Raleigh had sent to Roanoke were lost or had perished. Those who had named and had first dwelled in Jamestown were in number about a hundred. To these had been added, during the first year or so, perhaps two hundred more. And the ships that had parted from the Sea Adventure had brought in three hundred. First and last, not far from seven hundred English folk had come to live in Virginia. And these skeletons eating snakes and adders were all that remained of that company; all those others had died miserably and their hopes were ashes with them. What might Sir Thomas Gates, the Governor, do? "That which added most to his sorowe, and not a little startled him, was the impossibilitie.. how to amend one whitt of this. His forces were not of habilitie to revenge upon the Indian, nor his owne supply (now brought from the Bermudas) sufficient to relieve his people." So he called a Council and listened in turn to Sir George Somers, to Christopher Newport, and to "the gentlemen and Counsaile of the former Government." The end and upshot was that none could see other course than to abandon the country. England-in-America had tried and failed, and had tried again and failed. God, or the course of Nature, or the current of History was against her. Perhaps in time stronger forces and other attempts might yet issue from England. But now the hour had come to say farewell! Upon the bosom of the river swung two pinnaces, the Discovery and the Virginia, left by the departing ships months before, and the Deliverance and the Patience, the Bermuda pinnaces. Thus the English abandoned the little town that was but three years old. Aboard the four small ships they went, and down the broad river, between the flowery shores, they sailed away. Doubtless under the trees on either hand were Indians watching this retreat of the invaders of their forests. The plan of the departing colonists was to turn north, when they had reached the sea, and make for Newfoundland, where they might perhaps meet with English fishing ships. So they sailed down the river, and doubtless many hearts were heavy and sad, but others doubtless were full of joy and thankfulness to be going back to an older home than Virginia. The river broadened toward Chesapeake--and then, before them, what did they see? What deliverance for those who had held on to the uttermost? They saw the long boat of an English ship coming toward them with flashing oars, bringing news of comfort and relief. There, indeed, off Point Comfort lay three ships, the De La Warr, the Blessing, and the Hercules, and they brought, with a good company and good stores, Sir Thomas West, Lord De La Warr, appointed, over Gates, Lord Governor and Captain General, by land and sea, of the Colony of Virginia. The Discovery, the Virginia, the Patience, and the Deliverance thereupon put back to that shore they thought to have left forever. Two days later, on Sunday the 10th of June, 1610, there anchored before Jamestown the De La Warr, the Blessing, and the Hercules; and it was thus that the new Lord Governor wrote home: "I... in the afternoon went ashore, where after a sermon made by Mr. Buck... I caused my commission to be read, upon which Sir Thomas Gates delivered up...unto me his owne commission, both patents, and the counsell seale; and then I delivered some few wordes unto the Company.... and after... did constitute and give place of office and chardge to divers Captaines and gentlemen and elected unto me a counsaile." The dead was alive again. Saith Rich's ballad: And to the adventurers* thus he writes, "Be not dismayed at all, For scandall cannot doe us wrong, God will not let us fall. Let England knowe our willingnesse, For that our worke is good, WE HOPE TO PLANT A NATION WHERE NONE BEFORE HATH STOOD." * The Virginia Company. CHAPTER VI. SIR THOMAS DALE In a rebuilded Jamestown, Lord De La Warr, of "approved courage, temper and experience," held for a short interval dignified, seigneurial sway, while his restless associates adventured far and wide. Sir George Somers sailed back to the Bermudas to gather a cargo of the wild swine of those woods, but illness seized him there, and he died among the beautiful islands. That Captain Samuel Argall who had traversed for the Company the short road from the Canaries took up Smith's fallen mantle and carried on the work of exploration. It was he who found, and named for the Lord Governor, Delaware Bay. He went up the Potomac and traded for corn; rescued an English boy from the Indians; had brushes with the savages. In the autumn back to England with a string of ships went that tried and tested seafarer Christopher Newport. Virginia wanted many things, and chiefly that the Virginia Company should excuse defect and remember promise. So Gates sailed with Newport to make true report and guide exertion. Six months passed, and the Lord Governor himself fell ill and must home to England. So away he, too, went and for seven years until his death ruled from that distance through a deputy governor. De La Warr was a man of note and worth, old privy councilor of Elizabeth and of James, soldier in the Low Countries, strong Protestant and believer in England-in-America. Today his name is borne by a great river, a great bay, and by one of the United States. In London, the Virginia Company, having listened to Gates, projected a fourth supply for the colony. Of those hundreds who had perished in Virginia, many had been true and intelligent men, and again many perhaps had been hardly that. But the Virginia Company was now determined to exercise for the future a discrimination. It issued a broadside, making known that it was sending a new supply of men and all necessary provision in a fleet of good ships, under the conduct of Sir Thomas Gates and Sir Thomas Dale, and that it was not intended any more to burden the action with "vagrant and unnecessary persons... but honest and industrious men, as Carpenters, Smiths, Coopers, Fishermen, Tanners, Shoemakers, Shipwrights, Brickmen, Gardeners, Husbandmen, and laboring men of all sorts that... shall be entertained for the Voyage upon such termes as their qualitie and fitnesse shall deserve." Yet, in spite of precautions, some of the other sort continued to creep in with the sober and industrious. Master William Crashaw, in a sermon upon the Virginia venture, remarks that "they who goe... be like for aught I see to those who are left behind, even of all sorts better and worse!" This probably hits the mark. The Virginia Company meant at last to have order in Virginia. To this effect, a new office was created and a strong man was found to fill it. Gates remained De La Warr's deputy governor, but Sir Thomas Dale went as Marshal of Virginia. The latter sailed in March, 1611, with "three ships, three hundred people, twelve kine, twenty goats, and all things needful for the colony." Gates followed in May with other ships, three hundred colonists, and much cattle. For the next few years Dale becomes, in effect, ruler of Virginia. He did much for the colony, and therefore, in that far past that is not so distant either, much for the United States--a man of note, and worth considering. Dale had seen many years of service in the Low Countries. He was still in Holland when the summons came to cross the ocean in the service of the Virginia Company. On the recommendation of Henry, Prince of Wales, the States-General of the United Netherlands consented "that Captain Thomas Dale (destined by the King of Great Britain to be employed in Virginia in his Majesty's service) may absent himself from his company for the space of three years, and that his said company shall remain meanwhile vacant, to be resumed by him if he think proper." This man had a soldier's way with him and an iron will. For five years in Virginia he exhibited a certain stern efficiency which was perhaps the best support and medicine that could have been devised. At the end of that time, leaving Virginia, he did not return to the Dutch service, but became Admiral of the fleet of the English East India Company, thus passing from one huge historic mercantile company to another. With six ships he sailed for India. Near Java, the English and the Dutch having chosen to quarrel, he had with a Dutch fleet "a cruel, bloody fight." Later, when peace was restored, the East India Company would have given him command of an allied fleet of English and Dutch ships, the objective being trade along the coast of Malabar and an attempt to open commerce with the Chinese. But Sir Thomas Dale was opening commerce with a vaster, hidden land, for at Masulipatam he died. "Whose valor," says his epitaph, "having shined in the Westerne, was set in the Easterne India." But now in Maytime of 1611 Dale was in Virginian waters. By this day, beside the main settlement of Jamestown, there were at Cape Henry and Point Comfort small forts garrisoned with meager companies of men. Dale made pause at these, setting matters in order, and then, proceeding up the river, he came to Jamestown and found the people gathered to receive him. Presently he writes home to the Company a letter that gives a view of the place and its needs. Any number of things must be done, requiring continuous and hard work, "as, namely, the reparation of the falling Church and so of the Store-house, a stable for our horses, a munition house, a Powder house, a new well for the amending of the most unwholesome water which the old afforded. Brick to be made, a sturgion house... a Block house to be raised on the North side of our back river to prevent the Indians from killing our cattle, a house to be set up to lodge our cattle in the winter, and hay to be appointed in his due time to be made, a smith's forge to be perfected, caske for our Sturgions to be made, and besides private gardens for each man common gardens for hemp and flax and such other seeds, and lastly a bridge to land our goods dry and safe upon, for most of which I take present order." Dale would have agreed with Dr. Watts that Satan finds some mischief still For idle hands to do! If we of the United States today will call to mind certain Western small towns of some decades ago--if we will review them as they are pictured in poem and novel and play--we may receive, as it were out of the tail of the eye, an impression of some aspects of these western plantings of the seventeenth century. The dare-devil, the bully, the tenderfoot, the gambler, the gentleman-desperado had their counterparts in Virginia. So had the cool, indomitable sheriff and his dependable posse, the friends generally of law and order. Dale may be viewed as the picturesque sheriff of this earlier age. But it must be remembered that this Virginia was of the seventeenth, not of the nineteenth century. And law had cruel and idiot faces as well as faces just and wise. Hitherto the colony possessed no written statutes. The Company now resolved to impose upon the wayward an iron restraint. It fell to Dale to enforce the regulations known as "Lawes and Orders, dyvine, politique, and martiall for the Colonye of Virginia"--not English civil law simply, but laws "chiefly extracted out of the Lawes for governing the army in the Low Countreys." The first part of this code was compiled by William Strachey; the latter part is thought to have been the work of Sir Edward Cecil, Sir Thomas Gates, and Dale himself, approved and accepted by the Virginia Company. Ten years afterwards, defending itself before a Committee of Parliament, the Company through its Treasurer declared "the necessity of such laws, in some cases ad terrorem, and in some to be truly executed." Seventeenth-century English law herself was terrible enough in all conscience, but "Dale's Laws" went beyond. Offences ranged from failure to attend church and idleness to lese majeste. The penalties were gross--cruel whippings, imprisonments, barbarous puttings to death. The High Marshal held the unruly down with a high hand. But other factors than this Draconian code worked at last toward order in this English West. Dale was no small statesman, and he played ferment against ferment. Into Virginia now first came private ownership of land. So much was given to each colonist, and care of this booty became to each a preoccupation. The Company at home sent out more and more settlers, and more and more of the industrious, peace-loving sort. By 1612 the English in America numbered about eight hundred. Dale projected another town, and chose for its site the great horseshoe bend in the river a few miles below the Falls of the Far West, at a spot we now call Dutch Gap. Here Dale laid out a town which he named Henricus after the Prince of Wales, and for its citizens he drafted from Jamestown three hundred persons. To him also are due Bermuda and Shirley Hundreds and Dale's Gift over on the Eastern Shore. As the Company sent over more colonists, there began to show, up and down the James though at far intervals, cabins and clearings made by white men, set about with a stockade, and at the river edge a rude landing and a fastened boat. The restless search for mines of gold and silver now slackened. Instead eyes turned for wealth to the kingdom of the plant and tree, and to fur trade and fisheries. * Hitherto there had been no trading or landholding by individuals. All the colonists contributed the products of their toil to the common store and received their supplies from the Company. The adventurers (stockholders) contributed money to the enterprise; the colonists, themselves and their labor. Those ships that brought colonists were in every instance expected to return to England laden with the commodities of Virginia. At first cargoes of precious ores were looked for. These failing, the Company must take from Virginia what lay at hand and what might be suited to English needs. In 1610 the Company issued a paper of instructions upon this subject of Virginia commodities. The daughter was expected to send to the mother country sassafras root, bay berries, puccoon, sarsaparilla, walnut, chestnut, and chinquapin oil, wine, silk grass, beaver cod, beaver and otter skins, clapboard of oak and walnut, tar, pitch, turpentine, and powdered sturgeon. It might seem that Virginia was headed to become a land of fishers, of foresters, and vine dressers, perhaps even, when the gold should be at last discovered, of miners. At home, the colonizing merchants and statesmen looked for some such thing. In return for what she laded into ships, Virginia was to receive English-made goods, and to an especial degree woolen goods, "a very liberall utterance of our English cloths into a maine country described to be bigger than all Europe." There was to be direct trade, country kind for country kind, and no specie to be taken out of England. The promoters at home doubtless conceived a hardy and simple trans-Atlantic folk of their own kindred, planters for their own needs, steady consumers of the plainer sort of English wares, steady gatherers, in return, of necessaries for which England otherwise must trade after a costly fashion with lands which were not always friendly. A simple, sturdy, laborious Virginia, white men and Indians. If this was their dream, reality was soon to modify it. A new commodity of unsuspected commercial value began now to be grown in garden-plots along the James--the "weed" par excellence, tobacco. That John Rolfe who had been shipwrecked on the Sea Adventure was now a planter in Virginia. His child Bermuda had died in infancy, and his wife soon after their coming to Jamestown. Rolfe remained, a young man, a good citizen, and a Christian. And he loved tobacco. On that trivial fact hinges an important chapter in the economic history of America. In 1612 Rolfe planted tobacco in his own garden, experimented with its culture, and prophesied that the Virginian weed would rank with the best Spanish. It was now a shorter plant, smaller-leafed and smaller-flowered, but time and skilful gardening would improve it. England had known tobacco for thirty years, owing its introduction to Raleigh. At first merely amused by the New World rarity, England was now by general use turning a luxury into a necessity. More and more she received through Dutch and Spanish ships tobacco from the Indies. Among the English adventurers to Virginia some already knew the uses of the weed; others soon learned from the Indians. Tobacco was perhaps not indigenous to Virginia, but had probably come through southern tribes who in turn had gained it from those who knew it in its tropic habitat. Now, however, tobacco was grown by all Virginia Indians, and was regarded as the Great Spirit's best gift. In the final happy hunting-ground, kings, werowances, and priests enjoyed it forever. When, in the time after the first landing, the Indians brought gifts to the adventurers as to beings from a superior sphere, they offered tobacco as well as comestibles like deer-meat and mulberries. Later, in England and in Virginia, there was some suggestion that it might be cultivated among other commodities. But the Company, not to be diverted from the path to profits, demanded from Virginia necessities and not new-fangled luxuries. Nevertheless, a little tobacco was sent over to England, and then a little more, and then a larger quantity. In less than five years it had become a main export; and from that time to this profoundly has it affected the life of Virginia and, indeed, of the United States. This then is the wide and general event with which John Rolfe is connected. But there is also a narrower, personal happening that has pleased all these centuries. Indian difficulties yet abounded, but Dale, administrator as well as man of Mars, wound his way skilfully through them all. Powhatan brooded to one side, over there at Werowocomoco. Captain Samuel Argall was again in Virginia, having brought over sixty-two colonists in his ship, the Treasurer. A bold and restless man, explorer no less than mariner, he again went trading up the Potomac, and visited upon its banks the village of Japazaws, kinsman of Powhatan. Here he found no less a personage than Powhatan's daughter Pocahontas. An idea came into Argall's active and somewhat unscrupulous brain. He bribed Japazaws with a mighty gleaming copper kettle, and by that chief's connivance took Pocahontas from the village above the Potomac. He brought her captive in his boat down the Chesapeake to the mouth of the James and so up the river to Jamestown, here to be held hostage for an Indian peace. This was in 1613. Pocahontas stayed by the James, in the rude settlers' town, which may have seemed to the Indian girl stately and wonderful enough. Here Rolfe made her acquaintance, here they talked together, and here, after some scruples on his part as to "heathennesse," they were married. He writes of "her desire to be taught and instructed in the knowledge of God; her capableness of understanding; her aptnesse and willingnesse to recieve anie good impression, and also the spiritual, besides her owne incitements stirring me up hereunto." First she was baptized, receiving the name Rebecca, and then she was married to Rolfe in the flower-decked church at Jamestown. Powhatan was not there, but he sent young chiefs, her brothers, in his place. Rolfe had lands and cabins thereupon up the river near Henricus. He called this place Varina, the best Spanish tobacco being Varinas. Here he and Pocahontas dwelled together "civilly and lovingly." When two years had passed the couple went with their infant son upon a visit to England. There court and town and country flocked to see the Indian "princess." After a time she and Rolfe would go back to Virginia. But at Gravesend, before their ship sailed, she was stricken with smallpox and died, making "a religious and godly end," and there at Gravesend she is buried. Her son, Thomas Rolfe, who was brought up in England, returned at last to Virginia and lived out his life there with his wife and children. Today no small host of Americans have for ancestress the daughter of Powhatan. In England-in-America the immediate effect of the marriage was really to procure an Indian peace outlasting Pocahontas's brief life. In Dale's years there rises above the English horizon the cloud of New France. The old, disaster-haunted Huguenot colony in Florida was a thing of the past, to be mourned for when the Spaniard wiped it out--for at that time England herself was not in America. But now that she was established there, with some hundreds of men in a Virginia that stretched from Spanish Florida to Nova Scotia, the French shadow seemed ominous. And just in this farther region, amid fir-trees and snow, upon the desolate Bay of Fundy, the French for some years had been keeping the breath of life in a huddle of cabins named Port Royal. More than this, and later than the Port Royal building, Frenchmen--Jesuits that!--were trying a settlement on an island now called Mount Desert, off a coast now named Maine. The Virginia Company-doubtless with some reference back to the King and Privy Council--De La Warr, Gates, the deputy governor, and Dale, the High Marshal, appear to have been of one mind as to these French settlements. Up north there was still Virginia--in effect, England! Hands off, therefore, all European peoples speaking with an un-English tongue! Now it happened about this time that Captain Samuel Argall received a commission "to go fishing," and that he fished off that coast that is now the coast of Maine, and brought his ship to anchor by Mount Desert. Argall, a swift and high-handed person, fished on dry land. He swept into his net the Jesuits on Mount Desert, set half of them in an open boat to meet with what ship they might, and brought the other half captive to Jamestown. Later, he appeared before Port Royal, where he burned the cabins, slew the cattle, and drove into the forest the settler Frenchmen. But Port Royal and the land about it called Acadia, though much hurt, survived Argall's fishing.* * Argall, on his fishing trip, has been credited with attacking not only the French in Acadia but the Dutch traders on Manhattan. But there are grounds for doubt if he did the latter. There was also on Virginia in these days the shadow of Spain. In 1611 the English had found upon the beach near Point Comfort three Spaniards from a Spanish caravel which, as the Englishmen had learned with alarm, "was fitted with a shallop necessarie and propper to discover freshetts, rivers, and creekes." They took the three prisoner and applied for instructions to Dale, who held them to be spies and clapped them into prison at Point Comfort. That Dale's suspicions were correct, is proved by a letter which the King of Spain wrote in cipher to the Spanish Ambassador in London ordering him to confer with the King as to the liberty of three prisoners whom Englishmen in Virginia have captured. The three are "the Alcayde Don Diego de Molino, Ensign Marco Antonio Perez, and Francisco Lembri an English pilot, who by my orders went to reconnoitre those ports." Small wonder that Dale was apprehensive. "What may be the daunger of this unto us," he wrote home, "who are here so few, so weake, and unfortified,... I refer me to your owne honorable knowledg." Months pass, and the English Ambassador to Spain writes from Madrid that he "is not hasty to advertise anything upon bare rumours, which hath made me hitherto forbeare to write what I had generally heard of their intents against Virginia, but now I have been... advertised that without question they will speedily attempt against our plantation there. And that it is a thing resolved of, that ye King of Spain must run any hazard with England rather than permit ye English to settle there....Whatsoever is attempted, I conceive will be from ye Havana." Rumors fly back and forth. The next year 1613--the Ambassador writes from Madrid: "They have latelie had severall Consultations about our Plantation in Virginia. The resolution is--That it must be removed, but they thinke it fitt to suspend the execution of it,... for that they are in hope that it will fall of itselfe." The Spanish hope seemed, at this time, not at all without foundation. Members of the Virginia Company had formed the Somers Islands Company named for Somers the Admiral--and had planted a small colony in Bermuda where the Sea Adventure had been wrecked. Here were fair, fertile islands without Indians, and without the diseases that seemed to rise, no man knew how, from the marshes along those lower reaches of the great river James in Virginia. Young though it was, the new plantation "prospereth better than that of Virginia, and giveth greater incouragement to prosecute yt." In England there arose, from some concerned, the cry to Give up Virginia that has proved a project awry! As Gates was once about to remove thence every living man, so truly they might "now removed to these more hopeful islands!" The Spanish Ambassador is found writing to the Spanish King: "Thus they are here discouraged... on account of the heavy expenses they have incurred, and the disappointment, that there is no passage from there to the South Sea... nor mines of gold or silver." This, be it noted, was before tobacco was discovered to be an economic treasure. The Elizabeth from London reached Virginia in May, 1613. It brought to the colony news of Bermuda, and incidentally of that new notion brewing in the mind of some of the Company. When the Elizabeth, after a month in Virginia, turned homeward, she carried a vigorous letter from Dale, the High Marshal, to Sir Thomas Smith, Treasurer of the Company. "Let me tell you all at home [writes Dale] this one thing, and I pray remember it; if you give over this country and loose it, you, with your wisdoms, will leap such a gudgeon as our state hath not done the like since they lost the Kingdom of France; be not gulled with the clamorous report of base people; believe Caleb and Joshua; if the glory of God have no power with them and the conversion of these poor infidels, yet let the rich mammons' desire egge them on to inhabit these countries. I protest to you, by the faith of an honest man, the more I range the country the more I admire it. I have seen the best countries in Europe; I protest to you, before the Living God, put them all together, this country will be equivalent unto them if it be inhabited with good people." If ever Mother England seriously thought of moving Virginia into Bermuda, the idea was now given over. Spain, suspending the sword until Virginia "will fall of itselfe," saw that sword rust away. Five years in all Dale ruled Virginia. Then, personal and family matters calling, he sailed away home to England, to return no more. Soon his star "having shined in the Westerne, was set in the Easterne India." At the helm in Virginia he left George Yeardley, an honest, able man. But in England, what was known as the "court party" in the Company managed to have chosen instead for De La Warr's deputy governor, Captain Samuel Argall. It proved an unfortunate choice. Argall, a capable and daring buccaneer, fastened on Virginia as on a Spanish galleon. For a year he ruled in his own interest, plundering and terrorizing. At last the outcry against him grew so loud that it had to be listened to across the Atlantic. Lord De La Warr was sent out in person to deal with matters but died on the way; and Captain Yeardley, now knighted and appointed Governor, was instructed to proceed against the incorrigible Argall. But Argall had already departed to face his accusers in England. CHAPTER VII. YOUNG VIRGINIA The choice of Sir Edwyn Sandys as Treasurer of the Virginia Company in 1619 marks a turning-point in the history of both Company and colony. At a moment when James I was aiming at absolute monarchy and was menacing Parliament, Sandys and his party--the Liberals of the day--turned the sessions of the Company into a parliament where momentous questions of state and colonial policy were freely debated. The liberal spirit of Sandys cast a beam of light, too, across the Atlantic. When Governor Yeardley stepped ashore at Jamestown in mid-April, he brought with him, as the first fruits of the new regime, no less a boon than the grant of a representative assembly. There were to be in Virginia, subject to the Company, subject in its turn to the Crown, two "Supreme Councils," one of which was to consist of the Governor and his councilors chosen by the Company in England. The other was to be elected by the colonists, two representatives or burgesses from each distinct settlement. Council and House of Burgesses were to constitute the upper and lower houses of the General Assembly. The whole had power to legislate upon Virginian affairs within the bounds of the colony, but the Governor in Virginia and the Company in England must approve its acts. A mighty hope in small was here! Hedged about with provisions, curtailed and limited, here nevertheless was an acorn out of which, by natural growth and some mutation, was to come popular government wide and deep. The planting of this small seed of freedom here, in 1619, upon the banks of the James in Virginia, is an event of prime importance. On the 30th of July, 1619, there was convened in the log church in Jamestown the first true Parliament or Legislative Assembly in America. Twenty-two burgesses sat, hat on head, in the body of the church, with the Governor and the Council in the best seats. Master John Pory, the speaker, faced the Assembly; clerk and sergeant-at-arms were at hand; Master Buck, the Jamestown minister, made the solemn opening prayer. The political divisions of this Virginia were Cities, Plantations, and Hundreds, the English population numbering now at least a thousand souls. Boroughs sending burgesses were James City, Charles City, the City of Henricus, Kecoughtan, Smith's Hundred, Flowerdieu Hundred, Martin's Hundred, Martin Brandon, Ward's Plantation, Lawne's Plantation, and Argall's Gift. This first Assembly attended to Indian questions, agriculture, and religion. Most notable is this year 1619, a year wrought of gold and iron. John Rolfe, back in Virginia, though without his Indian princess, who now lies in English earth, jots down and makes no comment upon what he has written: "About the last of August came in a Dutch man of warre that sold us twenty Negars." No European state of that day, few individuals, disapproved of the African slave trade. That dark continent made a general hunting-ground. England, Spain, France, the Netherlands, captured, bought, and sold slaves. Englishmen in Virginia bought without qualm, as Englishmen in England bought without qualm. The cargo of the Dutch ship was a commonplace. The only novelty was that it was the first shipload of Africans brought to English-America. Here, by the same waters, were the beginnings of popular government and the young upas-tree of slavery. A contradiction in terms was set to resolve itself, a riddle for unborn generations of Americans. Presently there happened another importation. Virginia, under the new management, had strongly revived. Ships bringing colonists were coming in; hamlets were building; fields were being planted; up and down were to be found churches; a college at Henricus was projected so that Indian children might be taught and converted from "heathennesse." Yet was the population almost wholly a doublet--and--breeches--wearing population. The children for whom the school was building were Indian children. The men sailing to Virginia dreamed of a few years there and gathered wealth, and then return to England. Apparently it was the new Treasurer, Sir Edwyn Sandys, who first grasped the essential principle of successful colonization: Virginia must be HOME to those we send! Wife and children made home. Sandys gathered ninety women, poor maidens and widows, "young, handsome, and chaste," who were willing to emigrate and in Virginia become wives of settlers. They sailed; their passage money was paid by the men of their choice; they married--and home life began in Virginia. In due course of time appeared fair-haired children, blue or gray of eye, with all England behind them, yet native-born, Virginians from the cradle. Colonists in number sailed now from England. Most ranks of society and most professions were represented. Many brought education, means, independent position. Other honest men, chiefly young men with little in the purse, came over under indentures, bound for a specified term of years to settlers of larger means. These indentured men are numerous; and when they have worked out their indebtedness they will take up land of their own. An old suggestion of Dale's now for the first time bore fruit. Over the protest of the "country party" in the Company, there began to be sent each year out of the King's gaols a number, though not at any time a large number, of men under conviction for various crimes. This practice continued, or at intervals was resumed, for years, but its consequences were not so dire, perhaps, as we might imagine. The penal laws were execrably brutal, and in the drag-net of the law might be found many merely unfortunate, many perhaps finer than the law. Virginia thus was founded and established. An English people moved through her forests, crossed in boats her shining waters, trod the lanes of hamlets builded of wood but after English fashions. Climate, surrounding nature, differed from old England, and these and circumstance would work for variation. But the stock was Middlesex, Surrey, Devon, and all the other shires of England. Scotchmen came also, Welshmen, and, perhaps as early as this, a few Irish. And there were De La Warr's handful of Poles and Germans, and several French vinedressers. Political and economic life was taking form. That huge, luxurious, thick-leafed, yellow-flowered crop, alike comforting and extravagant, that tobacco that was in much to mould manners and customs and ways of looking at things, was beginning to grow abundantly. In 1620, forty thousand pounds of tobacco went from Virginia to England; two years later went sixty thousand pounds. The best sold at two shillings the pound, the inferior for eighteen pence. The Virginians dropped all thought of sassafras and clapboard. Tobacco only had any flavor of Golconda. At this time the rich soil, composed of layer on layer of the decay of forests that had lived from old time, was incredibly fertile. As fast as trees could be felled and dragged away, in went the tobacco. Fields must have laborers, nor did these need to be especially intelligent. Bring in indentured men to work. Presently dream that ships, English as well as Dutch, might oftener load in Africa and sell in Virginia, to furnish the dark fields with dark workers! In Dale's time had begun the making over of land in fee simple; in Yeardley's time every "ancient" colonist--that is every man who had come to Virginia before 1616--was given a goodly number of acres subject to a quit-rent. Men of means and influence obtained great holdings; ownership, rental, sale, and purchase of the land began in Virginia much as in older times it had begun in England. Only here, in America, where it seemed that the land could never be exhausted, individual holdings were often of great acreage. Thus arose the Virginia Planter. In Yeardley's time John Berkeley established at Falling Creek the first iron works ever set up in English-America. There were by this time in Virginia, glass works, a windmill, iron works. To till the soil remained the chief industry, but the tobacco culture grew until it overshadowed the maize and wheat, the pease and beans. There were cattle and swine, not a few horses, poultry, pigeons, and peacocks. In 1621 Yeardley, desiring to be relieved, was succeeded by Sir Francis Wyatt. In October the new Governor came from England in the George, and with him a goodly company. Among others is found George Sandys, brother of Sir Edwyn. This gentleman and scholar, beneath Virginia skies and with Virginia trees and blossoms about him, translated the "Metamorphoses" of Ovid and the First Book of the "Aeneid", both of which were published in London in 1626. He stands as the first purely literary man of the English New World. But vigorous enough literature, though the writers thereof regarded it as information only, had, from the first years, emanated from Virginia. Smith's "True Relation", George Percy's "Discourse", Strachey's "True Repertory of the Wracke and Redemption of Sir Thomas Gates", and his "Historie of Travaile into Virginia Brittannia", Hamor's "True Discourse", Whitaker's "Good News"--other letters and reports--had already flowered, all with something of the strength and fragrance of Elizabethan and early Jacobean work. For some years there had seemed peace with the Indians. Doubtless members of the one race may have marauded, and members of the other showed themselves highhanded, impatient, and unjust, but the majority on each side appeared to have settled into a kind of amity. Indians came singly or in parties from their villages to the white men's settlements, where they traded corn and venison and what not for the magic things the white man owned. A number had obtained the white man's firearms, unwisely sold or given. The red seemed reconciled to the white's presence in the land; the Indian village and the Indian tribal economy rested beside the English settlement, church, and laws. Doubtless a fragment of the population of England and a fragment of the English in Virginia saw in a pearly dream the red man baptized, clothed, become Christian and English. At the least, it seemed that friendliness and peace might continue. In the spring of 1622 a concerted Indian attack and massacre fell like a bolt from the blue. Up and down the James and upon the Chesapeake, everywhere on the same day, Indians, bursting from the dark forest that was so close behind every cluster of log houses, attacked the colonists. Three hundred and forty-seven English men, women, and children were slain. But Jamestown and the plantations in its neighborhood were warned in time. The English rallied, gathered force, turned upon and beat back to the forest the Indian, who was now and for a long time to come their open foe. There followed upon this horror not a day or a month but years of organized retaliation and systematic harrying. In the end the great majority of the Indians either fell or were pushed back toward the upper Pamunkey, the Rappahannock, the Potomac, and westward upon the great shelf or terrace of the earth that climbed to the fabled mountains. And with this westward move there passed away that old vision of wholesale Christianizing. CHAPTER VIII. ROYAL GOVERNMENT In November, 1620, there sailed into a quiet harbor on the coast of what is now Massachusetts a ship named the Mayflower, having on board one hundred and two English Non-conformists, men and women and with them a few children. These latest colonists held a patent from the Virginia Company and have left in writing a statement of their object: "We... having undertaken, for the glory of God and advancement of the Christian faith, and honor of our King and Country, a voyage to plant the first colony in the northern parts of Virginia--". The mental reservation is, of course, "where perchance we may serve God as we will!" In England there obtained in some quarters a suspicion that "they meant to make a free, popular State there." Free--Popular--Public Good! These are words that began, in the second quarter of the seventeenth century, to shine and ring. King and people had reached the verge of a great struggle. The Virginia Company was divided, as were other groups, into factions. The court party and the country party found themselves distinctly opposed. The great, crowded meetings of the Company Sessions rang with their divisions upon policies small and large. Words and phrases, comprehensive, sonorous, heavy with the future, rose and rolled beneath the roof of their great hall. There were heard amid warm discussion: Kingdom and Colony--Spain--Netherlands--France--Church and State--Papists and Schismatics--Duties, Tithes, Excise Petitions of Grievances--Representation--Right of Assembly. Several years earlier the King had cried, "Choose the Devil, but not Sir Edwyn Sandys!" Now he declared the Company "just a seminary to a seditious parliament!" All London resounded with the clash of parties and opinions.* "Last week the Earl of Warwick and the Lord Cavendish fell so foul at a Virginia... court that the lie passed and repassed.... The factions... are grown so violent that Guelfs and Ghibellines were not more animated one against another!" * In his work on "Joint-stock Companion", vol.II, pp. 266 ff., W. R. Scott traces the history of these acute dissensions in the Virginia Company and draws conclusions distinctly unfavorable to the management of Sandys and his party.--Editor. Believing that the Company's sessions foreshadowed a "seditious parliament," James Stuart set himself with obstinacy and some cunning to the Company's undoing. The court party gave the King aid, and circumstances favored the attempt. Captain Nathaniel Butler, who had once been Governor of the Somers Islands and had now returned to England by way of Virginia, published in London "The Unmasked Face of Our Colony in Virginia", containing a savage attack upon every item of Virginian administration. The King's Privy Council summoned the Company, or rather the "country" party, to answer these and other allegations. Southampton, Sandys, and Ferrar answered with strength and cogency. But the tide was running against them. James appointed commissioners to search out what was wrong with Virginia. Certain men were shipped to Virginia to get evidence there, as well as support from the Virginia Assembly. In this attempt they signally failed. Then to England came a Virginia member of the Virginia Council, with long letters to King and Privy Council: the Sandys-Southampton administration had done more than well for Virginia. The letters were letters of appeal. The colony hoped that "the Governors sent over might not have absolute authority, but might be restrained to the consent of the Council.... But above all they made it their most humble request that they might still retain the liberty of their General Assemblies; than which nothing could more conduce to the publick Satisfaction and publick Liberty." In London another paper, drawn by Cavendish, was given to King and Privy Council. It answered many accusations, and among others the statement that "the Government of the companies as it then stood was democratical and tumultuous, and ought therefore to be altered, and reduced into the Hands of a few." It is of interest to hear these men speak, in the year 1623, in an England that was close to absolute monarchy, to a King who with all his house stood out for personal rule. "However, they owned that, according to his Majesty's Institution, their Government had some Show of a democratical Form; which was nevertheless, in that Case, the most just and profitable, and most conducive to the Ends and Effects aimed at thereby.... Lastly, they observed that the opposite Faction cried out loudly against Democracy, and yet called for Oligarchy; which would, as they conceived, make the Government neither of better Form, nor more monarchical." But the dissolution of the Virginia Company was at hand. In October, 1623, the Privy Council stated that the King had "taken into his princely Consideration the distressed State of the Colony of Virginia, occasioned, as it seemed, by the Ill Government of the Company." The remedy for the ill-management lay in the reduction of the Government into fewer hands. His Majesty had resolved therefore upon the withdrawal of the Company's charter and the substitution, "with due regard for continuing and preserving the Interest of all Adventurers and private persons whatsoever," of a new order of things. The new order proved, on examination, to be the old order of rule by the Crown. Would the Company surrender the old charter and accept a new one so modeled? The Company, through the country party, strove to gain time. They met with a succession of arbitrary measures and were finally forced to a decision. They would not surrender their charter. Then a writ of quo warranto was issued; trial before the King's Bench followed; and judgment was rendered against the Company in the spring term of 1624. Thus with clangor fell the famous Virginia Company. That was one year. The March of the next year James Stuart, King of England, died. That young Henry who was Prince of Wales when the Susan Constant, the Goodspeed, and the Discovery sailed past a cape and named it for him Cape Henry, also had died. His younger brother Charles, for whom was named that other and opposite cape, now ascended the throne as King Charles the First of England. In Virginia no more General Assemblies are held for four years. King Charles embarks upon "personal rule." Sir Francis Wyatt, a good Governor, is retained by commission and a Council is appointed by the King. No longer are affairs to be conducted after a fashion "democratical and tumultuous." Orders are transmitted from England; the Governor, assisted by the Council, will take into cognizance purely local needs; and when he sees some occasion he will issue a proclamation. Wyatt, recalled finally to England; George Yeardley again, who died in a year's time; Francis West, that brother of Lord De La Warr and an ancient planter--these in quick succession sit in the Governor's chair. Following them John Pott, doctor of medicine, has his short term. Then the King sends out Sir John Harvey, avaricious and arbitrary, "so haughty and furious to the Council and the best gentlemen of the country," says Beverley, "that his tyranny grew at last insupportable." The Company previously, and now the King, had urged upon the Virginians a diversified industry and agriculture. But Englishmen in Virginia had the familiar emigrant idea of making their fortunes. They had left England; they had taken their lives in their hands; they had suffered fevers, Indian attacks, homesickness, deprivation. They had come to Virginia to get rich. Now clapboards and sassafras, pitch, tar, and pine trees for masts, were making no fortune for Virginia shippers. How could they, these few folk far off in America, compete in products of the forest with northern Europe? As to mines of gold and silver, that first rich vision had proved a disheartening mirage. "They have great hopes that the mountains are very rich, from the discovery of a silver mine made nineteen years ago, at a place about four days' journey from the falls of James river; but they have not the means of transporting the ore." So, dissatisfied with some means of livelihood and disappointed in others, the Virginians turned to tobacco. Every year each planter grew more tobacco; every year more ships were laden. In 1628 more than five hundred thousand pounds were sent to England, for to England it must go, and not elsewhere. There it must struggle with the best Spanish, for a long time valued above the best Virginian. Finally, however, James and after him Charles, agreed to exclude the Spanish. Virginia and the Somers Islands alone might import tobacco into England. But offsetting this, customs went up ruinously; a great lump sum must go annually to the King; the leaf must enter only at the port of London; so forth and so on. Finally Charles put forth his proposal to monopolize the industry, giving Virginia tobacco the English market but limiting its production to the amount which the Government could sell advantageously. Such a policy required cooperation from the colonists. The King therefore ordered the Governor to grant a Virginia Assembly, which in turn should dutifully enter into partnership with him--upon his terms. So the Virginia Assembly thus came back into history. It made a "Humble Answere" in which, for all its humility, the King's proposal was declined. The idea of the royal monopoly faded out, and Virginia continued on its own way. The General Assembly, having once met, seems of its own motion to have continued meeting. The next year we find it in session at Jamestown, and resolving "that we should go three severall marches upon the Indians, at three severall times of the yeare," and also "that there be an especiall care taken by all commanders and others that the people doe repaire to their churches on the Saboth day, and to see that the penalty of one pound of tobacco for every time of absence, and 50 pounds for every month's absence... be levyed, and the delinquents to pay the same." About this time we read: "Dr. John Pott, late Governor, indicted, arraigned, and found guilty of stealing cattle, 13 jurors, 3 whereof councellors. This day wholly spent in pleading; next day, in unnecessary disputation." These were moving times in the little colony whose population may by now have been five thousand. Harvey, the Governor, was rapacious; the King at home, autocratic. Meanwhile, signs of change and of unrest were not wanting in Europe. England was hastening toward revolution; in Germany the Thirty Years' War was in mid-career; France and Italy were racked by strife; over the world the peoples groaned under the strain of oppression. In science, too, there was promise of revolution. Harvey--not that Governor Harvey of Virginia, but a greater in England was writing upon the circulation of the blood. Galileo brooded over ideas of the movement of the earth; Kepler, over celestial harmonies and solar rule. Descartes was laying the foundation of a new philosophy. In the meantime, far across the Atlantic, bands of Virginians went out against the Indians--who might, or might not, God knows! have put in a claim to be considered among the oppressed peoples. In Virginia the fat, black, tobacco-fields, steaming under a sun like the sun of Spain, called for and got more labor and still more labor. Every little sailing ship brought white workmen--called servants--consigned, indentured, apprenticed to many-acred planters. These, in return for their passage money, must serve Laban for a term of years, but then would receive Rachel, or at least Leah, in the shape of freedom and a small holding and provision with which to begin again their individual life. If they were ambitious and energetic they might presently be able, in turn, to import labor for their own acres. As yet, in Virginia, there were few African slaves--not more perhaps than a couple of hundred. But whenever ships brought them they were readily purchased. In Virginia, as everywhere in time of change, there arose anomalies. Side by side persisted a romantic devotion to the King and a determination to have popular assemblies; a great sense of the rights of the white individual together with African slavery; a practical, easy-going, debonair naturalism side by side with an Established Church penalizing alike Papist, Puritan, and atheist. Even so early as this, the social tone was set that was to hold for many and many a year. The suave climate was somehow to foster alike a sense of caste and good neighborliness--class distinctions and republican ideas. The "towns" were of the fewest and rudest--little more than small palisaded hamlets, built of frame or log, poised near the water of the river James. The genius of the land was for the plantation rather than the town. The fair and large brick or frame planter's house of a later time had not yet risen, but the system was well inaugurated that set a main or "big" house upon some fair site, with cabins clustered near it, and all surrounded, save on the river front, with far-flung acres, some planted with grain and the rest with tobacco. Up and down the river these estates were strung together by the rudest roads, mere tracks through field and wood. The cart was as yet the sole wheeled vehicle. But the Virginia planter--a horseman in England--brought over horses, bred horses, and early placed horsemanship in the catalogue of the necessary colonial virtues. At this point, however, in a land of great and lesser rivers, with a network of creeks, the boat provided the chief means of communication. Behind all, enveloping all, still spread the illimitable forest, the haunt of Indians and innumerable game. Virginians were already preparing for an expansion to the north. There was a man in Virginia named William Claiborne. This individual--able, determined, self-reliant, energetic--had come in as a young man, with the title of surveyor-general for the Company, in the ship that brought Sir Francis Wyatt, just before the massacre of 1622. He had prospered and was now Secretary of the Province. He held lands, and was endowed with a bold, adventurous temper and a genius for business. In a few years he had established widespread trading relations with the Indians. He and the men whom he employed penetrated to the upper shores of Chesapeake, into the forest bordering Potomac and Susquehanna: Knives and hatchets, beads, trinkets, and colored cloth were changed for rich furs and various articles that the Indians could furnish. The skins thus gathered Claiborne shipped to London merchants, and was like to grow wealthy from what his trading brought. Looking upon the future and contemplating barter on a princely scale, he set to work and obtained exhaustive licenses from the immediate Virginian authorities, and at last from the King himself. Under these grants, Claiborne began to provide settlements for his numerous traders. Far up the Chesapeake, a hundred miles or so from Point Comfort, he found an island that he liked, and named it Kent Island. Here for his men he built cabins with gardens around them, a mill and a church. He was far from the river James and the mass of his fellows, but he esteemed himself to be in Virginia and upon his own land. What came of Claiborne's enterprise the sequel has to show. CHAPTER IX. MARYLAND There now enters upon the scene in Virginia a man of middle age, not without experience in planting colonies, by name George Calvert, first Lord Baltimore. Of Flemish ancestry, born in Yorkshire, scholar at Oxford, traveler, clerk of the Privy Council, a Secretary of State under James, member of the House of Commons, member of the Virginia Company, he knew many of the ramifications of life. A man of worth and weight, he was placed by temperament and education upon the side of the court party and the Crown in the growing contest over rights. About the year 1625, under what influence is not known, he had openly professed the Roman Catholic faith--and that took courage in the seventeenth century, in England! Some years before, Calvert had obtained from the Crown a grant of a part of Newfoundland, had named it Avalon, and had built great hopes upon its settlement. But the northern winter had worked against him. He knew, for he had resided there himself with his family in that harsh clime. "From the middle of October to the middle of May there is a sad fare of winter on all this land." He is writing to King Charles, and he goes on to say "I have had strong temptations to leave all proceedings in plantations... but my inclination carrying me naturally to these kind of works... I am determined to commit this place to fishermen that are able to encounter storms and hard weather, and to remove myself with some forty persons to your Majesty's dominion of Virginia where, if your Majesty will please to grant me a precinct of land... I shall endeavour to the utmost of my power, to deserve it." With his immediate following he thereupon does sail far southward. In October, 1629, he comes in between the capes, past Point Comfort and so up to Jamestown--to the embarrassment of that capital, as will soon be evident. Here in Church of England Virginia was a "popish recusant!" Here was an old "court party" man, one of James's commissioners, a person of rank and prestige, known, for all his recusancy, to be in favor with the present King. Here was the Proprietary of Avalon, guessed to be dissatisfied with his chilly holding, on the scent perhaps of balmier, easier things! The Assembly was in session when Lord Baltimore came to Jamestown. All arrivers in Virginia must take the oath of supremacy. The Assembly proposed this to the visitor who, as Roman Catholic, could not take it, and said as much, but offered his own declaration of friendliness to the powers that were. This was declined. Debate followed, ending with a request from the Assembly that the visitor depart from Virginia. Some harshness of speech ensued, but hospitality and the amenities fairly saved the situation. One Thomas Tindall was pilloried for "giving my lord Baltimore the lie and threatening to knock him down." Baltimore thereupon set sail, but not, perhaps, until he had gained that knowledge of conditions which he desired. In England he found the King willing to make him a large grant, with no less powers than had clothed him in Avalon. Territory should be taken from the old Virginia; it must be of unsettled land--Indians of course not counting. Baltimore first thought of the stretch south of the river James between Virginia and Spanish Florida--a fair land of woods and streams, of good harbors, and summer weather. But suddenly William Claiborne was found to be in London, sent there by the Virginians, with representations in his pocket. Virginia was already settled and had the intention herself of expanding to the south. Baltimore, the King, and the Privy Council weighed the matter. Westward, the blue mountains closed the prospect. Was the South Sea just beyond their sunset slopes, or was it much farther away, over unknown lands, than the first adventurers had guessed? Either way, too rugged hardship marked the west! East rolled the ocean. North, then? It were well to step in before those Hollanders about the mouth of the Hudson should cast nets to the south. Baltimore accordingly asked for a grant north of the Potomac. He received a huge territory, stretching over what is now Maryland, Delaware, and a part of Pennsylvania. The Potomac, from source to mouth, with a line across Chesapeake and the Eastern Shore to the ocean formed his southern frontier; his northern was the fortieth parallel, from the ocean across country to the due point above the springs of the Potomac. Over this great expanse he became "true and absolute lord and proprietary," holding fealty to England, but otherwise at liberty to rule in his own domain with every power of feudal duke or prince. The King had his allegiance, likewise a fifth part of gold or silver found within his lands. All persons going to dwell in his palatinate were to have "rights and liberties of Englishmen." But, this aside, he was lord paramount. The new country received the name Terra Mariae--Maryland--for Henrietta Maria, then Queen of England. Here was a new land and a Lord Proprietor with kingly powers. Virginians seated on the James promptly petitioned King Charles not to do them wrong by so dividing their portion of the earth. But King and Privy Council answered only that Virginia and Maryland must "assist each other on all occasions as becometh fellow-subjects." William Claiborne, indeed, continued with a determined voice to cry out that lands given to Baltimore were not, as had been claimed, unsettled, seeing that he himself had under patent a town on Kent Island and another at the mouth of the Susquehanna. Baltimore was a reflective man, a dreamer in the good sense of the term, and religiously minded. At the height of seeming good fortune he could write: "All things, my lord, in this world pass away.... They are but lent us till God please to call for them back again, that we may not esteem anything our own, or set our hearts upon anything but Him alone, who only remains forever." Like his King, Baltimore could carry far his prerogative and privilege, maintaining the while not a few degrees of inner freedom. Like all men, here he was bound, and here he was free. Baltimore's desire was for "enlarging his Majesty's Empire," and at the same time to provide in Maryland a refuge for his fellow Catholics. These were now in England so disabled and limited that their status might fairly be called that of a persecuted people. The mounting Puritanism promised no improvement. The King himself had no fierce antagonism to the old religion, but it was beginning to be seen that Charles and Charles's realm were two different things. A haven should be provided before the storm blackened further. Baltimore thus saw put into his hands a high and holy opportunity, and made no doubt that it was God-given. His charter, indeed, seemed to contemplate an established church, for it gave to Baltimore the patronage of all churches and chapels which were to be "consecrated according to the ecclesiastical laws of our kingdom of England"; nevertheless, no interpretation of the charter was to be made prejudicial to "God's holy and true Christian religion." What was Christian and what was prejudicial was, fortunately for him, left undefined. No obstacles were placed before a Catholic emigration. Baltimore had this idea and perhaps a still wider one: a land--Mary's land--where all Christians might foregather, brothers and sisters in one home! Religious tolerance--practical separation of Church and State--that was a broad idea for his age, a generous idea for a Roman Catholic of a time not so far removed from the mediaeval. True, wherever he went and whatever might be his own thought and feeling, he would still have for overlord a Protestant sovereign, and the words of his charter forbade him to make laws repugnant to the laws of England. But Maryland was distant, and wise management might do much. Catholics, Anglicans, Puritans, Dissidents, and Nonconformists of almost any physiognomy, might come and be at home, unpunished for variations in belief. Only the personal friendship of England's King and the tact and suave sagacity of the Proprietary himself could have procured the signing of this charter, since it was known--as it was to all who cared to busy themselves with the matter--that here was a Catholic meaning to take other Catholics, together with other scarcely less abominable sectaries, out of the reach of Recusancy Acts and religious pains and penalties, to set them free in England-in-America; and, raising there a state on the novel basis of free religion, perhaps to convert the heathen to all manner of errors, and embark on mischiefs far too large for definition. Taking things as they were in the world, remembering acts of the Catholic Church in the not distant past, the ill-disposed might find some color for the agitation which presently did arise. Baltimore was known to be in correspondence with English Jesuits, and it soon appeared that Jesuit priests were to accompany the first colonists. At that time the Society of Jesus loomed large both politically and educationally. Many may have thought that there threatened a Rome in America. But, however that may have been, there was small chance for any successful opposition to the charter, since Parliament had been dissolved by the King, not to be summoned again for eleven years. The Privy Council was subservient, and, as the Sovereign was his friend, Baltimore saw the signing of the charter assured and began to gather together his first colonists. Then, somewhat suddenly, in April, 1632, he sickened, and died at the age of fifty-three. His son, Cecil Calvert, second Lord Baltimore, took up his father's work. This young man, likewise able and sagacious, and at every step in his father's confidence, could and did proceed even in detail according to what had been planned. All his father's rights had descended to him; in Maryland he was Proprietary with as ample power as ever a Count Palatine had enjoyed. He took up the advantage and the burden. The father's idea had been to go with his colonists to Maryland, and this it seems that the son also meant to do. But now, in London, there deepened a clamor against such Catholic enterprise. Once he were away, lips would be at the King's ear. And with England so restless, in a turmoil of new thought, it might even arise that King and Privy Council would find trouble in acting after their will, good though that might be. The second Baltimore therefore remained in England to safeguard his charter and his interests. The family of Baltimore was an able one. Cecil Calvert had two brothers, Leonard and George, and these would go to Maryland in his place. Leonard he made Governor and Lieutenant-general, and appointed him councilor. Ships were made ready--the Ark of three hundred tons and the Dove of fifty. The colonists went aboard at Gravesend, where these ships rode at anchor. Of the company a great number were Protestants, willing to take land, if their condition were bettered so, with Catholics. Difficulties of many kinds kept them all long at the mouth of the Thames, but at last, late in November, 1633, the Ark and the Dove set sail. Touching at the Isle of Wight, they took aboard two Jesuit priests, Father White and Father Altham, and a number of other colonists. Baltimore reported that the expedition consisted of "two of my brothers with very near twenty other gentlemen of very good fashion, and three hundred labouring men well provided in all things." These ships, with the first Marylanders, went by the old West Indies sea route. We find them resting at Barbados; then they swung to the north and, in February, 1634, came to Point Comfort in Virginia. Here they took supplies, being treated by Sir John Harvey (who had received a letter from the King) with "courtesy and humanity." Without long tarrying, for they were sick now for land of their own, they sailed on up the great bay, the Chesapeake. Soon they reached the mouth of the Potomac--a river much greater than any of them, save shipmasters and mariners, had ever seen--and into this turned the Ark and the Dove. After a few leagues of sailing up the wide stream, they came upon an islet covered with trees, leafless, for spring had hardly broken. The ships dropped anchor; the boats were lowered; the people went ashore. Here the Calverts claimed Maryland "for our Savior and for our Sovereign Lord the King of England," and here they heard Mass. St. Clement's they called the island. But it was too small for a home. The Ark was left at anchor, while Leonard Calvert went exploring with the Dove. Up the Potomac some distance he went, but at the last he wisely determined to choose for their first town a site nearer the sea. The Dove turned and came back to the Ark, and both sailed on down the stream from St. Clement's Isle. Before long they came to the mouth of a tributary stream flowing in from the north. The Dove, going forth again, entered this river, which presently the party named the River St. George. Soon they came to a high bank with trees tinged with the foliage of advancing spring. Here upon this bank the English found an Indian village and a small Algonquin group, in the course of extinction by their formidable Iroquois neighbors, the giant Susquehannocks. The white men landed, bearing a store of hatchets, gewgaws, and colored cloth. The first Lord Baltimore, having had opportunity enough for observing savages, had probably handed on to his sagacious sons his conclusions as to ways of dealing with the natives of the forest. And the undeniable logic of events was at last teaching the English how to colonize. Englishmen on Roanoke Island, Englishmen on the banks of the James, Englishmen in that first New England colony, had borne the weight of early inexperience and all the catalogue of woes that follow ignorance. All these early colonists alike had been quickly entangled in strife with the people whom they found in the land. First they fell on their knees, And then on the Aborigines. But by now much water had passed the mill. The thinking kind, the wiser sort, might perceive more things than one, and among these the fact that savages had a sense of justice and would even fight against injustice, real or fancied. The Calverts, through their interpreter, conferred with the inhabitants of this Indian village. Would they sell lands where the white men might peaceably settle, under their given word to deal in friendly wise with the red men? Many hatchets and axes and much cloth would be given in return. To a sylvan people store of hatchets and axes had a value beyond many fields of the boundless earth. The Dove appeared before them, too, at the psychological moment. They had just discussed removing, bag and baggage, from the proximity of the Iroquois. In the end, these Indians sold to the English their village huts, their cleared and planted fields, and miles of surrounding forest. Moreover they stayed long enough in friendship with the newcomers to teach them many things of value. Then they departed, leaving with the English a clear title to as much land as they could handle, at least for some time to come. Later, with other Indians, as with these, the Calverts pursued a conciliatory policy. They were aided by the fact that the Susquehannocks to the north, who might have given trouble, were involved in war with yet more northerly tribes, and could pay scant attention to the incoming white men. But even so, the Calverts proved, as William Penn proved later, that men may live at peace with men, honestly and honorably, even though hue of skin and plane of development differ. Now the Ark joins the Dove in the River St. George. The pieces of ordnance are fired; the colonists disembark; and on the 27th of March, 1634, the Indian village, now English, becomes St. Mary's. On the whole how advantageously are they placed! There is peace with the Indians. Huts, lodges, are already built, fields already cleared or planted. The site is high and healthful. They have at first few dissensions among themselves. Nor are they entirely alone or isolated in the New World. There is a New England to the north of them and a Virginia to the south. From the one they get in the autumn salted fish, from the other store of swine and cattle. Famine and pestilence are far from them. They build a "fort" and perhaps a stockade, but there are none of the stealthy deaths given by arrow and tomahawk in the north, nor are there any of the Spanish alarms that terrified the south. From the first they have with them women and children. They know that their settlement is "home." Soon other ships and colonists follow the Ark and the Dove to St. Mary's, and the history of this middle colony is well begun. In Virginia, meantime, there was jealousy enough of the new colony, taking as it did territory held to be Virginian and renaming it, not for the old, independent, Protestant, virgin queen, but for a French, Catholic, queen consort--even settling it with believers in the Mass and bringing in Jesuits! It was, says a Jamestown settler, "accounted a crime almost as heinous as treason to favour, nay to speak well of that colony." Beside the Virginian folk as a whole, one man, in particular, William Claiborne, nursed an individual grievance. He had it from Governor Calvert that he might dwell on in Kent Island, trading from there, but only under license from the Lord Proprietor and as an inhabitant of Maryland, not of Virginia. Claiborne, with the Assembly at Jamestown secretly on his side, resisted this interference with his rights, and, as he continued to trade with a high hand, he soon fell under suspicion of stirring up the Indians against the Marylanders. At the time, this quarrel rang loud through Maryland and Virginia, and even echoed across the Atlantic. Leonard Calvert had a trading-boat of Claiborne's seized in the Patuxent River. Thereupon Claiborne's men, with the shallop Cockatrice, in retaliation attacked Maryland pinnaces and lost both their lives and their boat. For several years Maryland and Kent Island continued intermittently to make petty war on each other. At last, in 1638, Calvert took the island by main force and hanged for piracy a captain of Claiborne's. The Maryland Assembly brought the trader under a Bill of Attainder; and a little later, in England, the Lords Commissioners of Foreign Plantations formally awarded Kent Island to the Lord Proprietor. Thus defeated, Claiborne, nursing his wrath, moved down the bay to Virginia. CHAPTER X. CHURCH AND KINGDOM Virginia, all this time, with Maryland a thorn in her side, was wrestling with an autocratic governor, John Harvey. This avaricious tyrant sowed the wind until in 1635 he was like to reap the whirlwind. Though he was the King's Governor and in good odor in England, where rested the overpower to which Virginia must bow, yet in this year Virginia blew upon her courage until it was glowing and laid rude hands upon him. We read: "An Assembly to be called to receive complaints against Sr. John Harvey, on the petition of many inhabitants, to meet 7th of May." But, before that month was come, the Council, seizing opportunity, acted for the whole. Immediately below the entry above quoted appears: "On the 28th of April, 1635, Sr. John Harvey thrust out of his government, and Capt. John West acts as Governor till the King's pleasure known."* * Hening's "Statutes" vol. I p. 223. So Virginia began her course as rebel against political evils! It is of interest to note that Nicholas Martian, one of the men found active against the Governor, was an ancestor of George Washington. Harvey, thrust out, took first ship for England, and there also sailed commissioners from the Virginia Assembly with a declaration of wrongs for the King's ear. But when they came to England, they found that the King's ear was for the Governor whom he had given to the Virginians and whom they, with audacious disobedience, had deposed. Back should go Sir John Harvey, still governing Virginia; back without audience the so-called commissioners, happy to escape a merited hanging! Again to Jamestown sailed Harvey. In silence Virginia received him, and while he remained Governor no Assembly sat. But having asserted his authority, the King in a few years' time was willing to recall his unwelcome representative. So in 1639 Governor Harvey vanishes from the scene, and in comes the well-liked Sir Francis Wyatt as Governor for the second time. For two years he remains, and is then superseded by Sir William Berkeley, a notable figure in Virginia for many years to come. The population was now perhaps ten thousand, both English born and Virginians born of English parents. A few hundred negroes moved in the tobacco fields. More would be brought in and yet more. And now above a million pounds of tobacco were going annually to England. The century was predominantly one of inner and outer religious conflict. What went on at home in England reechoed in Virginia. The new Governor was a dyed-in-the-wool Cavalier, utterly stubborn for King and Church. The Assemblies likewise leaned that way, as presumably did the mass of the people. It was ordered in 1631: "That there bee a uniformitie throughout this colony both in substance and circumstance to the cannons and constitutions of the church of England as neere as may bee, and that every person yeald readie obedience unto them uppon penaltie of the paynes and forfeitures in that case appoynted." And, indeed, the pains and forfeitures threatened were savage enough. Official Virginia, loyal to the Established Church, was jealous and fearful of Papistry and looked askance at Puritanism. It frowned upon these and upon agnosticisms, atheisms, pantheisms, religious doubts, and alterations in judgment--upon anything, in short, that seemed to push a finger against Church and Kingdom. Yet in this Virginia, governed by Sir William Berkeley, a gentleman more cavalier than the Cavaliers, more royalist than the King, more churchly than the Church, there lived not a few Puritans and Dissidents, going on as best they might with Established Church and fiery King's men. Certain parishes were predominantly Puritan; certain ministers were known to have leanings away from surplices and genuflections and to hold that Archbishop Laud was some kin to the Pope. In 1642, to reenforce these ministers, came three more from New England, actively averse to conformity. But Governor and Council and the majority of the Burgesses will have none of that. The Assembly of 1643 takes sharp action. For the preservation of the puritie of doctrine and unitie of the church, IT IS ENACTED that all ministers whatsoever which shall reside in the collony are to be conformable to the orders and constitutions of the church of England, and the laws therein established, and not otherwise to be admitted to teach or preach publickly or privately. And that the Gov. and Counsel do take care that all nonconformists upon notice of them shall be compelled to depart the collony with all conveniencie. And so in consequence out of Virginia, to New England where Independents were welcome, or to Maryland where any Christian might dwell, went these tainted ministers. But there stayed behind Puritan and nonconforming minds in the bodies of many parishioners. They must hold their tongues, indeed, and outwardly conform--but they watched lynx-eyed for their opportunity and a more favorable fortune. Having launched thunderbolts against schismatics of this sort, Berkeley, himself active and powerful, with the Council almost wholly of his party and the House of Burgesses dominantly so, turned his attention to "popish recusants." Of these there were few or none dwelling in Virginia. Let them then not attempt to come from Maryland! The rulers of the colony legislated with vigor: papists may not hold any public place; all statutes against them shall be duly executed; popish priests by chance or intent arriving within the bounds of Virginia shall be given five days' warning, and, if at the end of this time they are yet upon Virginian soil, action shall be brought against them. Berkeley sweeps with an impatient broom. The Kingdom is cared for not less than the Church in Virginia. Any and all persons coming into the colony by land and by sea shall have administered to them the Oath of Supremacy and Allegiance. "Which if any shall refuse to take," the commander of the fort at Point Comfort shall "committ him or them to prison." Foreigners in birth and tongue, foreigners in thought, must have found the place and time narrow indeed. On the eve of civil war there arose on the part of some in England a project to revive and restore the old Virginia Company by procuring from Charles, now deep in troubles of his own, a renewal of the old letters patent and the transference of the direct government of the colony into the hands of a reorganized and vast corporation. Virginia, which a score of years before had defended the Company, now protested vigorously, and, with regard to the long view of things, it may be thought wisely. The project died a natural death. The petition sent from Virginia shows plainly enough the pen of Berkeley. There are a multitude of reasons why Virginia should not pass from King to Company, among which these are worthy of note: "We may not admit of so unnatural a distance as a Company will interpose between his sacred majesty and us his subjects from whose immediate protection we have received so many royal favours and gracious blessings. For, by such admissions, we shall degenerate from the condition of our birth, being naturalized under a monarchical government and not a popular and tumultuary government depending upon the greatest number of votes of persons of several humours and dispositions." When this paper reached England, it came to a country at civil war. The Long Parliament was in session. Stafford had been beheaded, the Star Chamber swept away, the Grand Remonstrance presented. On Edgehill bloomed flowers that would soon be trampled by Rupert's cavalry. In Virginia the Assembly took notice of these "unkind differences now in England," and provided by tithing for the Governor's pension and allowance, which were for the present suspended and endangered by the troubles at home. That the forces banded against the Lord's anointed would prove victorious must at this time have appeared preposterously unlikely to the fiery Governor and the ultra-loyal Virginia whom he led. The Puritans and Independents in Virginia--estimated a little earlier at "a thousand strong" and now, for all the acts against them, probably stronger yet--were to be found chiefly in the parishes of Isle of Wight and Nansemond, but had representatives from the Falls to the Eastern Shore. What these Virginians thought of the "unkind differences" does not appear in the record, but probably there was thought enough and secret hopes. In 1644, the year of Marston Moor, Virginia, too, saw battle and sudden and bloody death. That Opechancanough who had succeeded Powhatan was now one hundred years old, hardly able to walk or to see, dwelling harmlessly in a village upon the upper Pamunkey. All the Indians were broken and dispersed; serious danger was not to be thought of. Then, of a sudden, the flame leaped again. There fell from the blue sky a massacre directed against the outlying plantations. Three hundred men, women, and children were killed by the Indians. With fury the white men attacked in return. They sent bodies of horse into the untouched western forests. They chased and slew without mercy. In 1646 Opechancanough, brought a prisoner to Jamestown, ended his long tale of years by a shot from one of his keepers. The Indians were beaten, and, lacking such another leader, made no more organized and general attacks. But for long years a kind of border warfare still went on. Even Maryland, tolerant and just as was the Calvert policy, did not altogether escape Indian troubles. She had to contend with no such able chief as Opechancanough, and she suffered no sweeping massacres. But after the first idyllic year or so there set in a small, constant friction. So fast did the Maryland colonists arrive that soon there was pressure of population beyond those first purchased bounds. The more thoughtful among the Indians may well have taken alarm lest their villages and hunting-grounds might not endure these inroads. Ere long the English in Maryland were placing "centinells" over fields where men worked, and providing penalties for those who sold the savages firearms. But at no time did young Maryland suffer the Indian woes that had vexed young Virginia. Nor did Maryland escape the clash of interests which beset the beginnings of representative assemblies in all proprietary provinces. The second, like the first, Lord Baltimore, was a believer in kings and aristocracies, in a natural division of human society into masters and men. His effort was to plant intact in Maryland a feudal order. He would be Palatine, the King his suzerain. In Maryland the great planters, in effect his barons, should live upon estates, manorial in size and with manorial rights. The laboring men--the impecunious adventurers whom these greater adventurers brought out--would form a tenantry, the Lord Proprietary's men's men. It is true that, according to charter, provision was made for an Assembly. Here were to sit "freemen of the province," that is to say, all white males who were not in the position of indentured servants. But with the Proprietary, and not with the Assembly, would rest primarily the lawmaking power. The Lord Proprietary would propose legislation, and the freemen of the country would debate, in a measure advise, represent, act as consultants, and finally confirm. Baltimore was prepared to be a benevolent lord, wise, fatherly. In 1635 met the first Assembly, Leonard Calvert and his Council sitting with the burgesses, and this gathering of freemen proceeded to inaugurate legislation. There was passed a string of enactments which presumably dealt with immediate wants at St. Mary's, and which, the Assembly recognized, must have the Lord Proprietary's assent. A copy was therefore sent by the first ship to leave. So long were the voyages and so slow the procedure in England that it was 1637 before Baltimore's veto upon the Assembly's laws reached Maryland. It would seem that he did not disapprove so much of the laws themselves as of the bold initiative of the Assembly, for he at once sent over twelve bills of his own drafting. Leonard Calvert was instructed to bring all freemen together in Assembly and present for their acceptance the substituted legislation. Early in 1638 this Maryland Assembly met. The Governor put before it for adoption the Proprietary's laws. The vote was taken. Governor and some others were for, the remainder of the Assembly unanimously against, the proposed legislation. There followed a year or two of struggle over this question, but in the end the Proprietary in effect acknowledged defeat. The colonists, through their Assembly, might thereafter propose laws to meet their exigencies, and Governor Calvert, acting for his brother, should approve or veto according to need. When civil war between King and Parliament broke out in England, sentiment in Maryland as in Virginia inclined toward the King. But that Puritan, Non-conformist, and republican element that was in both colonies might be expected to gain if, at home in England, the Parliamentary party gained. A Royal Governor or a Lord Proprietary's Governor might alike be perplexed by the political turmoil in the mother country. Leonard Calvert felt the need of first-hand consultation with his brother. Leaving Giles Brent in his place, he sailed for England, talked there with Baltimore himself, perplexed and filled with foreboding, and returned to Maryland not greatly wiser than when he went. Maryland was soon convulsed by disorders which in many ways reflected the unsettled conditions in England. A London ship, commanded by Richard Ingle, a Puritan and a staunch upholder of the cause of Parliament, arrived before St. Mary's, where he gave great offense by his blatant remarks about the King and Rupert, "that Prince Rogue." Though he was promptly arrested on the charge of treason, he managed to escape and soon left the loyal colony far astern. In the meantime Leonard Calvert had come back to Maryland, where he found confusion and a growing heat and faction and side-taking of a bitter sort. To add to the turmoil, William Claiborne, among whose dominant traits was an inability to recognize defeat, was making attempts upon Kent Island. Calvert was not long at St. Mary's ere Ingle sailed in again with letters-of-marque from the Long Parliament. Ingle and his men landed and quickly found out the Protestant moiety of the colonists. There followed an actual insurrection, the Marylanders joining with Ingle and much aided by Claiborne, who now retook Kent Island. The insurgents then captured St. Mary's and forced the Governor to flee to Virginia. For two years Ingle ruled and plundered, sequestrating goods of the Proprietary's adherents, and deporting in irons Jesuit priests. At the end of this time Calvert reappeared, and behind him a troop gathered in Virginia. Now it was Ingle's turn to flee. Regaining his ship, he made sail for England, and Maryland settled down again to the ancient order. The Governor then reduced Kent Island. Claiborne, again defeated, retired to Virginia, whence he sailed for England. In 1647 Leonard Calvert died. Until the Proprietary's will should be known, Thomas Greene acted as Governor. Over in England, Lord Baltimore stood at the parting of the ways. The King's cause had a hopeless look. Roundhead and Parliament were making way in a mighty tide. Baltimore was marked for a royalist and a Catholic. If the tide rose farther, he might lose Maryland. A sagacious mind, he proceeded to do all that he could, short of denying his every belief, to placate his enemies. He appointed as Governor of Maryland William Stone, a Puritan, and into the Council, numbering five members, he put three Puritans. On the other hand the interests of his Maryland Catholics must not be endangered. He required of the new Governor not to molest any person "professing to believe in Jesus Christ, and in particular any Roman Catholic." In this way he thought that, right and left, he might provide against persecution. Under these complex influences the Maryland Assembly passed in 1649 an Act concerning Religion. It reveals, upon the one hand, Christendom's mercilessness toward the freethinker--in which mercilessness, whether through conviction or policy, Baltimore acquiesced--and, on the other hand, that aspiration toward friendship within the Christian fold which is even yet hardly more than a pious wish, and which in the seventeenth century could have been felt by very few. To Baltimore and the Assembly of Maryland belongs, not the glory of inaugurating an era of wide toleration for men and women of all beliefs or disbeliefs, whether Christian or not, but the real though lesser glory of establishing entire toleration among the divisions within the Christian circle itself. According to the Act,* "Whatsoever person or persons within this Province and the Islands thereunto belonging, shall from henceforth blaspheme God, that is curse him, or deny our Saviour Jesus Christ to bee the sonne of God, or shall deny the holy Trinity,... or the Godhead of any of the said three persons of the Trinity, or the unity of the Godhead, or shall use or utter any reproachful speeches, words or language concerning the said Holy Trinity, or any of the said three persons thereof, shall be punished with death and confiscation or forfeiture of all his or her lands and goods to the Lord Proprietary and his heires.... Whatsoever person or persons shall from henceforth use or utter any reproachfull words, or speeches, concerning the blessed Virgin Mary, the Mother of our Saviour, or the holy Apostles or Evangelists, or any of them, shall in such case for the first offence forfeit to the said Lord Proprietary and his heires the sum of five pound sterling.... Whatsoever person shall henceforth upon any occasion... declare, call, or denominate any person or persons whatsoever inhabiting, residing, traffiqueing, trading or comerceing within this Province, or within any of the Ports, Harbors, Creeks or Havens to the same belonging, an heritick, Scismatick, Idolator, puritan, Independant, Presbiterian, popish priest, Jesuite, Jesuited papist, Lutheran, Calvenist, Anabaptist, Brownist, Antinomian, Barrowist, Roundhead, Separtist, or any other name or term in a reproachful manner relating to matter of Religion, shall for every such Offence forfeit... the sum of tenne shillings sterling.... "Whereas the inforceing of the conscience in matters of Religion hath frequently fallen out to be of dangerous Consequence in those commonwealths where it hath been practised,... be it therefore also by the Lord Proprietary with the advice and consent of this Assembly, ordeyned and enacted... that no person or persons whatsoever within this Province...professing to beleive in Jesus Christ, shall from henceforth bee any waies troubled, molested or discountenanced for or in respect of his or her religion nor in the free exercise thereof... nor anyway compelled to the beleif or exercise of any other Religion against his or her consent, soe as they be not unfaithfull to the Lord Proprietary or molest or conspire against the civill Government..." * "Archives of Maryland, Proceedings and Acts of the General Assembly", vol. I, pp. 244-247. CHAPTER XI. COMMONWEALTH AND RESTORATION On the 30th of January, 1649, before the palace of Whitehall, Charles the First of England was beheaded. In Virginia the event fell with a shock. Even those within the colony who were Cromwell's men rather than Charles's men seem to have recoiled from this act. Presently, too, came fleeing royalists from overseas, to add their passionate voices to those of the royalists in Virginia. Many came, "nobility, clergy and gentry, men of the first rate." A thousand are said to have arrived in the year after the King's death. In October the Virginia Assembly met. Parliament men--and now these were walking with head in the air--might regret the execution of the past January, and yet be prepared to assert that with the fall of the kingdom fell all powers and offices named and decreed by the hapless monarch. What was a passionate royalist government doing in Virginia now that England was a Commonwealth? The passionate government answered for itself in acts passed by this Assembly. With swelling words, with a tragic accent, it denounced the late happenings in England and all the Roundhead wickedness that led up to them. It proclaimed loyalty to "his sacred Majesty that now is"--that is, to Charles Stuart, afterwards Charles the Second, then a refugee on the Continent. Finally it enacted that any who defended the late proceedings, or in the least affected to question "the undoubted and inherent right of his Majesty that now is to the Collony of Virginia" should be held guilty of high treason; and that "reporters and divulgers" of rumors tending to change of government should be punished "even to severity." Berkeley's words may be detected in these acts of the Assembly. In no great time the Cavalier Governor conferred with Colonel Henry Norwood, one of the royalist refugees to Virginia. Norwood thereupon sailed away upon a Dutch ship and came to Holland, where he found "his Majesty that now is." Here he knelt, and invited that same Majesty to visit his dominion of Virginia, and, if he liked it, there to rest, sovereign of the Virginian people. But Charles still hoped to be sovereign in England and would not cross the seas. He sent, however, to Sir William Berkeley a renewal of his Governor's commission, and appointed Norwood Treasurer of Virginia, and said, doubtless, many gay and pleasant things. In Virginia there continued to appear from England adherents of the ancient regime. Men, women, and children came until to a considerable degree the tone of society rang Cavalier. This immigration, now lighter, now heavier, continued through a rather prolonged period. There came now to Virginia families whose names are often met in the later history of the land. Now Washingtons appear, with Randolphs, Carys, Skipwiths, Brodnaxes, Tylers, Masons, Madisons, Monroes, and many more. These persons are not without means; they bring with them servants; they are in high favor with Governor and Council; they acquire large tracts of virgin land; they bring in indentured labor; they purchase African slaves; they cultivate tobacco. From being English country gentlemen they turn easily to become Virginia planters. But the Virginia Assembly had thrown a gauntlet before the victorious Commonwealth; and the Long Parliament now declared the colony to be in contumacy, assembled and dispatched ships against her, and laid an embargo upon trade with the rebellious daughter. In January of 1652 English ships appeared off Point Comfort. Four Commissioners of the Commonwealth were aboard, of whom that strong man Claiborne was one. After issuing a proclamation to quiet the fears of the people, the Commissioners made their way to Jamestown. Here was found the indomitable Berkeley and his Council in a state of active preparation, cannon trained. But, when all was said, the Commissioners had brought wisely moderate terms: submit because submit they must, acknowledge the Commonwealth, and, that done, rest unmolested! If resistance continued, there were enough Parliament men in Virginia to make an army. Indentured servants and slaves should receive freedom in exchange for support to the Commonwealth. The ships would come up from Point Comfort, and a determined war would be on. What Sir William Berkeley personally said has not survived. But after consultation upon consultation Virginia surrendered to the commonwealth. Berkeley stepped from the Governor's chair, retiring in wrath and bitterness of heart to his house at Greenspring. In his place sat Richard Bennett, one of the Commissioners. Claiborne was made Secretary. King's men went out of office; Parliament men came in. But there was no persecution. In the bland and wide Virginia air minds failed to come into hard and frequent collision. For all the ferocities of the statute books, acute suffering for difference of opinion, whether political or religious, did not bulk large in the life of early Virginia. The Commissioners, after the reduction of Virginia, had a like part to play with Maryland. At St. Mary's, as at Jamestown, they demanded and at length received submission to the Commonwealth. There was here the less trouble owing to Baltimore's foresight in appointing to the office of Governor William Stone, whose opinions, political and religious, accorded with those of revolutionary England. Yet the Governor could not bring himself to forget his oath to Lord Baltimore and agree to the demand of the Commissioners that he should administer the Government in the name of "the Keepers of the Liberties of England." After some hesitation the Commissioners decided to respect his scruples and allow him to govern in the name of the Lord Proprietary, as he had solemnly promised. In Virginia and in Maryland the Commonwealth and the Lord Protector stand where stood the Kingdom and the King. Many are far better satisfied than they were before; and the confirmed royalist consumes his grumbling in his own circle. The old, exhausting quarrel seems laid to rest. But within this wider peace breaks out suddenly an interior strife. Virginia would, if she could, have back all her old northward territory. In 1652 Bennett's Government goes so far as to petition Parliament to unseat the Catholic Proprietary of Maryland and make whole again the ancient Virginia. The hand of Claiborne, that remarkable and persistent man, may be seen in this. In Maryland, Puritans and Independents were settled chiefly about the rivers Severn and Patuxent and in a village called Providence, afterwards Annapolis. These now saw their chance to throw off the Proprietary's rule and to come directly under that of the Commonwealth. So thinking, they put themselves into communication with Bennett and Claiborne. In 1654 Stone charged the Commissioners with having promoted "faction, sedition, and rebellion against the Lord Baltimore." The charge was well founded. Claiborne and Bennett assumed that they were yet Parliament Commissioners, empowered to bring "all plantations within the Bay of Chesapeake to their due obedience to the Parliament and Commonwealth of England." And they were indeed set against the Lord Baltimore. Claiborne would head the Puritans of Providence; and a troop should be raised in Virginia and march northward. The Commissioners actually advanced upon St. Mary's, and with so superior a force that Stone surrendered, and a Puritan Government was inaugurated. A Puritan Assembly met, debarring any Catholics. Presently it passed an act annulling the Proprietary's Act of Toleration. Professors of the religion of Rome should "be restrained from the exercise thereof." The hand of the law was to fall heavily upon "popery, prelacy, or licentiousness of opinion." Thus was intolerance alive again in the only land where she had seemed to die! In England now there was hardly a Parliament, but only the Lord Protector, Oliver Cromwell. Content with Baltimore's recognition of the Protectorate, Cromwell was not prepared to back, in their independent action, the Commissioners of that now dissolved Parliament. Baltimore made sure of this, and then dispatched messengers overseas to Stone, bidding him do all that lay in him to retake Maryland. Stone thereupon gathered several hundred men and a fleet of small sailing craft, with which he pushed up the bay to the Severn. In the meantime the Puritans had not been idle, but had themselves raised a body of men and had taken over the Golden Lyon, an armed merchantman lying before their town. On the 24th of March, 1655, the two forces met in the Battle of the Severn. "In the name of God, fall on!" cried the men of Providence, and "Hey for St. Mary's!" cried the others. The battle was won by the Providence men. They slew or wounded fifty of the St. Mary's men and desperately wounded Stone himself and took many prisoners, ten of whom were afterwards condemned to death and four were actually executed. Now followed a period of up and down, the Commissioners and the Proprietary alike appealing to the Lord Protector for some expression of his "determinate will." Both sides received encouragement inasmuch as he decided for neither. His own authority being denied by neither, Cromwell may have preferred to hold these distant factions in a canceling, neutralizing posture. But far weightier matters, in fact, were occupying his mind. In 1657, weary of her "very sad, distracted, and unsettled condition," Maryland herself proceeded--Puritan, Prelatist, and Catholic together--to agree henceforth to disagree. Toleration viewed in retrospect appears dimly to have been seen for the angel that it was. Maryland would return to the Proprietary's rule, provided there should be complete indemnity for political offenses and a solemn promise that the Toleration Act of 1649 should never be repealed. This without a smile Baltimore promised. Articles were signed; a new Assembly composed of all manner of Christians was called; and Maryland returned for a time to her first allegiance. Quiet years, on the whole, follow in Virginia under the Commonwealth. The three Governors of this period--Bennett, Digges, and Mathews are all chosen by the Assembly, which, but for the Navigation Laws,* might almost forget the Home Government. Then Oliver Cromwell dies; and, after an interval, back to England come the Stuarts. Charles II is proclaimed King. And back into office in Virginia is brought that staunch old monarchist, Sir William Berkeley--first by a royalist Assembly and presently by commission from the new King. * See Editor's Note on the Navigation Laws at the end of this volume. Then Virginia had her Long Parliament or Assembly. In 1661, in the first gush of the Restoration, there was elected a House of Burgesses so congenial to Berkeley's mind that he wished to see it perpetuated. For fifteen years therefore he held it in being, with adjournments from one year into another and with sharp refusals to listen to any demand for new elections. Yet this demand grew, and still the Governor shut the door in the face of the people and looked imperiously forth from the window. His temper, always fiery, now burned vindictive; his zeal for King and Church and the high prerogatives of the Governor of Virginia became a consuming passion. When Berkeley first came to Virginia, and again for a moment in the flare of the Restoration, his popularity had been real, but for long now it had dwindled. He belonged to an earlier time, and he held fast to old ideas that were decaying at the heart. A bigot for the royal power, a man of class with a contempt for the generality and its clumsily expressed needs, he grew in narrowness as he grew in years. Berkeley could in these later times write home, though with some exaggeration: "I thank God there are no free schools nor printing, and I hope we shall not have these hundred years; for learning has brought disobedience into the world and printing has divulged them, and libels against the best governments! God keep us from both!" But that was the soured zealot for absolutism--William Berkeley the man was fond enough of books and himself had written plays. The spirit of the time was reactionary in Virginia as it was reactionary in England. Harsh servant and slave laws were passed. A prison was to be erected in each county; provision was made for pillory and stocks and duckingstool; the Quakers were to be proceeded against; the Baptists who refused to bring children to baptism were to suffer. Then at last in 1670 came restriction of the franchise: "Act III. ELECTION OF BURGESSES BY WHOM. WHEREAS the usuall way of chuseing burgesses by the votes of all persons who having served their tyme are freemen of this country who haveing little interest in the country doe oftener make tumults at the election to the disturbance of his Majestie's peace, than by their discretions in their votes provide for the conservation thereof, by makeing choyce of persons fitly qualifyed for the discharge of soe greate a trust, And whereas the lawes of England grant a voyce in such election only to such as by their estates real or personall have interest enough to tye them to the endeavour of the publique good; IT IS HEREBY ENACTED, that none but freeholders and housekeepers who only are answerable to the publique for the levies shall hereafter have a voice in the election of any burgesses in this country." *Hening's "Statutes", vol. II, p. 280. Three years later another woe befell the colony. That same Charles II--to whom in misfortune Virginia had so adhered that for her loyalty she had received the name of the Old Dominion--now granted "all that entire tract, territory, region, and dominion of land and water commonly called Virginia, together with the territory of Accomack," to Lord Culpeper and the Earl of Arlington. For thirty-one years they were to hold it, paying to the King the slight annual rent of forty shillings. They were not to disturb the colonists in any guaranteed right of life or land or goods, but for the rest they might farm Virginia. The country cried out in anger. The Assembly hurried commissioners on board a ship in port and sent them to England to besiege the ear of the King. Distress and discontent increased, with good reason, among the mass of the Virginians. The King in England, his councilors, and Parliament, played an unfatherly role, while in Virginia economic hardships pressed ever harder and the administration became more and more oppressive. By 1676 the gunpowder of popular indignation was laid right and left, awaiting the match. CHAPTER XII. NATHANIEL BACON To add to the uncertainty of life in Virginia, Indian troubles flared up again. In and around the main settlements the white man was safe enough from savage attack. But it was not so on the edge of the English world, where the white hue ran thin, where small clusters of folk and even single families built cabins of logs and made lonely clearings in the wilderness. Not far from where now rises Washington the Susquehannocks had taken possession of an old fort. These Indians, once in league with the Iroquois but now quarreling violently with that confederacy, had been defeated and were in a mood of undiscriminating bitterness and vengeance. They began to waylay and butcher white men and women and children. In self protection Maryland and Virginia organized in common an expedition against the Indian stronghold. In the deep woods beyond the Potomac, red men and white came to a parley. The Susquehannocks sent envoys. There was wrong on both sides. A dispute arose. The white men, waxing angry, slew the envoys--an evil deed which their own color in Maryland and in Virginia reprehended and repudiated. But the harm was done. From the Potomac to the James Indians listened to Indian eloquence, reciting the evils that from the first the white man had brought. Then the red man, in increasing numbers, fell upon the outlying settlements of the pioneers. In Virginia there soon arose a popular clamor for effective action. Call out the militia of every county! March against the Indians! Act! But the Governor was old, of an ill temper now, and most suspicious of popular gatherings for any purpose whatsoever. He temporized, delayed, refused all appeals until the Assembly should meet. Dislike of Berkeley and his ways and a growing sense of injury and oppression began to quiver hard in the Virginian frame. The King was no longer popular, nor Sir William Berkeley, nor were the most of the Council, nor many of the burgesses of that Long Assembly. There arose a loud demand for a new election and for changes in public policy. Where a part of Richmond now stands, there stretched at that time a tract of fields and hills and a clear winding creek, held by a young planter named Nathaniel Bacon, an Englishman of that family which produced "the wisest, greatest, meanest of mankind." The planter himself lived farther down the river. But he had at this place an overseer and some indentured laborers. This Nathaniel Bacon was a newcomer in Virginia--young man who had been entered in Gray's Inn, who had traveled, who was rumored to have run through much of his own estate. He had a cousin, also named Nathaniel Bacon, who had come fifteen years earlier to Virginia "a very rich, politic man and childless," and whose representations had perhaps drawn the younger Bacon to Virginia. At any rate he was here, and at the age of twenty-eight the owner of much land and the possessor of a seat in the Council. But, though he sat in the Council, he was hardly of the mind of the Governor and those who supported him. It was in the spring of 1676 that there began a series of Indian attacks directed against the plantations and the outlying cabins of the region above the Falls of the Far West. Among the victims were men of Bacon's plantation, for his overseer and several of his servants were slain. The news of this massacre of his men set their young master afire. Even a less hideous tale might have done it, for he was of a bold and ardent nature. Riding up the forest tracks, a company of planters from the threatened neighborhood gathered together. "Let us make a troop and take fire and sword among them!" There lacked a commander. "Mr. Bacon, you command!" Very good; and Mr. Bacon, who is a born orator, made a speech dealing with the "grievances of the times." Very good indeed; but still there lacked the Governor's commission. "Send a swift messenger to Jamestown for it!" The messenger went and returned. No commission. Mr. Bacon had made an unpleasant impression upon Sir William Berkeley. This young man, the Governor said, was "popularly inclined"--had "a constitution not consistent with" all that Berkeley stood for. Bacon and his neighbors listened with bent brows to their envoy's report. Murmurs began and deepened. "Shall we stand idly here considering formalities, while the redskins murder?" Commission or no commission, they would march; and in the end, march they did--a considerable troop--to the up-river country, with the tall, young, eloquent man at their head. News reached the Governor at Jamestown that they were marching. In a tight-lipped rage he issued a proclamation and sent it after them. They and their leader were acting illegally, usurping military powers that belonged elsewhere! Let them disband, disperse to their dwellings, or beware action of the rightful powers! Troubled in mind, some disbanded and dispersed, but threescore at least would by no means do so. Nor would the young man "of precipitate disposition" who headed the troop. He rode on into the forest after the Indians, and the others followed him. Here were the Falls of the Far West, and here on a hill the Indians had a "fort." This the Virginia planters attacked. The hills above the James echoed to the sound of the small, desperate fray. In the end the red men were routed. Some were slain; some were taken prisoner; others escaped into the deep woods stretching westward. In the meantime another force of horsemen had been gathered. It was headed by Berkeley and was addressed to the pursuit and apprehension of Nathaniel Bacon, who had thus defied authority. But before Berkeley could move far, fire broke out around him. The grievances of the people were many and just, and not without a family resemblance to those that precipitated the Revolution a hundred years later. Not Bacon alone, but many others who were in despair of any good under their present masters were ready for heroic measures. Berkeley found himself ringed about by a genuine popular revolt. He therefore lacked the time now to pursue Nathaniel Bacon, but spurred back to Jamestown there to deal as best he might with dangerous affairs. At Jamestown, willy-nilly, the old Governor was forced to promise reforms. The Long Assembly should be dissolved and a new Assembly, more conformable to the wishes of the people, should come into being ready to consider all their troubles. So writs went out; and there presently followed a hot and turbulent election, in which that "restricted franchise" of the Long Assembly was often defied and in part set aside. Men without property presented themselves, gave their voices, and were counted. Bacon, who had by now achieved an immense popularity, was chosen burgess for Henricus County. In the June weather Bacon sailed down to Jamestown, with a number of those who had backed him in that assumption of power to raise troops and go against the Indians. When he came to Jamestown it was to find the high sheriff waiting for him by the Governor's orders. He was put under arrest. Hot discussion followed. But the people were for the moment in the ascendent, and Bacon should not be sacrificed. A compromise was reached. Bacon was technically guilty of "unlawful, mutinous and rebellious practises." If, on his knees before Governor, Council, and Burgesses, he would acknowledge as much and promise henceforth to be his Majesty's obedient servant, he and those implicated with him should be pardoned. He himself might be readmitted to the Council, and all in Virginia should be as it had been. He should even have the commission he had acted without to go and fight against the Indians. Bacon thereupon made his submission upon his knees, promising that henceforth he would "demean himself dutifully, faithfully, and peaceably." Formally forgiven, he was restored to his place in the Virginia Council. An eyewitness reports that presently he saw "Mr. Bacon on his quondam seat with the Governor and Council, which seemed a marvellous indulgence to one whom he had so lately proscribed as a rebel." The Assembly of 1676 was of a different temper and opinion from that of the Long Assembly. It was an insurgent body, composed to a large degree of mere freemen and small planters, with a few of the richer, more influential sort who nevertheless queried that old divine right of rule. Berkeley thought that he had good reason to doubt this Assembly's intentions, once it gave itself rein. He directs it therefore to confine its attention to Indian troubles. It did, indeed, legislate on Indian affairs by passing an elaborate act for the prosecution of the war. An army of a thousand white men was to be raised. Bacon was to be commander-in-chief. All manner of precautions were to be taken. But this matter disposed of, the Assembly thereupon turned to "the redressing several grievances the country was then labouring under; and motions were made for inspecting the public revenues, the collectors' accounts," and so forth. The Governor thundered; friends of the old order obstructed; but the Assembly went on its way, reforming here and reforming there. It even went so far as to repeal the preceding Assembly's legislation regarding the franchise. All white males who are freemen were now privileged to vote, "together with the freeholders and housekeepers." A certain member wanted some detail of procedure retained because it was customary. "Tis true it has been customary," answered another, "but if we have any bad customs amongst us, we are come here to mend 'em!" "Whereupon," says the contemporary narrator, "the house was set in a laughter." But after so considerable an amount of mending there threatened a standstill. What was to come next? Could men go further--as they had gone further in England not so many years ago? Reform had come to an apparent impasse. While it thus hesitated, the old party gained in life. Bacon, now petitioning for his promised commission against the Indians, seems to have reached the conclusion that the Governor might promise but meant not to perform, and not only so, but that in Jamestown his very life was in danger. He had "intimation that the Governor's generosity in pardoning him and restoring him to his place in the Council were no other than previous wheedles to amuse him." In Jamestown lived one whom a chronicler paints for us as "thoughtful Mr. Lawrence." This gentleman was an Oxford scholar, noted for "wit, learning, and sobriety... nicely honest, affable, and without blemish in his conversation and dealings." Thus friends declared, though foes said of him quite other things. At any rate, having emigrated to Virginia and married there, he had presently acquired, because of a lawsuit over land in which he held himself to be unjustly and shabbily treated through influences of the Governor, an inveterate prejudice against that ruler. He calls him in short "an old, treacherous villain." Lawrence and his wife, not being rich, kept a tavern at Jamestown, and there Bacon lodged, probably having been thrown with Lawrence before this. Persons are found who hold that Lawrence was the brain, Bacon the arm, of the discontent in Virginia. There was also Mr. William Drummond, who will be met with in the account of Carolina. He was a "sober Scotch gentleman of good repute"--but no more than Lawrence on good terms with the Governor of Virginia. On a morning in June, when the Assembly met, it was observed that Nathaniel Bacon was not in his place in the Council--nor was he to be found in the building, nor even in Jamestown itself, though Berkeley had Lawrence's inn searched for him. He had left the town--gone up the river in his sloop to his plantation at Curles Neck "to visit his wife, who, as she informed him, was indisposed." In truth it appears that Bacon had gone for the purpose of gathering together some six hundred up-river men. Or perhaps they themselves had come together and, needing a leader, had turned naturally to the man who was under the frown of an unpopular Governor and all the Governor's supporters in Virginia. At any rate Bacon was presently seen at the head of no inconsiderable army for a colony of less than fifty thousand souls. Those with him were only up-river men; but he must have known that he could gather besides from every part of the country. Given some initial success, he might even set all Virginia ablaze. Down the river he marched, he and his six hundred, and in the summer heat entered Jamestown and drew up before the Capitol. The space in front of this building was packed with the Jamestown folk and with the six hundred. Bacon, a guard behind him, advanced to the central door, to find William Berkeley standing there shaking with rage. The old royalist has courage. He tears open his silken vest and fine shirt and faces the young man who, though trained in the law of the realm, is now filling that law with a hundred wounds. He raises a passionate voice. "Here! Shoot me! 'Fore God, a fair mark--a fair mark! Shoot!" Bacon will not shoot him, but will have that promised commission to go against the Indians. Those behind him lift and shake their guns. "We will have it! We will have it!" Governor and Council retire to consider the demand. If Berkeley is passionate and at times violent, so is Bacon in his own way, for an eye-witness has to say that "he displayed outrageous postures of his head, arms, body and legs, often tossing his hand from his sword to his hat," and that outside the door he had cried: "Damn my blood! I'll kill Governor, Council, Assembly and all, and then I'll sheathe my sword in my own heart's blood!" He is no dour, determined, unwordy revolutionist like the Scotch Drummond, nor still and subtle like "the thoughtful Mr. Lawrence." He is young and hot, a man of oratory and outward acts. Yet is he a patriot and intelligent upon broad public needs. When presently he makes a speech to the excited Assembly, it has for subject-matter "preserving our lives from the Indians, inspecting the public revenues, the exorbitant taxes, and redressing the grievances and calamities of that deplorable country." It has quite the ring of young men's speeches in British colonies a century later! The Governor and his party gave in perforce. Bacon got his commission and an Act of Indemnity for all chance political offenses. General and Commander-in-chief against the Indians--so was he styled. Moreover, the Burgesses, with an alarmed thought toward England, drew up an explanatory memorial for Charles II's perusal. This paper journeyed forth upon the first ship to sail, but it had for traveling companion a letter secretly sent from the Governor to the King. The two communications were painted in opposite colors. "I have," says Berkeley, "for above thirty years governed the most flourishing country the sun ever shone over, but am now encompassed with rebellion like waters." CHAPTER XIII. REBELLION AND CHANGE Bacon with an increased army now rode out once more against the Indians. He made a rendezvous on the upper York--the old Pamunkey--and to this center he gathered horsemen until there may have been with him not far from a thousand mounted men. From here he sent detachments against the red men's villages in all the upper troubled country, and afar into the sunset woods where the pioneer's cabin had not yet been builded. He acted with vigor. The Indians could not stand against his horsemen and concerted measures, and back they fell before the white men, westward again; or, if they stayed in the ever dwindling villages, they gave hostages and oaths of peace. Quiet seemed to descend once more upon the border. But, if the frontier seemed peaceful, Virginia behind the border was a bubbling cauldron. Bacon had now become a hero of the people, a Siegfried capable of slaying the dragon. Nor were Lawrence and Drummond idle, nor others of their way of thinking. The Indian troubles might soon be settled, but why not go further, marching against other troubles, more subtle and long-continuing, and threatening all the future? In the midst of this speculation and promise of change, the Governor, feeling the storm, dissolved the Assembly, proclaimed Bacon and his adherents rebels and traitors, and made a desperate attempt to raise an army for use against the new-fangledness of the time. This last he could not do. Private interest led many planters to side with him, and there was a fair amount of passionate conviction matching his own, that his Majesty the King and the forces of law and order were being withstood, and without just cause. But the mass of the people cried out to his speeches, "Bacon! Bacon!" As the popular leader had been warned from Jamestown by news of personal danger, so in his turn Berkeley seems to have believed that his own liberty was threatened. With suddenness he departed the place, boarded a sloop, and was "wafted over Chesapeake Bay thirty miles to Accomac." The news of the Governor's flight, producing both alarm in one party and enthusiasm in the other, tended to precipitate the crisis. Though the Indian trouble might by now be called adjusted, Bacon, far up the York, did not disband his men. He turned and with them marched down country, not to Jamestown, but to a hamlet called Middle Plantation, where later was to grow the town of Williamsburg. Here he camped, and here took counsel with Lawrence and Drummond and others, and here addressed, with a curious, lofty eloquence, the throng that began to gather. Hence, too, he issued a "Declaration," recounting the misdeeds of those lately in power, protesting against the terms rebel and traitor as applied to himself and his followers, who are only in arms to protect his Majesty's demesne and subjects, and calling on those who are well disposed to reform to join him at Middle Plantation, there to consider the state of the country which had been brought into a bad way by "Sir William's doting and irregular actings." Upon his proclamation many did come to Middle Plantation, great planters and small, men just freed from indentured service, holders of no land and little land and much land, men of all grades of weight and consideration and all degrees of revolutionary will, from Drummond--with a reported speech, "I am in overshoes; I will be in overboots!" and a wife Sarah who snapped a stick in two with the cry, "I care no more for the power of England than for this broken straw!"--to those who would be revolutionary as long as, and only when, it seemed safe to be so. How much of revolution, despite that speech about his Majesty's demesne and subjects, was in Bacon's mind, or in Richard Lawrence's mind and William Drummond's mind, or in the mind of their staunchest supporters, may hardly now be resolved. Perhaps as much as was in the mind of Patrick Henry, Thomas Jefferson, and George Mason a century later. The Governor was in Accomac, breathing fire and slaughter, though as yet without brand or sword with which to put his ardent desires into execution. But he and the constituted order were not without friends and supporters. He had, as his opponents saw, a number of "wicked and pernicious counsellors, aides and assistants against the commonalty in these our cruel commotions." Moreover--and a great moreover is that!--it was everywhere bruited that he had sent to England, to the King, "for two thousand Red Coates." Perhaps the King--perhaps England--will take his view, and, not consulting the good of Virginia, send the Red Coats! What then? Bacon, as a measure of opposition, proposed "a test or recognition," to be signed by those here at Middle Plantation who earnestly do wish the good of Virginia. It was a bold test! Not only should they covenant to give no aid to the whilom?? Governor against this new general and army, but if ships should bring the Red Coats they were to withstand them. There is little wonder that "this bugbear did marvellously startle" that body of Virginia horsemen, those progressive gentlemen planters, and others. Yet in the end, after violent contentions, the assembly at Middle Plantation drew up and signed a remarkable paper, the "Oath at Middle Plantation." Historically, it is linked on the one hand with that "thrusting out of his government" of Sir John Harvey in Charles I's time, and on the other with Virginian proceedings a hundred years later under the third George. If his Majesty had been, as it was rumored, wrongly informed that Virginia was in rebellion; if, acting upon that misinformation, he sent troops against his loyal Virginians--who were armed only against an evil Governor and intolerable woes then these same good loyalists would "oppose and suppress all forces whatsoever of that nature, until such time as the King be fully informed of the state of the case." What was to happen if the King, being informed, still supported Berkeley and sent other Red Coats was not taken into consideration. This paper, being drawn, was the more quickly signed because there arrived, in the midst of the debate, a fresh Indian alarm. Attack threatened a fort upon the York--whence the Governor had seen fit to remove arms and ammunition! The news came most opportunely for Bacon. "There were no more discourses." The major portion of the large assemblage signed. The old Government in Virginia was thus denied. But it was held that government there must be, and that the people of Virginia through representatives must arrange for it. Writs of election, made as usual in the King's name, and signed by Bacon and by those members of the Council who were of the revolt, went forth to all counties. The Assembly thus provided was to meet at Jamestown in September. So much business done, off rode Bacon and his men to put down this latest rising of the Indians. Not only these but red men in a new quarter, tribes south of the James, kept them employed for weeks to come. Nor were they unmindful of that proud old man, Sir William Berkeley, over on the Eastern Shore, a well-peopled region where traveling by boat and by sandy road was sufficiently easy. Bacon, Lawrence, and Drummond finally decided to take Sir William captive and to bring him back to Jamestown. For this purpose they dispatched a ship across the Bay, with two hundred and fifty men, under the command of Giles Bland, "a man of courage and haughty bearing," and "no great admirer of Sir William's goodness." The ship proceeded to the Accomac shore, anchored in some bight, and sent ashore men to treat with the Governor. But the Governor turned the tables on them. He made himself captor, instead of being made captive. Bland and his lieutenants were taken, whereupon their following surrendered into Berkeley's hands. Bland's second in command was hanged; Bland himself was held in irons. Now Berkeley's star was climbing. In Accomac he gathered so many that, with those who had fled with him and later recruits who crossed the Bay, he had perhaps a thousand men. He stowed these upon the ship of the ill-fated Bland and upon a number of sloops. With seventeen sail in all, the old Governor set his face west and south towards the mouth of the James. In that river, on the 7th of September, 1676, there appeared this fleet of the King's Governor, set on retaking Virginia. Jamestown had notice. The Bacon faction held the place with perhaps eight hundred men, Colonel Hansford at their head. Summoned by Berkeley to surrender, Hansford refused, but that same night, by advice of Lawrence and Drummond, evacuated the place, drawing his force off toward the York. The next day, emptied of all but a few citizens, Jamestown received the old Governor and his army. The tidings found Bacon on the upper York. Acting with his accustomed energy, he sent out, far and wide, ringing appeals to the country to rouse itself, for men to join him and march to the defeat of the old tyrant. Numbers did come in. He moved with "marvelous celerity." When he had, for the time and place, a large force of rebels, he marched, by stream and plantation, tobacco field and forest, forge and mill, through the early autumn country to Jamestown. Civil war was on. Across the narrow neck of the Jamestown peninsula had been thrown a sort of fortification with ditch, earthwork, and palisade. Before this Bacon now sounded trumpets. No answer coming, but the mouths of cannon appearing at intervals above the breastwork, the "rebel" general halted, encamped his men, and proceeded to construct siege lines of his own. The work must be done exposed to Sir William's iron shot. Now comes a strange and discreditable incident. Patriots, revolutionists, who on the whole would serve human progress, have yet, as have we all, dark spots and seamy sides. Bacon's parties of workmen were threatened, hindered, driven from their task by Berkeley's guns. Bacon had a curious, unadmirable idea. He sent horsemen to neighboring loyalist plantations to gather up and bring to camp, not the planters--for they are with Berkeley in Jamestown--but the planters' wives. Here are Mistress Bacon (wife of the elder Nathaniel Bacon), Mistress Bray; Mistress Ballard, Mistress Page, and others. Protesting, these ladies enter Bacon's camp, who sends one as envoy into the town with the message that, if Berkeley attacks, the whole number of women shall be placed as shield to Bacon's men who build earthworks. He was as good--or as bad--as his word. At the first show of action against his workmen these royalist women were placed in the front and were kept there until Bacon had made his counter-line of defense. Sir William Berkeley had great faults, but at times--not always--he displayed chivalry. For that day "the ladies' white aprons" guarded General Bacon and all his works. The next day, the defenses completed, this "white garde" was withdrawn. Berkeley waited no longer but, though now at a disadvantage, opened fire and charged with his men through gate and over earthworks. The battle that followed was short and decisive. Berkeley's chance-gathered army was no match for Bacon's seasoned Indian fighters and for desperate men who knew that they must win or be hanged for traitors. The Governor's force wavered and, unable to stand its ground, turned and fled, leaving behind some dead and wounded. Then Bacon, who also had cannon, opened upon the town and the ships that rode before it. In the night the King's Governor embarked for the second time and with him, in that armada from the Eastern Shore, the greater part of the force he had gathered. When dawn came, Bacon saw that the ships, large and small, were gone, sailing back to Accomac. Bacon and his following thus came peaceably into Jamestown, but with the somewhat fell determination to burn the place. It should "harbor no more rogues." What Bacon, Lawrence, Drummond, Hansford, and others really hoped--whether they forecasted a republican Virginia finally at peace and prosperous--whether they saw in a vision a new capital, perhaps at Middle Plantation, perhaps at the Falls of the Far West, a capital that should be without old, tyrannic memories--cannot now be said. However it all may be, they put torch to the old capital town and soon saw it consumed, for it was no great place, and not hard to burn. Jamestown had hardly ceased to smoke when news came that loyalists under Colonel Brent were gathering in northern counties. Bacon, now ill but energetic to the end, turned with promptness to meet this new alarm. He crossed the York and marched northward through Gloucester County. But the rival forces did not come to a fight. Brent's men deserted by the double handful. They came into Bacon's ranks "resolving with the Persians to go and worship the rising sun." Or, hanging fire, reluctant to commit themselves either way, they melted from Brent, running homeward by every road. Bacon, with an enlarged, not lessened army, drew back into Gloucester. Revolutionary fortunes shone fair in prospect. Yet it was but the moment of brief, deceptive bloom before decay and fall. At this critical moment Bacon fell sick and died. Some said that he was poisoned, but that has never been proved. The illness that had attacked him during his siege of Jamestown and that held on after his victory seems to have sufficed for his taking off. In Gloucester County he "surrendered up that fort he was no longer able to keep, into the hands of that grim and all-conquering Captaine Death." His body was buried, says the old account, "but where deposited till the Generall day not knowne, only to those who are resolutely silent in that particular." With Bacon's death there fell to pieces all this hopeful or unhopeful movement. Lawrence might have a subtle head and Drummond the courage to persevere; Hansford, Cheeseman, Bland, and others might have varied abilities. But the passionate and determined Bacon had been the organ of action; Bacon's the eloquence that could bring to the cause men with property to give as well as men with life to lose. It is a question how soon, had Bacon not died, must have failed his attempt at revolution, desperate because so premature. Back came Berkeley from Accomac, his turbulent enemy thus removed. All who from the first had held with the King's Governor now rode emboldened. Many who had shouted more or less loudly for the rising star, now that it was so untimely set, made easy obeisance to the old sun. A great number who had wavered in the wind now declared that they had done no such thing, but had always stood steadfast for the ancient powers. The old Governor, who might once have been magnanimous, was changed for the worse. He had been withstood; he would punish. He now gave full rein to his passionate temper, his bigotry for the throne, and his feeling of personal wrong. He began in Virginia to outlaw and arrest rebels, and to doom them to hasty trials and executions. There was no longer a united army to meet, but only groups and individuals striving for safety in flight or hiding. Hansford was early taken and hanged with two lieutenants of Bacon, Wilford and Farlow. Cheeseman died in prison. Drummond was taken in the swamps of the Chickahominy and carried before the Governor. Berkeley brought his hands together. "Mr. Drummond, you are very welcome! I am more glad to see you than any man in Virginia! Mr. Drummond you shall be hanged in half an hour!" Not in half an hour, but on the same day he was hanged, imperturbable Scot to the last. Lawrence, held by many to have been more than Bacon the true author of the attempt, either put an end to himself or escaped northward, for he disappears from history. "The last account of Mr. Lawrence was from an uppermost plantation whence he and four other desperadoes with horses, pistols, etc., marched away in a snow ankle deep." They "were thought to have cast themselves into a branch of some river, rather than to be treated like Drummond." Thus came to early and untimely end the ringleaders of Bacon's Rebellion. In all, by the Governor's command, thirty-seven men suffered death by hanging. There comes to us, down the centuries, the comment of that King for whom Berkeley was so zealous, a man who fell behind his colonial Governor in singleness of interest but excelled him in good nature. "That old fool," said the second Charles, "has hanged more men in that naked country than I have done for the murder of my father!" That letter which Berkeley had written some months before to his sovereign about the "waters of rebellion" was now seen to have borne fruit. In January, while the Governor was yet running down fugitives, confiscating lands, and hanging "traitors," a small fleet from England sailed in, bringing a regiment of "Red Coates," and with them three commissioners charged with the duty of bringing order out of confusion. These commissioners, bearing the King's proclamation of pardon to all upon submission, were kinder than the irascible and vindictive Governor of Virginia, and they succeeded at last in restraining his fury. They made their report to England, and after some months obtained a second royal proclamation censuring Berkeley's vengeful course, "so derogatory to our princely clemency," abrogating the Assembly's more violent acts, and extending full pardon to all concerned in the late "rebellion," saving only the arch-rebel Bacon--to whom perhaps it now made little difference if they pardoned him or not. But with this piece of good nature, so characteristic of the second Charles, there came neither to the King in person nor to England as a whole any appreciation of the true ills behind the Virginian revolt, nor any attempt to relieve them. Along with the King's first proclamation came instructions for the Governor. "You shall be no more obliged to call an Assembly once every year, but only once in two years.... Also whensoever the Assembly is called fourteen days shall be the time prefixed for their sitting and no longer." And the narrowed franchise that Bacon's Assembly had widened is narrowed again. "You shall take care that the members of the Assembly be elected only by freeholders, as being more agreeable to the custom of England." Nor is the grant to Culpeper and Arlington revoked. Nor, wider and deeper, are the Navigation Laws in any wise bettered. No more than before, no more indeed than a century later, is there any conception that the child exists no more for the parent than the parent for the child. Sir William Berkeley's loyalty had in the end overshot itself. His zeal fatigued the King, and in 1677 he was recalled to England. As Governor of Virginia he had been long popular at first but in his old age detested. He had great personal courage, fidelity, and generosity for those things that ran with the current of a deep and narrow soul. He passes from the New World stage, a marked and tragic figure. Behind him his vengeances displeased even loyalist Virginia, willing on the whole to let bygones be bygones among neighbors and kindred. It is said that; when his ship went down the river, bonfires were lighted and cannon and muskets fired for joy. And so beyond the eastward horizon fades the old reactionary. Herbert Jeffreys and then Sir Henry Chicheley follow Berkeley as Governors of Virginia; they are succeeded by Lord Culpeper and he by Lord Howard of Effingham. King Charles dies and James the Second rules in England. Culpeper and Effingham play the Governor merely for what they can get for themselves out of Virginia.* The price of tobacco goes down, down. The crops are too large; the old poor remedies of letting much acreage go unplanted, or destroying and burning where the measure of production is exceeded, and of petitions to the King, are all resorted to, but they procure little relief. Virginia cannot be called prosperous. England hears that the people are still disaffected and unquiet and England stolidly wonders why. * In 1684 the Crown purchased from Culpeper all his rights except in the Northern Neck. During the reign of the second Charles, Maryland had suffered from political unrest somewhat less than Virginia. The autocracy of Maryland was more benevolent and more temperate than that of her southern neighbor. The name of Calvert is a better symbol of wisdom than the name of Berkeley. Cecil Calvert, second Lord Baltimore, dying in 1675, has a fair niche in the temple of human enlightenment. His son Charles succeeded, third Lord Baltimore and Lord Proprietary of Maryland. Well-intentioned, this Calvert lacked something of the ability of either his father or his grandfather. Though he lived in Maryland while his father had lived in England, his government was not as wise as his father's had been. But in Maryland, even before the death of Cecil Calvert, inherent evils were beginning to form of themselves a visible body. In Maryland, as in Virginia, there set in after the Restoration a period of reaction, of callous rule in the interests of an oligarchy. In 1669 a "packed" Council and an "aristocratic" Assembly procured a restriction of the franchise similar to that introduced into Virginia. As in Virginia, an Assembly deemed of the right political hue was kept in being by the device of adjournment from year to year. In Maryland, as in Virginia, public officials were guilty of corruption and graft. In 1676 there seems to have lacked for revolt, in Maryland, only the immediate provocative of acute Indian troubles and such leaders as Bacon, Lawrence, and Drummond. The new Lord Baltimore being for the time in England, his deputy writes him that never were any "more replete with malignancy and frenzy than our people were about August last, and they wanted but a monstrous head to their monstrous body." Two leaders indeed appeared, Davis and Pate by name, but having neither the standing nor the strength of the Virginia rebels, they were finally taken and hanged. What supporters they had dispersed, and the specter of armed insurrection passed away. The third Lord Baltimore, like his father, found difficulty in preserving the integrity of his domain. His father had been involved in a long wrangle over the alleged invasion of Maryland by the Dutch. Since then, New Netherland had passed into English hands. Now there occurred another encroachment on the territory of Maryland. This time the invader was an Englishman named William Penn. Just as the idea of a New World freedom for Catholics had appealed to the first Lord Baltimore, so now to William Penn, the Quaker, came the thought of freedom there for the Society of Friends. The second Charles owed an old debt to Penn's father. He paid it in 1681 by giving to the son, whom he liked, a province in America. Little by little, in order to gain for Penn access to the sea, the terms of his grant were widened until it included, beside the huge Pennsylvanian region, the tract that is now Delaware, which was then claimed by Baltimore. Maryland protested against the grant to Penn, as Virginia had protested against the grant to Baltimore--and equally in vain. England was early set upon the road to many colonies in America, destined later to become many States. One by one they were carved out of the first great unity. In 1685 the tolerant Charles the Second died. James the Second, a Catholic, ruled England for about three years, and then fled before the Revolution of 1688. William and Mary, sovereigns of a Protestant England, came to the throne. We have seen that the Proprietary of Maryland and his numerous kinsmen and personal adherents were Catholics. Approximately one in eight of other Marylanders were fellows in that faith. Another eighth of the people held with the Church of England. The rest, the mass of the folk, were dissenters from that Church. And now all the Protestant elements together--the Quakers excepted--solidified into political and religious opposition to the Proprietary's rule. Baltimore, still in England, had immediately, upon the accession of William and Mary, dispatched orders to the Maryland Council to proclaim them King and Queen. But his messenger died at sea, and there was delay in sending another. In Maryland the Council would not proclaim the new sovereigns without instructions, and it was even rumored that Catholic Maryland meant to withstand the new order. In effect the old days were over. The Protestants, Churchmen and Dissenters alike, proceeded to organize under a new leader, one John Coode. They formed "An Association in arms for the defense of the Protestant religion, and for asserting the right of King William and Queen Mary to the Province of Maryland and all the English Dominions." Now followed a confused time of accusations and counter-accusations, with assertions that Maryland Catholics were conspiring with the Indians to perpetrate a new St. Bartholomew massacre of Protestants, and hot counter-assertions that this is "a sleveless fear and imagination fomented by the artifice of some ill-minded persons." In the end Coode assembled a force of something less than a thousand men and marched against St. Mary's. The Council, which had gathered there, surrendered, and the Association for the Defense found itself in power. It proceeded to call a convention and to memorialize the King and Queen, who in the end approved its course. Maryland passed under the immediate government of the Crown. Lord Baltimore might still receive quit-rents and customs, but his governmental rights were absorbed into the monarchy. Sir Lionel Copley came out as Royal Governor, and a new order began in Maryland. The heyday of Catholic freedom was past. England would have a Protestant America. Episcopalians were greatly in the minority, but their Church now became dominant over both Catholic and Dissenter, and where the freethinker raised his head he was smitten down. Catholic and Dissenter and all alike were taxed to keep stable the Established Church. The old tolerance, such as it was, was over. Maryland paced even with the rest of the world. Presently the old capital of St. Mary's was abandoned. The government removed to the banks of the Severn, to Providence--soon, when Anne should be Queen, to be renamed Annapolis. In vain the inhabitants of St. Mary's remonstrated. The center of political gravity in Maryland had shifted. The third Lord Baltimore died in 1715. His son Benedict, fourth lord, turned from the Catholic Church and became a member of the Church of England. Dying presently, he left a young son, Charles, fifth Lord Baltimore, to be brought up in the fold of the Established Church. Reconciled now to the dominant creed, with a Maryland where Catholics were heavily penalized, Baltimore resumed the government under favor of the Crown. But it was a government with a difference. In Maryland, as everywhere, the people were beginning to hold the reins. Not again the old lord and the old underling! For years to come the lords would say that they governed, but strong life arose beneath, around, and above their governing. Maryland had by 1715 within her bounds more than forty thousand white men and nearly ten thousand black men. She still planted and shipped tobacco, but presently found how well she might raise wheat, and that it, too, was valuable to send away in exchange for all kinds of manufactured things. Thus Maryland began to be a land of wheat still more than a land of tobacco. For the rest, conditions of life in Maryland paralleled pretty closely those in Virginia. Maryland was almost wholly rural; her plantations and farms were reached with difficulty by roads hardly more than bridle-paths, or with ease by sailboat and rowboat along the innumerable waterways. Though here and there manors--large, easygoing, patriarchal places, with vague, feudal ways and customs--were to be found, the moderate sized plantation was the rule. Here stood, in sight usually of blue water, the planter's dwelling of brick or wood. Around it grew up the typical outhouses, household offices, and storerooms; farther away yet clustered the cabin quarters alike of slaves and indentured labor. Then stretched the fields of corn and wheat, the fields of tobacco. Here, at river or bay side, was the home wharf or landing. Here the tobacco was rolled in casks; here rattled the anchor of the ship that was to take it to England and bring in return a thousand and one manufactured articles. There were no factories in Maryland or Virginia. Yet artisans were found among the plantation laborers--"carpenters, coopers, sawyers, blacksmiths, tanners, curriers, shoemakers, spinners, weavers, and knitters." Throughout the colonies, as in every new country, men and women, besides being agriculturists, produced homemade much that men, women, and children needed. But many other articles and all luxuries came in the ships from overseas, and the harvest of the fields paid the account. CHAPTER XIV. THE CAROLINAS The first settlers on the banks of the James River, looking from beneath their hands southward over plain land and a haze of endless forests, called that unexplored country South Virginia. It stretched away to those rivers and bays, to that island of Roanoke, whence had fled Raleigh's settlers. Beyond that, said the James River men, was Florida. Time passed, and the region of South Virginia was occasionally spoken of as Carolina, though whether that name was drawn from Charles the First of England, or whether those old unfortunate Huguenots in Florida had used it with reference to Charles the Ninth of France, is not certainly known. South Virginia lay huge, unknown, unsettled. The only exception was the country immediately below the southern banks of the lower James with the promontory that partially closed in Chesapeake Bay. Virginia, growing fast, at last sent her children into this region. In 1653 the Assembly enacted: "Upon the petition of Roger Green, clarke, on the behalfe of himselfe and inhabitants of Nansemund river, It is ordered by this present Grand Assembly that tenn thousand acres of land be granted unto one hundred such persons who shall first seate on Moratuck or Roanoke river and the land lying upon the south side of Choan river and the ranches thereof, Provided that such seaters settle advantageously for security and be sufficiently furnished with amunition and strength...." Green and his men, well furnished presumably with firelocks, bullets, and powder-horns, went into this hinterland. At intervals there followed other hardy folk. Quakers, subject to persecution in old Virginia, fled into these wilds. The name Carolina grew to mean backwoods, frontiersman's land. Here were forest and stream, Indian and bear and wolf, blue waters of sound and sea, long outward lying reefs and shoals and islets, fertile soil and a clime neither hot nor cold. Slowly the people increased in number. Families left settled Virginia for the wilderness; men without families came there for reasons good and bad. Their cabins, their tiny hamlets were far apart; they practised a hazardous agriculture; they hunted, fished, and traded with the Indians. The isolation of these settlers bred or increased their personal independence, while it robbed them of that smoothness to be gained where the social particles rub together. This part of South Virginia was soon to be called North Carolina. Far down the coast was Cape Fear. In the year of the Restoration a handful of New England men came here in a ship and made a settlement which, not prospering, was ere long abandoned. But New Englanders traded still in South Virginia as along other coasts. Seafarers, they entered at this inlet and at that, crossed the wide blue sounds, and, anchoring in mouths of rivers, purchased from the settlers their forest commodities. Then over they ran to the West Indies, and got in exchange sugar and rum and molasses, with which again they traded for tobacco in Carolina, in Virginia, and in Maryland. These ships went often to New Providence in the Bahamas and to Barbados. There began, through trade and other circumstances, a special connection between the long coast line and these islands that were peopled by the English. The restored Kingdom of England had many adherents to reward. Land in America, islands and main, formed the obvious Fortunatus's purse. As the second Charles had divided Virginia for the benefit of Arlington and Culpeper, so now, in 1663, to "our right trusty and right well-beloved cousins and counsellors, Edward, Earl of Clarendon, our High Chancellor of England, and George, Duke of Albemarle, Master of our Horse and CaptainGeneral of all our Forces, our right trusty and well-beloved William, Lord Craven, John, Lord Berkeley, our right trusty and well-beloved counsellor, Anthony, Lord Ashley, Chancellor of our Exchequer, Sir George Carteret, Knight and Baronet, Vice-Chamberlain of our Household, and our trusty and well-beloved Sir William Berkeley, Knight, and Sir John Colleton, Knight and Baronet," he gave South Virginia, henceforth called the Carolinas, a region occupying five degrees of latitude, and stretching indefinitely from the seacoast toward the setting sun. This huge territory became, like Maryland, a province or palatinate. In Maryland was one Proprietary; in Carolina there were eight, though for distinction the senior of the eight was called the Palatine. As in Maryland, the Proprietaries had princely rights. They owed allegiance to England, and a small quit-rent went to the King. They were supposed to govern, in the main, by English law and to uphold the religion of England. They were to make laws at their discretion, with "the advice, assent, and approbation of the freemen, or of their deputies, who were to be assembled from time to time as seemed best." John Locke, who wrote the "Essay Concerning Human Understanding", wrote also, with Ashley at his side, "The Fundamental Constitutions of Carolina, in number a Hundred and Twenty, agreed upon by the Palatine and Lords Proprietors, to remain the sacred and unalterable form and Rule of government of Carolina forever." "Forever" is a long word with ofttimes a short history. The Lords Proprietors have left their names upon the maps of North and South Carolina. There are Albemarle Sound and the Ashley and Cooper rivers, Clarendon, Hyde, Carteret, Craven, and Colleton Counties. But their Fundamental Constitutions, "in number a hundred and twenty," written by Locke in 1669, are almost all as dead as the leaves of the Carolina forest falling in the autumn of that year. The grant included that territory settled by Roger Green and his men. Among the Proprietors sat Sir William Berkeley, Governor of Virginia, the only lord of Carolina actually upon American ground. Following instructions from his seven fellows Berkeley now declared this region separated from Virginia and attached to Carolina. He christened it Albemarle. Strangely enough, he sent as Governor that Scotchman, William Drummond, whom some years later he would hang. Drummond should have a Council of six and an Assembly of freemen that might inaugurate legislation having to do with local matters but must submit its acts to the Proprietaries for veto or approval. This was the settlement in Carolina of Albemarle, back country to Virginia, gatherer thence of many that were hardy and sound, many that were unfortunate, and many that were shiftless and untamed. An uncouth nurse of a turbulent democracy was Albemarle. Cape Fear, far down the deeply frayed coast, seemed a proper place to which to send a colony. The intrusive Massachusetts men were gone. But "gentlemen and merchants" of Barbados were interested. It is a far cry from Barbados to the Carolina shore, but so is it a far cry from England. Many royalists had fled to Barbados during the old troubles, so that its English population was considerable. A number may have welcomed the chance to leave their small island for the immense continent; and an English trading port as far south as Cape Fear must have had a general appeal. So, in 1665, came Englishmen from Barbados and made, up the Cape Fear River, a settlement which they named Clarendon, with John Yeamans of Barbados as Governor. But the colony did not prosper. There arose the typical colonial troubles--sickness, dissensions, improvidence, quarrels with the aborigines. Nor was the site the best obtainable. The settlers finally abandoned the place and scattered to various points along the northern coast. In 1669 the Lords Proprietaries sent out from England three ships, the Carolina, the Port Royal, and the Albemarle, with about a hundred colonists aboard. Taking the old sea road, they came at last to Barbados, and here the Albemarle, seized by a storm, was wrecked. The two other ships, with a Barbados sloop, sailed on anal were approaching the Bahamas when another hurricane destroyed the Port Royal. The Carolina, however, pushed on with the sloop, reached Bermuda, and rested there; then, together with a small ship purchased in these islands, she turned west by south and came in March of 1670 to the good harbor of Port Royal, South Carolina. Southward from the harbor where the ships rode, stretched old Florida, held by the Spaniards. There was the Spanish town, St. Augustine. Thence Spanish ships might put forth and descend upon the English newcomers. The colonists after debate concluded to set some further space between them and lands of Spain. The ships put again to sea, beat northward a few leagues, and at last entered a harbor into which emptied two rivers, presently to be called the Ashley and the Cooper. Up the Ashley they went a little way, anchored, and the colonists going ashore began to build upon the west bank of the river a town which for the King they named Charles Town. Ten years later this place was abandoned in favor of the more convenient point of land between the two rivers. Here then was builded the second and more enduring Charles Town--Charleston, as we call it now, in South Carolina. Colonists came fast to this Carolina lying south. Barbados sent many; England, Scotland, and Ireland contributed a share; there came Huguenots from France, and a certain number of Germans. In ten years after the first settling the population numbered twelve hundred, and this presently doubled and went on to increase. The early times were taken up with the wrestle with the forest, with the Indians, with Spanish alarms, with incompetent governors, with the Lords Proprietaries' Fundamental Constitutions, and with the restrictions which English Navigation Laws imposed upon English colonies. What grains and vegetables and tobacco they could grow, what cattle and swine they could breed and export, preoccupied the minds of these pioneer farmers. There were struggling for growth a rough agriculture and a hampered trade with Barbados, Virginia, and New England--trade likewise with the buccaneers who swarmed in the West Indian waters. Five hundred good reasons allowed, and had long allowed, free bootery to flourish in American seas. Gross governmental faults, Navigation Acts, and a hundred petty and great oppressions, general poverty, adventurousness, lawlessness, and sympathy of mishandled folk with lawlessness, all combined to keep Brother of the Coast, Buccaneer, and Filibuster alive, and their ships upon all seas. Many were no worse than smugglers; others were robbers with violence; and a few had a dash of the fiend. All nations had sons in the business. England to the south in America had just the ragged coast line, with its off-lying islands and islets, liked by all this gentry, whether smuggler or pirate outright. Through much of the seventeenth century the settlers on these shores never violently disapproved of the pirate. He was often a "good fellow." He brought in needed articles without dues, and had Spanish gold in his pouch. He was shrugged over and traded with. He came ashore to Charles Town, and they traded with him there. At one time Charles Town got the name of "Rogue's Harbor." But that was not forever, nor indeed, as years are counted, for long. Better and better emigrants arrived, to add to the good already there. The better type prevailed, and gave its tone to the place. There set in, on the Ashley and Cooper rivers, a fair urban life that yet persists. South Carolina was trying tobacco and wheat. But in the last years of the seventeenth century a ship touching at Charleston left there a bag of Madagascar rice. Planted, it gave increase that was planted again. Suddenly it was found that this was the crop for low-lying Carolina. Rice became her staple, as was tobacco of Virginia. For the rice-fields South Carolina soon wanted African slaves, and they were consequently brought in numbers, in English ships. There began, in this part of the world, even more than in Virginia, the system of large plantations and the accompanying aristocratic structure of society. But in Virginia the planter families lived broadcast over the land, each upon its own plantation. In South Carolina, to escape heat and sickness, the planters of rice and indigo gave over to employees the care of their great holdings and lived themselves in pleasant Charleston. These plantations, with their great gangs of slaves under overseers, differed at many points from the more kindly, semi-patriarchal life of the Virginian plantation. To South Carolina came also the indentured white laborer, but the black was imported in increasing numbers. From the first in the Carolinas there had been promised fair freedom for the unorthodox. The charters provided, says an early Governor, "an overplus power to grant liberty of conscience, although at home was a hot persecuting time." Huguenots, Independents, Quakers, dissenters of many kinds, found on the whole refuge and harbor. In every colony soon began the struggle by the dominant color and caste toward political liberty. King, Company, Lords Proprietaries, might strive to rule from over the seas. But the new land fast bred a practical rough freedom. The English settlers came out from a land where political change was in the air. The stream was set toward the crumbling of feudalism, the rise of democracy. In the New World, circumstances favoring, the stream became a tidal river. Governors, councils, assemblies, might use a misleading phraseology of a quaint servility toward the constituted powers in England. Tory parties might at times seem to color the land their own hue. But there always ran, though often roughly and with turbulence, a set of the stream against autocracy. In Carolina, South and North, by the Ashley and Cooper rivers, and in that region called Albemarle, just back of Virginia, there arose and went on, through the remainder of the seventeenth century and in the eighteenth, struggles with the Lords Proprietaries and the Governors that these named, and behind this a more covert struggle with the Crown. The details differed, but the issues involved were much the same in North and South Carolina. The struggle lasted for the threescore and odd years of the proprietary government and renewed itself upon occasion after 1729 when the Carolinas became royal colonies. Later, it was swept, a strong affluent, into the great general stream of colonial revolt, culminating in the Revolution. Into North Carolina, beside the border population entering through Virginia and containing much of a backwoods and derelict nature, came many Huguenots, the best of folk, and industrious Swiss, and Germans from the Rhine. Then the Scotch began to come in numbers, and families of Scotch descent from the north of Ireland. The tone of society consequently changed from that of the early days. The ruffian and the shiftless sank to the bottom. There grew up in North Carolina a people, agricultural but without great plantations, hardworking and freedom-loving. South Carolina, on the other hand, had great plantations, a town society, suave and polished, a learned clergy, an aristocratic cast to life. For long, both North and South clung to the sea-line and to the lower stretches of rivers where the ships could come in. Only by degrees did English colonial life push back into the forests away from the sea, to the hills, and finally across the mountains. CHAPTER XV. ALEXANDER SPOTSWOOD In the spring of 1689, Virginians flocked to Jamestown to hear William and Mary proclaimed Lord and Lady of Virginia. The next year there entered, as Lieutenant-Governor, Francis Nicholson, an odd character in whom an immediate violence of temper went with a statesmanlike conception of things to be. Two years he governed here, then was transferred to Maryland, and then in seven years came back to the James. He had not been liked there, but while he was gone Virginia had endured in his stead Sir Edmund Andros. That had been swapping the witch for the devil. Virginia in 1698 seems to have welcomed the returning Nicholson. Jamestown had been hastily rebuilt, after Bacon's burning, and then by accident burned again. The word malaria was not in use, but all knew that there had always been sickness on that low spit running out from the marshes. The place might well seem haunted, so many had suffered there and died there. Poetical imagination might have evoked a piece of sad pageantry--starving times, massacres, quarrels, executions, cruel and unusual punishments, gliding Indians. A practical question, however, faced the inhabitants, and all were willing to make elsewhere a new capital city. Seven miles back from the James, about halfway over to the blue York, stood that cluster of houses called Middle Plantation, where Bacon's men had taken his Oath. There was planned and builded Williamsburg, which was to be for nearly a hundred years the capital of Virginia. It was named for King William, and there was in the minds of some loyal colonists the notion, eventually abandoned, of running the streets in the lines of a huge W and M. The long main street was called Duke of Gloucester Street, for the short-lived son of that Anne who was soon to become Queen. At one end of this thoroughfare stood a fair brick capitol. At the other end nearly a mile away rose the brick William and Mary College. Its story is worth the telling. The formal acquisition of knowledge had long been a problem in Virginia. Adult colonists came with their education, much or little, gained already in the mother country. In most cases, doubtless, it was little, but in many cases it was much. Books were brought in with other household furnishing. When there began to be native-born Virginians, these children received from parents and kindred some manner of training. Ministers were supposed to catechise and teach. Well-to-do and educated parents brought over tutors. Promising sons were sent to England to school and university. But the lack of means to knowledge for the mass of the colony began to be painfully apparent. In the time of Charles the First one Benjamin Symms had left his means for the founding of a free school in Elizabeth County, and his action had been solemnly approved by the Assembly. By degrees there appeared other similar free schools, though they were never many nor adequate. But the first Assembly after the Restoration had made provision for a college. Land was to have been purchased and the building completed as speedily as might be. The intent had been good, but nothing more had been done. There was in Virginia, sent as Commissioner of the Established Church, a Scotch ecclesiastic, Dr. James Blair. In virtue of his office he had a seat in, the Council, and his integrity and force soon made him a leader in the colony. A college in Virginia became Blair's dream. He was supported by Virginia planters with sons to educate--daughters' education being purely a domestic affair. Before long Blair had raised in promised subscriptions what was for the time a large sum. With this for a nucleus he sailed to England and there collected more. Tillotson, Archbishop of Canterbury, and Stillingfleet, Bishop of Worcester, helped him much. The King and Queen inclined a favorable ear, and, though he met with opposition in certain quarters, Blair at last obtained his charter. There was to be built in Virginia and to be sustained by taxation a great school, "a seminary of ministers of the gospel where youths may be piously educated in good letters and manners; a certain place of universal study, or perpetual college of divinity, philosophy, languages and other good arts and sciences." Blair sailed back to Virginia with the charter of the college, some money, a plan for the main building drawn by Christopher Wren, and for himself the office of President. The Assembly, for the benefit of the college, taxed raw and tanned hides, dressed buckskin, skins of doe and elk, muskrat and raccoon. The construction of the new seat of learning was begun at Williamsburg. When it was completed and opened to students, it was named William and Mary. Its name and record shine fair in old Virginia. Colonial worthies in goodly number were educated at William and Mary, as were later revolutionary soldiers and statesmen, and men of name and fame in the United States. Three American Presidents--Jefferson, Monroe, and Tyler--were trained there, as well as Marshall, the Chief Justice, four signers of the Declaration of Independence, and many another man of mark. The seventeenth century is about to pass. France and England are at war. The colonial air vibrates with the struggle. There is to be a brief lull after 1697, but the conflict will soon be resumed. The more northerly colonies, the nearer to New France, feel the stronger pulsation, but Virginia, too, is shaken. England and France alike play for the support of the red man. All the western side of America lies open to incursion from that pressed-back Indian sea of unknown extent and volume. Up and down, the people, who have had no part in making that European war, are sensitive to the menace of its dangers. In Virginia they build blockhouses and they keep rangers on guard far up the great rivers. All the world is changing, and the changes are fraught with significance for America. Feudalism has passed; scholasticism has gone; politics, commerce, philosophy, religion, science, invention, music, art, and literature are rapidly altering. In England William and Mary pass away. Queen Anne begins her reign of twelve years. Then, in 1714, enters the House of Hanover with George the First. It is the day of Newton and Locke and Berkeley, of Hume, of Swift, Addison, Steele, Pope, Prior, and Defoe. The great romantic sixteenth century, Elizabeth's spacious time, is gone. The deep and narrow, the intense, religious, individualistic seventeenth century is gone. The eighteenth century, immediate parent of the nineteenth, grandparent of the twentieth, occupies the stage. In the year 1704, just over a decade since Dr. Blair had obtained the charter for his College, the erratic and able Governor of Virginia, Francis Nicholson, was recalled. For all that he was a wild talker, he had on the whole done well for Virginia. He was, as far as is known, the first person actually to propose a federation or union of all those English-speaking political divisions, royal provinces, dominions, palatinates, or what not, that had been hewed away from the vast original Virginia. He did what he could to forward the movement for education and the fortunes of the William and Mary College. But he is quoted as having on one occasion informed the body of the people that "the gentlemen imposed upon them." Again, he is said to have remarked of the servant population that they had all been kidnapped and had a lawful action against their masters. "Sir," he stated to President Blair, who would have given him advice from the Bishop of London, "Sir, I know how to govern Virginia and Maryland better than all the bishops in England! If I had not hampered them in Maryland and kept them under, I should never have been able to govern them!" To which Blair had to say, "Sir, if I know anything of Virginia, they are a good-natured, tractable people as any in the world, and you may do anything with them by way of civility, but you will never be able to manage them in that way you speak of, by hampering and keeping them under!"* * William and Mary College Quarterly, vol. I, p. 66. About this time arrived Claude de Richebourg with a number of Huguenots who settled above the Falls. First and last, Virginia received many of this good French strain. The Old Dominion had now a population of over eighty thousand persons--whites, Indians in no great number, and negroes. The red men are mere scattered dwellers in the land east of the mountains. There are Indian villages, but they are far apart. Save upon the frontier fringe, the Indian attacks no more. But the African is here to stay. "The Negroes live in small Cottages called Quarters... under the direction of an Overseer or Bailiff; who takes care that they tend such Land as the Owner allots and orders, upon which they raise Hogs and Cattle and plant Indian Corn, and Tobacco for the Use of their Master.... The Negroes are very numerous, some Gentlemen having Hundreds of them of all Sorts, to whom they bring great Profitt; for the Sake of which they are obliged to keep them well, and not over-work, starve or famish them, besides other Inducements to favour them; which is done in a great Degree, to such especially that are laborious, careful and honest; tho' indeed some Masters, careless of their own Interest or deputation, are too cruel and negligent. The Negroes are not only encreased by fresh supplies from Africa and the West India Islands, but also are very prolific among themselves; and they that are born here talk good English and affect our Language, Habits and Customs.... Their work or Chimerical (hard Slavery) is not very laborious; their greatest Hardship consisting in that they and their Posterity are not at their own Liberty or Disposal, but are the Property of their Owners; and when they are free they know not how to provide so well for themselves generally; neither did they live so plentifully nor (many of them) so easily in their own Country where they are made Slaves to one another, or taken Captive by their Ennemies."* * It is an English clergyman, the Reverend Hugh Jones, who is writing ("The Present State of Virginia") in the year 1724. He writes and never sees that, though every amelioration be true, yet there is here old Inequity. The white Virginians lived both after the fashion of England and after fashions made by their New World environment. They are said to have been in general a handsome folk, tall, well-formed, and with a ready and courteous manner. They were great lovers of riding, and of all country life, and few folk in the world might overpass them in hospitality. They were genial, they liked a good laugh, and they danced to good music. They had by nature an excellent understanding. Yet, thinks at least the Reverend Hugh Jones, they "are generally diverted by Business or Inclination from profound Study, and prying into the Depth of Things....They are more inclinable to read Men by Business and Conversation, than to dive into Books... they are apt to learn, yet they are fond of and will follow their own Ways, Humours and Notions, being not easily brought to new Projects and Schemes." It was as Governor of these people that, in succession to Nicholson, Edward Nott came to Virginia, the deputy of my Lord Orkney. Nott died soon afterward, and in 1710 Orkney sent to Virginia in his stead Alexander Spotswood. This man stands in Virginia history a manly, honorable, popular figure. Of Scotch parentage, born in Morocco, soldier under Marlborough, wounded at Blenheim, he was yet in his thirties when he sailed across the Atlantic to the river James. Virginia liked him, and he liked Virginia. A man of energy and vision, he first made himself at home with all, and then after his own impulses and upon his own lines went about to develop and to better the colony. He had his projects and his hobbies, mostly useful, and many sounding with a strong modern tone. Now and again he quarreled with the Assembly, and he made it many a cutting speech. But it, too, and all Virginia and the world were growing modern. Issues were disengaging themselves and were becoming distinct. In these early years of the eighteenth century, Whig and Tory in England drew sharply over against each other. In Virginia, too, as in Maryland, the Carolinas, and all the rest of England-in-America, parties were emerging. The Virginian flair for political life was thus early in evidence. To the careless eye the colony might seem overwhelmingly for King and Church. "If New England be called a Receptacle of Dissenters, and an Amsterdam of Religion, Pennsylvania the Nursery of Quakers; Maryland the Retirement of Roman Catholicks, North Carolina the Refuge of Runaways and South Carolina the Delight of Buccaneers and Pyrates, Virginia may be justly esteemed the happy Retreat of true Britons and true Churchmen for the most Part." This "for the most part" paints the situation, for there existed an opposition, a minority, which might grow to balance, and overbalance. In the meantime the House of Burgesses at Williamsburg provided a School for Discussion. At the time when Parson Jones with his shrewd eyes was observing society in the Old Dominion, Williamsburg was still a small village, even though it was the capital. Towns indeed, in any true sense, were nowhere to be found in Virginia. Yet Williamsburg had a certain distinction. Within it there arose, beneath and between old forest trees, the college, an admirable church--Bruton Church--the capitol, the Governor's house or "palace," and many very tolerable dwelling-houses of frame and brick. There were also taverns, a marketplace, a bowling-green, an arsenal, and presently a playhouse. The capitol at Williamsburg was a commodious one, able to house most of the machinery of state. Here were the Council Chamber, "where the Governor and Council sit in very great state, in imitation of the King and Council, or the Lord Chancellor and House of Lords," and the great room of the House of Burgesses, "not unlike the House of Commons." Here, at the capitol, met the General Courts in April and October, the Governor and Council acting as judges. There were also Oyer and Terminer and Admiralty Courts. There were offices and committee rooms, and on the cupola a great clock, and near the capitol was "a strong, sweet Prison for Criminals; and on the other side of an open Court another for Debtors... but such Prisoners are very rare, the Creditors being generally very merciful.... At the Capitol, at publick Times, may be seen a great Number of handsome, well-dressed, compleat Gentlemen. And at the Governor's House upon Birth-Nights, and at Balls and Assemblies, I have seen as fine an Appearance, as good Diversion, and as splendid Entertainments, in Governor Spotswood's Time, as I have seen anywhere else." It is a far cry from the Susan Constant, the Goodspeed, and the Discovery, from those first booths at Jamestown, from the Starving Time, from Christopher Newport and Edward-Maria Wingfield and Captain John Smith to these days of Governor Spotswood. And yet, considering the changes still to come, a century seems but a little time and the far cry not so very far. Though the Virginians were in the mass country folk, yet villages or hamlets arose, clusters of houses pressing about the Court House of each county. There were now in the colony over a score of settled counties. The westernmost of these, the frontier counties, were so huge that they ran at least to the mountains, and, for all one knew to the contrary, presumably beyond. But "beyond" was a mysterious word of unknown content, for no Virginian of that day had gone beyond. All the way from Canada into South Carolina and the Florida of that time stretched the mighty system of the Appalachians, fifteen hundred miles in length and three hundred in breadth. Here was a barrier long and thick, with ridge after ridge of lifted and forested earth, with knife-blade vales between, and only here and there a break away and an encompassed treasure of broad and fertile valley. The Appalachians made a true Chinese Wall, shutting all England-in-America, in those early days, out from the vast inland plateau of the continent, keeping upon the seaboard all England-in-America, from the north to the south. To Virginia these were the mysterious mountains just beyond which, at first, were held to be the South Sea and Cathay. Now, men's knowledge being larger by a hundred years, it was known that the South Sea could not be so near. The French from Canada, going by way of the St. Lawrence and the Great Lakes, had penetrated very far beyond and had found not the South Sea but a mighty river flowing into the Gulf of Mexico. What was the real nature of this world which had been found to lie over the mountains? More and more Virginians were inclined to find out, foreseeing that they would need room for their growing population. Continuously came in folk from the Old Country, and continuously Virginians were born. Maryland dwelt to the north, Carolina to the south. Virginia, seeking space, must begin to grow westward. There were settlements from the sea to the Falls of the James, and upon the York, the Rappahannock, and the Potomac. Beyond these, in the wilderness, might be found a few lonely cabins, a scattered handful of pioneer folk, small blockhouses, and small companies of rangers charged with protecting all from Indian foray. All this country was rolling and hilly, but beyond it stood the mountains, a wall of enchantment, against the west. Alexander Spotswood, hardy Scot, endowed with a good temperamental blend of the imaginative and the active, was just the man, the time being ripe, to encounter and surmount that wall. Fortunately, too, the Virginians were horsemen, man and horse one piece almost, New World centaurs. They would follow the bridle-tracks that pierced to the hilly country, and beyond that they might yet make way through the primeval forest. They would encounter dangers, but hardly the old perils of seacoast and foothills. Different, indeed, is this adventure of the Governor of Virginia and his chosen band from the old push afoot into frowning hostile woods by the men of a hundred and odd years before! Spotswood rode westward with a company drawn largely from the colonial gentry, men young in body or in spirit, gay and adventurous. The whole expedition was conceived and executed in a key both humorous and knightly. These "Knights"* set face toward the mountains in August, 1716. They had guides who knew the upcountry, a certain number of rangers used to Indian ways, and servants with food and much wine in their charge. So out of settled Virginia they rode, and up the long, gradual lift of earth above sea-level into a mountainous wilderness, where before them the Aryan had not come. By day they traveled, and bivouacked at night. * On the sandy roads of settled Virginia horses went unshod, but for the stony hills and the ultimate cliffs they must have iron shoes. After the adventure and when the party had returned to civilization, the Governor, bethinking himself that there should be some token and memento of the exploit, had made in London a number of small golden horseshoes, set as pins to be worn in the lace cravats of the period. Each adventurer to the mountains received one, and the band has kept, in Virginian lore, the title of the Knights of the Golden Horseshoe. Higher and more rugged grew the mountains. Some trick of the light made them show blue, so that they presently came to be called the Blue Ridge, in contradistinction to the westward lying, gray Alleghanies. They were like very long ocean combers, with at intervals an abrupt break, a gap, cliff-guarded, boulder-strewn, with a narrow rushing stream making way between hemlocks and pines, sycamore, ash and beech, walnut and linden. Towards these blue mountains Spotswood and his knights rode day after day and came at last to the foot of the steep slope. The long ridges were high, but not so high but that horse and man might make shift to scramble to the crest. Up they climbed and from the heights they looked across and down into the Valley of Virginia, twenty miles wide, a hundred and twenty long--a fertile garden spot. Across the shimmering distances they saw the gray Alleghanies, fresh barrier to a fresh west. Below them ran a clear river, afterwards to be called the Shenandoah. They gazed--they predicted colonists, future plantations, future towns, for that great valley, large indeed as are some Old World kingdoms. They drank the health of England's King, and named two outstanding peaks Mount George and Mount Alexander; then, because their senses were ravished by the Eden before them, they dubbed the river Euphrates. They plunged and scrambled down the mountain side to the Euphrates, drank of it, bathed in it, rested, ate, and drank again. The deep green woods were around them; above them they could see the hawk, the eagle, and the buzzard, and at their feet the bright fish of the river. At last they reclimbed the Blue Ridge, descended its eastern face, and, leaving the great wave of it behind them, rode homeward to Williamsburg in triumph. We are thus, with Spotswood and his band, on the threshold of expanding American vistas. This Valley of Virginia, first a distant Beulah land for the eye of the imagination only, presently became a land of pioneer cabins, far apart--very far apart--then a settled land, of farms, hamlets, and market towns. Nor did the folk come only from that elder Virginia of tidal waters and much tobacco, of "compleat gentlemen" at the capital, and of many slaves in the fields. But downward from the Potomac, they came south into this valley, from Pennsylvania and Maryland, many of them Ulster Scots who had sailed to the western world. In America they are called the Scotch Irish, and in the main they brought stout hearts, long arms, and level heads. With these they brought in as luggage the dogmas of Calvin. They permeated the Valley of Virginia; many moved on south into Carolina; finally, in large part, they made Kentucky and Tennessee. Germans, too, came into the valley--down from Pennsylvania--quiet, thrifty folk, driven thus far westward from a war-ravished Rhine. Shrewd practicality trod hard upon the heels of romantic fancy in the mind of Spotswood. His Order of the Knights of the Horseshoe had a fleeting existence, but the Vision of the West lived on. Frontier folk in growing numbers were encouraged to make their way from tidewater to the foot of the Blue Ridge. Spotsylvania and King George were names given to new counties in the Piedmont in honor of the Governor and the sovereign. German craftsmen, who had been sent over by Queen Anne--vine-dressers and ironworkers--were settled on Spotswood's own estate above the falls of the Rapidan. The little town of Germanna sprang up, famous for its smelting furnaces. To his country seat in Spotsylvania, Alexander Spotswood retired when he laid down the office of Governor in 1722. But his talents were too valuable to be allowed to rust in inactivity. He was appointed deputy Postmaster-General for the English colonies, and in the course of his administration made one Benjamin Franklin Postmaster for Philadelphia. He was on the point of sailing with Admiral Vernon on the expedition against Cartagena in 1740, when he was suddenly stricken and died. He was buried at Temple Farm by Yorktown. On the expedition to Cartagena went one Lawrence Washington, who named his country seat after the Admiral and whose brother George many years later was to receive the surrender of Cornwallis and his army hard by the resting-place of Alexander Spotswood. Colonial Virginia lies behind us. The era of revolution and statehood beckons us on. CHAPTER XVI. GEORGIA Below Charleston in South Carolina, below Cape Fear, below Port Royal, a great river called the Savannah poured into the sea. Below the Savannah, past the Ogeechee, sailing south between the sandy islands and the main, ships came to the mouth of the river Altamaha. Thus far was Carolina. But below Altamaha the coast and the country inland became debatable, probably Florida and Spanish, liable at any rate to be claimed as such, and certainly open to attack from Spanish St. Augustine. Here lay a stretch of seacoast and country within hailing distance of semi-tropical lands. It was low and sandy, with innumerable slow-flowing watercourses, creeks, and inlets from the sea. The back country, running up to hills and even mountains stuffed with ores, was not known--though indeed Spanish adventurers had wandered there and mined for gold. But the lowlands were warm and dense with trees and wild life. The Huguenot Ribault, making report of this region years and years before, called it "a fayre coast stretching of a great length, covered with an infinite number of high and fayre trees," and he described the land as the "fairest, fruitfullest, and pleasantest of all the world, abounding in hony, venison, wilde fowle, forests, woods of all sorts, Palm-trees, Cypresse and Cedars, Bayes ye highest and greatest; with also the fayrest vines in all the world.... And the sight of the faire medows is a pleasure not able to be expressed with tongue; full of Hernes, Curlues, Bitters, Mallards, Egrepths, Woodcocks, and all other kind of small birds; with Harts, Hindes, Buckes, wilde Swine, and all other kindes of wilde beastes, as we perceived well, both by their footing there and... their crie and roaring in the night."* This is the country of the liveoak and the magnolia, the gray, swinging moss and the yellow jessamine, the chameleon and the mockingbird. * Winsor's "Narrative and Critical History of America", vol. V, p. 357. The Savannah and Altamaha rivers and the wide and deep lands between fell in that grant of Charles II's to the eight Lords Proprietors of Carolina--Albemarle, Clarendon, and the rest. But this region remained as yet unpeopled save by copper-hued folk. True, after the "American Treaty" of 1670 between England and Spain, the English built a small fort upon Cumberland Island, south of the Altamaha, and presently another Fort George--to the northwest of the first, at the confluence of the rivers Oconee and Oemulgee. There were, however, no true colonists between the Savannah and the Altamaha. In the year 1717--the year after Spotswood's Expedition--the Carolina Proprietaries granted to one Sir Robert Mountgomery all the land between the rivers Savannah and Altamaha, "with proper jurisdictions, privileges, prerogatives, and franchises." The arrangement was feudal enough. The new province was to be called the Margravate of Azilia. Mountgomery, as Margrave, was to render to the Lords of Carolina an annual quitrent and one-fourth part of all gold and silver found in Azilia. He must govern in accordance with the laws of England, must uphold the established religion of England, and provide by taxation for the maintenance of the clergy. In three years' time the new Margrave must colonize his Margravate, and if he failed to do so, all his rights would disappear and Azilia would again dissolve into Carolina. This was what happened. For whatever reason, Mountgomery could not obtain his colonists. Azilia remained a paper land. The years went by. The country, unsettled yet, lapsed into the Carolina from which so tentatively it had been parted. Over its spaces the Indian still roved, the tall forests still lifted their green crowns, and no axe was heard nor any English voice. In the decade that followed, the Lords Proprietors of Carolina ceased to be Lords Proprietors. Their government had been, save at exceptional moments, confused, oppressive, now absent-minded, and now mistaken and arbitrary. They had meant very well, but their knowledge was not exact, and now virtual revolution in South Carolina assisted their demise. After lengthy negotiations, at last, in 1729, all except Lord Granville surrendered to the Crown, for a considerable sum, their rights and interests. Carolina, South and North, thereupon became royal colonies. In England there dwelled a man named James Edward Oglethorpe, son of Sir Theophilus Oglethorpe of Godalming in Surrey. Though entered at Oxford, he soon left his books for the army and was present at the siege and taking of Belgrade in 1717. Peace descending, the young man returned to England, and on the death of his elder brother came into the estate, and was presently made Member of Parliament for Haslemere in Surrey. His character was a firm and generous one; his bent, markedly humane. "Strong benevolence of soul," Pope says he had. His century, too, was becoming humane, was inquiring into ancient wrongs. There arose, among other things, a belated notion of prison reform. The English Parliament undertook an investigation, and Oglethorpe was of those named to examine conditions and to make a report. He came into contact with the incarcerated--not alone with the law-breaker, hardened or yet to be hardened, but with the wrongfully imprisoned and with the debtor. The misery of the debtor seems to have struck with insistent hand upon his heart's door. The parliamentary inquiry was doubtless productive of some good, albeit evidently not of great good. But though the inquiry was over, Oglethorpe's concern was not over. It brooded, and, in the inner clear light where ideas grow, eventually brought forth results. Numbers of debtors lay in crowded and noisome English prisons, there often from no true fault at all, at times even because of a virtuous action, oftenest from mere misfortune. If they might but start again, in a new land, free from entanglements! Others, too, were in prison, whose crimes were negligible, mere mistaken moves with no evil will behind them--or, if not so negligible, then happening often through that misery and ignorance for which the whole world was at fault. There was also the broad and well-filled prison of poverty, and many of the prisoners there needed only a better start. James Edward Oglethorpe conceived another settlement in America, and for colonists he would have all these down-trodden and oppressed. He would gather, if he might, only those who when helped would help themselves--who when given opportunity would rise out of old slough and briar. He was personally open to the appeal of still another class of unfortunate men. He had seen upon the Continent the distress of the poor and humble Protestants in Catholic countries. Folk of this kind--from France, from Germany--had been going in a thin stream for years to the New World. But by his plan more might be enabled to escape petty tyranny or persecution. He had influence, and his scheme appealed to the humane thought of his day--appealed, too, to the political thought. In America there was that debatable and unoccupied land south of Charles Town in South Carolina. It would be very good to settle it, and none had taken up the idea with seriousness since Azilia had failed. Such a colony as was now contemplated would dispose of Spanish claims, serve as a buffer colony between Florida and South Carolina, and establish another place of trade. The upshot was that the Crown granted to Oglethorpe and twenty associates the unsettled land between the Savannah and the Altamaha, with a westward depth that was left quite indefinite. This territory, which was now severed from Carolina, was named Georgia after his Majesty King George II, and Oglethorpe and a number of prominent men became the trustees of the new colony. They were to act as such for twenty-one years, at the end of which time Georgia should pass under the direct government of the Crown. Parliament gave to the starting of things ten thousand pounds, and wealthy philanthropic individuals followed suit with considerable donations. The trustees assembled, organized, set to work. A philanthropic body, they drew from the like minded far and near. Various agencies worked toward getting together and sifting the colonists for Georgia. Men visited the prisons for debtors and others. They did not choose at random, but when they found the truly unfortunate and undepraved in prison they drew them forth, compounded with their creditors, set the prisoners free, and enrolled them among the emigrants. Likewise they drew together those who, from sheer poverty, welcomed this opportunity. And they began a correspondence with distressed Protestants on the Continent. They also devised and used all manner of safeguards against imposition and the inclusion of any who would be wholly burdens, moral or physical. So it happened that, though misfortune had laid on almost all a heavy hand, the early colonists to Georgia were by no means undesirable flotsam and jetsam. The plans for the colony, the hopes for its well-being, wear a tranquil and fair countenance. Oglethorpe himself would go with the first colonists. His ship was the Anne of two hundred tons burden--the last English colonizing ship with which this narrative has to do--and to her weathered sails there still clings a fascination. On board the Anne, beside the crew and master, are Oglethorpe himself and more than a hundred and twenty Georgia settlers, men, women, and children. The Anne shook forth her sails in mid-November, 1732, upon the old West Indies sea road, and after two months of prosperous faring, came to anchor in Charles Town harbor. South Carolina, approving this Georgia settlement which was to open the country southward and be a wall against Spain, received the colonists with hospitality. Oglethorpe and the weary colonists rested from long travel, then hoisted sail again and proceeded on their way to Port Royal, and southward yet to the mouth of the Savannah. Here there was further tarrying while Oglethorpe and picked men went in a small boat up the river to choose the site where they should build their town. Here, upon the lower reaches, there lay a fair plateau, a mile long, rising forty feet above the stream. Near by stood a village of well-inclined Indians--the Yamacraws. Ships might float upon the river, close beneath the tree-crowned bluff. It was springtime now and beautiful in the southern land--the sky azure, the air delicate, the earth garbed in flowers. Little wonder then that Oglethorpe chose Yamacraw Bluff for his town. A trader from Carolina was found here, and the trader's wife, a half-breed, Mary Musgrove by name, did the English good service. She made her Indian kindred friends with the newcomers. From the first Oglethorpe dealt wisely with the red men. In return for many coveted goods, he procured within the year a formal cession of the land between the two rivers and the islands off the coast. He swore friendship and promised to treat the Indians justly, and he kept his oath. The site chosen, he now returned to the Anne and presently brought his colonists up the river to that fair place. As soon as they landed, these first Georgians began immediately to build a town which they named Savannah. Ere long other emigrants arrived. In 1734 came seventy-eight German Protestants from Salzburg, with Baron von Reck and two pastors for leaders. The next year saw fifty-seven others added to these. Then came Moravians with their pastor. All these strong, industrious, religious folk made settlements upon the river above Savannah. Italians came, Piedmontese sent by the trustees to teach the coveted silk-culture. Oglethorpe, when he sailed to England in 1734, took with him Tomochi-chi, chief of the Yamacraws, and other Indians. English interest in Georgia increased. Parliament gave more money--26,000 pounds. Oglethorpe and the trustees gathered more colonists. The Spanish cloud seemed to be rolling up in the south, and it was desirable to have in Georgia a number of men who were by inheritance used to war. Scotch Highlanders--there would be the right folk! No sooner said than gathered. Something under two hundred, courageous and hardy, were enrolled from the Highlands. The majority were men, but there were fifty women and children with them. All went to Georgia, where they settled to the south of Savannah, on the Altamaha, near the island of St. Simon. Other Highlanders followed. They had a fort and a town which they named New Inverness, and the region that they peopled they called Darien. Oglethorpe himself left England late in 1735, with two ships, the Symond and the London Merchant, and several hundred colonists aboard. Of these folk doubtless a number were of the type the whole enterprise had been planned to benefit. Others were Protestants from the Continent. Yet others--notably Sir Francis Bathurst and his family--went at their own charges. After Oglethorpe himself, most remarkable perhaps of those going to Georgia were the brothers John and Charles Wesley. Not precisely colonists are the Wesleys, but prospectors for the souls of the colonists, and the souls of the Indians--Yamacraws, Uchees, and Creeks. They all landed at Savannah, and now planned to make a settlement south of their capital city, by the mouth of Altamaha. Oglethorpe chose St. Simon's Island, and here they built, and called their town Frederica. "Each Freeholder had 60 Feet in Front by 90 Feet in depth upon the high Street for House and Garden; but those which fronted the River had but 30 in Front, by 60 Feet in depth. Each Family had a Bower of Palmetto Leaves finished upon the back Street in their own Lands. The side toward the front Street was set out for their Houses. These Palmetto Bowers were very convenient shelters, being tight in the hardest Rains; they were about 20 Feet long and 14 Feet wide, and in regular Rows looked very pretty, the Palmetto Leaves lying smooth and handsome, and of a good Colour. The whole appeared something like a Camp; for the Bowers looked like Tents, only being larger and covered with Palmetto Leaves."* * Moore's "Voyage to Georgia". Quoted in Winsor's "Narrative and Critical History of America", vol. V, p. 378. Their life sounds idyllic, but it will not always be so. Thunders will arise; serpents be found in Eden. But here now we leave them--in infant Savannah--in the Salzburgers' village of Ebenezer and in the Moravian village nearby--in Darien of the Highlanders--and in Frederica, where until houses are built they will live in palmetto bowers. Virginia, Maryland, the two Carolinas, Georgia--the southern sweep of England-in-America--are colonized. They have communication with one another and with middle and northern England-in-America. They also have communication with the motherland over the sea. The greetings of kindred and the fruits of labor travel to and fro: over the salt, tumbling waves. But also go mutual criticism and complaint. "Each man," says Goethe, "is led and misled after a fashion peculiar to himself." So with those mass persons called countries. Tension would come about, tension would relax, tension would return and increase between Mother England and Daughter America. In all these colonies, in the year with which this narrative closes, there were living children and young persons who would see the cord between broken, would hear read the Declaration of Independence. So--but the true bond could never be broken, for mother and daughter after all are one. THE NAVIGATION LAWS Three acts of Parliament--the Navigation Act of 1660, the Staple Act of 1663, and the Act of 1673 imposing Plantation Duties--laid the foundation of the old colonial system of Great Britain. Contrary to the somewhat passionate contentions of older historians, they were not designed in any tyrannical spirit, though they embodied a theory of colonization and trade which has long since been discarded. In the seventeenth century colonies were regarded as plantations existing solely for the benefit of the mother country. Therefore their trade and industry must be regulated so as to contribute most to the sea power, the commerce, and the industry of the home country which gave them protection. Sir Josiah Child was only expressing a commonplace observation of the mercantilists when he wrote "That all colonies or plantations do endamage their Mother-Kingdoms, whereof the trades of such Plantations are not confined by severe Laws, and good execution of those Laws, to the Mother-Kingdom." The Navigation Act of 1660, following the policy laid down in the statute of 1651 enacted under the Commonwealth, was a direct blow aimed at the Dutch, who were fast monopolizing the carrying trade. It forbade any goods to be imported into or exported from His Majesty's plantations except in English, Irish, or colonial vessels of which the master and three fourths of the crew must be English; and it forbade the importation into England of any goods produced in the plantations unless carried in English bottoms. Contemporary Englishmen hailed this act as the Magna Charta of the Sea. There was no attempt to disguise its purpose. "The Bent and Design," wrote Charles Davenant, "was to make those colonies as much dependant as possible upon their Mother-Country," by preventing them from trading independently and so diverting their wealth. The effect would be to give English, Irish, and colonial shipping a monopoly of the carrying trade within the Empire. The act also aided English merchants by the requirement that goods of foreign origin should be imported directly from the place of production; and that certain enumerated commodities of the plantations should be carried only to English ports. These enumerated commodities were products of the southern and semitropical plantations: "Sugars, Tobacco, Cotton-wool, Indicoes, Ginger, Fustick or other dyeing wood." To benefit British merchants still more directly by making England the staple not only of plantation products but also of all commodities of all countries, the Act of 1663 was passed by Parliament. "No Commoditie of the Growth Production or Manufacture of Europe shall be imported into any Land Island Plantation Colony Territory or Place to His Majestie belonging... but what shall be bona fide and without fraude laden and shipped in England Wales [and] the Towne of Berwicke upon Tweede and in English built Shipping." The preamble to this famous act breathed no hostile intent. The design was to maintain "a greater correspondence and kindnesse" between the plantations and the mother country; to encourage shipping; to render navigation cheaper and safer; to make "this Kingdome a Staple not only of the Commodities of those Plantations but also of the Commodities of other Countries and places for the supplying of them--" it "being the usage of other nations to keepe their [Plantations] Trade to themselves." The Act of 1673 was passed to meet certain difficulties which arose in the administration of the Act of 1660. The earlier act permitted colonial vessels to carry enumerated commodities from the place of production to another plantation without paying duties. Under cover of this provision, it was assumed that enumerated commodities, after being taken to a plantation, could then be sent directly to continental ports free of duty. The new act provided that, before vessels left a colonial port, bonds should be given that the enumerated commodities would be carried only to England. If bonds were not given and the commodities were taken to another colonial port, plantation duties were collected according to a prescribed schedule. These acts were not rigorously enforced until after the passage of the administrative act of 1696 and the establishment of admiralty courts. Even then it does not appear that they bore heavily on the colonies, or occasioned serious protest. The trade acts of 1764 and 1765 are described in "The Eve of the Revolution".--EDITOR. BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE The literature of the Colonial South is like the leaves of Vallombrosa for multitude. Here may be indicated some volumes useful in any general survey. VIRGINIA Hakluyt's "Principal Voyages." 12 vols. (Hakluyt Society. Extra Series, 1905-1907.) "The Prose Epic of the modern English nation." "Purchas, His Pilgrims." 20 vols. (Hakluyt Society, Extra Series, 1905-1907.) Hening's "Statutes at Large," published in 1823, is an eminently valuable collection of the laws of colonial Virginia, beginning with the Assembly of 1619. Hening's own quotation from Priestley, "The Laws of a country are necessarily connected with everything belonging to the people of it: so that a thorough knowledge of them and of their progress would inform us of everything that was most useful to be known," indicates the range and weight of his thirteen volumes. William Stith's "The History of the Discovery and First Settlement of Virginia" (1747) gives some valuable documents and a picture of the first years at Jamestown. Alexander Brown's "Genesis of the United States", 2 vols. (1890), is a very valuable work, giving historical manuscripts and tracts. Less valuable is his "First Republic in America" (1898), in which the author attempts to weave his material into a historical narrative. Philip A. Bruce's "Economic History of Virginia in the Seventeenth Century", 2 vols. (1896), is a highly interesting and exhaustive survey. The same author has written "Social Life of Virginia in the Seventeenth Century" (1907) and "Institutional History of Virginia in the Seventeenth Century", 2 vols. (1910). John Fiske's "Virginia and Her Neighbors," 2 vols. (1897), and John E. Cooke's Virginia (American Commonwealth Series, 1883) are written in lighter vein than the foregoing histories and possess much literary distinction. On Captain John Smith there are writings innumerable. Some writers give credence to Smith's own narratives, while others do not. John Fiske accepts the narratives as history, and Edward Arber, who has edited them (2 vols., 1884), holds that the "General History" (1624) is more reliable than the "True Relation" (1608). On the other side, as doubters of Smith's credibility, are ranged such weighty authorities as Charles Deane, Henry Adams, and Alexander Brown. Thomas J. Wertenbaker's "Virginia under the Stuarts" (1914) is a painstaking effort to set forth the political history of the colony in the light of recent historical investigation, but the book is devoid of literary attractiveness. MARYLAND "The Archives of Maryland", 37 vols. (1883-) contain the official documents of the province. John L. Bozman's "History of Maryland", 2 vols. (1837), contains much valuable material for the years 1634-1658. J. T. Scharf's "History of Maryland", 3 vols. (1879), is a solid piece of work; but the reader will turn by preference to the more readable books by John Fiske, "Virginia and Her Neighbors", and William H. Browne, "Maryland, The History of a Palatinate" ("American Commonwealth Series," 1884). Browne has also written "George and Cecilius Calvert" (1890). THE CAROLINAS "The Colonial Records of North Carolina", 10 vols. (1886-1890), are a mine of information about both North and South Carolina. Francis L. Hawks's "History of North Carolina", 2 vols. (1857-8), remains the most substantial work on the colony to the year 1729. Samuel A. Ashe's "History of North Carolina" (1908) carries the political history down to 1783. Edward McCrady's "History of South Carolina under the Proprietary Government" (1897) and "South Carolina under the Royal Government" (1899) have superseded the older histories by Ramsay and Hewitt. GEORGIA The best histories of Georgia are those by William B. Stevens, 2 vols. (1847, 1859), and Charles C. Jones, 2 vols. (1883). Robert Wright's "Memoir of General James Oglethorpe" (1867) is still the best life of the founder of Georgia. In the "American Nation Series" and in Winsor's "Narrative and Critical History of America", the reader will find accounts of the Southern colonies written by specialists and accompanied by much critical apparatus. Further lists will be found appended to the articles on the several States in "The Encyclopaedia Britannica", 11th edition. 
35195	----	The Fatal Cord and The Falcon Rover By Captain Mayne Reid Published by Charles H. Clarke, 13 Paternoster Row, London. This edition dated 1872. The Fatal Cord, by Mayne Reid. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ THE FATAL CORD, BY MAYNE REID. STORY ONE, CHAPTER ONE. A BIVOUAC OF BOY HUNTERS. A Hunters' bivouac under the shadows of a Mississippian forest, in a spot where the trees stand unthinned by the axe of the woodman. It is upon the Arkansas side of the great river, not far from the town of Helena, and in the direction of Little Rock, the capital of that State. The scene is a small glade, surrounded by tall cottonwood trees, one of which on each side, conspicuously "blazed," indicates a "trace" of travel. It is that leading from Helena to a settlement on the forks of the White River and Cache. The time is a quarter of a century ago, when this district of country contained a heterogeneous population, comprising some of the wildest and wickedest spirits to be found in all the length and breadth of the backwoods border. It was then the chosen home for men of fallen fortunes, lawyers and land speculators, slave-traders and swindlers, hunters, who lived by the pursuit of game, and sportsmen, whose game was cards, and whose quarry consisted of such dissolute cotton planters as, forsaking their homes in Mississippi and Tennessee, had re-established themselves on the fertile bottoms of the Saint Francis, the White and the Arkansas. A glance at the individuals comprising the bivouac in question forbids the supposition that they belong to any of the above. There are six of them; all are boys, the oldest not over twenty, while the youngest may be under sixteen. And though at the same glance you are satisfied that they are but amateur hunters, the game they have succeeded in bringing down shows them gifted not only with skill but courage in the chase. The carcase of a large bear lies beside them on the sward, his skin hanging from a tree, while several steaks cut from his fat rump, and impaled upon sapling spits, sing pleasantly over the camp fire, sending a savoury odour far into the forest around. About a dozen huge bear-hounds, several showing scars of recent conflict, lie panting upon the grass, while just half this number of saddled horses stand "hitched" to the trees. The young hunters are in high glee. They have made a creditable day's work of it, and as most of them have to go a good way before reaching home, they have halted in the glade to refresh themselves, their hounds, and their horses. The chase has provided them with meat of which all are fond; most of them carry a "pine" of corn bread in their saddle-bags, and not a few a flask of corn-whiskey. They would not be the youth of Arkansas if found unprovided with tobacco. Thus furnished with all the requisites of a backwoods bivouac they are sucking it in gleesome style. Scanning these young fellows from a social point of view you can see they are not all of equal rank. A difference in dress and equipments bespeaks a distinct standing, even in backwoods society, and this inequality is evident among the six individuals seated around the camp fire. He whom we have taken for the oldest, and whose name is Brandon, is the son of a cotton planter of some position in the neighbourhood. And there is wealth too, as indicated by the coat of fine white linen, the white Panama hat, and the diamond pin sparkling among the ruffles in his shirt-bosom. It is not this, however, that gives him a tone of authority among his hunting companions, but rather an assumption of superior age, combined with perhaps superior strength, and certainly a dash of _bullyism_ that exhibits itself, and somewhat offensively, in both word and action. Most of the dogs are his, as also the fine sorrel horse that stands proudly pawing the ground not far from the fire. Next to Master Brandon in degree of social standing is a youth, who is also two years his junior, by name Randall. He is the son of a certain lawyer, lately promoted to be judge of the district--an office that cannot be called a sinecure, supposing its duties to be faithfully performed. After Randall may be ranked young Spence, the hopeful scion of an Episcopal clergyman, whose cure lies in one of the river-side towns, several miles from the scene of the bivouac. Of lower grade is Ned Slaughter, son of the Helena hotel-keeper, and Jeff Grubbs, the heir apparent to Jeff Grubbs, senior, the principal dry goods merchant of the same respectable city. At the bottom of the scale may be placed Bill Buck, whose father, half horse trader, half corn planter, squats on a tract of poor land near the Cache, of which no one cares to dispute his proprietorship. Notwithstanding these social distinctions, there is none apparent around the camp fire. In a hunter's bivouac--especially in the South-Western States, still more notably within the limits of Arkansas--superiority does not belong either to fine clothes or far stretching lineage. The scion of the "poor white hack" is as proud of his position as the descendant of the aristocratic cotton planter; and over the camp fire in question Bill Buck talked as loudly, ate as choice steaks, and drank as much corn whisky as Alf Brandon, the owner of the hounds and the splendid sorrel horse. In their smoking there might be noted a difference, Bill indulging in a council pipe, while the son of the planter puffs his principe that has come through the custom-house from Havanna. Luncheon over, it still seems too early to separate for return home, and too late to set the dogs on a fresh bear trail. The corn juice inspires to rouse a kind of diversion, suggesting trials of death or skill. Among these sons of Arkansas cards would have come in; but to their chagrin no one is provided with a pack. Bill Buck regrets this, and also Alf Brandon, and so, too, the son of the Episcopal preacher. They are too far from any settlement to send for such things. Pitch and toss is not sufficiently scientific; "hokey in the hole" is too childish, and it ends in a trial of strength and activity. There is wrestling, jumping over a string, and the leap horizontal. In all of these Alf Brandon proves superior, though closely tackled by the son of the squatter. Their superiority is actually owing to age, for these two are the oldest of the party. The ordinary sports exhausted, something else is sought for. A new kind of gymnastics suggest itself or is suggested, by the stout branch of a cottonwood, stretching horizontally into the glade. It is nearly nine feet from the ground. Who can spring up, seize hold of it, and hang on longest? Alf Brandon pulls out his gold repeater, formed with a moment hand, and the trial is attempted. All six succeeded in reaching the limb, and clutching it. All can hang for a time; but in this Bill Buck beats his companions, Brandon showing chagrin. Who can hang longest with one hand? The trial is made, and the planter's son is triumphant. "Bah!" cries the defeated Buck. "Who can hang longest by the neck? Dare any of you try that?" A yell of laughter responds to this _jeu d'esprit_ of the young jean-clad squatter. STORY ONE, CHAPTER TWO. TWO TRAVELLERS. The silence succeeding is so profound that the slightest sound may be heard to a considerable distance. Though not professional hunters, these young Nimrods of the backwoods are accustomed to keep open ears. It is a rustling among the reeds that now hinders them from resuming conversation--the canes that hang over the trace of travel. There are footsteps upon it, coming from the direction of Helena. They are soft as the fall of moccasined or female foot. For all this, they are heard distinctly in the glade--hunters, horses, and hounds having pricked up their ears to listen. Who comes from Helena? The question has scarce shaped itself when the answer also assumes shape. There are two upon the trace--the foremost, a youth of about eighteen, the other, a girl, at least two years younger. They are not like enough to be brother and sister. They may be of the same mother, but not father. If their father be the same, they must have come from two mothers. Both are of interesting personal appearance, strikingly so. The youth is tall, tersely and elegantly formed, with features cast in a mould that reminds one of the Romagna; the same facial outline, the prominent nose and chin, the eagle eye, that in childhood has glanced across the Teverino, or the Tiber, and a complexion equally suggestive of Italian origin, a tinge of olive in the skin, slightly damasked upon the cheeks, with, above all, a thick _chevelure_, black as the plumage of a buzzard. While different in mien, this youth is dressed altogether unlike any of the young hunters who regard him from the glade. He is in true hunter costume, slightly partaking of the garb more especially affected by the Indian. His feet are in mocassins, his limbs encased in leggings of green-baize cloth, a calico hunting shirt covers his shoulders; while, instead of cap or hat, he wears the "toque," or turban, long since adopted by the semi-civilised tribes of the frontier. He is equipped with powder-horn and bullet-pouch, slung crossways under his arm, armed with a long pea-rifle resting negligently over his left shoulder. His companion has been spoken off as a girl. The designation stands good; but to describe her will require less minuteness of detail. Sixteen in countenance; older to judge by the budding promise of her beauty; clad in a gown of common homespun, copperas-dyed, ill stitched, and loosely adjusted; a skin soft as velvet, and ruddy as rude health can make it; hair to all appearance unacquainted with combs; yet spreading as the sun through a southern window; eyes like stars clipped from the blue canopy of the sky. Such was she who followed, or rather accompanied, the youth in the calico hunting shirt. A sudden fire flashes into the eyes of Alf Brandon. It is the expression of a spirit not friendly to one of the new comers, which may be easily guessed, for the girl is too young and too fair to have excited hostility in the breast of any one. It is her companion against whom the son of the planter feels some secret resentment. He shows it more conspicuously on a remark made by Bill Buck. "That skunk is always sneaking about with old Rook's gal. Wonder her dad don't show more sense than let her keep company wi' a nigger. She ain't a goslin any more--_she_ ain't." Buck's observation displays an animus ill concealed. He, too, has not failed to note the hidden beauty of this forest maiden, who is the daughter of an old hunter of rude habits, living in a cabin close by. But the sentiments of the horse-dealer's son, less refined, are also less keenly felt. His remarks add fuel to the fire already kindled in the breast of Brandon. "The nigger thinks entirely too much of himself. I propose, boys, we take the shine out of him," said Brandon, who makes the malicious challenge. "Do the nigger good," chimes in Slaughter. "But is he a nigger?" asks Spence, to whom the strange youth has been hitherto unknown. "I should have taken him for a white." "Three-quarters white--the rest Indian. His mother was a half-bred Choctaw. I've often seen the lot at our store." It is Grubbs who gives this information. "Injun or nigger, what's the difference?" proceeded the brutal Buck. "He's got starch enough for either; and, as you say, Alf Brandon, let's take it out of him. All agreed, boys?" "All! all!" "What do you say, Judge Randall! You've not spoken yet, and as you're a judge we wait for your decision." "Oh, if there's fun to be had, _I'm_ with you. What do you propose doing with him?" "Leave that to me," says Brandon, turning to the quarter-bred, who at this moment has arrived opposite the camp fire. "Hilloa Choc! What's the hurry? We've been having a trial of strength here--who can hang longest by one arm to this branch? Suppose you put in too, and see what you can do?" "I don't desire it; besides, I have no time to spare for sport." The young hunter, halted for only a moment, is about to move on. The companionship thus offered is evidently uncongenial. He suspects that some mischief is meant. He can read it in the eyes of all six; in their faces flushed with corn-whiskey. Their tone, too, is insulting. "You're afraid you'll get beat," sneeringly rejoins Brandon. "Though you have Indian blood in you, there ought to be enough white to keep you from showing coward." "A coward! I'll thank you not to repeat that Mr Alfred Brandon." "Well, then, show yourself a man, and make the trial. I've heard that you boast of having strong arms. I'll bet that I can hang longer to that branch than you--that any of us can." "What will you bet you can?" asks the young hunter, stirred, perhaps, by the hope of employing his strength to a profitable purpose. "My rifle against yours. Looking at the value of the guns, that is quite two to one." "Three to one," says the son of the store-keeper. "I don't admit it," answers the hunter. "I prefer my piece to yours, with all its silvering upon it. But I accept your challenge, and will take the bet as you have proposed it." "Enough. Now, boys, stand by and see fair play. You, Slaughter, you keep time. Here's my watch." The girl is going away; Brandon evidently wishes she should do so. He has some design--some malice _prepense_, of which he does not desire her to be a witness. Whatever it is he has communicated it to his fellows, all of whom show a like willingness for Lena Rook--such is her name--to take her departure. Their free glances and freer speech produce the desired effect. Her father's shanty is not far off. She knows the road without any guidance, and moves off along it, not, however, without casting a glance towards her late travelling companion, in which might be detected a slight shadow of apprehension. She has not failed to notice the bearing of the boy hunters, their insulting tone and attitude towards him of Indian taint, who, for all that, has been the companion of her girlhood's life--the sharer of her father's roof, rude and humble as it is. Most of those left in the glade she knows--all of them by name--Buck and Brandon with a slight feeling of aversion. But she has confidence in Pierre--the only name by which she knows her father's guest--the name given by the man who some six years before entrusted him to her father's keeping; she knows that he is neither child nor simpleton, and against any ordinary danger can well guard himself. By this sweet reflection allaying her fears she flits forward along the forest path like a young fawn, emboldened by the knowledge that the lair of the protecting stag is safe and near. STORY ONE, CHAPTER THREE. HANGING BY ONE HAND. "How is it to be?" asks Slaughter, holding the watch as if he were weighing it. "By one hand or both?" "One hand, of course. That was the challenge." "I propose that the other be tied. That will be the best way, and fair for both parties. There will then be no balancing, and it will be a simple test of strength in the arm used for suspension. The right, of course. Let the left be tied down. What say you, boys?" "There can be no objection to that. It's equal for both," remarks Randall. "I make no objection," says Brandon. "Nor I," assents the young hunter; "tie as you please, so long as you tie alike." "Good!" ejaculates Bill Buck, with a sly wink to his companions, unseen by the last speaker. The competitors stand under the branch of the tree ready to be tied. A minute or two sufficed for this. It is done by a piece of string cord looped upon the left wrist, and then carried round the thigh. By this means the left arm is secured against struggling or in anyway lessening the strain upon the right. Thus pinioned, both stand ready for the trial. "Who goes first?" is the question asked by Slaughter. "The challenger, or the challenged?" "The challenged has the choice," answers Randall. "Do you wish it, Choc?" he adds, addressing himself to the quarter-bred Indian. "It makes no difference to me whether first or last," is the simple reply. "All right, then; I'll go first," says Brandon, springing up, and clutching hold of the limb. Slaughter, entrusted with the duty, appears to take note of the time. One--two--three--three minutes and thirty seconds--told off on the dial of his watch, and Brandon drops to the ground. He does not appear to have made much of an effort. It is strange he should be so indifferent to the losing of a splendid rifle, to say nothing of the humiliation of defeat. Both seem in store for him, as the young hunter, bracing himself to the effort, springs up to the branch. One--two--three--four--five. Five minutes are told off, and still does he remain suspended. "How much longer can you stand it, Choc?" asks Bill Buck, with a significant intonation of voice. "Most done, ain't ye?" "Done!" scornfully exclaimed the suspended hunter. "I could stand it three times as long, if needed. I suppose you're satisfied I've won?" "A hundred dollars against my own rifle you don't hang five minutes more." This comes from Brandon. "I'll take the bet," is the rejoinder. "Since you're so confident, then, you'll have to win or be hanged." "What do you mean by that? What are you doing behind me?" asked the young hunter. These questions are put under a suspicion that some trick is being played. He hears a whispering behind him, and a rustling of leaves overhead. "Only taking the precaution that you don't hurt yourself by the fall," is the answer given to the last. It is followed by a peal of loud laughter, in which all six take part. The young gymnast, still clinging to the branch, wonders what is making them so merry. Heir speeches have suggested something sinister, and glancing upward he discovers the trick played upon him. There is a rope around his neck, with a running nose, its other end attached to a branch above. It has been adjusted in such manner that were he to let go his hold the noose would close around his throat, with his feet still dangling in the air. "Hang on!" cried Slaughter, in a mocking tone. "Hang on, I advise you. If you let go you'll find your neck in a noose." "You'll keep the time, Slaughter," directs Brandon, "Five minutes more. If he drops within that time, let him do so. Well, then, see how long the nigger can hang _by his neck_." Another loud laugh rings through the glade, echoed by all except him who is the subject of it. The young hunter is furious--almost to frenzy. His cheek has turned ashy pale--his lips too. Fire flashes in his coal-black eyes. Could he but descend safely from the tree, at least one of his torturers would have reason to repent the trick they have put upon him. He dare not let go his hold; he sees the set snare, and knows the danger of falling into it. He can only await till they may please to release him from his perilous position. But if patient, he is not silent. "Cowards!" he cries, "cowards every one of you; and I'll make every one of you answer for it: you'll see if I don't." "Come, come, nigger," retorts Brandon, "don't talk that way, or we'll not let you down at all. As good as you have been hanged in these woods for too much talking. Ain't he a nice looking gallows bird just now? Say, boys! Suppose we call back the girl, and let her have a look at him? Perhaps she'd help him out of his fix. Ha! ha! ha!" "You'll repent these speeches, Alfred Brandon," gasps the young man, beginning to feel his strength failing him. "You be hanged--yes, hanged, ha! ha! ha!" Simultaneous with the laugh a deer-hound, straying by the edge of the glade, gave out a short, sharp growl, which is instantly taken up by those lying around the camp fire. At the same instant is heard a snort, perfectly intelligible to the ears of the amateur hunters. "A bear! a bear!" is the cry uttered by all, as the animal itself is seen dashing back into the cane-brake, out of which it had come to reconnoitre. In an instant the hounds are after it, some of them already hanging to its hams, while the six hunters suddenly rush to their guns, and flinging themselves into their saddles, oblivious of all else, spur excitedly after. In less than twenty seconds from the first howl of the hound there is not a soul in the glade, save that now in real danger of parting from the body that contains it. The young hunter is left hanging--alone! STORY ONE, CHAPTER FOUR. A FORCED FREEDOM. Yes. The young hunter is left hanging alone; hanging by hand and arm; soon to be suspended by the neck. Good God! is there no alternative? No hope of his being rescued from his perilous situation? He sees none for himself. He feels that he is powerless; his left hand is fastened to his thigh with a cord that cannot be stretched or broken. He tries wrenching the wrist with all his strength, and in every direction. The effort is idle, and ends only in the laceration of his skin. With the right hand he can do nothing. He dare not remove it from the limb; he dare not even change its hold. To unclasp it would be certain strangulation. Can he not throw up his feet, and by them elevate himself upon the branch? The idea at once suggests itself; and he at once attempts its execution. He tries once, twice, thrice, until he proves it impossible. With both arms it would have been easy; or with one at an earlier period. But the strain has been too long continued, and he sees that the effort is only bringing him nearer to his end. He desists, and once more hangs vertically, from the limb. Is there no hope from hearing? He listens. There is no lack of sounds. There is the baying of dogs at intervals, culminating in grand chorus, or breaking into short, sharp barks, as the bear gives battle; there is the bellowing of bruin himself, mingled with the crackling of cane, as he makes his way through the thick-set culms; and, above all, the shouts and wild yelling of his human pursuers. "Are they human?" asks he whom they have left behind. "Can it be that they have abandoned me to this cruel death?" "It can--they have," is the agonised answer, as the sounds of the chase come fainter from the forest. "They have--they have," he repeats, and then, as the tide of vengeance surges up in his heart, he cries, through clenched teeth, "O God; give me escape--if but to avenge myself on those villains who have outraged your own image. O God! look down in mercy! Send some one to deliver me!" Some one to deliver him! He has no hope that any of his late tormentors will return to do it. He had but little from the first. He knows them all, except Spence, the son of the clergyman; and from the late behaviour of this youth, he has seen that he is like the rest. All six are of the same stamp and character, the most dissolute scamps in the country. No hope now; for the bear hunt has borne them far away, and even their yells are no longer heard by him. Hitherto he has remained silent. It seemed idle to do otherwise. Who was there to hear him, save those who would not have heeded. And his shouts would not have been heard among the howling of hounds, the trampling of horses, and the shrill screeching of six fiends in human form. Now that silence is around him--deep, solemn silence--a new hope springs up within his breast. Some one _might_ be near, straying through the forest or travelling along the trace. He knows there is a trace. Better he had never trodden it! But another might be on it. Some one with a human heart. Oh, if it were only Lena! "Hilloa!" he cries, again and again; "help, help! For the love of God, give help!" His words are repeated, every one of them, and with distinctness. But, alas, not in answer, only in echo. The giant trunks are but taunting him. A fiend seems to mock him far off in the forest! He shouts till he is hoarse--till despair causes him to desist. Once more he hangs silent. A wonder he has hung so long. There are few boys, and perhaps fewer men, who could for such a time have sustained the terrible strain, under which even the professional gymnast might have sunk. It is explained by his training, and partly by the Indian blood coursing through his veins. A true child of the forest--a hunter from earliest boyhood--to scale the tall tree, and hang lightly from its limbs, was part of his education. To such as he the hand has a grasp prehensile as the tail of the American monkey, the arm a tension not known to the sons of civilisation. Fortunate for him it is thus, or perhaps the opposite, since it has only added to his misery by delaying the fate that seems certainly in store for him. He makes this reflection as he utters his last cry, and once more suffers himself to droop despairingly. So strongly does it shape itself, that he thinks of letting go his hold, and at once and for ever putting an end to his agony. Death is a terrible alternative. There are few who do not fear to look it in the face--few who will hasten to meet it, so long as the slightest spark of hope glimmers in the distance. Men have been known to spring into the sea, to be swallowed by the tumultuous waves; but it was only when the ship was on fire, or certainly sinking beneath them. This is but fleeing from death to death, when all hope of life is extinguished. Perhaps it is only madness. But Pierre Robideau--for such is the name of the young hunter--is not mad, and not yet ready to rush to the last terrible alternative. It is not hope that induces him to hold on--it is only the dread horror of death. His arm is stretched almost to dislocation of its joints--the sinews drawn tight as a bow-string, and still his fingers clutch firmly to the branch, lapped like iron round it. His cheeks are colourless; his jaws have dropped till the lips are agape, displaying his white teeth; his eyes protrude as if about to start forth from their sockets. And yet out of these wild eyes one more glance is given to the glade-- one more sweep among the trunks standing around it. What was seen in that last glaring look? Was it the form of a fair girl dimly outlined under the shadow of the trees? or was it only that same form conjured up by a fancy flickering on the edge of eternity? No matter now. It is too late. Even if Lena were there she would not be in time to save him. Nature, tortured to the last throe, can hold out no longer. She relaxes the grasp of Pierre Robideau's hand, and the next moment he is seen hanging under the branch, with the tightened noose around his neck, and his tongue protruding between his lips, livid with the dark mantling of death! STORY ONE, CHAPTER FIVE. TWO OLD CHUMS. "Bound for Kaliforny, air ye?" "Yes; that's the country for me." "If what you say's true, it oughter be the country for more'n you. Air ye sure 'beout it?" "Seems believing. Look at this." The man who gave utterance to the old saw pulled from his pocket a small packet done up in fawn skin, and untying the string, exhibited some glistening nodules of a yellowish colour. "True; seein' air believin', they do say, an' feelin' air second nater. Let's lay my claw on't." The packet was passed into his hands. "Hang me eft don't look like gold! an' it feel like it, too; an', durn me, ef't don't taste like it." This after he had put one of the nodules in his mouth, and rolled it over his tongue, as if testing it. "It _is_ gold," was the positive rejoinder. "An' ye tell me, Dick Tarleton, they find these sort o' nuts in Kaliforny lyin' right on the surface o' the groun'?" "Almost the same. They dig them out of the bed of a river, and then wash the mud off them. The thing's been just found out by a man named Captain Sutter while they were clearing out a mill-race. The fellow I got these from's come direct from there with his bullet-pouch chock full of them, besides several pounds weight of dust in a canvas bag. He was in New Orleans to get it changed into dollars; an' he did it, too, five thousand in all, picked up, he says, in a spell of three months' washing. He's going right back." "Burn me ef I oughten't to go too. Huntin' ain't much o' a bizness hyar any longer. Bar's gettin' pretty scace, an' deer's most run off altogither from the settlements springin' up too thick. Besides, these young planters an' the fellers from the towns air allers 'beout wi' thar blasted horns, scarin' everything out of creashun. Thar's a ruck o' them kine clost by hyar 'beout a hour ago, full tare arter a bar. Burn 'em! What hev they got to do wi' bar-huntin'--a parcel o' brats o' boys? Jess as much as this chile kin do' to keep his ole karkidge from starvin'; and thar's the gurl, too, growin' up, an' nothin' provided for her but this ole shanty, an' the patch o' gurden groun'. I'd pull up sticks and go wi' ye, only for one thing." "What is that, Rook?" "Wal, wal; I don't mind tellin' you, Dick. The gurl's good-lookin', an' thar's a rich young feller 'pears a bit sweet on her. I don't much like him myself; but he _air_ rich, or's boun' to be when the old 'un goes under. He's an only son, an' they've got one o' the slickest cotton plantations in all Arkansaw." "Ah, well; if you think he means marrying your girl, you had, perhaps, better stay where you are." "Marryin' her! Burn him, I'll take care o' thet. Poor as I am myself, an' as you know, Dick Tarleton, no better than I mout be, she hain't no knowin' beout that. My little gurl, Lena, air as innocent as a young doe. I'll take precious care nobody don't come the humbugging game over her. In coorse you're gwine to take your young 'un along wi' ye?" "Of course." "Wal, he'll be better out o' hyar, any how. Thar a wild lot, the young fellars 'beout these parts; an' I don't think over friendly wi' him. 'Tall events, _he_ don't sort wi' _them_. They twit him 'beout his Injun blood, and that sort o' thing." "Damn them! he's got _my_ blood." "True enuf, true enuf; an' ef they knew thet, it wudn't be like to git much favour for him. You dud well in makin' him grass under the name o' the mother. Ef the folks 'beout hyar only knowed he war the son o' Dick Tarleton--Dick Tarleton thet--" "Hush! shut up, Jerry Rook! Enough that you know it. I hope you never said a word of that to the boy. I trusted you." "An' ye trusted to a true man. Wi' all my back-slidin's I've been, true to you, Dick. The boy knows nothin' 'beout what you're been, nor me neyther. He air as innocent as my own gurl Lena, tho' of a diffrent natur altogither. Tho' he be three parts white, he's got the Injun in him as much as ef he'd been the colour o' copper. Le's see; it air now nigh on six year gone since ye seed him. Wal, he's wonderful growed up an' good-lookin'; and thar arn't anythin' 'beout these parts kud tackle on to him fur strenth. He kin back a squirrel wi' the pea-rifle, tho' thet won't count for much now ef ye're gwine to set him gatherin' these hyar donicks an' dusts. Arter all, thet may be the best for him. Huntin' ain't no account any more. I'd gi'e it up myself ef I ked get some eezier way o' keepin' my wants serplied." The man to whom these remarks were made did not give much attention to the last of them. A proud fire was in his eye as he listened to the eulogy passed upon the youth, who was his son by Marie Robideau, the half-breed daughter of a famous fur-trader. Perhaps, too, he was thinking of the youth's mother, long since dead. "He will soon be here?" he inquired, rousing himself from his reverie. "Oughter," was the reply. "Only went wi' my gurl to the store to git some fixin's. It air in Helena, 'beout three mile by the old trace. Oughter be back by this. I war expectin' 'em afore you kim in." "What's that?" asked Tarleton, as a huge bear-hound sprang from his recumbent position on the hearth, and ran growling to the door. "Them, I reck'n. But it moutn't be; thar's plenty o' other people abeout. Make safe, Dick, an' go in thar', into the gurl's room, till I rickaneitre." The guest was about to act upon the hint, when a light footstep outside, followed by the friendly whimpering of the hound, and the soft voice of her on whom the dog was fawning, caused him to keep his place. In another second, like a bright sunbeam, a young girl--Lena Rook-- stepped softly over the threshold. STORY ONE, CHAPTER SIX. A CRY OF DISTRESS. Lena Rook knew the father of Pierre, and curtsied as she came in. It was six years since she had seen him; but she still remembered the man who had stayed some days at her father's house, and left behind him a boy, who had afterwards proved such a pleasant playmate. "Whar's Pierre?" asked her father. "Didn't he kum back from Helena along wi' ye?" The guest simultaneously asked a similar question, for both had noticed a slight shadow on the countenance of the girl. "He did," answered she, "as far as the clearing in the cane-brake, just over the creek." "He stopped thar. What for?" "There was a party of hunters--boys." "Who mout they be?" "There was Alf Brandon, and Bill Buck, and young Master Randall, the judge's son, and there was Jeff Grubbs, the son of Mr Grubbs, that keeps the store, and Slaughter's son, and another boy I don't remember ever seeing before." "A preecious pack o' young scamp-graces, every mother's son o' 'em, 'ceptin the one you didn't know, an' he can't be much different, seein' the kumpany he air in. What war they a doin'?" "They had hounds and horses. They had killed a bear." "Killed a bar! Then that's the lot that went scurryin' up the crik, while ago. Durn 'em! they never killed the bar. The houn's dud it for 'em. Ye see how it air, Dick? Who the Etarnal ked make his bread out o' huntin' hyar, when sech green goslins as them goes screamin' through the woods wi' a hul pack o' houn's to drive the game hillward! How d'ye know, gurl, thet they killed a bar?" "I saw it lying on the ground, and the skin hanging to a tree." "Skinned it, too, did they?" "Yes. They had a fire, and they had been roasting and eating some of it. I think they had been drinking too. They looked as if they had, and I could smell whiskey about the place." "But what kept Pierre among 'em?" "They were trying who could hang longest to the branch of a tree. As Pierre was coming past, Alf Brandon stopped him, and challenged him to try too; then offered to make a bet--their rifles, I think--and Pierre consented, and I came away." "Pierre should have kum along wi' ye, an' left them to theirselves. I know Alf Brandon don't owe the boy any goodwill, nor Bill Buck neyther, nor any o' that hul lot. I reckon they must a riled him, and rousted his speerit a bit." As the old hunter said this, he stepped over the threshold of the door, and stood outside, as if looking out for the coming of Dick Tarleton's son. Seeing that he was listening, the other two, to avoid making a noise, conversed in a low tone. "I kin hear the houn's," remarked Rook, speaking back into the cabin. "Thar's a growl! Durn me, ef they hain't started suthin'. Thar they go, an' the curs yellin' arter 'em as ef hell war let loose. Wonder what it kin mean? Some varmint must a crawled right inter thar camp. Wal, Pierre ain't like to a gone along wi' 'em, seein' as he's got no hoss. I reck'n we'll soon see him hyar, an' maybe Alf Brandon's rifle along wi' him. Ef it's bin who kin hang longest to the branch of a tree, I'd back him agin the toughest-tailed possum in all these parts. Ef that be the tarms o' the wager, he'll git the gun." The old hunter returned chuckling into the cabin. Some conversation passed between him and his daughter, about getting dinner for their guest; and then, thinking that the expected Pierre was a long time in showing himself, he went out again, and stood listening as before. He had not been many moments in this attitude, when he was seen to start, and then listen more eagerly with an uneasy look. Tarleton, looking from the inside, saw this, and so too the girl. "What is it, Jerry?" inquired the former, moving hastily towards the door. "Durned if I know. I heerd a shriek as ef some'dy war in trouble. Yes, thar 'tis agin! By the Etarnal, it's Pierre's voice!" "It is father," said Lena, who had glided out, and stood listening by his side. "It is his voice; I could tell it anywhere. I fear they have been doing something. I'm sure those boys don't like him, and I know they were drinking." "No, Dick! don't you go. Some of them young fellurs might know you. I'll go myself, and Lena kin kum along wi' me. My gun, gurl! An' you may turn, too, ole Sneezer; you'd be more'n a match for the hul pack o' thar curs. I tell ye, you shan't go, Dick! Git inside the shanty, and stay thar till we kum back. Maybe, 'tain't much; some lark o' them young scamp-graces. Anyhow, this chile'll soon see it all straight. Now, Lena! arter yur ole dad." At the termination of this chapter of instructions, the hunter, long rifle in hand, hound and daughter close following upon his heels, strode off at the double-quick in the direction in which he had heard the cries. For some moments their guest stood outside the door, apparently unresolved as to whether he should stay behind or follow his host. But, a shadow passing over his face, showed that some sentiment--perhaps fear--stronger than affection for his son, was holding him in check; and, yielding to this, he turned, and stepped back into the shanty. A remarkable-looking man was this old acquaintance of Jerry Rook; as unlike the hunter as Hyperion to the Satyr. He was still under forty years of age, while Jerry had outlived the frosts of full sixty winters. But the difference between their ages was nothing compared with that existing in other respects. While Jerry, crooked in limb and corrugated in skin, was the beau ideal of an old borderer, with a spice of the pirate in him to boot, Richard Tarleton stood straight as a lance, and had been handsome as Apollo. Jerry, clad in his half-Indian costume of skin cap and buck-leather, looked like the wild woods around him, while his guest in white linen shirt and shining broadcloth, seemed better suited for the streets of that city from which his conversation showed him to have lately come. What strange chance has brought two such men together? And what stranger episode had kept them bound in a confidence neither seemed desirous of divulging? It must have been a dark deed on the side of Dick Tarleton--a strong fear that could hinder a father from rushing to the rescue of his son! STORY ONE, CHAPTER SEVEN. THE BODY TAKEN DOWN. The glade is silent as a graveyard, with a tableau in it far more terribly solemn than tombs. A fire smoulders unheeded in its centre, and near it the carcass of some huge creature, upon which the black vultures, soaring aloft, have fixed their eager eyes. And they glance too at something upon the trees. There is a broad black skin suspended over a branch; but there is more upon another branch-- there is a _man_! But for the motions lately made by him the birds would ere this have descended to their banquet. They may come down now. He makes no more motions, utters no cry to keep them in the air affrighted. He hangs still, silent, apparently dead. Even the scream of a young girl rushing out from the underwood does not stir him, nor yet the shout of an old man sent forth under like excitement. Not any more when they are close to the spot with arms almost touching him--arms upraised and voices loud in lamentation. "It is Pierre! Oh, father, they have hanged him! Dead--he is dead!" "Hush gurl! Maybe not," cries the old man, taking hold of the loose limbs and easing the strain of the rope. "Quick! come under here, catch hold as you see me, an' bear up wi' all your strength. I must git my knife out and spring up'ard to git at the durned rope. Thet's it. Steady, now." The young girl has glided forward, and, as directed, taken hold of the hanging limbs. It is a terrible task--a trying, terrible task even for a backwoods maiden. But she is equal to it; and bending to it with all her strength, she holds up what she believes to be the dead body of her playmate and companion. Her young heart is almost bursting with agony as she feels that in the limbs embraced there is no motion--not even a tremor. "Hold on hard," urges her father. "Thet's a stout gurl. I won't be a minnit." While giving this admonition, he is hurrying to get hold of his knife. It is out, and with a spring upward, as if youth had returned to his sinews, the old hunter succeeds in reaching the rope. It is severed with a "snig!" and the body, bearing the girl along with it, drops to the ground. The noose is instantly slackened and switched off; the old hunter with both hands embraces the throat, pressing the windpipe back into it; then, placing his ear close to the chest, listens. With eyes set in agonised suspense, and ears also; Lena listens, too, to hear what her father may say. "Oh! father, do you think he is dead? Tell me he still lives." "Not much sign o' it. Heigh! I thort I seed a tremble. You run to the shanty. Thar's some corn whisky in the cubberd. It's in the stone bottle. Bring it hyar. Go, gurl, an' run as fast as your legs kin carry ye!" The girl springs to her feet, and is about starting off. "Stay, stay! It won't do to let Dick know; this'll drive _him_ mad. Durn me, if I know what ter do. Arter all he may as well be told on't. He must find it out, sooner or later. That must be, an' dog-gone it 'twon't do to lose time. Ye may go. No, stay! No, go--go! an' fetch the bottle; ye needn't tell him what it's for. But he'll know thars suthin' wrong. He'll be sure to know. He'll come back along wi' ye. That's equilly sartin. Well, let him. Maybe thet's the best. Yes, fetch him back wi' ye. Thar's no danger o' them chaps--showin' here arter this, I reck'n. Hurry him along but don't forget the bottle. Now, gurl, quick as lightnin', quick!" If not quite so quick as lightning, yet fast as her feet can carry her, the young girl starts along the trace leading to the shanty. She is not thinking of the sad tidings she bears to him who hides in her father's cabin. Her own sorrow is sufficient for the time, and stifles every other thought in her heart. The old hunter does not stand idly watching her. He is busy with the body, doing what he can to restore life. He feels that it is warm. He fancies it is still breathing. "Now, how it came abeout?" he asked himself, scanning the corpse for an explanation. "Tied one o' his hands an' not the tother! Thar's a puzzle. What can it mean? "They must a meant hangin' anyhow, poor young fellar! They've dud it sure. For what? What ked he hev done, to hev engered them? Won the rifle for one thing, an' thet they've tuk away. "The hul thing hez been a trick; a durned, infernal, hellniferous trick o' some sort. "Maybe they only meant it for a joke. Maybe they only intended scarin' him; an' jess then that varmint kim along, an' sot the houn's on to it, an' them arter, an' they sneaked off 'thout thinkin' o' him? Wonder ef that was the way. "Ef it warn't, what ked a purvoked them to this drefful deed? Durn me ef I kin think o' a reezun. "Wal, joke or no joke, it hev ended in a tregidy--a krewel tregidy. Poor young fellar! "An' dog-gone my cats! ef I don't make 'em pay for it, every mother's chick o' 'em. Yes, Mr Alf Brandon, an' you, Master Randall, an' you, Bill Buck, an' all an' every one o' ye. "Ya! I've got a idea; a durned splendifirous idea! By the Etarnal, I kin make a good thing out o' this. Well thought o', Jeremiah Rooke; ye've hed a hard life o't lately; but ye'll be a fool ef ye don't live eezier for the future, a darned greenhorn o' a saphead! Oh, oh! ye young bloods an' busters! I'll make ye pay for this job in a way ye ain't thinkin' o', cussed ef I don't. "What's fust to be done? He musn't lie hyar. Somebody mout kum along, an' that 'ud spoil all. Ef 'twar only meent as a joke they mout kum to see the end o't. I heerd shots. That must a been the finish o' the anymal. 'Tain't likely they'll kum back, but they may; an' ef so, they musn't see this. I'll tell them I carried the corp away and berried it. They won't care to inquire too close 'beout it. "An' Dick won't object. I won't let him object. What good would it do him? an' t'other 'll do me good, a power o' good. Keep me for the balance o' my days. Let Dick go a gold gatherin' his own way, I'll go mine. "Thar ain't any time to lose. I must toat him to the shanty; load enough for my old limbs. But I'll meet them a comin', an' Dick an' the gurl kin help me. Now, then, my poor Pierre, you come along wi' me." This strange soliloquy does not occupy much time. It is spoken _sotto-voce_, while the speaker is still engaged in an effort to resuscitate life; nor is he yet certain that Pierre Robideau is dead, while raising his body from the ground and bearing it out of the glade. Staggering under the load, for the youth is of no light weight, he re-enters the trace conducting to his own domicile. The old bear-hound slinks after with a large piece of flesh between his teeth, torn from the carcase of the butchered bear. The vultures, no longer scared by man's presence, living or dead, drop down upon the earth, and strut boldly up to their banquet. STORY ONE, CHAPTER EIGHT. THE OATH OF SECRECY. While the black buzzards are quarrelling over the carcase, not far off there is another carcase stretched upon the sward, also of a bear. But the grouping around it is different; six hunters on horseback and double the number of dogs. They are the boy hunters late bivouacking in the glade, and the bear is the same that had strayed unwittingly into their camp. The animal has just succumbed under the trenchant teeth of their dogs, and a bullet or two from their rifles. Nor have the hounds come off unscathed. Two or three of them, the young and rash, lie dead beside the quarry they assisted in dragging down. The hunters have just ridden up and halted over the black, bleeding mass. The chase, short and hurried, is at an end, and now for the first time since leaving the glade do they seem to have stayed for reflection. That which strikes them is, or should be, fearful. "My God!" cries young Randall, "the Indian! We've left him hanging." "We have, by the Lord!" seconds Spence, all six turning pale, and exchanging glances of consternation. "If he have let go his hold--" "If! He must have let go; and long before this. It's full twenty minutes since we left the glade. It isn't possible for him to have hung on so long--not possible." "And if he's let go?" "If he has done that, why, then, he's dead." "But are you sure the noose would close upon his neck? You, Bill Buck, and Alf Brandon, it was you two that arranged it." "Bah!" rejoins Buck; "you seed that same as we. It's bound to tighten when he drops. Of course we didn't mean that; and who'd a thought o' a bar runnin' straight into us in that way? Darn it, if the nigger has dropped, he's dead by this time, and there's an end of it. There's no help for it now." "What's to be done, boys?" asks Grubbs. "There'll be an ugly account to settle, I reckon." There is no answer to this question or remark. In the faces of all there is an expression of strange significance. It is less repentance for the act than fear for the consequences. Some of the younger and less reckless of the party show some slight signs of sorrow, but among all fear is the predominant feeling. "What's to be done, boys?" again asks Grubbs. "We must do something. It won't do to leave things as they are." "Hadn't we better ride back?" suggests Spence. "Thar's no use goin' now," answers the son of the horse-dealer. "That is, for the savin' of him. If nobody else has been thar since we left, why then the nigger's dead--dead as pale Caesar." "Do you think any one might have come along in time to save him?" This question is asked with an eagerness in which all are sharers. They would be rejoiced to think it could be answered in the affirmative. "There might," replies Randall, catching at the slight straw of hope. "The trace runs through the glade, right past the spot. A good many people go that way. Some one might have come along in time. At all events, we should go back and see. It can't make things any worse." "Yes; we had better go back," assents the son of the planter; and then to strengthen the purpose, "we'd better go for _another purpose_." "What, Alf?" ask several. "That's easily answered. If the Indian's hung himself, we can't help it." "You'll make it appear suicide? You forget that we tied his left arm. It would never look like it. He couldn't have done that himself!" "I don't mean that," continues Brandon. "What, then?" "If he's hanged, he's hanged and dead before this. We didn't hang him, or didn't intend it. That's clear." "I don't think the law can touch us," suggests the son of the judge. "But it may give us _trouble_, and that must be avoided." "How do you propose to do, Alf?" "It's an old story that dead men tell no tales, and buried ones less." "Thar's a good grist o' truth in that," interpolates Buck. "The suicide wouldn't stand. Not likely to. The cord might be cut away from the wrist; but then there's Rook's daughter. She saw him stop with us, and to find him swinging by the neck only half-an-hour after would be but poor proof of his having committed self-murder. No, boys, he must be put clean out of sight." "That's right; that's the only safe way," cried all the others. "Come on, then. We musn't lose a minute about it. The girl may come back to see what's keeping him, or old Rook, himself, may be straying that way, or somebody else travelling along the trace. Come on." "Stay," exclaimed Randall. "There's something yet--something that should be done before any chance separates us." "What is it?" "We're all alike in this ugly business--in the same boat. It don't matter who contrived it, or who fixed the rope. We all agreed to it. Is that not so?" "Yes, all. I for one acknowledge it." "And I!" "And I!" All six give their assent, showing at least loyalty to one another. "Well, then," continues Randall, "we must be true to each other. We must swear it, and now, before going further. I propose we all take an oath." "We'll do that. You, Randall, you repeat it over, and we'll follow you." "Head your horses round, then, face to face." The horses are drawn into a circle, their heads together, with muzzles almost touching. Randall proceeds, the rest repeating after him. "We swear, each and every one of us, never to make known by act, word, or deed, the way in which the half-breed Indian, called Choc, came by his death, and we mutually promise never to divulge the circumstances connected with that affair, even if called upon in a court of law; and, finally, we swear to be true to each other in keeping this promise until death." "Now," says Brandon, as soon as the six young scoundrels have shaken hands over their abominable compact, "let us on, and put the Indian out of sight. I know a pool close by, deep enough to drown him. If he do get discovered, that will look better than hanging." There is no reply to this astute proposal; and though it helps to allay their apprehensions, they advance in solemn silence towards the scene of their deserted bivouac. There is not one of them who does not dread to go back in that glade, so lately gay with their rude roystering; not one who would not give the horse he is riding and the gun he carries in his hand, never to have entered it. But the dark deed has been done, and another must needs be accomplished to conceal it. STORY ONE, CHAPTER NINE. A COMPULSORY COMPACT. Heavy with apprehension, rather than remorse for their crime, the six hunters ride on towards the clearing. They avoid the travelled track, lest they may meet some one upon it, and approach through the thick timber. Guiding their horses, so as to make the least noise, and keeping the hounds in check, they advance slowly and with caution. Some of the less courageous are reluctant to proceed, fearing the spectacle that is before them. Even the loud-talking Slaughter would gladly give up the newly-conceived design, but for the manifest danger of leaving it undone. Near the edge of the opening, still screened from their view by the interposing trunks and cane-culms, they again halt, and hold council-- this time speaking in whispers. "We should not all go forward," suggests the son of the tavern-keeper. "Better only one or two at first, to see how the land lies." "That would be better," chimes in Spence. "Who'll go, then?" Buck and Brandon are pointed out by the eyes of the others resting upon them. These two have been leaders throughout the whole affair. Without showing poltroon, they cannot hang back now. They volunteer for the duty, but not without show of reluctance. It is anything but agreeable. "Let's leave our horses. We'll be better without them. If there's any one on the ground, we can steal back without being seen." It is the young planter's proposition, and Buck consents to it. They slip out of their saddles, pass the bridles to two of those who stay behind, and then, like a couple of cougars stealing upon the unsuspicious fawn, silently make their way through the underwood. The clearing is soon under their eyes, with all it contains. There is the carcase of the bear, black with buzzards, and the skin still hanging from the tree. But the object of horror they expected to see hanging upon another tree is not there. That sight is spared them. There is no body on the branch, no corpse underneath it. Living or dead, the Indian is gone. His absence is far from re-assuring them; the more so as, on scanning the branch, they perceive, still suspended from it, a piece of the rope they had so adroitly set to ensnare him. Even across the glade they can see that it has been severed with the clean cut of a knife, instead of, as they could have wished, given way under its weight. Who could have cut the rope? Himself? Impossible! Where was the hand to have done it? He had none to spare for such a purpose. Happy for them to have thought that he had. They skulk around the glade to get nearer, still going by stealth, and in silence. The buzzards perceive them, and though dull birds, reluctant to leave their foul feast, they fly up with a fright. Something in the air of the two stalkers seemed to startle them, as if they too knew them to have been guilty of a crime. "Yes, the rope's been cut, that's sartin," says Buck, us they stand under it. "A clean wheep o' a knife blade. Who the divvel cud a done it?" "I can't think," answers the young planter, reflecting. "As like as not old Jerry Rook, or it might have been a stray traveller." "Whoever it was, I hope the cuss came in time; if not--" "If not, we're in for it. Bless'd if I wouldn't liked it better to've found him hanging; there might have been some chance of hiding him out of the way. But now, if he's been dropped upon dead, we're done for. Whoever found him will know all about it. Lena Rook knew we were here, and her sweet lips can't be shut, I suppose. If't had been only Rook himself, the old scoundrel, there might have been a chance. Money would go a long ways with him; and I'm prepared--so would we all be--to buy his silence." "Lucky you riddy for that, Mister Alfred Brandon. That's jest what Rook, `the old scoundrel,' wants, and jess the very thing he means to insist upon hevin'. Now name your price." If a dead body had dropped down from the branch above them it could not have startled the two culprits more than did the living form of Jerry Rook, as it came gliding out of the thick cane close by the stem of the tree. "You, Jerry Rook!" exclaim both together, and in a tone that came trembling through their teeth. "You here?" "I'm hyar, gentlemen; an' jess in time, seeing as ye wanted me. Now, name yur price; or, shall I fix it for ye? 'Tain't no use 'fectin' innercence o' what I mean; ye both know cleer enuf, an' so do this chile, all 'beout it. Ye've hanged young Pierre Robideau, as lived with me at my shanty." "We did not." "Ye did; hanged him by the neck till he war dead, as the judges say. I kim hyar by chance, an' cut him down; but not till 'twar too late." "Is that true, Rook? Are you speaking the truth? Did you find him dead?" "Dead as a buck arter gittin' a bullet from Jerry Rook's rifle. If ye don't b'lieve it, maybe you'd step down to my shanty, and see him streeched out." "No, no. But we didn't do it; we didn't intend it, by Heaven!" "No swarin', young fellars. I don't care what your intentions war; ye've done the deed. I seed how it war, and all abeout it; ye hung him up for sport--pretty sport that war--an' ye rud off, forgitting all abeout him. Yur sport hev been his death." "My God! we are sorry to hear it. We had no thought of such a thing. A bear came along, and set the hounds up." "Oh, a bar, war it? I thort so. An' ye tuk arter the bar, and let the poor young fellar swing?" "It is true; we can't deny it. We had no intention of what has happened; we thought only of the bear." "Wal, now, ye'll have to think o' something else. What d'ye intend doin'?" "It's a terrible ugly affair. We're very sorry." "No doubt ye air, an' ye'd be a precious sight sorrier of the young fellar had any kinfolk to look arter it, and call ye to account. As it be, there ain't nobody but me--and he warn't no kin o' mine--only a stayin' wi' me, that may make it easier for you." "But, what have you done with--the--the body?" Brandon asks the question hesitatingly, and thinking of Rook's daughter. "The body? Wal, I've carried it to the shanty, an' put it out o' sight. I didn't want the hul country to be on fire till I'd fust seed ye. As yet, thar ain't nobody the wiser." "And--" "An' what?" "Your daughter." "Oh! my darter don't count. She air a 'bedient gurl, and ain't gwine to blabbin' while I put the stopper on her tongue. Don't ye be skeeart 'beout thet." "Jerry Rook!" says Brandon, recovering confidence from the old hunter's hints, "it's no use being basket-faced over this business. We've got into a scrape, and and we know it. You know it, too. We had no intention to commit a crime; it was all a lark; but since it's turned out ugly, we must make the best we can of it. You're the only one who can make it disagreeable for us, and you won't. I know you won't. We're willing to behave handsomely if you act otherwise. You can say this young fellow has gone away--down to Orleans, or anywhere else. I've heard you once say he was not to be with you much longer. That will explain to your neighbours why he is missing. To be plain, then, what is the price of such an explanation?" "Durn me, Alf Brandon, ef you oughtn't to be a lawyer, or something o' thet sort. You hit it so adzactly. Wal; let's see! I risk someat by keepin' your secret--a good someat. I'll stand a chance o' bein' tuk up for aidin' an' abettin'. Wal; let's see! Thar war six o' ye. My girl tolt me so, an' I kin see it by the tracks o' your critters. Whar's the other four?" "Not far off." "Wal; ye'd better bring 'em all up hyar. I s'pose they're all's deep in the mud as you in the mire. Besides, it air too important a peint to be settled by depity. I'd like all o' yur lot to be on the groun' an' jedge for theerselves." "Agreed; they shall come. Bring them up, Bill." Bill does as directed, and the six young hunters are once more assembled in the glade; but with very different feelings from those stirring them when there before. Bill has told them all, even to the proposal made by Rook; and they sit upon their horses downcast, ready to consent to his terms. "Six o' ye," says the hunter, apparently calculating the price of the silence to be imposed on him; "all o' ye sons o' rich men, and all able to pay me a hundred dollars a-year for the term o' my nateral life. Six hundred dollars. 'Tain't much to talk abeout; jess keep my old carcase from starvin'. Huntin's gone to the dogs 'bout hyar, an' you fellars hev hed somethin' to do in sendin' it thar. So on that account o' itself ye oughter be only too happy in purvidin' for one whose business ye've speiled. It air only by way o' a penshun. Hundred dollars apiece, and that reg'larly paid _pre-annum_. Ye all know what 'tis for. Do ye consent?" "I do." "And I." "And I." And so signify the six. "Wal, then, ye may go hum; ye'll hear no more 'beout this bizness from me, 'ceptin' any o' ye shed be sech a dod-rotted fool as ter fall behind wi' yur payments. Ef ye do, by the Eturnal--" "You needn't, Jerry Rook," interposes Brandon, to avoid hearing the threat; "you may depend upon us. I shall myself be responsible for all." "Enuf sed. Abeout this bar skin hanging on the tree. I 'spose ye don't want to take that wi' ye? I may take' it, may I, by way o' earnest to the bargain?" No one opposes the request. The old hunter is made welcome to the spoils of the chase, both those on the spot and in the forest further off. They who obtained them are but too glad to surrender every souvenir that may remind them of that ill-spent day. Slow, and with bitter thoughts, they ride off, each to return to his own home, leaving Jerry Rook alone to chuckle over the accursed compact. And this does he to his satisfaction. "Now!" cries he, sweeping the bear's skin from the branch, and striding off along the trace; "now to make things squar wi' Dick Tarleton. Ef I ken do thet, I'll sot this day down in the kullinder as bein' the luckiest o' my life." The sound of human voices has ceased in the glade. There is heard only the "whish" of wings as the buzzards return to their interrupted repast. STORY ONE, CHAPTER TEN. VOWS OF VENGEANCE. The sun is down, and there is deep darkness over the firmament; deeper under the shadows of the forest. But for the gleam of the lightning bugs, the forms of two men standing under the trees could scarce be distinguished. By such fickle light it is impossible to read their features, but by their voices may they be recognised, engaged as they are in an earnest conversation. They are Jerry Rook and Dick Tarleton. The scene is on the bank of the sluggish stream or _bayou_, that runs past the dwelling of the hunter, and not twenty yards from the shanty itself. Out of this they have just stepped apparently for the purpose of carrying on their conversation beyond earshot of any one. The faint light burning within the cabin, that part of it that serves as sitting-room and kitchen, is from the fire. But there is no one there; no living thing save the hound slumbering upon the hearth. A still duller light from a dip candle shows through the slits of a shut door, communicating with an inner apartment. One gazing in might see the silhouette of a young girl seated by the side of a low bedstead, on which lies stretched the form of a youth apparently asleep. At all events, he stirs not, and the girl regards him in silence. There is just enough light to show that her looks are full of anxiety or sadness, but not sufficient to reveal which of the two, or whether both. The two men outside have stopped by the stem of a large cottonwood, and are but continuing a dialogue commenced by the kitchen fire, that had been kindled but for the cooking of the evening meal, now eaten. It is still warm autumn weather, and the bears have not begun to hybernate. "I tell ye, Dick," says the old hunter, whose turn it is to speak, "for you to talk o' revenge an' that sort o' thing air the darndest kind o' nonsense. Take it afore the coort ideed! What good 'ud thet do ye? They'd be the coort, an' the jedges; that is, thar fathers wud, an' ye'd stan' as much chance o' gettin' jestice out o' 'em as ye wud o' lightin' yur pipe at one o' them thar fire-bugs. They've got the money an' the inflooence, an' thar's no law in these parts, 'ithout one or the t'other." "I know it--I know it," says Tarleton, with bitter emphasis. "I reckin ye've reezun to know it, Dick, now you haven't the money to spare for sech purposes, an', therefore, on thet score 'ud stan' no chance. Besides thar's the old charge agin ye, and ye dasent appear to parsecute. It's the same men ye see, or the sons o' the same--" "Curse them! The very same. Buck, Brandon, Randall--every one of them. Oh, God! There is destiny in it! 'Twas their fathers who ruined me, blighted my whole life, and now the sons to have done this. Strange-- fearfully strange!" "Wal, it air kewrious, I admit, an' do look as ef the devvil hed a hand in't. But he's playin' agen ye, Dick, yet, an' he'd beat ye sure, ef ye try to fout agin him. Take the device I've gin ye, an' git out o' his and thar way as fur's ye kin. Kaliforny's a good way off. Go thar as ye intended. Git rich if ye kin, an' ye think ye hev a chance. Do that, and then kum back hyar ef ye like. When yur pockets are well filled wi' them thar shinin' pebbles, ye kin command the law as ye like, and hev as much o' it as ye've a mind to." "I shall have it for my own wrongs, or for his." "Wal, I reck'n you hev reezun both ways. They used _you_ durn'd ill. Thar's no doubt o' that. Still, Dick, ye must acknowledge that appearances war dreadfully agin' ye." "Against me--perdition! From the way you say that, Jerry Rook, I might fancy that you too believed it. If I thought you did--" "But I didn't, an' don't, ne'er a bit o' it, Dick. I know you war innercent o' _thet_. "Jerry Rook, I have sworn to you, and swear it again, that I am as innocent of that girl's murder as if I had never seen her. I acknowledge that she used to meet me in the woods, and on the spot where she was found with a bullet through her heart, and my own pistol lying empty beside her. The pistol was stolen from my house by him who did the deed. It was one of the two men; which, I could never tell. It was either Buck or Brandon, the fathers of those fellows who have been figuring to-day. Like father, like son! Both were mad after the girl, and jealous of me. They knew I had outshined them, and that was no doubt their reason for destroying her. One or other did it, and if I'd known which, I'd have sent him after her long ago. I didn't wish to kill the wrong man, and to say the truth, the girl was nothing to me. But after what's happened to-day, I'll have satisfaction on them and their sons too--ay, every one who has had a hand in this day's work!" "Wal, wal; but let it stan' over till ye kum back from Kaliforny. I tell, ye, Dick, ye kin do nuthin' now, 'ceptin' to git yur neck into a runnin' rope. The old lot are as bitter agin you now as they war that day when they had ye stannin' under a branch, wi' the noose half tightened round your thrapple; and ef ye hadn't got out o' thar clutches, why, then thar'd a been an end o't. Ef you war to show here agin, it wud be jest the same thing, an' no chance o' yur escapin' a second time. Therefar, go to Kaliforny. Gather as many o' them donicks, an' as much o' the dust as ye kin lay yur claws on. Kum back, an' maybe then I mout do someat ter 'sist ye to the satisfacshin ye speak o'." Tarleton stands silent, seeming to reflect. Strange that in all he has said, there is no tone of sorrow--only anger. The grief he should feel for his lost son--where is it? Has it passed away so soon? Or is it only kept under by the keener agony of revenge? With some impatience, his counsellor continues:-- "I've gin you good reezuns for goin', an' if you don't take my device, Dick, you'll do a durned foolish thing. Cut for Kaliforny, an' get gold--gold fust, an' let the revenge kum arter." "No," answers Tarleton, with an emphasis telling of fixed determination. "The reverse, Jerry Rook, the reverse. For me, the revenge first, and then California! I'm determined to have satisfaction; and, if the law won't give it--" "It won't, Dick, it won't." "Then, this will." There is just light enough from the fire-flies to show Jerry Rook the white ivory handle of a large knife, of the sort quaintly called Arkansas tooth-pick, held up for a moment in Tarleton's hand. But there is not enough to show Tarleton the dark cloud of disappointment passing over the face of the old hunter, as he perceives by that exhibition that his counsel had been spoken to no purpose. "And now," said the guest, straightening himself up as if about to make his departure, "I've business that takes me to Helena. I expect to meet that fellow I've been telling you of who gave me the gold. He's to come there by an up-river boat, and should be there now. As you know, I've to do my travelling between two days. You may expect me back before sunrise. I hope you won't be disturbed by my early coming?" "Come an' go when you like, Dick. Thar ain't much saramony 'beout my shanty. All hours air the same to me." Tarleton buttons up his coat, in the breast of which is concealed the before-mentioned tooth-pick, and, without saying another word, strikes off for the road leading towards the river and the town of Helena. It is but little better than a bridle trace; and he is soon lost to sight under the shadows of its overhanging trees. Jerry Rook keeps his place, standing close to the trunk of the cottonwood. When his guest has gone beyond reach of hearing, an exclamation escapes through his half-shut teeth, expressive of bitter chagrin. STORY ONE, CHAPTER ELEVEN. DICK TARLETON. In the conversation recorded Dick Tarleton has thrown some light on his own history. Not much more is needed to elucidate the statement made by him--that he must do his travelling _between two days_. He has admitted almost enough to serve the purposes of our tale which refers only to him, though a few more words, to fill up the sketch, may not be out of place. Richard Tarleton was, in early life, one of those wild spirits by no means uncommon along the frontier line of civilisation. By birth and breeding a gentleman; idleness, combined with evil inclinations had led him into evil ways, and these, in their turn, had brought him to beggary. Too proud to beg, and too lazy to enter upon any industrious calling, he had sought to earn his living by cards and other courses equally disreputable. Vicksburg and other towns along the Lower Mississippi furnished him with many victims, till, at length, he made a final settlement in the state of Arkansas, at that time only a territory, and, as such, the safest refuge for all characters of a similar kind. The town of Helena became his head-quarters. In this grand emporium of scamps and speculators there was nothing in Dick Tarleton's profession to make him conspicuous. Had he confined himself to card-playing, he might have passed muster among the most respectable citizens of the place or its proximity, many of whom, like himself, were professed "sportsmen." But, Dick was not long in Helena until he began to be suspected of certain specialities of sport, among others, that of _nigger-running_. Long absences unaccounted for, strange company in which he was seen in strange places--both the company and the places already suspected--with, at times, a plentiful supply of money drawn from unknown sources, at length fixed upon Dick Tarleton a stigma of a still darker kind than that of card-playing or even sharping. It became the belief that he was a _negro-stealer_, a crime unpardonable in all parts of planter-land--Arkansas not excepted. Along with this belief, every other stigma that might become connected with his name was deemed credible, and no one would have doubted Dick Tarleton's capability of committing whatever atrocity might be charged to him. Bad as he was, he was not so bad as represented and believed. A professed "sportsman," of wild and reckless habits, he knew no limits to dissipation and common indulgence. Immoral to an extreme degree, it was never proved that he was guilty of those dark crimes with which he stood charged or suspected; and the suspicions, when probed to the bottom, were generally found to be baseless. There were few, however, who took this trouble, for from the first Dick Tarleton was far from being a favourite among the fellows who surrounded him. He was of haughty habits, presuming on the superiority of birth and education, and--something still less easily tolerated--a handsome personal appearance. One of the finest looking men to be seen among the settlements, he was, it need hardly be said, popular among the fair sex--such of them as might be expected to turn their eyes upon a _sportsman_. One of this class--a young girl of exceeding attraction, but, alas! with tarnished reputation--was at the time an inhabitant of Helena. Among her admirers, secret and open, were many young men of the place and of the adjacent plantations. She could count a long list of conquests, numbering names far above her own rank and station in life. Among those were Planter Brandon, the lawyer Randall, and, of lesser note, the horse-dealer, Buck. None of these, however, appeared to have been successful in obtaining her smiles, which, according to general belief, were showered on the dissolute but handsome Dick Tarleton. However it might have gratified the gambler's vanity, it did not add to his popularity. On the contrary, it increased the spite felt for him, and caused the dark suspicions to be oftener repeated. Such were the circumstances preceding a terrible tragedy that one day startled Helena out of its ordinary tranquillity. The young girl in question was found in the woods, at no great distance from the town, in the condition already stated by Dick Tarleton, murdered, and Dick himself was charged with being the murderer. He was at once arrested and arraigned, not before a regular court of justice, but one constituted under a tree, and under the presidency of Judge Lynch. It was done in all haste, both the arrest and the trial, and equally quick was the condemnation. The case was so clear. His pistol, the very weapon that had sent the fatal bullet, in the hurry and confusion of escape, was let fall upon the ground close by the side of the victim. His relation with the unfortunate girl--some speech he had been heard boastingly to utter--a suspected disagreement arising from it--all pointed to Dick Tarleton as the assassin; and by a unanimous verdict of his excited judges, prompted by extreme vindictiveness, he was sentenced to hanging upon a tree. In five minutes more he would have been consigned to this improvised gallows, but for the negligence of his executioners. In their blind fury they had but slightly fastened his hands, while they had forgotten to strip him of his coat. In the pocket of this there chanced to be another pistol--the fellow of that found. Its owner remembered it, and, in the hour of his despair, determined upon an attempt to escape. Wresting his wrists free from their fastening, he drew the pistol, discharged it in the face of the man who stood most in his way, and then clearing a track, sprang off into the woods! The sudden surprise, the dismay caused by the death of the man shot at-- for he fell dead in his track--held the others for some time as if spell-bound. When the pursuit commenced Dick Tarleton was out of sight, and neither Judge Lynch nor his jury ever set eyes upon him again. The woods were scoured all round, and the roads travelled for days by parties sent in search of him. But all returned without reporting Dick Tarleton, or any traces of him. It was thought that some one must have assisted him in his escape, and suspicion was directed upon a hunter named Rook, who squatted near White River--the Jerry Rook of our tale. But no proof could be obtained of this, and the hunter was left unmolested, though with some additional stain on a character before not reputed very clean. Such is a brief sketch of the life of Richard Tarleton--that portion of it spent on the north-eastern corner of Arkansas. No wonder, with such a record, he felt constrained to do his travelling by night. Since that fearful episode, now a long time ago, he had not appeared at Helena or the settlements around--at least not to the eyes of those who would care to betray him. Gone to Texas was the general belief--Texas or some other lawless land, where such crimes are easily condoned. So spoke the "Puritans" of Arkansas, blind to their own especial blemish. Even Jerry Rook knew not the whereabouts of his old acquaintance, until some six years before, when he had come to his cabin under the shadows of the night, bringing with him a boy whom he hinted at as being his son, the youth who had that day afforded such fatal sport for his atrocious tormentors. The link between the two men could not have been strong, for the hunter, in taking charge of the boy had stipulated for his "keep," and once or twice, during the long absence of his father, had shown a disposition to turn him out of doors. Still more so of late; and doubly more when Lena showed signs of interference in his favour. Ever, while regarding his daughter, he seemed to dread the presence of Pierre Robideau, as if the youth stood between him and some favourite scheme he had formed for her future. There need be nothing to fear now--surely not; if Dick Tarleton would but discharge the debt. Ah! to suppose this would be to make the grandest of mistakes. The brain of Jerry Rook was at that moment busy revolving more schemes than one. But there was one, grand as it was, dire and deadly. Let our next chapter reveal it. STORY ONE, CHAPTER TWELVE. A TRAITOR'S EPISTLE. As already chronicled, Dick Tarleton has started along the forest path, leaving Jerry Rook under the cottonwood tree. For some time he remains there, motionless as the trunk beside him. The exclamation of chagrin that escaped him, as the other passed beyond earshot, is followed by words of a more definite shape and meaning. It was Dick Tarleton who drew from him the former. It is to him the latter are addressed, though without the intention of their being heard. "Ye durned fool! ye'd speil my plan, wud ye? An' I 'spose all the same if I war to tell ye o't? But I ain't gwine to do that, nor to hev it speiled neyther by sich a obs'nate eedyut as you. Six hundred dollars pre annul air too much o' a good pull to be let go agin slack as that. An' doggoned if I do let it go, cost what it may to keep holt o't. Yes, _cost what it may_!" The phrase repeated with increased emphasis, along with a sudden change in the attitude of the speaker, shows some sinister determination. "Dick," he continued, forsaking the apostrophic form, "air a fool in this bizness; a dod-rotted, pursumptuous saphead. _He_ git satisfakshun out o' that lot, eyther by the law or otherways! They'd swing him up as soon as seed; an' he'd be seed afore he ked harm 'ere a one o' them. Then tha don't go 'beout 'ithout toatin' thar knives and pistols 'long wi' them, any more'n he. An' they'll be jest as riddy to use 'em. Ef't kim to thet, what then? In coorse the hole thing 'ud leak out, an' whar'd this chile be 'beout his six hundred dollars?" Durn Dick Tarleton! Jest for the sake o' a silly revenge he'd be a speiln' all, leavin' me as I've been all my life, poor as he's turkey gobbler. "It must be preevented, it must! "How air the thing to be done? Le's see. "Thar's one way I knows o', that appear to be eezy enuf. "Dick has goed to the town, an's boun' to kum back agin _from_ the town. That's no reeson why he shed kum back hyar. Thar's nobody to miss him! The gurl won't know he ain't gone for good. He's boun' to kum back afore mornin', an' afore thar's sunlight showin' among the trees. He'll be sartin' to kum along the trace, knowing thar's not much danger o' meetin' anybody, or bein' reco'nised in the dark. Why shedn't I meet him?" With this interrogatory, a fiendish expression, though unseen by human eye, passes over the face of the old hunter. A fiendish thought has sprung up in his heart. "Why shedn't I?" he pursues, reiterating the reflection. "What air Dick Tarleton to me? I haint no particklar spite agin him, thet is ef he'll do what I've devised him to do. But ef he won't, ef he won't-- "An' he won't. He's sed so, he's swore it. "What, then! Am I to lose six hundred dollars pre-annum, jess for the satisfakshun o' his spite? Durned ef I do, cost what it may. "The thing'd be as eezy es tumbling off o' a log. A half-an-hour's squatting among the bushes beside that ere gleed, the pull in' o' a trigger, an' it air done. That mout be a leetle bit o' haulin' an' hidin', but I kin eezy do the fust, and the Crik 'll do the last. I know a pool close by, thet's just the very place for sech a kinceelmint. "Who'd iver sispect? Thar's nobody to know; neery soul but myself, an' I reck'n that ere secret 'ud be safe enuf in this coon's keepin'." For some time the old hunter stands silent, as if further reflecting on the dark scheme, and calculating the chances of success or discovery. All at once an exclamation escapes him that betokens a change of mind. Not that he has repented of his hellish design, only that some other plan promises better for its execution. "Jerry Rook, Jerry Rook!" he mutters in apostrophe to himself, "what the stewpid hae ye been thinking o'. Ye've never yit spilt hewmin blood, an' mustn't begin thet game now. It mout lie like a log upon yur soul, and besides, it's jest possible that somebody mout get to hear o't. The crack o' a rifle air a sespishous soun' at any time, but more espeeshully i' the dead o' night, if thar should chance to be the howl of a wounded man comin' arter it. Sposin he, that air Dick, warn't shot dead at fust go. Durned ef I'd like to foller it up; neery bit o't. As things stan' thar need be no sech chances, eyther o' fearin' or failin'. A word to Planter Brandon 'll be as good as six shots out o' the surest rifle. It's only to let him know Dick Tarleton's hyar, an' a direckshun beouts whar he kin be foun'. He'll soon summons the other to 'sist him in thet same bizness they left unfinished, now, God knows how miny yeer ago. They'll make short work wi' him. No danger ov thar givin' him time to palaver beout _thet_ or anythin' else, I reckin; an' no danger to _me_. A hint'll be enuf, 'ithout my appearin' among 'em. The very plan, by the Etarnal!" "How's best for the hint ter be konvayed to 'em? Ha! I kin rite. Fort'nit I got skoolin' enuf for thet. I'll write to Planter Brandon. The gurl kin take it over to the plantation. She needn't be know'd eyther. She kin rop up in hur cloke, and gi'e it ter sum o' the niggers, as'll sure ter be 'beout the place outside. Thar's no need for a answer. I know what Brandon'll do arter gittin' it. "Thar's no time to be squandered away. By this, Dick hes got ter the town. Thar's no tellin' how long he may stay thar, an' they must intrap him on his way back. They kin be a waitin' an' riddy, in that bit o' clearin'. The very place for the purpis, considerin' it's been tried arready. "No, thar arn't a minnit to be lost. I must inter the shanty, an' scrape off the letter." Bent upon his devilish design, he hastens inside the house; as he enters, calling upon his daughter to come into the kitchen. "Hyar gurl. Ye've got some paper ye rite yur lessons upon. Fetch me a sheet o't, along wi' a pen an' ink. Be quick 'bout it." The young girl wonders what he can want with things so rarely used by him, but she is not accustomed to question him, and without saying a word, complies with the requisition. The pen, inkstand, and paper, are placed on the rude slab table, and Jerry Rook sits down before it, taking the pen between his fingers. After a few moments spent in silent cogitation, reflecting on the form of his epistle, it is produced. Badly spelt, and rudely scrawled, but short and simple, it runs thus:-- "To Planter Brandin, Esquare. "Sir,--I guess as how ye recollex a man, by name, Dick Tarleton; an' maybe ye mout be desireous o' seein' him. Ef ye be, ye kin gratify yur desire. He air now, at this present moment, in the town o' Helena, tho' what part o' it I don't know. But I know whar he will be afore mornin'. That air upon the road leadin' from the town t'ward the settlements on White River. He arn't a gwine fur out, as he's travellin' afoot, and he's sartin to keep the trace through the bit o' clearin' not fur from Caney Crik. Ef you or anybody else wants ter see him, that wud be as good a place as thar is on the road. "Y'urs at command, "A Strenger but a Fren'." Jerry Rook has no fear of his handwriting beings recognised. So long since he has seen it, he would scarce know it himself. Folding up the sheet, and sealing it with some drops of resin, melted in the dull flame of the dip, he directs it as inside--"To Planter Brandin, Esquare." Then handing it to his daughter, and instructing the young girl how to deliver it _incog_, he despatches her upon her errand. Lena, with her cloak folded closely around her fairy form, and hooded over her head, proceeds along the path leading to the Brandon plantation. Poor, simple child, herself innocent as the forest fawn, she knows not that she is carrying in her hand the death-warrant of one,--who, although but little known, should yet be dear to her--Dick Tarleton, the father of Pierre Robideau. She succeeds in delivering the letter, though failing to preserve her incognito. The hooded head proved but a poor disguise. The domestic who takes the epistle out of her hand recognises, by the white out-stretched arm and slender symmetrical fingers, the daughter of "old Rook, de hunter dat live 'pon Caney Crik." So reports he to his master, when questioned about the messenger who brought the anonymous epistle. Known or unknown, the name is of slight significance; the withholding of it does not affect the action intended by the writer, nor frustrate the cruel scheme. As the morning sun strikes into the "bit o' clearing" described in Jerry Rook's letter, it throws light upon a terrible tableau--the body of a man suspended from the branch of a tree. It is upon the same branch where late hung the young hunter Robideau. _It is the body of his father_. There is no one near--no sign of life, save the buzzards still lingering around the bones of the bear, and the quaint, grey wolf that has shared with them their repast. But there are footmarks of many men--long scores across the turf, that tell of violent struggling, and a patch of grass more smoothly trampled down beneath the gallows tree. There stood Judge Lynch, surrounded by his jury and staff of executioners, while above him swung the victim of their vengeance. Once more had the travestie of a trial been enacted; once more condemnation pronounced; and that tragedy, long postponed, was now played to the closing scene, the _denouement_ of death! STORY ONE, CHAPTER THIRTEEN. SIX YEARS AFTER. Six years have elapsed since the lynching of Dick Tarleton. Six years, by the statute of limitations, will wipe cut a pecuniary debt, and make dim many a reminiscence. But there are remembrances not so easily effaced; and one of these was the tragedy enacted in the clearing, near the Caney Creek. And yet it was but little remembered. In a land, where every-day life chronicles some lawless deed, the mere murder of a man is but a slight circumstance, scarce extending to the proverbial "nine days' wonder." Richard Tarleton was but a "sportsman," a gambler, if not more; and, as to the mode of his execution, several others of the same fraternity were treated in like fashion not long after, having been hanged in the streets of Vicksburg, the most respectable citizens of the place acting as their executioners! Amidst these, and other like reminiscences, the circumstance of Dick Tarleton's death soon ceased to be talked about, or even thought of, except, perhaps, by certain individuals who had played a part in the illegal execution. But some of these were dead, some gone away from the neighbourhood; while the influx of colonising strangers, creating a thicker population in the place, had caused those changes that tend to destroy the souvenirs of earlier times, and obliterate the memories of many a local legend. There was one memory that remained fresh--one souvenir that never slept in the minds of certain individuals who still lived in Helena or its neighbourhood. It was of another tragic occurrence that had taken place in the clearing near Caney Creek, on the day before that on which the condemned gambler had been dispatched into eternity. The knowledge of this second tragedy had been confided only to a few; and beyond this few it had not extended. The disappearance of young Robideau, sudden as it had been, excited scarce any curiosity--less on account of the other and better known event that for the time occupied the attention of all. The boy, as if feeling the taint of his Indian blood, and conscious of a distinction that in some way humiliated him, had never mixed much with the youth of the surrounding settlement, and for this reason his absence scarce elicited remark. Those who chanced to make the inquiry were told that Jerry Rook had sent him back to his mother's people, who were half-breed Choctaw Indians, located beyond the western border of Arkansas territory, on lands lately assigned to them by a decree of the Congress. The explanation was of course satisfactory; and to most people in Helena and its neighbourhood the boy Robideau was as if he had never been. There were some, however, who had better reason to remember him, as also to disbelieve this suspicious tale of Jerry Rook, though careful never to contradict it. These were the six youths, now grown to be men, the heroes of that wild, wicked frolic already recorded. In their minds the remembrance of that fatal frolic was as vivid as ever, having been periodically refreshed by an annual disbursement of a hundred dollars each. With the exacting spirit of a Shylock, Jerry Rook had continued to hold them to their contract; and if at any time remonstrance was made, it was soon silenced, by his pointing to an oblong mound of earth, rudely resembling a grave, under that tree where he had held his last conversation with _his friend_, Dick Tarleton. The inference was that the remains of Pierre Robideau were deposited beneath that sod, and could at any time be disinterred to give damning evidence of his death. Remonstrance was rarely made. Most of the contributors to Jerry Rook's income had become masters of their own substance. Still, the compulsory payment of a hundred dollars each was like the annual drawing of a tooth; all the more painful from the reflection of what it was for, and the knowledge as long as their creditor lived there was no chance of escaping it. Painful as it was, however, they continued to pay it more punctually than they would have done had it been a debt recoverable by court, or an obligation of honour. They were not all equally patient under the screw thus periodically put upon them. There were two more especially inclined to kick out of the terrible traces that chafed them. These were Bill Buck, the son of the horse-dealer, and Slaughter, who kept the "Helena Tavern," his father being defunct. Neither had greatly prospered in the world, and to both the sum of a hundred dollars a-year was a tax worth considering. In their conversations with one another, they had discussed this question, and more than once had been heard to hint at some dark design by which the impost might be removed. These hints were only made in presence of their partners in the secret compact, and never within earshot of Jerry Rook. It is true they were discouraged by the others less harassed by the tax, and, therefore, Jess tempted to take any sinister step towards removing it. They had enough to torment them already. Both Buck and Slaughter were capable of committing crimes even deeper than that already on their conscience. Six years had not changed them for the better. On the contrary, they had become worse, both being distinguished as among the most dissolute members of the community. A similar account might be given of the other four; though these, figuring in positions of greater respectability, kept their characters a little better disguised. Two of their fathers were also dead--Randall, the judge, and Spence, the Episcopalian clergyman, while their sons, less respected than they, were not likely to succeed to their places. Brandon's father still lived, though drink was fast carrying him to the grave, and his son was congratulating himself on the proximity of an event that would make him sole master of himself as also of a cotton plantation. The store-keeper, Grubbs, had gone, no one knew whither--not even the sheriff, loth to let him depart--leaving his son to build up a new fortune extracted out of the pockets of the Mississippi boatmen. The horse-dealer still stuck to his old courses--coping, swopping, swearing--likely to outlive them all. Among the many changes observable in the settlements around Helena there was none more remarkable than that which had taken place in the fortunes of Jerry Rook. It was a complete transformation, alike mysterious, for no one could tell how it came, or whence the power that had produced it. It appeared not only in the person of Jerry himself, but in everything that appertained to him--his house, his grounds, his dogs, and his daughter; in short, all his belongings. An old hunter no longer, clad in dirty buckskin, and dwelling in a hovel, but a respectable-looking citizen of the semi-planter type, habited in decent broadcloth, wearing clean linen, living in a neat farm-house, surrounded by fenced fields, and kept by black domestics. The old scarred dog was no longer to be seen; but, in his place, some three or four hounds, lounging lazily about, and looking as if they had plenty to eat and nothing to do. But, in the _personnel_ of the establishment, there was, perhaps, no transformation more striking than that which had taken place in Jerry Rook's daughter. There was no change in her beauty; that was still the same, only more womanly--more developed. But the sun-tanned, barefoot girl, in loose homespun frock, with unkempt hair sweeping over her shoulders, was now, six years after, scarce recognisable in the young lady in white muslin dress, fine thread stockings, and tresses plaited, perfumed, and kept from straying by the teeth of a tortoiseshell comb. And this was Lena Rook, lovely as ever, and more than ever the theme of man's admiration. Despite all this, despite her father's prosperity, and the comfort, almost luxury, surrounding her, few failed to remark an expression of melancholy constantly pervading her countenance, though none could tell its cause. Some dread souvenir must have become fixed in the mind of that young girl--some dark cloud had descended over her heart, perhaps, to shadow it for ever! STORY ONE, CHAPTER FOURTEEN. STEALING UPON A SHANTY. The breath of autumn had blown over the woods of Arkansas, and the first frost of November, followed by the beautiful Indian summer, had imparted to the foliage those rich tints of red and gold known only to the forests of America. The squirrel, down among the dead leaves, actively engaged in garnishing its winter store, scarce heeds the footstep of the hunter heard near by among the trees. There is one making his way through the woods at no great distance from the dwelling of Jerry Rook. He was approaching from the west, with his face in the direction of the house. But although he carried a gun, and was not travelling upon either trace or path, he did not appear to be in pursuit of game. Squirrels scampered off before him unmolested, and, once or twice, turkeys ran across his track without tempting him to draw trigger or even take the gun from his shoulder. In appearance he would have scarce have passed for a hunter, nor was he dressed after this fashion. His costume was more that of a traveller. Moreover, he had just come from a stand some three miles back, where he had left a horse and a pair of well-filled saddle-bags. The "stand," a solitary tavern, was not far from the crossing of White River, on the road leading from Little Rock to the settlements on the Mississippi. He had approached the tavern from the west as if coming from the former, and now on foot he was still advancing eastward, though not along the road which ran through the forest at some distance to his right, screened from view by thick timber standing between. By the dust still clinging to his garments, he appeared to have come a long way. It was gradually getting brushed off by the leaves of the underwood and the thick cane-brakes through which he was compelled to pass. Why was he avoiding the road? Was he a stranger who had taken the wrong fork that had conducted him to a blind trace now run out? No. It could not be that. The main road was not to be mistaken. Besides, he had left it at right angles after getting out of sight of the stand, and had since been keeping parallel to it as if acquainted with its direction. If a stranger, he was evidently one who had been over the ground before. He had the appearance of being twenty-five years of age, with a complexion naturally dark, still further shaded either by exposure to a tropical sun or a protracted spell of travelling. His hair was jetty black and curly, his upper lip bearded, with a dark, well-defined whisker on the cheek. The chin was clean shaven, showing a protrusion indicative of great firmness, while the profile was of true Roman type. His eyes were dark, lustrous, and piercing. In stature, he was full six feet, with a figure of fine proportions, knit as if for strength. Its activity was displayed by his light, lithe step, as he made his way through the tangle of trees. As already stated, the dress was not that of a hunter, either amateur or professed. The coat was of broadcloth, dark-coloured, and of good quality, cut frock-fashion. It was worn buttoned, though showing underneath a vest of Marsala, with striped shirt-bosom and sparkling breast-pin. The hat was of the kind known as grey felt. This, with the green-baize "wrappers" around the legs, showing the chafe of the stirrup-leather gave the costume somewhat of the character of a traveller's. The jaded horse and heavy saddle-bags, with a thick coating of dust over all, had told the tavern people as he reined up, of a long road left behind him--perhaps from the far prairies. The keeper of the lone hostelry had thought it strange his starting off the moment his horse was stabled. But the horse and saddle-bags were earnest of his coming back; and Boniface had continued to chew his quid without being inquisitive. As the young man threaded his way through the trees, it was evident he was not straying. His face was continually in one direction; while his glance, directed forward, seemed to search for some object expected to appear before him. All at once he made a stop, at sight of a break among the trees. It indicated a tract of open ground, or clearing, that extended athwart the path he was pursuing. He seemed surprised at this, and glanced quickly to the right and left, as if to assure himself that he had been going right. "Yes," he muttered, apparently satisfied on this head. "Right before me was the spot--the creek and the cabin. I can't be mistaken. These old trees I remember well--every one of them. But there's a clearing now-- perhaps a plantation,--and the old shanty gone altogether." Without finishing the reflection he kept onward, though slowly, and with greater caution, increasing as he drew nearer to the open ground. He appeared to approach it stealthily, step by step, as if stalking a herd of deer. He was soon on the edge of the opening, though still under cover of thick woods. A stream made the line of demarcation between them. On its opposite side, about twenty yards from the bank, he saw a neat farm-house, with a spacious porch in front, and surrounded by fields. There were outbuildings at the back, with sheds and corn-cribs; while in front a fenced enclosure, half garden half orchard, extended down to the stream, which formed its bottom boundary. Just opposite this enclosure the stranger had stopped, the moment he caught sight of the house. "As I anticipated;" he muttered to himself. Changed--everything changed!--the cabin cleared away, and the trees. Jerry Rook gone--perhaps dead. Some stranger in his place;--and she gone too--grown up--and--and-- A choking sigh forbade the pronunciation of some word that struggled for utterance--the expression of some painful thought, made manifest by the dark shadow that swept across the countenance of the speaker. "Oh! what an unfortunate fate. Fool that I was to go away and leave her. Fool to have listened to the counsels of her wicked father. When I learnt what he had done I should have come back, if not for love, for revenge. It may not be too late for the last; but, for the first--O God!--the girl I have loved for long years, to come back and find her-- perhaps in the arms of another--O God!" For some moments the young man stood with clouded, lace, his strong frame quivering under the shock of some painful emotion. "Shall I cross over and make inquiry?" was the reflection that followed, as he became calmer. "The people can, no doubt, give me some information, whether he be dead, and if she be still in the neighbourhood. No--no; I will not ask. I dread the answer to be given me. "But, why not? I may as well know now the worst, whatever it be. I must learn it in time. Why not at once? "There is no danger of my being recognised--even she would not know me, and these people are, perhaps, strange to the settlement. The country shows a change--clearings everywhere around, where I remember only trees. I wonder who they are? Some of them should, soon come out by that door. The day is inviting; I shall hold back awhile and see." During all this time the young man had been standing among thick underwood that screened his person from view. He only changed position so that his face should be also invisible to any one upon the other side of the creek, and thus stood with eyes fixed intently upon the house. He had not been many minutes in this attitude of expectation, when the front door, which stood open, was filled by a form, the sight of which sent the blood in a lava current through his veins, and caused his heart to bound audibly in his breast. The apparition that had produced this effect was a young girl--a lady she might be called--in light summer dress, with a white kerchief thrown loosely over her head, only partially concealing the thick coil of shining hair held by the tortoiseshell comb underneath it. Standing on the step of the door, with the dark background behind her, she appeared like some fair portrait suddenly set in its frame. Changed as she was since he had last seen her--a young girl in coarse, copperas-dyed gown of homespun stuff, bareheaded, stockingless and shoeless--he who stood among the trees might not so readily have recognised her had he met her elsewhere; but there, upon that spot where stood the old cabin, under whose roof he had lived and loved--loved her--recognition came at the first glance. He knew that the fair vision before him was Lena Rook, still living, still lovely as ever. STORY ONE, CHAPTER FIFTEEN. LENA'S RECOGNITION. The first impulse of the young man was to spring forth from his ambush, leap over the creek, a mere rivulet, and rush into the presence of the fair creature who had shown herself in the doorway. He was restrained by a crowd of thoughts that came surging up at the moment--doubts and memories--both painful. Her father might be still alive and inside the house. The stranger had serious reasons for not wishing to see _him_. Or he might be dead and she now under the control of another! The last thought was agonising, and he gazed intently upon the girl as if searching for some sign that would release him from the torture of suspense. Scarce twenty yards from where she stood, he could see the sparkle of jewellery upon the fingers of her left hand. Did one of them carry that thin circlet of gold to show she was lost to him for ever? His glance, instinctively directed to her hand, now traced the contour of her person, and once more mounted to her face. Form and features were alike scrutinised--the colour of her cheeks--the expression in her eyes--the air that pervaded all. It was that of one still single, whose fresh virginal charms had not given place to the staid demeanour produced by the solicitudes of wedded life. It pleased him to fancy so. And she, too, noted the melancholy air, and wondered at its meaning. There was much besides to wonder at in the changes that had taken place. How had Jerry Rook, a poor white, become a proprietor? He must be so if the house were his. And if not, then back again comes the painful thought that it, and she, too, might be the property of another. What had he best do? Retire without showing himself, and seek information elsewhere--some one living near who could tell him all? Or he might learn what he wanted from the landlord of the tavern where he had stopped. Should he return to it and stay till circumstances favoured him with an _eclaircissement_? Why not have it at once; and from her? Maid or married she would not be likely to remember him. A skin changed from the soft smoothness of boyhood's day--a complexion deeply bronzed--the downy cheek and lips now roughly bearded--stature increased by at least six inches, and a dress altogether different from that in which she had been accustomed to see him. "No; she will not recognise me," muttered the young man, as he completed this self-examination. "I will go round by the gate, make some excuse for a call; get into conversation with her; and then--" He was about turning, to make the circuit unobserved, when he saw that she had stepped out of the porch, and was coming towards the creek. It was for this that the kerchief had been spread over her crown, as a shade against the sun. He could not safely retreat without having his ambush discovered. He resolved to keep his place. She came on down the walk, and turned in among the trees of the orchard. Most of them were peach trees, laden with their luscious fruit, now ripe and falling. The ground was strewed with these golden globes, affording food to the honey-bee and hornet. She was now out of his sight, or seen only at intervals, her white dress gleaming through the leaves, as she moved through the orchard. The young man was thinking how he might present himself without seeming rude, when, all at once, a cry came from the lips of the young lady. It was a short, sharp exclamation, apparently called forth by some impending danger. It seemed a sufficient apology for intruding. Accepting it as such, the stranger sprang across the creek, and rushed direct to the orchard. In a few seconds he stood confronting the girl, who had turned towards the house. "I heard you cry out," he said; "was there any danger. May I ask--" But, before he had finished the interrogatory, he saw what had elicited the exclamation. A huge snake lay coiled under one of the trees! It had been feasting on the fallen fruit, and, nearly trodden upon, had thrown itself into the defensive attitude. The "skirr" caused by the vibration of its tail told it to be a rattle-snake. Without inquiring further, the young man raised his rifle, and sent a bullet through its head. Its coils flew out, and, after struggling a few seconds on the grass the reptile lay dead. "Thanks, sir," said the lady, as soon as she had recovered from her surprise. "I came near setting my foot upon it, and, perhaps, would have done so, if I'd not heard the rattle. You're a good shot, sir; you've killed it outright!" "I've had a deal of practice, _Miss_," he replied, laying a marked emphasis on the last word. His heart throbbed audibly, as he awaited the rejoinder. Would she accept the title, or correct it? He had already glanced at her left hand, holding a peach she had plucked. There were rings; but among them he saw not the plain circlet nor its keeper. Their absence inspired him with hope. "One can easily see that," she rejoined. "Besides, I am not unacquainted with the way of the woods. My father is a hunter, or was." "You say _was_, _Miss_. Is your father still living?" The question was asked with a double design. Would she still permit herself to be called "Miss?" Was Jerry Rook the owner of the pretty house that had supplanted his rude sheiling? "My father living? Certainly, sir; but he does not go hunting any more--or only at times. He has enough to keep him occupied about home-- clearing the ground and planting the crops." "Is he at home now?" "To-day, no. He has ridden over to Helena. I expect he will be back soon. Do you wish to see him, sir. You have some business, perhaps?" "No, no. I was merely wandering through the woods, squirrel shooting. I had strayed to the other side of the creek, when I heard you cry." "It was very kind of you to come to my assistance," said the young girl, giving to the stranger a glance, in which she did not fail to note his graceful bearing. Then, observing the dust upon his garments, she added, "If I mistake not, you're a stranger to this part of the country?" "I once knew it well, especially around this place." "Indeed!" "Yes. If I remember right, there was a cabin here--upon the very spot on which your house is now standing. It was inhabited by an old hunter by the name of Rook--Jeremiah or Jerry Rook." "That is my father's name." "Then it must have been he. What a change! It was all standing timber around--scarce an acre of clearing." "That is true. It is only lately that my father bought the land, and cleared it as you see. We are better off than we were then." "Has your father any family besides yourself--a son, or _son-in-law_?" "Not any, sir," replied the young girl, turning upon the questioner a look of some surprise; "I am the only one--his only daughter. Why do you ask?" "I thought I remembered--or had heard--something--" "Heard what, sir?" asked she, cutting short the stammering speech. "Of a young man--a boy, rather--who lived in your father's cabin. Was he not your brother?" "I never had one. He you speak of was no relative to us." "There was some one, then?" "Yes. He is gone away--gone years ago." The serious tone in which these words were spoken--something like a sigh that accompanied them, with a shadow that made its appearance on the countenance of the speaker--were signs pleasing to the interrogator. His heart beat joyfully as he put upon them his own interpretation. Before he could question her further, the young girl, as if stirred by a sudden thought, looked inquiringly in his face. "You say you knew this place well, sir? When did you leave it? Was it a long time ago?" "Not so long either; but, alas! long enough for you to have forgotten me, Lena." "_Pierre, it is you_!" STORY ONE, CHAPTER SIXTEEN. ABSENCE EXPLAINED. It was Pierre Robideau who stood once more in the presence of Lena Rook--not in her presence alone, for they were locked in each other's embrace. From the first moment of seeing him, the young girl had felt strange thoughts stealing over her--weird memories, awakened by that manly presence that scarce seemed unknown to her. She knew that Pierre Robideau still lived, and that her father had compelled her to keep it a secret. But why, she knew not, nor why her father had sent him away. It was well she knew not this. Equally ignorant had she been kept as to where he had gone. California, her father told her; and this was indeed true. But what knew she of California? Nothing beyond the fact of its being a far distant land, where people went to gather gold. This much was known to every one in the settlements around--every one in America. Lena Rook thought not of the gold. She thought only of her old playmate, and wondered why he was staying so long away. Was he never going to return? He who had won the girl's heart--the firstlings of her young love--had stood under the forest tree, clasping her in his arms, and telling her she had won his! And on that dread night, when he lay upon the couch, slowly recovering from the terrible strangulation, was not the first word breathed forth from his lips her own name--Lena? And to have gone away, and staid away, and forgotten all this! It was not strange she wondered, not strange she grieved--or that the cloud of melancholy, already remarked upon, sat almost continually on her countenance. She had not forgotten _him_--not for a single day. Throughout the long lonely years, there was scarce an hour in which she did not think, though not permitted to speak, of him. She had been true to him--both in heart and hand--true against scores of solicitations, including that of Alfred Brandon, who was now seeking her hand in marriage, determined upon obtaining it. But she had resisted his suit--even braving the displeasure of her father who was backing it. And all for the memory of one who had gone away, without explaining the cause of his departure, or making promise to return. Often had she thought of this, and with bitterness--at times, too, with a feeling akin to spite. But now with Pierre once more in her presence, his tall graceful form before her eyes, she instantly forgot all, and threw herself sobbing upon his breast. There was no reservation in the act--no pretence of prudery. Lena's instinct told her he was still loyal, and the firm, fervent pressure of his arms, as he received her in that sweet embrace, confirmed it. For some time both remained silent--their hearts too happy for speech. At length it returned to them, Lena taking the initiative. "But tell me, Pierre, why did you stay from me, and for such a time?" "Your question is easily answered, Lena. I have made a long journey to begin with. I have been to California, and spent some time there in searching for gold. But that is not altogether what delayed me. I was for three years a prisoner among the Arapahoes." "Arapahoes? What are they?" "A tribe of Indians, who roam over the big prairie. I might have been still in their hands, but for a party of Choctaws--my mother's people, you know--who chanced to come among the Arapahoes. They rescued me by paying a ransom, and brought me back with them to the Choctaw country, west of here, whence I have just come almost direct." "O, Pierre! I am so happy you are here again. And you have grown so big and so beautiful, Pierre. But you were always beautiful, Pierre. And you have been to California? I heard that. But tell me, why did you go there at all?" "I went to find my father," he answered, in quiet tones. "Your father? But he--" The young girl checked herself at the thought of a fearful incident that only now rose to her remembrance--another episode of that night of horrors. She repented of her speech, for she believed that Pierre knew nothing of what had then occurred. He had not been told, either by her father or by herself, that Dick Tarleton had been there, as he was still in an unconscious state when the latter left the cabin never more to return to it. She had said nothing of it to Pierre after his recovery. Her father had cautioned her against any communication with him on the subject, and indeed there was not much chance, for the moment he was in a condition to travel, the old hunter had hurried him off, going in the dead of night, and taking the youth along with him. Remembering all this, Lena regretted the speech half commenced, and was thinking how she should change to another subject, when Pierre, interrupting, relieved her from her embarrassment, as he spoke. "You need not tell me, Lena," said he, his voice trembling; "I know the sad tale--all of it, perhaps more than you, though it was later that! learnt of it, my sweet innocent! You little dreamt when--But no, I must not. Let us talk no more of those times, but only of the present. And now, Lena, I do not wish to see your father, nor do I want him to know that I am in the neighbourhood. Therefore, you must not say you have seen me." "I will not," answered she, in a tone that spoke more of sorrow than surprise. "Alas! it is too easy to obey your request, for I dare not even speak of you to him. My father, I know not for what reason, has forbidden me to mention your name. If by chance I ever asked after you, or spoke of your coming back, it was only to get scolded. Will you believe it, Pierre, he once told me you were dead? But I grieved so, he afterwards repented, and said he had only done it to try me. God forgive me for speaking so of my own father, but I almost fancied at times that he wished it himself. O Pierre! what have you ever done to make him your enemy?" "I cannot tell, that is a mystery to me; and so too his sending me away, and so too several other things; but--Whose voice is that?" "My father's! And the tramp of his horse! He is coming along the lane. O, Pierre! you must not let him see you!" "Nor shall he. I can get off as I came, under cover of the trees. Adieu, dearest! meet me to-morrow night. Come out late, when all are gone to bed--say eleven. You'll find me waiting for you here--no, by the big cottonwood yonder. How often we used to sit under its shade." "Go, Pierre, go! He's got up to the gate." "One more kiss, love! and then--" Their lips met and parted; and they too parted, the girl gliding towards the house, and the young man stealing off among the peach trees, to seek safer concealment in the shadowy woods beyond. STORY ONE, CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. FATHER AND DAUGHTER. "I've got good news for ye, gurl," said Jerry Rook, sliding out of his saddle, and joining her in the porch. "Darnationed good news." "What news, father?" "Thet the liquor hez at last done its work, an' ole Planter Brandon air dead." "O father! surely you do not call it good news?" "And shurly I do--the best o' news. Alf air now full master o' the place, an' thar's nothin' to hinder you from bein' full mistress o't. I know he intend makin', you a offer o' marriage, an' I've reezun to b'lieve it'll be done this very day. Brandon war buried day before yesserday." "If he does, father, I shall refuse him." "Refuse him!" cried the quondam squatter, half starting out of the chair in which he had just seated himself. "Lena, gurl! hev ye tuk leave o' yur senses? Air ye in airnest?" "I am, father. I mean what I've said." "Mean, darnation! ye're eyether mad, gurl, or else talkin' like a chile. D'ye know what refusin' means?" "I have not thought of it." "But I hev, over an' over agin. It means beggary--preehap sturvation, for myself as well as you." "I'd rather starve than marry Alf Brandon." "Ye woud, woud ye? Then ye may hev a chance o't, sooner'n ye think for. Ye've got an idea yur ole dad's well to do; an' so think a good many other folks. Thar's been a house built, an' a clarin' made; but neyther's been paid for. Jerry Rook don't know the day he may hev to up sticks, an' go back agin to some durned old crib o' a cabin." "Father! I was as happy in our old cabin as I've ever been in this fine house. Ay, far happier." "Yer war, war ye? But I warn't--not by a long chalk; and I don't want to squat in any o' yer shanties agin--not if I kin keep out o' 'em. Hyar's a plan by which yur may be rich for the rest o' yur life; an' thur'd be no need for me starvin' eyther. Alf Brandon kums in for a good plantation, wi' three score niggers on it; an' thur's nothin' to hinder yur from bein' mistress o' the hul lot." "I don't wish it." "But I do; an' I mean to hev it so. Don't git it in yur head, good-lookin' as yur may think yurself, thet the world air a stick o' sugar-candy an' ye've got nothin' to do but suck it. I tell yur, gurl, I've drifted into difeequilties. I've had some rasources you know nothin' beout; but I can't tell the day _the supplies may be stopt_, an' then we've got to go under. Now, d'ye unnerstan' me?" "Indeed, father, I know nothing of your affairs. How should I? But I am sure I should never be happy as the wife of Alfred Brandon." "An' why? What hev yur get agin him? He's a good-lookin' feller-- doggoned good-lookin'." "It has nothing to do with his looks." "What then? His karracktur, I s'pose?" "You know it is not good." "Dum karracktur! What signify that? Ef all the young weemen in these parts war to wait till they got a husband o' good karracktur, they'd stay a long spell single, I reck'n. Alf Brandon ain't no worse nor other people; an', what's o' far more konsequince, he air richer than most. Ye'd be a fool, gurl, a dod-rotted eedyit, not to jump at the chance. An' don't you get it into yur head that I'm gwine to let it slip. Willin' or not, ye've got to be the wife o' Alf Brandon. Refuse? an' by the Eturnal, ye shall be no longer my darter? Ye hear that?" "I hear you, father. It is very painful to hear you; and painful, too, for me to tell you, that your threat cannot change me. I'm sure I have been obedient to you in everything else. Why should you force me to this?" "Wal," said the hardened man, apparently relenting, "I acknowledge ye've been a good gurl; but why shed yur now speil all the chances o' our gettin' a good livin' by yur obstinateness in bizness? I tell ye that my affairs air jest at this time a leetle preecarious. I owe Alf Brandon money--a good grist o't--an' now his father's dead he may be on me for't. Beside, you're o' full age, an' oughter be spliced to somebody. Who's better'n Alf Brandon?" Had Jerry arrived a little sooner at his house, or approached it with greater caution, he might have received a more satisfactory answer to his question. As it was, he got none, his daughter remaining silent, as if not caring to venture a reply. She had averted her eyes, displaying some slight embarrassment. Something of this the old man must have noticed, as evinced by the remark that followed:-- "Poor white, ye ain't a gwine to marry wi' my consent--I don't care what be his karracktur; an' ef ye've been makin' a fool o' yurself wi' sich, an' gin any promise, ye've got to get out o' it best way ye kin." Neither was there any rejoinder to this; he sat for a time in silence, as if reflecting on the probability of some such complication. He had never heard of his daughter having bestowed her heart on any one; and, indeed, she had gained some celebrity for having so long kept it to herself. For all that, it might have been secretly surrendered; and this would, perhaps, account for her aversion to the man he most wished her to marry. "I heerd a shot as I war coming along the road. It war the crack o' a rifle, an' sounded as ef 'twar somewhar near the house. Hez anybody been hyar?" The question was but a corollary to the train of thought he had been pursuing. Fortunately for the young girl, it admitted of an evasive answer, under the circumstances excusable. "There has been no one _at the house_ since you left. There was a shot though; I heard it myself." "Whar away?" "I think down by the creek--maybe in the woods beyond the orchard." "Thar ain't nothin' in them woods, 'ceptin' squrrl. Who's been squrrl shootin' this time o' day?" "Some boys, perhaps?" "Boys! Hey! what's that dog a draggin' out from 'mong the peach trees? Snake, by the Eturnal!--a rattler too! The hound ain't killed that varmint himself?" The old hunter, yielding to curiosity, or some undeclared impulse, stepped down from the porch, and out to where the hound had come to a stop, and was standing by the body of the snake. Driving the dog aside, he stooped over the dead reptile to examine it. "Shot through the skull!" he muttered to himself; "an' wi' a rifle, o' sixty to the pound. That ere's been a hunter's gun. Who ked it be? It's been done this side of the crik, too; seems as the dog hain't wetted a hair in fetchin' o't." Turning along the trail of the snake--which, to his experienced eye, was discernible in the grass--he followed it, till he came to the spot where the snake had been killed. "Shot hyar for sartin. Yes; thar's the score o' the bullet arter it had passed through the varmint's brainpan; an' thar's the shoe track o' him as fired the shot. No boy that; but a full growed man! Who the durnation hez been trespassin' 'mong my peach trees?" He bent down over the track, and carefully scrutinised them. Then rising erect, he followed them to the bank of the creek, where he saw the same footprints, more conspicuously outlined in the mud. "Stranger for sartin!" muttered he; "no sich futmark as that 'beout these settlements--not as I know on. Who the durnation kin it a-been?" It was strange he should take so much trouble about a circumstance so slight; or show such anxiety to discover who had been the intruder. He was evidently uneasy about something of more importance to him than the trespass among his peach trees. "That gurl must a heerd the shot plainer than she's been tellin' me o', an' seed more'n she's confessed to. Thar's somethin' on her mind, I hain't been able to make out any how. She shall be put thro' a chapter o' kattykism." "Lena, gurl!" he continued, going back towards the porch, still occupied by his daughter; "d'ye mean to say ye seed nobody beout hyar to-day?" "I see some one now," said she; by the rarest bit of good luck enabled to evade giving an answer to the question. "See some un now! Whar?" "There, a friend of yours, coming along the lane." "Alf Brandon!" exclaimed the old hunter, hurrying forth to receive the individual then announced; and who, astride a sleek horse, was seen riding leisurely in the direction of the house. For Lena Rook it was an opportune arrival; and, for a time at least, she was spared that threatened "chapter o' kattykism." STORY ONE, CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. AN ANGRY ADMIRER. For the first time in her life, Lena Rook saw Alfred Brandon approach her father's house without a feeling of pain or repulsion. Though for years he had been the most solicitous of her suitors, she felt for him something more than contempt. Despite his position in society--far superior to her own--despite his fine clothes and speeches, she saw through the character of the man, and believed him to be both a pretender and poltroon. She knew that he was cruel--a tyrant to all who had the misfortune to be under him, and a hard task-master to the black-skinned slaves that lived upon his father's plantation. Though dissipated, he was not generous; and, with all the plenty he possessed, he was accounted among his associates the closest of screws. He spent money, and enough of it, but only upon himself, and in the indulgence of his own sensual desires. He had obtained the reputation of being one of the meanest fellows in the neighbourhood to which he belonged; and Lena Rook knew it. She had never liked him as a boy; and her aversion was increased by her knowledge that, as a boy, he had been the bitter enemy of Pierre Robideau. She did not think how much of this hostility was due to herself; for, from an early period, the son of the planter had been bitterly jealous of her playmate and companion. But she remembered the scene in the glade; she believed that Alf Brandon had been the chief instigator; and she had, all along, suspected that Pierre's absence was in some way due to what had that day transpired. She was very pleased to see Brandon now, only because he had rescued her from a position that promised to become embarrassing. What answer could she have made to that question her father had asked? The opportune arrival had relieved her from an agony of apprehension. The planter--now that his father was dead, no longer the planter's son-- seemed a little surprised at the pleased look with which she received him. She was not accustomed to give him such gracious acceptance, and little dreamt he of its cause. "No doubt," reasoned he, with a feeling of self-gratulation, "she's heard I'm now my own master, and won't much object to my becoming her's. A planter in his own right is a very different individual from a planter expectant; and Miss Lena Rook will have the sense to see it. I don't think there will be much difficulty about this thing. She's been only pretending with me in the past; now that she sees all's ready, I guess she'll not stand shilly-shallying any longer. So here goes for the proposals." This string of reflections were made after Alfred Brandon had entered the gate, and was making his way towards the porch, on which the young lady was still standing. They were finished as he set foot on the step. There was no one to interfere with the conversation that came after. Jerry Rook, suspecting the purport of the planter's visit, had stayed behind to hitch up his horse, and afterwards found excuse to stray off to the back of the house, leaving the two alone. "I suppose you have heard of my affliction, Miss Rook?" said Brandon, after salutations had been exchanged. "My father has been just telling me of it." "Ah! yes; my old dad's dead and gone; buried him day before yesterday. Can't be helped, you know. It's the way of us all. We've all got to die." To this lugubrious declaration Lena Rook yielded ready assent. There was a pause in the conversation. Notwithstanding his plentitude of power, tending to inspire him with sufficient assurance, the suitor felt ill at ease. It was not to be wondered at, considering the errand on which he had come. Moreover, the pleasant look had forsaken Lena's face, and he had begun to doubt of success. She knew what he had come for, and was seriously reflecting upon the answer she should give him. She, of course, intended it to be negative; but she remembered her father's words, and was thinking in what way she might reject the disagreeable suitor, without stirring up his spite. She so well understood his nature as to know he would be contemptible enough to use it. It was no thought of herself that dictated the affability with which she was entertaining him; though she could scarce conceal her disgust for the man before her, talking in such strains of a father so recently deceased. She, too, had a father, who was not what he ought to be; and she knew it. But still he was her father. After remaining for some time silent--not knowing what to say--Brandon at length summoned sufficient courage to stammer out his proposal. It was done with some fear and trembling. He was more himself after he had received the refusal, which he did, in as delicate terms as the young lady could command. But, delicacy was thrown away upon the spiteful planter, who, stung by the thought of being refused by the daughter of a poor white--he knew the secret of Jerry Rook's altered circumstances--began upbraiding in terms of opprobrious wrath the woman from whose feet he had just arisen! The young girl, thus grossly outraged, would have called to her father for protection, but again remembering his words, she remained silent under the infliction, not even making answer to her cowardly insulter. "Somebody else, I suppose," said the rejected gentleman, spitefully pronouncing the words. "Some poor `trash' of your own sort has got a hold of you! By--!" the ruffian swore a frightful oath, "if it be so, when I find out who it is, and I don't care who it is, I'll make these settlements too hot to hold him! _Lena Rook, you'll rue this refusal_!" Not a word said Lena Rook in reply to this coarse invective. A disdainful curl upon her lip was all the answer she vouchsafed; which stayed there as she stood watching him along the walk, and until he had remounted his horse, and galloped off from the gate. Her's were not the only eyes bent upon the disappointed suitor. Jerry Rook, engaged among the pigs and poultry, saw him ride away; and from the spiteful spurring of his horse, and the reckless air with which he rode, the old hunter conjectured the sort of answer that had been given him. "Durn the girl!" muttered he, as a black shadow swept across his wrinkled brow; "she's played fool, an' refused him! Looks as ef she'd sassed him! Never mind, Alf Brandon, I'll make it all right for you. This chile ain't a gwine to let that fine plantashin o' your's slip through his fingers--not ef he know it. You shall hev the gurl, and she you, ef I hev myself to drag her up to the haltar. So, then, my Lena, lass, when I've done here I'm a gwine to read you a lecture." If the abrupt departure of Brandon had brought anger into the eyes of Lena Rook, there was yet another pair watching it, that became suffused with joy. They were the eyes of Pierre Robideau. After parting from that sweetheart so long separated from him, the young man had recrossed the creek; and, as he had intended, kept on through the woods towards the stand where he had left his horse. Before going far, the thought occurred to him that he might as well have a look at the quondam squatter, and see if he, too, was changed like everything else. It was only to place himself in the ambush that had already proved so serviceable to his purposes, and stay there till Jerry should show himself! Knowing that the porches of a backwood's dwelling usually supplies the place of sitting-room, he did not anticipate any severe trial of patience. It was not the gratification of mere curiosity that tempted him to return. He had other reasons that rendered him desirous to look upon his host of former days; at the same time that he was equally desirous not to let that host see him. Nor was it exactly a desire that counselled him to this act; but a sort of involuntary impulse, such as the bird feels to approach the serpent that would destroy it. Pierre Robideau had returned from California, better informed about the doings of Jerry Rook than he had been on going out there. It was the old hunter who had induced him to take that distant journey. He had counselled, almost compelled, him to it, by a false story that his father had gone there before him, and had entrusted Jerry to send him after in all haste. For this purpose, his former host had furnished the outfit and directions, and had even seen him some distance on his way. As already stated the unsuspicious youth, before starting, knew nothing of what had occurred that night in the glade--not even that while he was himself hanging there, his father had been so near him! The story of the lynching had been kept from him previous to his departure, Jerry Rook alone having access to him, and carefully guarding against all other approach. It was only after his arrival in California, and failing to find his father at the appointed place, that he had heard of the tragedy on Caney Creek, and who had been its victim. The tale had got among the gold diggers, brought out by some new arrivals from Little Rock. Why Jerry Rook had been so anxious to get him away, Pierre Robideau could never tell, though he had some terrible suspicions about it-- almost pointing out the old squatter as one of his father's murderers. It was this sort of curiosity that caused him to turn among the trees, and steal back to the concealment he had so recently forsaken. Perhaps, too, he may have wished once more to gratify his eyes by gazing on that loved form so unceremoniously hurried out of his sight. Whether or not, he was soon in his old position, and gazing intently through the curtain of leaves. So far as Jerry Rook was concerned, he obtained the satisfaction he had sought for. His quondam host was in front of the house, in conversation with his daughter, who stood in the porch above him. Pierre had arrived at the moment when that question was put, so nearly concerning himself. He did not hear it, but he noticed the embarrassed air of the young lady, and the quick change that came over her countenance as she adroitly evaded the answer. From that moment Jerry Rook was no longer regarded. A third personage had appeared upon the scene, and the pleasing look with which Jerry Rook's daughter appeared to receive him sent a pang through the heart of Pierre Robideau. The exclamation had told him who the new comer was. But he did not heed that. No time could efface from his memory the image of one who had so cruelly outraged him, and six years had produced but little change in Alf Brandon. Pierre knew him on sight. With heart beating wildly, he remained a silent witness of the scene that ensued. At first it beat bitterly, as he marked and misinterpreted the complaisant look with which Lena regarded his rival. Ere long came a delightful change, as he listened to the dialogue-- plainly overheard where he stood--and, when he heard the final speech, and saw the discomfited lover stride off towards the gate, he could scarce restrain himself from a shout of joy. He was fain to have sprung across the creek, and once more enfolded that fair form in his passionate embrace. But he saw that mischief might spring from such imprudence; and, turning from the spot, he walked silently away--his heart now swelling with triumph, now subsiding into sweet contentment. STORY ONE, CHAPTER NINETEEN. A CONCLAVE OF SCOUNDRELS. There was a time when "Slaughter's Hotel" was the first and only house of its kind in the town of Helena. That was when Slaughter, senior, presided over its destinies. Now that he was no more, and his son walked rather slipshod in his shoes, it had sunk into a second-rate place of entertainment--an establishment more respectable, or, at all events, more pretentious, having swung out its sign. In Slaughter's hostelry _bona fide_ travellers had become scarce. Still it was not without guests and patrons in plenty. There were enough "sportsmen" in the place, with adventurers of other kinds, to give the house a custom, and these principally patronised it. From a family hotel, it had changed into a drinking and gambling saloon, and in this respect was prosperous enough. It was the resort of all the dissipated young men of the neighbourhood--and the old ones too. It had public and private parlours, and one of the latter, the landlord's own, was only accessible to the select of his acquaintances--his cronies of a special type. On the evening of that day in which Alfred Brandon had received his dismissal from the daughter of Jerry Rook, this apartment was occupied by six persons, including the landlord himself. They were the same who had figured in the hanging frolic, of which young Robideau had been so near being the victim. On this account, it is not necessary to give their names nor any description of them, farther than to say that all six were as wild and wicked as ever, or, to speak with greater exactitude, wilder and more wicked. It might seem strange that chance had brought these young men together without any other company, but the closed door, and the order for no one to be admitted, showed that their meeting was not by mere accident. Their conversation, already commenced, told that they had met by appointment, as also the purpose of their assembling. It was Alfred Brandon who had summoned them to the secret conclave, and he who made the opening speech, declaring his object in having done so. After "drinks all round," Brandon had said:-- "Well, boys, I've sent for you to meet me here, and here we are, guests; you know why?" "I guess we don't," bluntly responded Buck. "Choc?" suggested Slaughter. "Well, we know it's about Choc," assented the son of the horse dealer; "any fool might guess that. But what about him? Let's hear what you've got to say, Alf." "Well, not much, after all. Only that I think it's high time we took some steps to get rid of this infernal tax we've been paying." "Oh! you're come to that, are you? I thought you would, sometime. But for you, Alf Brandon, we might have done somethin' long ago. I'm out o' pocket clear five hundred dols, and damn me if I intend to pay another cent, come what will or may." "Ditto with you, Bill Buck," endorsed Slaughter. Grubbs, Randall, and Spence were silent, though evidently inclined to the same way of thinking. "I've sworn every year I'd stop it," continued Buck, "an' I'd have done so but for Alf there. It's all very well for him. He's rich, and can stand it. With some of the rest of us it's dog-gone different." "Nonsense!" exclaimed Brandon. "My being rich had nothing to do with it. I was as anxious as any of you to get the load off my shoulders, only I could never see how it was to be done." "Do you see now?" asked Spence. "Not very clearly, I confess." "It's clear as mud to me--one way is--" said Slaughter. "And to me," chimed in Buck. "What way? Tell us?" demanded the store-keeper. "I'm ready for most anything that'll clear us of that tax." "You can get clear, then, by making a _clear_ of the collector." The suggestion was Slaughter's, the last part of it made in a significant whisper. "Them's just my sentiments," said Buck, speaking louder and with more determination. "I'd have put 'em in practice before this, if Alf Brandon had showed the pluck to agree to it. Durned if I wouldn't!" "What!" said the young planter, affecting ignorance of the suggested scheme, "carry the collector off? Is that what you mean?" "Oh! you're very innocent, Alf Brandon, you are, my sucking dove!" It was Slaughter who spoke. "Yes," said Buck, who answered to the interrogatory, "carry him off, and so far that there'll be no danger o' his coming back again. That's what we mean. Have you got anything better to propose? If you have, let's hear it. If not, what's the use of all this palaverin'?" "Well," said Brandon, "I've been thinking we might carry something else off that might answer our purpose as well, and without getting us into any _scrape_ worth talking about." "Carry what off? The girl--Rook's daughter?" "No, no; Brandon don't mean that, and don't need it. He is going to take her to church, and there's no danger about his getting consent." It was Buck who made the remark, and with some bitterness, being himself one of Lena Rook's unsuccessful admirers. Brandon felt the sting all the more keenly from what had that day occurred. Moreover, he knew that Buck was upon the list of his rivals, and saw that the speech was meant for a slur. The lurid light in his eye, and the pallor suddenly overspreading his lips, showed the depth of his chagrin. But he said nothing, fearful of defeating the scheme he had traced out for himself in relation to Lena Rook. "Come, gentlemen," said Randall, for the first time entering into the conversation, "this talk only wastes time, and the subject is too serious for that. Let us hear Brandon out. I'm as anxious as any of you to settle this unpleasant matter, and if there be any safe plan we can all agree about, the sooner it's carried out the better. I needn't remind you the time's close at hand when the old Shylock will call for another pound of flesh. If any one can suggest a way to escape paying it, I think the most of us would be but too willing to stand the best champagne supper Jim Slaughter can get up for us, and a `jury' into the bargain." "Certain we'll all go snacks for that." "Speak out, Brandon!" "The fact is," said Brandon, thus appealed to, "we've been all a lot of fools to stand this thing so long. Supposing we have the old scoundrel, and dare him to do his worst, what evidence has he got against us only his own oath?" "An' the girl's." "No; the girl saw nothing, at least, only what was circumstantial. She couldn't swear to the deed; nor he neither, as far as that goes, though he makes pretence that he can. Suppose he does swear, what then? There are six of us--six oaths to one. I needn't ask whether you are all willing?" "No, you needn't," was the unanimous rejoinder. "Good, so far. I think you all know that Jerry Rook's oath wouldn't go far about these parts, and if we stick together and deny the thing _in toto_, I'd like to know how a jury could give against us. We've been fools not to try it. I'd have proposed it long ago, only that, like some of the rest, I've been thin-skinned about it, and didn't like to stir up stinking waters." "Yes," cried Buck; "you've been thin-skinned 'bout it--no mistake o' that. Your damned thin-skinnedness, as you call it, has cost me five hundred silver dollars." "Me the same," said Slaughter. "Well, for that matter, we all had to pay alike; and now let us all agree to share alike in any law expenses, in case it should come to that; for my part, I don't think it will." "And why won't it?" asked Randall, whose law experience, himself being a practitioner, guided him to a different conclusion. "You don't suppose that the old Shylock will yield without a trial? Trust me, fellows, he'll fight hard to stick to that six hundred dollars _per annum_ he's been so long pulling out of us." "Damn him! let him fight! What can he do? Let him tell his story, and what evidence can he bring to support it? As I've said, his oath won't count for anything against all six of ours." "But, Alf; you forget the _body_?" This reminiscence called up by Randall, caused all the others to start; for all had forgotten it--Brandon alone excepted. "No, I don't," replied the latter, with an air of triumph at his own astuteness. "Well, he'd bring that up, wouldn't he?" "No doubt he would, if we're fools enough to let him." "Ah! I see what you're driving at." "So do we all." "We know where _it_ lies; we've had good reason to. We've been soft to let it lie there so long, and we'd be softer still to let it lie there any longer." "Darn it, there's something in what he says." "What do you propose, Alf?" "That we go in for a good bit of quiet exhumation, and transfer that body, or bones, or whatever relics be left of it, to a safer place. After that's done let Jerry Rook do his worst." "A good idea!" "Jest the thing, by God!" "Let's carry it out, then!" "When?" "To-morrow night; we're not prepared now, or it might be to-night. Let us provide the tools for to-morrow night, and meet about midnight. We can come together in the glade, and go from there. You must all of you come, and all have a hand in it." "Agreed! We'll do the grave-digging!" "Enough, boys! Let's fill up and drink to our success!" Amidst the clinking of glasses was sealed the singular compact; and the body-stealers, that were to be, soon after separated, to come together again upon the morrow. STORY ONE, CHAPTER TWENTY. THE TRYST UNDER THE TREE. Under the canopy of the great cottonwood the tryst of the lovers was to be kept. Pierre was there first, and stood within the shadow of the tree, expectant. There had been nothing to interfere with his coming, either to hinder or retard it. He had left the tavern at an early hour, telling them he might not return that night; and slowly sauntering through the woods, had reached the place of appointment some time before that agreed upon. Having arrived under the tree, and taken a survey of the ground, he regretted having chosen it as a rendezvous. Better need not have been desired had the night been dark; but it was not; on the contrary, a clear moon was sailing through the sky. When Pierre Robideau last stood under that tree there was brushwood around it, with a cane-brake along the edge of the creek. Both were now gone; burnt off long ago to enlarge the little clearing that had sufficed for the cabin of the squatter. There were the stumps of other trees still, and a rough rail fence running up to the corner of the house; but with the exception of these, any one approaching from the house side would find no cover to prevent them from being seen. It occurred to Pierre Robideau that his sweetheart might be watched. He had reason to believe that her father kept a close eye upon her, and might be suspicious of her movements. What he had seen and heard the day before told him how things stood between Jerry Rook and Alf Brandon. Once under the cottonwood there would be no danger; even the white dress of a woman could not be descried in the deep shadow of the moss-laden branches--at least, not from any distance, and in case of any one passing accidentally near, the young man knew that the tree was hollow-- a huge cavity opening into its trunk, capable of holding a horse. More than once, when a boy, had he and little Lena played hide and seek in this capacious tree-chamber. On the other side, that opposite to the house, the tree could be approached under cover, along the edge of the creek, where a thin strip of wood had been left standing undisturbed. It was through this he had himself come, after crossing the creek some distance above. Eleven o'clock came, as he knew by a clock striking inside the house, and then a long spell that seemed nearly a day, though it was not quite an hour. Still no sign of his sweetheart, nor of living thing anywhere outside the dwelling of Jerry Rook. He could see the porch, and one of the windows beyond it; through this came the light of a lamp or candle indistinct under the bright shimmer of the moonbeams. Upon the window his eyes were habitually kept, and he indulged in conjecture as to who was the occupant of the lighted room. At first he supposed it to be Lena; but as the time passed without the appointment being kept, he began to fancy it might be her father. He had no knowledge of the interior of the house; but if the lighted window belonged to the kitchen, it was like enough the old hunter was inside, sitting in a huge arm-chair, and smoking his pipe, a habit that Pierre knew him to indulge in days long past. Moreover, he might set very late up into the morning hours, as he had been often accustomed to do in those same days. The remembrance made Pierre uneasy, especially as the time stole past, and still no appearance of the expected one. He was beginning to despair of an interview that night, when the light upon which his eyes had been fixed appeared to have been put out, as the glass showed black under the moonbeams. "It was she, then," he muttered to himself. "She has been waiting till all were well asleep. She will come now." Forsaking the window, his gaze became fixed upon the porch, within whose shadow he expected her to appear. She did so, but not until another long interval had elapsed--a fresh trial of the lover's patience. Before it was exhausted, however, a form became outlined in the dark doorway--the door having been silently opened--and soon after the moon shone down upon the drapery of a woman's dress. The white kerchief upon her head would have enabled Pierre Robideau to recognise her. But that was not needed. The direction she took on stepping out of the porch, told him it was she whom he expected. She came on, but not as one who walks without fear. She kept along the fence, on its shadowy side, and close in to the rails. Now and then she stopped, looked behind, and listened. That she feared was evidently not abroad, but at home. Some serious cause had detained her beyond her time. Pierre watched her with eager eyes, with heart beating impatiently, until he felt hers beating against it? Once more they stood breast to breast, with arms entwining. Why was she so late? What had detained her? The questions were put with no thought of reproach, only fear as to the answer. As Pierre had suspected, Jerry Rook had been sitting up late; and, as she suspected, with some idea of watching her. The lighted room was his, and it was he who had extinguished the candle; she had waited after, till he should be well asleep. She had a terrible time of it, both that day and yesterday. Her father had been very angry with her about several things; he had found out that Pierre had been there; he had cross-questioned her, and made her confess it. It was no use denying it, as her father had found his track, and saw the snake that had been shot; and, besides, one of the negroes had heard a man's voice along with hers among the trees of the orchard. It made it all the worse that she had tried to conceal it, and been found out. Of course she did not say who it was, only a stranger _she had never seen before_. "O, Pierre! I told that great lie about you. God forgive me!" Her father had gone furious; there was something else, too, that made him so--about Alf Brandon, who had come over to see them just after Pierre had gone. "What was it about Alf Brandon?" asked Pierre, rather calmly, considering that the individual spoken of was a most dangerous rival. The young girl noticed this, and answered with some pique. "Oh! nothing much," she said, relaxing the pressure of her arms. "At least, nothing, I suppose, you would care about." "Nay, dear Lena!" he hastily rejoined, noticing the hurt he had unconsciously occasioned, and drawing her back to his breast, "pardon me for the apparent coldness of the question; I only asked it because I wished to tell you that I know all." "All what, Pierre?" "All that occurred between you and Alf Brandon." "And who told you?" "No one. I'm going to make a confession if you'll promise not to be angry with me." "Angry with you, Pierre?" "Well, then, it was thus: after leaving you yesterday, I came back again, and took stand under cover of the trees, just over the creek there, at the bottom of the garden. Of course, I could see the house, and all in front of it. I got there just as your father was leaving to meet Mr Brandon by the gate, and I not only saw what passed between you two, but heard most of what was said. It was much as I could do to restrain myself from springing across the creek, and laying the fellow at your feet; but I kept back, thinking of the trouble I might get you into, to say nothing of myself, with your father. I own to all this meanness, Lena, without being able to let you know my motive for it. One reason for my returning, was to look again upon you." "Oh, Pierre," said the girl, once more reciprocating the pressure of his embrace, "if I had only known you were there! But, no; perhaps it was better not. I might have done something that would have betrayed us both." "True," he said. "And, from what I know of your father's designs, I see that we cannot be too cautious. But, promise me, love; promise, before we part, that, no matter what may arise, nor how long it may be before I gain your father's consent, that you will still keep true to me. Will you promise this?" "Promise it! How could you doubt me? After six years--more I may say, for I loved you ever since I first knew you, ay, Pierre, when I was only a little bit of a bare-footed girl--after being true all that time, surely you will not doubt me now? Promise it! Anything, Pierre-- anything!" Firmer and faster became the folding of their arms, closer and closer came their lips, till meeting, they remained together in a long, rapturous kiss. STORY ONE, CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. THE TREE-CAVE. A long, rapturous kiss, and a kiss that came nigh betraying them. Fortunately, it had ended before anyone was near enough to bear witness to it, or blight its sweetness by rude interruption. The lovers were about taking leave of each other, their arms were once more free, and they were arranging the time and place for another interview, when the quick ear of the young man, attuned to take notice of suspicious sounds, was caught by one that appeared to be of this character. It was a rustling among the canes that bordered the creek, with now and then their culms crackling together as if something--man or animal--was making way through them. The sounds proceeded from a point at some distance; but, as the lovers stood listening, they could tell that, whatever made them, was drawing nearer. And soon they saw that they were not made by an animal, nor yet by a man, but by several men, who, under the clear light of the moon, could be seen approaching the spot. And it could be seen, too, that they were not coming on openly and boldly, like men bent on an honest errand, but skulking along the edge of the creek, here and there crouching under the cane, whose thin growth only partially concealed them. The noise they made was inadvertent. They were not making more than they could help, and, if there was any talk between them, it must have been in whispers, as no words were heard by the two standing under the tree. For them it was too late to retreat unobserved. They might have done so at first; but not now. The skulkers were too near, and any attempt to get away from the spot would expose the lovers under the full light of the moon. Their only chance to remain undiscovered was to keep within the shadow of the tree. Not long before, this, too, appeared doubtful; as they now saw that the dark forms advancing along the edge of the stream must pass close to where they stood--so close as to see them in spite of the obscurity. Who the cautious travellers were, or what their designs, neither had the slightest idea. But it mattered not what. Enough for the lovers to know that they were in danger of being surprised, and under circumstances to cause them chagrin. What was to be done? The skulkers were coming on. They would soon be under the tree! The returned gold-seeker had taken the young girl on his arm--partly with the idea of protecting her should any rudeness he attempted, and partly to inspire her with courage. He was thinking whether it would not be the best for them to step boldly out and show themselves in the open light. It would less expose them to ridicule, though the lateness of the hour--it was now after midnight-- would still render them liable to that. A young lady and gentleman-- they had markedly this appearance--indulging in a moonlight stroll at nigh one o'clock of the morning, were not likely to escape scandal if seen. What was to be done? At this moment a happy thought came up to answer the question. It flashed simultaneously through the minds of both. Both remembered the cavity in the tree; and without a word to one another--both acting under the same impulse--they glided inside, and stood in shadow dark as the dungeon itself! They had scarce time to compose themselves ere the party of intruders came up, and stopped right under the tree. To their chagrin they saw this. They had hoped that such early travellers might be bent upon some distant journey, and that once past the spot they would be themselves free to continue their affectionate leave-taking. They soon perceived that this was not to be. The new comers had halted close up to the trunk, directly in front of the cavity, and although enveloped in deep shadow their figures were distinguishable from the deeper shadow that surrounded the two spectators. Either of these could have touched them by stretching forth a hand! Neither had thoughts of doing this. On the contrary, they stood motionless as marble, both silently striving to keep back their breath. Six figures there were--six men--several of them carrying implements, at first taken for guns, but which, on more prolonged scrutiny, proved to be spades and shovels. From the way they were manipulating these tools it was evident they intended making use of them, and on the spot! The occupants of the tree-cave where puzzled by these preparations. For what were they going to dig? The blood of both ran cold at the thought of its being a _grave_. And both had it. What else could they have thought? Six men, armed with excavating implements, at that unearthly time of the night! And a secret grave, too, for the body of some one whom they had murdered! Else why their stealthy movements, and their talking in low tones, scarce louder than a whisper? Who could they be? And what their purpose? These were the questions that came before the minds of Pierre Robideau and Lena Rook, only in thought; they dared not interrogate one another even in whispers. They stood silent, watching the development of events. "Where can the darned thing be?" asked one of the men, stooping down, and apparently searching for something along the grass. "Who of ye remembers the spot?" "A little farther out, I think," answered a voice that caused Lena Rook to start, and take hold of Pierre's hand. "About here. Yes, here it is. I can feel the lumps upon the turf." The speaker appeared to be groping the ground with his feet. "Alf Brandon!" whispered the girl, with her lips close to her companion's ear. The others gathered around the spot indicated by Brandon. Two who carried spades commenced digging, while a like number of shovel-men followed, throwing out the loose earth. "Wonder how deep the old skunk has buried him?" asked one. "Not very deep, I reck'n. Jerry Rook's too lazy to a dug far down. We'll soon come to it." These were the voices of Bill Buck and Slaughter, the hotel-keeper, recognised by Lena Rook, though not by her companion. "Do you think there's a coffin?" inquired one who had not yet spoken. It was Spence. "No," answered another new speaker, recognised as Lawyer Randall, "I should say not. The old squatter wasn't likely to take that trouble for such a creature as Choc, and, as the fellow had no other friends, I think you'll find him in his deerskin shirt--that is, if Jerry harn't taken the pains to strip him." "The shirt wasn't worth it," remarked a sixth speaker, who was the store-keeper, Grubbs. "The six who hanged you, Pierre!" whispered the girl to him by her side. "The very same!" Pierre made no reply. He was too much occupied in endeavouring to interpret the strange talk, and comprehend the singular scene passing before him. "It's getting hard down here," said one of the spadesmen. "Seems to me I've touched bottom." "Old Jerry must have tramped him tight down," remarked another, adding a slight laugh. "Don't speak so loud, boys!" commanded Brandon. "Look at the house, 'tisn't twenty yards off, and there's a weasel in it that seldom sleeps. If we're heard, you know what'll follow. Keep silent, it may save each of you a hundred dollars a-year." At this appeal the diggers turned their eyes towards the house; but only to give a cursory glance, and back to the ground again. Lena Rook looked longer in that direction, for there was the man she most feared--her father. Intimately acquainted with the precincts of the dwelling, and, of course, better able to tell if anything was stirring, she saw--what had escaped the notice of the body-stealers--the front door standing open! It should have been shut; for, on coming out, she had carefully closed it behind her! She had scarce made the discovery when she saw a figure in the doorway, that, after standing a moment as if to reconnoitre and listen, stole out into the porch, and then, stealthily descending the steps, glided crouchingly towards the cover of the orchard. Only for a moment was it under the moonlight; but the young girl had no difficulty in recognising the form of her father! Something in his hands glistened in the moonlight. It appeared to be a gun. Pierre's attention is called to it by a significant pressure on his arm. Pierre also saw the flitting figure and knew whose it was. The weasel, as Alf Brandon termed him, had not been asleep! And just like a weasel he had acted; in sight only for six seconds, as he shot across the open space between the porch and the peach trees. Once among these, he was invisible to the only eyes that had seen him, those of his daughter and Pierre Robideau. But both expected soon to see him again. He had not gone into the orchard for nothing, and his cat-like movements told that he had suspicion of something astir under the cottonwood, and was stealing round by the creek to approach it unobserved. Whether he yet saw the excavators could not be known, but he must have heard the clinking of their tools as he stood in the doorway. Not one of them either heard or saw him, as, without pausing, they continued their work, Brandon having once again counselled them to silence. "Darned if 'taint the bottom! I told you so," said Bill Buck, striking his spade point against the ground under his feet. "Thar's been neyther pick nor spade into this not since the days of old Noah, I reckon. There! try for yourself, Alf Brandon!" Brandon took the implement offered, and struck it upon the space already stripped, and sunk some eighteen inches below the surface. The ring was that of solid earth that had never been disturbed by a spade. He tried it in several places, all of which gave back the same sound! "Clear out the loose mould!" commanded he. This was done, and once more was the test applied. "There's no grave there," remarked Randall. "Nor body," said Spence. "Not so much as a bone," added Buck; "no, nor never has been. Dog-gone my cats, if old Rook hasn't been humbuggin' us!" "Ha-ha! He--he--he--he!" The sounds thus represented were intended for a laugh, that came from the other side of the tree, and in a voice that did not belong to any of the excavating party. Whatever mirth may have been in the man who uttered them, it failed to communicate itself to any of the six grave-diggers, all of whom, startled at the strange noise, stood staring wildly around them. If the body for which they had been searching had suddenly appeared in their midst, and given utterance to that unearthly cachination, they could not have been more astonished. And their astonishment lasted until a man, well known to them, stepped from behind the tree, and discovered himself in the clear moonlight. "Jerry Rook, by the Eternal!" STORY ONE, CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. THE DIGGERS DISMISSED. "Yes, Jerry Rook, by the Eternal!" exclaimed the old hunter, with another mocking laugh. "An' why thet, I shed like to know? Do it astonish ye to see a man by the side o' his own gurden? I reckin this chile hev got more reezun to be surprised at seem you hyar, one an' all o' ye. Who air ye anyhow?" he asked, drawing nearer to the party, and pretending to examine their faces. "Ef this chile ain't mistaken he heard Bill Buck among ye. Yes, Billee, thet's you, an' Mr Planter Brandon, an' as thar's four more o' ye, I reckin' I kin guess who the t'others air. An' what mout ye a been doin'? Spades and shovels! Ho-- ho! ye've been a grave-diggin', hev ye? Wal, I hope ye've goed deep enough. You're a gwine to berry somebidy, air ye?" There was no reply. The six excavators had thrown down their tools, and stood in sullen silence. "Maybe ye were arter the other thing. Doin' a bit of dissinterry as they call it? Wal, I hope ye foun' what ye hev been rootin' for?" Still no response. "An' so, Mr Bill Buck, you think thet Jerry Rook hez been a humbuggin' ye?" "I do," replied Buck, doggedly. "And so do I." "Yes; so all of us." "Oh! ye're agreed beout thet, air ye? Wal, ye ain't a gwine to humbug _me_ as ye've been jest now a tryin'. I warn't sech a precious fool as to put the poor young fellur's karkiss whar you could kum and scrape it up agin whenever you'd a mind. Ne'er a bit o't. I've got it safer stowed than that, an' I'll take care o't too, till ye refuse to keep to your contract. When any o' ye do that I'll then do a bit o' dissenterry myself, you see ef I don't." The discomfited excavators had once more relapsed into silence. Having nothing to say by which they could justify themselves, they made no attempt. It was no use to deny either what they had been doing, or its design. Jerry Rook saw the one, and guessed the other. "Ye 'pear very silent beout it," he continued, jeeringly. "Wal, ef you've got nothing to say, I reckin you'd better all go hum to yur beds an' sleep the thing over. Preehaps some o' ye may dream whar the body air laid. Ha--ha--ha!" They were not all silent, though their speech was not addressed to him. There was whispering among themselves, in which Bill Buck and Slaughter took the principal part; and had there been lights enough for Jerry Rook to see the faces of these two men, and the demoniac fire in their eyes, as they glanced at him, and then towards the spades, he might have changed his hilarious tune, and, perhaps, made hasty retreat into the house. There was a suggestion that the half-dug grave should be deepened, and a body put into it--the body of Jerry Rook! It came from Slaughter, and was backed by Bill Buck. But the others were not plucky enough for such an extreme measure; and the old squatter was spared. Perhaps his rifle had something to do with the decision. They saw that he had it with him, and, although Jerry Rook was a sexagenarian, they knew him to be a sure and deadly shot. He would not be conquered without a struggle. "What the ole Nick air ye whisperin' 'beout?" he asked, seeing them with their heads together. "Plotting some kind o' a conspyracy, air ye? Wal, plot away. Ef ye kin think o' any way that'll git ye clear o' payin' me your hundred dollars apiece pree-annum, I'd like to hear it. I know a way, myself, maybe you'd like to hear it?" "Let's hear it, then!" "Wal, I am open to a offer, or, I'll make one to you; whichsomever you weesh." "Make it!" "Durn it, don't be so short 'beout it. I only want to be accommodatin'. Ef you'll each an' all o' ye pay me five hundred a piece, down on the nail, an' no darduckshin, I'll gie you a clar receet, an' squar up the hul buzness now!" "We can't give you an answer now, Jerry Rook," interposed the planter, without waiting for the others. "We shall consider your proposal, and tell you some other time." "Wal, tak' yur own time; but remember, all o' ye, thet Saturday nex air the day of the annival settlin'; an' don't fail to meet me at the usooal place. I hain't no spare beds, or I'd ask you all in; but I s'pose ye'll be a goin' back wi' Mr Slaughter thar, an' havin' a drink by way o' night cap? Don't forgit your spades; they mout git stole ef you left 'em hyar." This bit of irony terminated the scene, so far as the disappointed resurrectionists were concerned, who, like, a band of prowling jackals, scared from a carcass, turned in their tracks and sneaked sulkily away. "He! he! he!" chuckled the old pirate, as he stood watching them. "Out of the field--he! he! he!" he continued, stooping over the fresh turned earth, and examining their work. "They _war_ playin' a game wi' poor cards in thar hand--the set o' cussed greenhorns! Durnation!" That this last exclamation had no reference to the episode just ended, was evident from the cloud that passed over his countenance while giving utterance to it. Something else had come into his thoughts, all at once changing them from gay to grave. "Durnation!" he repeated, stamping on the ground, and glancing angrily around him. "I'd most forgotten it! Whar kin the gurl hev gone? "Ain't in her bed; nor ain't a been this night! _Ain't_ in the house neyther! Whar kin she be?" "I thort I mout a foun' her hyar; but this hain't hed nuthin' ter do wi' her. It kedn't a' hed. "Durn me, ef I don't b'lieve she's goed out to meet some un'; an', maybe, that same fellar as shot the snake! Who the red thunder kin he be? By the Eturnal, ef't be so, I'll put a eend to his snake shooting! "Whar _kin_ the gurl be? I shall look all night, or I'll find her. She ain't in the orchart, or I'd a seed her comin' through. An' shurly she ain't goed across the crik? Maybe she's strayed up behint the stable or the corn-cribs? I'll try thar." The hearts of the lovers, so long held in a suspense, almost agonising, began to beat more tranquilly as they saw him pass away from the spot. It was but a short respite, lasting only the time occupied by Jerry Rook in taking ten steps. A hound, beating about the field, had strayed up to the tree and poked his snout into the cavity where they stood concealed. A short, sharp yelp, followed by a growl, proclaimed the presence of something that ought not to be there. "Yoicks! good dog!" cried the ci-devant hunter, quick harking to the cry. "What you got thar?" Hastily returning to the tree, and stopping in front of the dark entrance, he continued-- "Somebidy inside thar? Who air it? Lena, gurl, is't you?" Silence broken only by the baying of the hound. "Hush up, you brute!" cried his master, driving off the dog with a kick. "Hear me thar, you inside! 'Tain't no good playin' possum. Ef it's you, Lena gurl, I command ye to come out." Thus summoned, the girl saw it would be no use disobeying. It could serve no purpose, and would only end in her father stepping inside the cavity and dragging her angrily forth. "I'll go," she whispered to her companion. "But stay you, Pierre, and don't stir! He'll think I'm alone." Pierre had no chance to remonstrate, for on speaking the words, she stepped hastily out, and stood face to face with her father. "So, so! I've foun' you at last, hev I? An' that's the hole in which ye war hidin', is it? Nice place that for a young lady, as ye think yurself, at this time o' night! An' a nice party yer been hevin' clost to ye! Come, gurl! No denial o' what you've been doin'; but give an explanation o' yurself! How kim ye to be hyar?" "O, father! I was walking about. It was such a beautiful night, and I couldn't sleep. I thought I'd come out into the field and have a stroll down here to the old tree. I was standing under it when I saw them coming up--Alf Brandon and the others--" "Wal, go on!" "I couldn't get back without their seeing me, and as I was afraid of them, I slipped inside the hollow." "An' ye war thar all the time, war ye?" "Yes; all the time." "Wal, and what did yur hear?" "A great deal, father. It'll take time to tell it all. If you'll come on into the house, I can repeat better what was said by them. I'm so frightened after what I heard, I want to get away from this horrid place." It was a commendable stratagem to secure the retreat of her lover. Unfortunately it did not succeed. The old squatter was too cautious to be so easily deceived. "O, yes," he said; "I'll go 'long wi' ye into the house; but not afore I've fust seed whether thar ain't somethin' else in the holler o' this tree." His daughter trembled as he gazed towards the entrance, but her trembling turned to a convulsive agony, as she heard the cocking of his rifle, and saw him point it towards the dark cavity in the trunk. With a wild cry, she sprang forward, placing herself right before the muzzle of the gun. Then, in the terrible agitation of the moment, forgetting all else, she shouted: "Come out, Pierre, come out!" "Pierre!" cried the furious father. "What Pierre?" "Oh, father, it is Pierre Robideau!" It was well Lena Rook had grasped the barrel of the rifle and turned it aside, else along with the last speech the bullet would have passed through the body of Pierre, instead of over his head. But it was now too late, and Jerry Rook saw it. The young man had sprung out, and was standing by his side. Any attempt at violence on his part would have ended by his being dashed instantly to the earth. Beside Pierre Robideau he was like an old wasted wolf in the presence of a young, strong panther. He felt his inferiority, and cowered upon the instant. He even assumed the counterfeit of friendship. "Oh, 'tair you, Pierre, is it? I wouldn't a knowed yer. It's so long since I've seed yer. You kin go in, gurl. I want to hev some talk wi' Pierre." Lena looked as though she would have stayed. It was a look of strange meaning, but it wore off as she reflected that her lover could be in no danger now, and she walked slowly away. STORY ONE, CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. A COMPANION. For some seconds Jerry Rook stood in the shadow without saying a word, but thinking intensely. His thoughts were black and bitter. The return of Pierre Robideau would be nothing less than ruin to him, depriving him of the support upon which for years he had been living. Once Buck, Brandon, and Co. should ascertain that he they supposed dead was still living, not only would the payment be stopped, but they might demand to be recouped the sums of which he had so cunningly mulcted them. He had not much fear of this last. If they had not actually committed murder, they would still be indictable for the attempt; and though, under the circumstances, they might not fear any severe punishment, they would yet shrink from the exposure. It was not the old score that Jerry Rook was troubled about, but the prospect now before him. No more black mail; no money from any source; and Alf Brandon his creditor, now released from the bondage in which he had hitherto been held, spited by the rejection of yesterday, would lose no time in coming down upon him for the debt. The quondam squatter saw before him only a feature of gloom and darkness--ejection from his ill-gotten home and clearing--a return to his lowly life--to toil and poverty--along with a dishonoured old age. Mingling with these black thoughts, there was one blacker--a regret that he had not pulled the trigger in time! Had he shot Pierre Robideau inside the tree all would have been well. No one would have known that he had killed him; and to his own daughter he could have pleaded ignorance that there was any one inside. Much as she might have lamented the act, she could scarcely have believed it wilful, and would have said nothing about it. It was too late now. To kill the young man as he stood, in the darkness--it might still have been done--or even at a later time, would be the same as to murder him under the eyes of his daughter. From what she now knew the hand of the assassin could not be concealed. These thoughts occupied Jerry Rook scarce any time. They came and passed like lightning that flashes deadly through dark clouds. This prolonged silence was due to other thoughts. He was reflecting on what course he would take with the man, whose unexpected appearance had placed him in such a dilemma. Turning to the latter, he at length spoke-- "How long 've ye been back, Pierre?" The tone of pretended kindness did not deceive the returned gold-seeker. "I came into the neighbourhood yesterday," he replied, coldly. "Have ye seed any one that know'd ye?" "Not that I am aware of." "Ye'll excuse me for bein' a leetle rough wi' ye. I war a bit flurried 'beout the gurl bein' out, not knowin' who she wur with. There's a lot o' fellars arter her, an' it's but right I shed be careful." Pierre could not object to this. "Of course," pursued Jerry, after another pause of reflection, "ye heerd all that passed atween me an' that lot o' diggers?" "Every word of it." "An' I suppose you know who they war?" "Yes; I have good reason." "Yu're right thar. Ye'll be knowin' then why this chile ain't livin' any more in the ole shanty, but in a good, comftable frame-house, wi' a clarin' roun' it?" "Yes, Jerry Rook, I think I understand that matter." "Yur won't wonder, then, why I tuk so much pains, six years ago, to send yur out o' the way? No doubt yur did wonder at that?" "I did; I don't now. It is all clear enough!" "An' I reck'n it'll be equally clar to ye, thet yur comin' back ain't a gwine to do _me_ any good. Jest ruinates me, that's all." "I don't see that, Jerry Rook." "Ye don't! But this chile do. The minute any o' them six sets eyes on yur my game's up, an' thar's nothin' more left but clear out o' this, an' take to the trees agin. At my time o' life that ere'll be pleasant." "You mean that by my showing myself you would lose the six hundred dollars per annum I've heard you make mention of." "Not only thet, but--I reckin I may as well tell yer--I am in debt to Alf Brandon, an' it war only by his believin' in your death I hev been able to stave it off. Now, Pierre Robideau!" In his turn the gold-seeker stood reflecting. "Well, Jerry Rook," he rejoined, after a time, "as to the black mail you've been levying on these six scoundrels, I have no particular wish to see them relieved of it. It is but a just punishment for what they did to me, and to tell you the truth, it has, to some extent, taken the sting out of my vengeance, for I had come back determined upon a terrible satisfaction. While serving yourself you've been doing some service to me!" "May be," suggested the old pirate, pleased at the turn matters appeared to be taking, "maybe Pierre, ye'd like things to go on as they air, an' let me gi'e you more o' the same sort o' satisfackshun? Thar's a way o' doin' it, without any harm to yurself. It's only for you _to keep out o' sight_." Pierre was again silent, as if reflecting on the answer. He at length gave it. "You speak truth, Jerry Rook. There is a way, as you've said; but it must be coupled with a condition." "What condishun?" "Your daughter." "What o' her?" "I must have her for my wife." Rook recoiled at the proposal. He was thinking of Alf Brandon and the plantation, the grand estate he had so long coveted, and set his heart upon having. On the other side were the six hundred dollars a-year. But what was this in comparison? And coupled with a young man for his son-in-law, who was not even a full-blooded white--poor, perhaps penniless. No doubt he had come back without a dollar in his pocket. Was this certain? He had been to California, the country of gold. From what could be seen of him in the dim light, he appeared well dressed, and his speech proclaimed him well instructed. He had certainly changed much from the time of his departure. He may not have returned either so fortuneless or friendless. These conjectures kept Jerry Rook from making any immediate answer. Taking advantage of his silence, the young man continued-- "I know, Jerry Rook, you will be wanting for your son-in-law some one with means; at least, enough to support your daughter in a decent position in society. I am fortunate enough to have this, obtained by hard toil, in the gold _placers_ of California. If you wish satisfaction on this head, I can refer to the Pacific Banking Company of San Francisco, where, three years ago, I deposited my three year's gatherings--in all, I believe, about fifty thousand dollars." "Fifty thousand dollars! D'ye mean that, Pierre Robideau?" "I mean it. If I had a light here, I could show you the proof of the deposit." "Come into the house, Pierre. I don't mean for a light. Ye'll stay all night? Thar's a spare bed; and Lena'll see to your heving some supper. Come along in." The lucky gold-seeker made no opposition to the proffered hospitality; and in five minutes after he was seated by the fireside of the man who, but five minutes before, had been chafing at having lost the opportunity of spilling his blood! STORY ONE, CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. ANOTHER EAVESDROPPER. Jerry Rook and his guest had scarce closed the door behind them, when a man, who had been skulking behind the cottonwood, came out into the front, and paused upon the spot they had abandoned. He had been on the other side of the tree, from the time they had commenced their conversation, and heard it all. The man was Alfred Brandon! What had brought Alfred Brandon back to the cottonwood? The explanation is easy enough. The six resurrectionists did not go to Helena, as Jerry Rook had hinted they might do. On getting out of Jerry's clearing, only five of them turned towards the town, Brandon going off towards his own home, which was not far off, in the opposite direction. The planter, on parting with the others, instead of continuing homewards, sat down upon a stump by the side of the path, and taking out a cigar, commenced smoking it. He had no particular reason for thus stopping on his way, only that after such a disappointment he knew he could not sleep, and the cigar might do something to compose his exasperated spirit. The night was a lovely one, and he could pass a half-hour upon the stump with reflections not more wretched than those that awaited him in his sleeping-chamber. He was still within earshot of Jerry Rook's house, and he had scarce ignited his cigar, when a sound reached his ear from that direction. It was the yelp of a hound, close followed by the animal's howling. Soon after was heard the voice of a man speaking in harsh accents, and soon after this another voice--a woman's. On the still silent night they were borne to Brandon's ears with sufficient distinctness for him to recognise them as the voices of Jerry Rook and his daughter. It did not need either the angry accent of the one, nor the affecting tone of the other, to draw Alf Brandon to the spot. Starting up from the stump, and flinging himself over the fence, he proceeded towards the place where the voices were still heard in excited and earnest conversation. Had Brandon not feared discovering himself to the speakers, he might have been up in time to see Pierre Robideau step forth from the cavity of the tree, and Lena Rook protecting him from the wrath of her father. But the necessity of approaching unobserved, by skulking along the creek and keeping under cover of the canes, delayed him, and he only arrived behind the cottonwood as the young lady was being ordered into the house. For Alfred Brandon, there was surprise enough without that. The presence of Pierre Robideau, whose name he had heard distinctly pronounced, with the sight of a tall form, dimly shaded under the tree, which he knew must be that of the _murdered_ man, was sufficient to astonish him to his heart's content. It had this effect; and he stood behind the cottonwood, whose shelter he had reached, in speechless wonder, trembling from the crown to the toes. Though his fear soon forsook him, his wonder was scarce diminished, when the dialogue between Jerry Rook and Pierre Robideau furnished him with a key to the mysterious re-appearance of the latter upon the banks of Caney Creek. "God a mercy!" gasped he, stepping from behind the huge tree trunk, and looking after them as they were entering the house. "Here's news for Messrs. Buck, Slaughter, Grubbs, Spence, and Randall! Glad they'll be to hear it, and at last get relief from their debts. This I reckon'll cancel it. "Ah!" he exclaimed, adding a fearful oath; "it's all very well for them, but what matters the money to me? I'd pay it ten times over and all my life to have that girl; and hang me if I don't have her yet for a wife or for worse. Choc still alive and kicking! Cut down then before he got choked outright! Darned if I didn't more than half suspect it from the way old Rook talked about the burying of the body. The precious old pirate; hasn't he bilked us nicely? "Mr Pierre Robideau! yes that was the name, and this is the very fellow. I remember his voice, as if it were but yesterday. Missing for six years! Been to California! and picked up fifty thousand worth of yellow gravel! Lodged it in a bank, too, at San Francisco. No doubt going there again, and will be wanting to take Lena Rook along with him." At this thought another fierce oath leaped from his lips, and the light of the fire-flies as they flitted past his face showed an expression upon it that might have done credit to the stage of a suburban theatre. "Never!" he ejaculated. "Never shall _she_ go, if I can find means to prevent it." He stood for a time reflecting. "There's a way," he again broke forth, "a sure way. Buck would be the man to lend a hand in it. He's crazed about the girl himself, and when he knows there's no chance for him, and thinks it's this fellow stands in the way; besides, he wants money, and wouldn't mind risking something to get it. Buck's the man!" "If he don't I'll do it myself. I will, by the Etarnal! I'd rather die upon the scaffold than this Indian should have her--he or any one else. I've been wild about her for six years. Her refusing has only made me worse. "There can't be much danger if one only gets the chance. He's been away once, and nobody missed him. He can go gold gathering again--this time never to return. He shall do it." An oath again clinched the ambiguous threat. Apparently relieved by having expressed his dark determination, he proceeded in a calmer strain. "Won't they be glad to hear of this resurrection! I wonder if they're still at Slaughter's. They went there--sure to be there yet. I'll go. It'll make their hearts happier than all the liquor in the tavern. Good night, Jerry Rook! Take care of your guest. Next time he goes off it won't be by your sending of him." After this sham apostrophe he struck off across the field, and, once more clambering over the fence, he took the road leading to Helena. STORY ONE, CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. THE STRANGER GUEST. The fifth instalment of "hush-money," that had been paid to Jerry Rook, proved to be the last. On meeting the contracting parties, and applying for the sixth, he found to his great surprise, as well as chagrin, that the grand secret was gone out of his keeping, and his power over them at an end! They were not only prepared to repudiate, but talked of his refunding, and even threatened to lynch him upon the spot. So far from making his claim, he was but too glad to get out of their company. It is probable they would have insisted upon the repayment, or put lynching in practice, but for fear of the scandal that either must necessarily create in the community. To this was Jerry indebted for his escape from their vengeful indignation. "Who could have told them that Pierre Robideau still lived?" This was the question put by Jerry Rook to himself, as he rode back to his house, filled with mortification. He asked it a score of times, amid oaths and angry ejaculations. It could not have been Pierre himself, who was now his welcome guest, and had been so ever since the night of that strange rencontre under the cottonwood? Though the returned gold-seeker had strolled about the clearing, with Lena for a companion, he had never once gone beyond its boundaries, and could scarce have been seen by any outsider. No one-- neighbour or stranger--had been near the house. The half-dozen negroes who belonged to Jerry Rook, had no previous acquaintance with Pierre Robideau's person; and, even had it been otherwise, they would scarce have recognised him now. It was not through them the information had reached Alfred Brandon and his associates. Who, then, could have been the informer? For the life of him Jerry Rook could not guess; and Pierre himself, when told of it, was equally puzzled upon the point. The only conjecture at all probable, was, that some one had seen and identified him--one of the gang themselves; or it might have been some individual totally uninterested, who, by chance, had seen and recognised him, soon after his arrival at the stand. Now that his being alive was known to them, there was no longer any object in his keeping concealed; and he went about the settlements as of yore, at times visiting the town of Helena, for the purchase of such commodities as he required. He had taken up his stay at the house of his former host, and was so often seen in the company of his host's daughter, that it soon became talked of in the neighbourhood. Those who took any interest in the affairs of Jerry Rook's family were satisfied that his daughter, so long resisting, had at length yielded her heart to the dark-skinned, but handsome stranger, who was staying at her father's house. There were few accustomed to have communication with either the quondam squatter or his people. It was a time when there were many new comers among the surrounding settlements, and a stranger, of whatever kind, attracted but slight attention. Under these circumstances Pierre Robideau escaped much notice, and many remarks that might otherwise have been made about him. There were more than one, however, keenly sensible of his existence--his success with Lena Rook--who saw with black bitterness that the smiles of that young lady were being bestowed upon him. Bill Buck was among the number of these disappointed aspirants; but the chief sufferer was Alfred Brandon. With heart on fire, and bosom brimful of jealous rage, he heard all the talk about Jerry Rook's daughter and her stranger sweetheart. It in no way tranquilised his spirits when Jerry Rook returned him his loan of stores and dollars, and promptly on the first demand. It but farther embittered it; for he could not help knowing whence the money had come. He saw that his wealth would no longer avail him. There would be no chance now of reducing the parent to that penury that would give him power over the child. His scheme had fallen through? and he set himself to the concoction of some new plan that would help him either to Lena Rook or revenge. He spent nearly the whole of his time in reflecting upon his atrocious purpose--brooding over it until he had come to the determination of committing murder! Several times he had thought of this, but on each occasion had recoiled at the thought, less from horror of the crime itself, than through fear of the consequences. He had half resolved to make common cause with Bill Buck, and induce him to become a confederate in the foul deed. But the doubtful character of the horse-dealer's son, each day getting darker, had scared him from entering into such a perilous partnership; and he still kept his designs locked up within his own troubled bosom. Strange enough, Buck was at the same time entertaining in his own mind a scheme of assassination, and with the same victim in view. Without suspecting it, Pierre Robideau was in double danger. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ It was about ten days after the returned gold-seeker had taken up his residence at the house of Jerry Rook, when an errand called him to the town of Helena. It was the mending of his bridle-bit, which had been broken by accident, and required to be half an hour in the hands of a blacksmith. It was the bridle he had brought with him from the Choctaw country--an Indian article with reins of plaited horsehair--and as he had no other, it necessitated his going afoot. In this way he started from Jerry Rook's house, leaving Jerry Rook's daughter at the door, looking lovingly after and calling him to come soon back. The distance was not great; and in less than an hour after he was standing in the blacksmith's shop, a tranquil spectator to the welding of his broken bit. There was one who saw him there, whose spirit was less composed--one who had seen him entering the town, and had sauntered after at a distance, careless like, but closely watching him. This was not a citizen of the place; but a man in planter costume, who, by the spurs on his heels, had evidently ridden in from the country. In his hand he carried a rifle, as was common at the time to all going abroad, no matter to what distance, on horseback. The man thus armed and accoutred was Alfred Brandon. There were plenty of other people in the streets, and but few took note of him as he walked carelessly along. No one noticed the lurid light in his eye, nor the tight contraction of his lips that spoke of some dangerous design. Much less were these indications observed by the man who was calling them forth. Standing beside the blacksmith's forge, quietly watching the work, Pierre Robideau had no thought of the eyes that were upon him, nor did he even know that Brandon was in the town. Little dreamt he at that moment how near was a treacherous enemy thirsting for his blood. Brandon's design was to pick a quarrel with the stranger, and before the latter could draw in his defence, shoot him down in his track. In this there would be nothing strange for the streets of Helena, nor anything very reprehensible. Pierre was armed with knife and pistol, but both were carried unseen. All at once the planter appeared to recoil from his purpose, and looking askant, he spent some time in surveying his intended victim, and as if calculating the chances of a rencontre. Perhaps the stalwart frame and strong vigorous arms of the _ci-devant_ gold-seeker rendered him apprehensive about the issue, and caused him to change his resolution. The protruding breast of Pierre Robideau's coat told of pistol or other weapon, and should the first fire fail, his own life, and not that of his unsuspecting adversary, might be the forfeit in the affray. While thus communing with his own mind, a still fouler thought came into it, kindling in his eye with more sinister lights. Suddenly turning away, as if from some change of design, he patrolled back along the street, entered the stable where he had left his horse, and, mounting inside the stable-yard, rode hastily out of the town. STORY ONE, CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. A REVANCHE. About half an hour after the planter had taken his departure from the house, Pierre Robideau paid for the mending of his bridle; and having no other errand to detain him in the town, started homewards afoot as he had come. The road to Jerry Rook's house still corresponded with that leading to Little Rock, only that the latter, now much travelled, no longer passed through the well-known glade--a better crossing of Caney Creek having caused it to diverge before it entered the natural clearing. The old trace, however, was that taken by any one going to Rook's house, and to it Pierre Robideau was making his return from the town. With the bridle lashed belt-like across his shoulders, he was walking unsuspectingly along, thinking how pleased Lena Rook would be at seeing him so soon back. On entering the glade a change came over his spirit, indicated by a dark cloud suddenly overspreading his face. It was natural enough at sight of that too well-remembered tree, recalling not only his own agonies, but the foul murder there committed, for he knew that upon that same tree his unfortunate father, whom he could not think otherwise than innocent, had been sacrificed to the madness of a frantic mob. There still was the branch extended towards him, as if mockingly to remind him of a vengeance still unsatisfied! An impulse came over him he was unable to resist; and yielding to it, he stopped in his track, and stood gazing upon the tree--a strange lurid light shining in his eyes. All at once he felt a shock in the left arm, accompanied by a stinging sensation, as if from the bite of an insect; but it was not this, for, almost at the same instant, he heard the "spang" of a rifle, and saw a puff of smoke flirting up over some bushes directly before him. It was a shot that had been fired; and the blood spirting from his torn coat-sleeve left no doubt of it having been fired at himself. Nor could there be as to the deadly intention, though the damage done was only a slight abrasion of the arm, scarce deeper than the thickness of the skin. Pierre Robideau did not stay to reflect on this. The moment he saw the smoke he sprang forward, and ran on until he had reached the spot where the bushes were still enveloped in the low, scattering, sulphurous vapour. He could see no one there; but this did not surprise him. It was not likely that such an assassin would stay to be discovered; but he must still be near, stealing off among the trees. Suspending his breath Pierre stood to listen. For a time he could hear nothing, not even the rustling of a leaf, and he was beginning to fear that he might again be made the mark of an unseen murderer's bullet, when the screech of a jay came sharply through the trees. It gave him instant relief, for he knew by the compressed scolding of the bird that some one was intruding upon its haunts. It must be the retreating assassin! Guided by the chattering of the jay, he recommenced the pursuit. He had not gone twenty yards farther when he heard footsteps, and the "swish" of leaves, as if some one was making way through the underwood. Directed by these sounds he rushed rapidly after. Ten seconds more and he was in sight of a saddled horse, standing tied to a tree, and a man in the act of untying him. The man was making all haste, hindered by a heavy rifle carried in his hand. It was the gun that had just been discharged, and Pierre Robideau had recognised the man who had made the attempt to murder him. Alfred Brandon! With a shout, such as only one Indian-born could give, he bounded forward, and, before the retreating assassin could climb into his saddle, he seized him by the throat and dashed him against the trunk of a tree. The horse, frightened by the fierce onslaught, gave a loud neigh, and galloped off. "I thank you," cried Robideau, "and you alone, Mr Alf Brandon, for giving me this chance! I've got you exactly where I wanted you! For six years I've been longing for this hour, and now it has come as if I'd planned it myself." Brandon, by this time recovered from the shock, threw down his gun, drew pistol, and was about to fire; but, before he could get his finger on the trigger, his antagonist seized him by the wrist, and, wrenching the weapon from his hand, dashed him a second time against the tree trunk. Reeling and giddy, he saw the muzzle of his own pistol pointed at his head, and expected nothing else than the bullet through his brains. The cry of the coward came from his lips as he writhed under the terrible anticipation. To his astonishment the shot was not fired! Pierre Robideau, flinging the pistol away, stood before him apparently unarmed! "No, Mr Alf Brandon!" said he, "shooting is too good for such a dog as you; and a dog's death you shall have. Come away from here! Come on! I want to see which of us can _hang longest by the hand_. We tried it six years ago, but the trial wasn't a fair one. 'Tis your turn now. Come on!" More than ever astonished, Brandon hesitated to comply. The calm yet determined air of his antagonist told him it was no jest, but that something terrible was intended. He glanced stealthily to the right and left, and seemed to calculate the chances of escape. Robideau read his thoughts. "Don't attempt it," said he, throwing back the lapel of his coat, and showing the butt of a pistol. "I have this, and will use it if you make any effort to get off. Come!" Saying this, he seized the cowering ruffian by the wrist, and, half leading, half dragging, hurried him away from the spot. In five minutes after they stood under a tree--the same upon which Pierre Robideau had endured all the horrors of hanging. "What do you mean to do?" asked Brandon, in a faltering voice. "I've told you. I am curious to see how long _you_ can stand it." As he said this, he unloosed the bridle-reins from his body, and, taking out his knife, commenced cutting them free from the bit. It was a double rein, composed of two long pieces of closely-plaited hair taken from the tail of a horse. Brandon stood pale and trembling. He could not fail to interpret the preparations that were being made. Once more he thought of flight, and once more Pierre Robideau read his thoughts. "It is no use," he said sternly; "you are in my power. Attempt to get out of it, or resist, and I dash your brains out against that tree. Now, your wrist in this rope." Feeble with fear, Brandon allowed his left hand to be seized, and his wrist drawn into a noose made of one of the bridle-reins. The other end of the cord was passed around his thigh, and then brought back and secured by a firm knot, so as to hold the arm helpless by his side. This done, the other rein, with a running loop, was adjusted round his neck, its loose end thrown over one of the large branches. "Now," cried Robideau, "mount upon this log, and take hold, as you made me do. Quick, or I jerk you up by the neck!" Bewildered, Brandon knew not what to do. Was his enemy in earnest, or was it only a grim jest? He would fain have believed it this; but the fierce, determined look of Robideau forbade him to hope for mercy. He remembered at this moment how little he was deserving of it. He was left no time to reflect. He felt the noose tightening around his neck, and the cord stretching taut above him. In another instant he was drawn from the ground and, mechanically throwing up his right arm, he caught hold of the branch. It was the only chance to save him from almost instant strangulation! "Now," cried Robideau, who had sprung upon the log and made the rope fast to the upper limb, "now, Mr Alf Brandon, you're just as you left me six years ago. I hope you'll enjoy the situation. Good day to you!" And, with a scornful laugh, Pierre Robideau strode away from the spot. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ All the agony that can be endured by a man who sees death before him, and sees no chance to escape it, was at that hour endured by Alfred Brandon. In vain he shouted till he was hoarse, till his cries could have been no longer heard a hundred yards from the tree, soon to become his gallows. There was no response, save the echo of his own voice. No one to hear or to heed it! He had no expectation of being saved by the man who had just left him. That scornful laugh at parting precluded all hope: though in his agonised struggle he begged aloud for mercy, calling upon Pierre Robideau by name. Pierre Robideau came not to his assistance; and, after a long struggle-- protracted to the utmost point of endurance--till the arm, half disjointed, could no longer sustain his body, he let go his hold, and dropped _to the ground_. The peals of derisive laughter that rang in his ears as he lay exhausted upon the earth, were not pleasant--the less so that a female voice was heard taking part in it. But even this was endurable after the dread agony through which he had passed; and hurriedly springing to his feet, and releasing his neck from the rope, he sneaked off among the trees, without staying to cast a look at Pierre Robideau or Lena Rook, who, standing by the edge of the glade, had been witness to his unnecessary contortions. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Our tale is told, so far as it might interest the reader. What afterwards happened to the different character who have figured in it, were but events such as may occur in every-day life. There was nothing strange in a young man, with a taint of Indian blood in him, marrying the daughter of a backwoods-settler, and carrying her off to California; nothing strange, either, that the father of the girl should sell off his "improvement," and make the far-western migration along with them. And this was the history of Jerry Rook, his daughter, and his daughter's husband; all three of whom, in less than twelve months after, might have been seen settled in their new home, on the far shore of the Pacific, and surrounded with every comfort required upon earth. There Pierre Robideau had nothing further to fear from the hostility of early enemies, or the vengeance of jealous rivals; there Lena Rook, no longer exposed to social humiliation, had the opportunity of becoming that for which nature had intended her--an ornament of society; and there, too, her father found time to repent of the past, and prepare himself for that future which awaits alike the weary and the wicked. Of his crimes, both committed and conceived, Jerry Rook died repentant. The fate of Alfred Brandon was somewhat similar to that of his father. Drink brought him to a premature grave; though, unlike his father, he died without heir and almost without heritage, having spent the whole of his property in the low dissipation of the tavern and the gaming-table. His executors found scarce sufficient to pay for the hearse that carried him to the grave. With Bill Buck it was different. His funeral, which occurred shortly after, was at the public expense--his grave being dug near the foot of the gallows on which he had perished for many crimes committed against society, the last and greatest being a cold-blooded murder, with robbery for its motive. Spencer, Slaughter, Randall, and Grubbs, lived to take part in the late fratricidal war--all four, as might be expected, embracing the cause of secession, and all, it is believed, having perished in the strife, after the perpetration of many of those cruel atrocities in which the state of Arkansas was most conspicuously infamous. Helena still stands on the banks of the mighty river, and there are many there who remember the tragedy of Dick Tarleton's death; but few, if any, who have ever heard the tale of "The Helpless Hand." STORY TWO, CHAPTER ONE. THE FALCON ROVER. THE DISCOVERY. A mystery! By heaven, I'll find it out. If a man may!--_The Maiden_. Speed, Malise, speed!--_Lady of the Lake_. One of the most lovely pictures in lowland scenery which I have ever looked upon is that around the mouth of a river which I have called the Clearwater (the English translation of its Indian name), and which flows between two of the southern counties of the western shore of Maryland. From the northern shore of that stream, in this place wide and beautiful, stretches out a long, flat strip of white sand, which is covered here and there with patches of crab-grass, and of that kind of cactus commonly called the prickly pear. On the western side of this strip of sand is a deep and capacious harbour, much resorted to by bay-craft and sea-going vessels, while waiting for a fair wind up or down the bay. On its eastern side extends a gulf, or indentation of the coast, called by sailors, if I remember rightly, Patuxent Roads, and which expands towards, and mingles with, the broad and beautiful Chesapeake. Along the shores of this gulf are shoals, famous in the country round as resorts of the fish called drums, which circumstance has given the name of Drum Point to the beach extending, as described, between the Clearwater and Maryland's noble bay. On the northern side of Drum Point harbour, and near to where the point begins to curve away from the mainland, stood, during the second decade of this century (and, indeed, for many years afterwards), a long, single-storey frame building. This building, though placed upon the sands, was still many yards away from the highest line reached by the water at high tide. Directly behind it the land rose with a rapid swell to a plateau, some thirty or forty feet above the shore of the harbour. This frame structure was what is called in the United States a store, and contained for sale such articles as are most in demand among seamen. It belonged to an individual whom, for many reasons, I will call by a fictitious name, Ashleigh, and who owned an estate of several hundred acres, embracing all the eastern line of the harbour shore, and extending some distance into the country behind it. At the time of which I write, mysterious and very injurious stories, about the owner of this store, circulated in the neighbouring country on both sides of the Clearwater. It was said that he concealed smuggled goods, and even goods captured by pirates on the high seas, until an opportunity should occur for secretly conveying them to Baltimore for sale; and that he was implicated in some way in the trials for piracy held before one of the United States courts in Baltimore, in the early part of the present century. At about half-past twelve o'clock, on a night towards the end of May, in the year 1817, three human figures stood upon the hill-side, overlooking Drum Point harbour. The principal form in the group was that of John Alvan Coe, a handsome young man of twenty-one or twenty-two years of age, tall, and well proportioned. When seen in the day-time, his clear blue eyes, Roman nose, and light chestnut hair, indicated a sanguine but gentle character, and one endowed with dauntless courage, controlled by a reflective mind. This young gentleman, the son of a planter in the neighbourhood, once wealthy, but now much reduced in worldly circumstances, was returning from his sport of night-fishing for drums, accompanied by two sturdy negro men, who bore between them, suspended upon a pole, the ends of which rested upon their shoulders, a large basket, heavily laden with the scaly trophies of their recent sport. Young Coe, while passing on his way to the fishing, about sunset, along the hill-side on which he now stood, had noticed, among the two or three vessels in Drum Point harbour, a beautiful brig of about a hundred and twenty tons burden. She was remarkable among the other vessels for her graceful figure, and the neat and trim appearance of everything on board of her. On his return from the fishing, after leaving his boat hauled up on the beach of a small cove on the east side of Drum Point, his path lay across the low and sandy neck of land connecting the point with the mainland, and then in a gradual ascent along the green hill-side overlooking the harbour. While pursuing this path he had halted, with his companions, in a position from which he could view to the best advantage the fair and romantic scene which lay before him. The moon, which was at its full, shed a softly brilliant silvery light over land and water. Away towards the west spread the beautiful lake-like expanse of the river--above five miles in length by two miles in width--which is bounded northward and southward respectively by the counties before referred to, eastward by Drum Point, and westward by the long, slender and curving, and still more lovely Point Patience. The waters of this fair expanse, softly stirred by a light breeze, gleamed with myriads of lights and shadows under the moonlight spell. The front of the low bluffs on the Saint Mary's side of the river, and the broad beach of sand beneath them, glowed softly white in the beautiful light. It was impossible that one endowed with the temperament of John Alvan Coe could avoid, although constantly accustomed to scenes of natural beauty, allowing his gaze to rest for a moment upon the charming view before him. His attention was soon arrested, however, by something which was occurring in the harbour under the hill on which he stood. The only vessel remaining there was the beautiful brig which he had noticed at sunset. Three boats, apparently heavily laden, had left the brig and were coming towards the shore. Soon afterwards the young man saw a light shining out from one of the back windows of the storehouse on the beach. There were some peculiarities in the character, or rather mental constitution, of young Coe, with which it is necessary that I should acquaint the reader, before we proceed farther in the narrative, of the remarkable series of occurrences which arose to him out of the incidents of this night. He not only loved danger for its own sake, but was endowed with great fondness for romantic and stirring adventures. He had a great and at times irresistible curiosity to investigate whatever presented the appearance of darkness and mystery. In childhood this peculiarity had mainly exhibited itself in a fondness for unravelling riddles and conundrums; in more advanced youth, by solving, with great patience and industry, the most difficult problems in mathematics. The penetration of the meaning of the movement of the boats from the brig at such an hour irresistibly called to mind, as it did, the mysterious reports of smugglers and pirates in connection with this place, presented an especial fascination to a mind constituted as was his. His resolution was immediately formed to discover, at all hazards, the meaning of what was taking place beneath him. It should have been mentioned before, perhaps, that the hill-side above the harbour was covered, to a great extent, with a growth of bushes, with a tree here and there. It was under one of the latter, whose dense shadow hid them from the view of those in the boats, that the fishing-party stood, while young Coe was making the observations recorded above. As soon as he formed the resolution already mentioned, the young man addressed the two negro men-- "Boys," he said, "take up the basket"--they had put it down to rest themselves--"and go on. I shall follow you very soon. But do not wait for me, even though I should not overtake you before you get home." The two negroes resumed their load and again started on their path. The young man waited until they had passed out of sight over the hill, and until the boats had landed and the men belonging to them had, after a number of trips between the boats and the storehouse, transferred all the lading to the latter, and themselves remained under its roof. He then cautiously descended the hill, concealing himself as much as possible by interposing, whenever he could do so, the bushes between himself and the shore. In a few minutes he arrived beneath the window of the store-room from which the light that he had before observed was still shining. Guardedly he looked in. The counter had been entirely removed from its place, revealing a long and narrow opening in the floor, and steps leading downwards. Silks and other costly dry goods, and a number of boxes and other closed packages, were piled on the counter and floor. A lamp, casting a bright light, stood upon the counter, and another light shone from an opening in the floor; and men were seen carrying the merchandise into the cellar to which the steps below the floor led, and returning at short intervals for more. Two or three other men were standing on the floor of the store-room; one or the other of whom seemed, from time to time, to be giving directions to those who were removing the piles of goods to the apartment below. There was a tall and handsome man on the side of the room opposite to the window at which young Coe was standing, who leaned against the closed door which looked, when opened, upon the river. This man wore a dark dress, and a black hat with a broad slouched brim, which threw a dense shadow over the upper part of his countenance. The long black beard from his unshaven face reached half way from his chin to his waist. This man did not speak, except to make a remark now and then to the two or three men who were not engaged in removing the goods. Among all the men whom young Coe saw, there was not one whom he recognised as having been seen by him before. If Mr Ashleigh himself was engaged in what was taking place, he must have been in the cellar. John Alvan Coe had barely time to make the observations recorded above, when the tall and quiet individual, who was leaning against the closed door, beckoned to a man near him, to whom he made some remarks in a low tone. This man immediately spoke to the others who were standing about on the floor of the store room. Instantly all in the room who were not engaged in removing the goods--except the long-bearded man who wore the slouched hat, and who, with a motion not at all hurried, opened for them the door against which he had been leaning--sallied forth upon the sands. The young man waited for no further development. Supposing very naturally, what was the case, that he had been discovered, and that this party were sent in pursuit of him, he immediately turned away from the window and plunged into the pathway leading up the hill towards Mr Ashleigh's residence. No action, under the circumstances, could have shown the quick perception and ready decision of his mind to more advantage than his at once taking to this pathway; for, after he was once seen by his pursuers, his concealing himself amongst the few trees and scattered clumps of bushes along the hill-side would have been no safeguard under the almost daylight brightness of the clear moonlight. Such a course would have given to his pursuers only a limited space of ground to search over at their leisure, with the absolute certainty of discovering his place of concealment and making him prisoner. His taking the plain pathway to the hill-top made his escape depend upon his fleetness of foot, but only for a short distance; the hill once surmounted, a dense forest spread for miles along the route which he had to pursue. He had no uneasiness or doubt in trusting to his speed; for, inured by daily exercise, he had long been considered the boldest leaper and fleetest runner in all the country side. STORY TWO, CHAPTER TWO. THE PURSUIT. *Hahn*. My lord, he has escaped. *Otto*. Have thou no fear; he shall be prisoner. I know the bird, his ways, where he frequents; And I shall lime a twig, upon the which I'll easily entice him to alight.--_Oldenheim_. The noise of the footsteps passing out of the door brought from the cellar a tall and slender elderly man, with black eyes, and dark hair thickly interspersed with grey. This individual seemed to be in a state of much excitement. "What is the matter, Captain Vance?" he asked. "What has happened?" "Nothing of much importance," answered the dark man with the black slouched hat, who was again leaning, as when first seen by John Alvan Coe, against the door, which opened upon the sands. "I caught sight of a man looking in upon us just now through the back window." "Do you consider that fact as of not much importance?" said the elderly man from the cellar. "If you were in my position, I think that you would entertain a different opinion." "Oh!" exclaimed the captain in a careless manner, "he was only `A chiel amang us takin' notes.' I am very sure that he will never `prent 'em.' I shall take especial pains that he shall never have a chance of doing so." "The men who went out just now then," remarked the elderly man, in an interrogative manner, "were sent to catch him?" "Yes," was the laconic reply. "God grant that they may catch him!" exclaimed the grey-headed man, in an earnest tone. "If I were you, I would not call upon God in such a case," said Captain Vance, whose coolness and self-possession afforded a complete contrast to the excitement and alarm conspicuous in the bearing of his elder companion. "You had better turn your face downward than upward when you call for help; for you are more likely to have sympathy, in the present business, from the powers below than from the powers above. If prayer is the longing of the heart rather than the speech of the lips--as I heard the man who was looking in at the window say a year or so ago--you would have more chance for help by praying to the devil, Mr Ashleigh; that is, if his infernal majesty should think that any more assistance to you is needed to buy you." "It is evident, captain," retorted Mr Ashleigh, "that you are now in one of your philosophical moods, as Billy Bowsprit calls them. I cannot see, however, that, even in the view of our relative positions which you are now taking, you have any advantage of me. I have long been familiar with the saying that `the receiver is as bad as the thief;' but I have never heard, if my memory serves me rightly, that the receiver is worse than the thief." "Nevertheless, I have the advantage of you," quietly answered Captain Vance. "I do not pretend to be any better than I am; I do not `wear the livery of heaven to serve the devil in.'" "Not in `your vocation, Hal,'" said Mr Ashleigh; "that is, not here, on shipboard; but at home you are, I am sure, just as much a hypocrite as I am." "There is some pith in that retort," replied Captain Vance, in a somewhat yielding tone. "Ah! we are all more or less hypocrites, Mr Ashleigh; as the poet says, `we are all shadows to each other.'" "Besides," continued Mr Ashleigh, "nobody in this neighbourhood would recognise you in that disguise and by this light; whereas, this building is known to belong to me, and the discovery of the business which is carried on here would, therefore, ruin me." "Pardon the lightness of my manner of speaking," said the young man, in an earnest tone of voice. "My real reason for speaking so was not on account of want of concern in your interests, but because there is, in fact, no danger to you, or to any one of us, in any discovery made by the individual who just now peeped in upon us." "I think that you intimated, a few moments ago," remarked Ashleigh, "that you know the person who was reconnoitring us. Who is he?" "John Alvan Coe," was the answer; "son of old Mr Coe, who owns a plantation at the head of Saint John's Creek, a few miles from this place." "Then I am lost," exclaimed Ashleigh, in increased alarm. "No man in this county--I may say in this State--can surpass him in ferreting out a secret, when once he has obtained a hint of it." "I am as familiar with that peculiarity in his character as you are," remarked Captain Vance. "But I have a plan partly formed in my head, which, I am almost sure, will not only render him harmless, but will also add a very brave and intelligent member to my ship's company. I have but little hope that those who have gone in pursuit of him will overtake him. He is the fleetest runner that I ever knew; and sailors make but poor comparative headway on land." "What is your plan?" asked Ashleigh. "It is not yet perfectly formed," answered Vance. "It is still in the crucible of the brain; and I cannot tell what shape it will take until it has come out complete." "You had better be in a hurry then," said the elder speaker. "There is but little time to act; when he has once told what he has witnessed here to another, the information will spread and spread, and there will be no stopping it. And then the consequences--ah! `that way madness lies.'" "Feel no uneasiness," said Captain Vance, in a tone of perfect confidence. "He shall take his breakfast on board of the _Falcon_ to-morrow morning." "It is some relief to me to hear you speak so confidently," remarked Ashleigh. "Still I cannot help fearing that trouble will grow out of this thing. I wish that my advice in one respect had been followed, and that we had waited for a few days, until the moon will set before daylight, so that we might have had an hour or two of absolute darkness for our work." "I have before represented to you," replied Captain Vance, "that we should have run still greater risk by such a course, perhaps have had the revenue officer down upon me, while I had all these men on board, and such a quantity of goods for which I have no bill of lading. What suspicions would have been aroused by my lingering round here for a week at least, with no excuse on account of stress of weather for the delay!" "Well," observed Ashleigh, with an uneasy sigh, "there is some force in what you say; and it is too late now to discuss the matter." "Oh!" said Vance, in a light and cheerful manner, "there is no need of sighing, I assure you. This affair of young Coe does not disturb me at all. It only determines me to do at once what I have often thought of undertaking. I have no doubt, as I said before, that it will only result in adding a new and unusually valuable member to our force. He is remarkably intelligent, and as brave as a lion." "I hope that your impressions may prove correct," remarked Ashleigh, in a manner that still expressed uneasiness. At this moment the door was opened from the outside, giving entrance to a male individual of a somewhat comical appearance. He was rather under five feet in height, and was what is called "square built," that is, his form and limbs were very stout, or rather, perhaps, thick; and his waist was nearly as wide as his shoulders or his hips. His hair was of a reddish-brown or tawny colour, of exuberant growth, and worn in long, clustering curls which swept his shoulders. His face was deeply tanned by sun and weather; and the scar of a sabre-cut above his left eye caused the eyebrow on that side to be below the line of its fellow. The eyes were of a reddish hazel colour, and their expression showed that their possessor had an appreciation of the humorous, but that there was also "a lurking devil" in his composition. He was dressed in the ordinary sailor costume of that as well as of the present period, of blue cloth roundabout, with many small brass buttons, coarse Osnaburg trowsers, considerably soiled, light pumps, and a tarpaulin hat. "Well, Billy," said the captain, "what luck?" "No luck at all, as far as I am concerned," was the answer. "A short, broad-beamed lugger like me has no more chance of overhauling a trim, well-rigged craft like that long-legged fellow, who has been taking liberties with our harmless secrets, than a Dutch drogger has to beat upon a wind a Baltimore clipper." Baltimore was even then, the reader will recollect, famed for the fleetness of her vessels. "Where are the other two?" asked Captain Vance. "I don't know, indeed, captain," replied Billy. "When I got to the top of the hill they were all hull down; and I thought that I had better steer for port before I had lost all my bearings. So here I am. I think, by-the-bye, that that long-legged fellow will get the weather-guage of all of them. Do you know his name, captain?" Billy was a privileged character with his captain, who, in fact, was generally more familiar with his men than is usual with officers in chief command. "Yes," answered Captain Vance; "his name is Coe." "That's just the very name for him," said the sailor. "I have often heard that, in the merchant-houses, `Co.' sometimes stands for more than one man; and I know that this fellow is fully equal to two. Indeed, I think that he'll prove himself too much for all of us to-night. He runs like a clipper before the wind." The door again opened, and two seamen entered, both dressed in costumes similar to that of the last-comer before them. One was evidently a common sailor; the other was a stout, compactly-built man, about five feet six or seven inches in height, of a swarthy complexion, with dark and lowering eyes, and a generally stern and forbidding expression of countenance. His dark hair, somewhat mingled with grey, was, contrary to the usual sailor fashion, cut closely to his head; but he wore all of his grizzled, straight, and uncurling beard long. He seemed to be about forty years of age. This man interlarded his talk with many oaths of the rudest character. I prefer to omit them in reporting his conversation. "Well, Mr Afton," said Captain Vance, in a pleasant tone, addressing this individual, "where is your prisoner?" "Prisoner?" was the rough answer, "I once was told of a man who was such a fool as to undertake to run a race with the moon; but he had a sight more chance of winning his race than we had of winning ours. We overtook, in the pursuit, two stupid negroes carrying a load of fish. I thought that they had probably seen him, and could, therefore, give us some information with regard to our chase; but though I cut some tough hickory rods, and they were both well thrashed, we could get nothing out of them." "That was useless, to say the least of it," said the captain, with some sternness. "Of course, if they had seen him, they would have told you without having been cruelly beaten." Mr Afton indulged himself in a few more oaths, and a heavy frown came upon his face. The captain seemed to take but little notice, however; and there was silence for a few moments. This silence was broken by Mr Afton. "If I knew who that spying fellow is, and where he lives, captain," he said, with more respect in his tones and manner, "I would, with your consent, take a few of the men, storm the house, capture him, and bring him aboard." "I know the man," replied Captain Vance, "and also where he is to be found. But there is no need of resorting to the violent means which you recommend--which, by-the-bye, would destroy our trade here, by making it unsafe for us to visit this harbour or its neighbourhood any more. I think that I have a better plan. I know well the character of the man who was watching us, and since you started in pursuit of him, have thought of a plan by which I shall have him peaceably on board of the brig early to-morrow morning, before he shall have an opportunity of communicating with any one. Trust the matter to me; I feel not the least doubt of my success. I will speak to you further on the subject presently." From the time that Afton, Billy, and the other sailor had gone in pursuit of young Coe, the process of removing the bales and boxes of goods to the cellar had been unremittingly continued. Soon after Billy Bowsprit's return, Mr Ashleigh had gone down into the cellar again, to resume the superintendence of the storage of the merchandise. Shortly after the close of the conversation recorded above, between the captain and the first-mate, the merchant reascended to the store-room, and announced that the goods were all safely put away. He was followed by the sailors who had been engaged in carrying down the packages. "Come, boys," said the store-keeper, addressing those who had come with him out of the cellar; "let us put the slide and the counter back into their places, and put the store-room again in order. Our night's work will then be finished. I, for one, shall be glad of it, for I am both tired and sleepy." In a few moments afterwards, and while Captain Vance was holding a short, whispered conversation with Mr Afton, his first-mate, the doors and windows of the store-room were made fast. Then the merchant took his way up the hill to his house, and the seafaring people, all but one, returned to the brig. STORY TWO, CHAPTER THREE. THE EARLY VISITOR. *Teler*. 'Tis a brave venture, our good master Jansen, And needs a man of pluck to carry it. *Jansen*. Danger, say you? and mystery to back it! Say no more, Teler--I'm the man for you.--_Old Drama_. Millmont, the residence of Thomas Coe, Esq, on his plantation of the same name, near the head of Saint John's creek, was a large, two-storey frame building, with single-storey wings. Each of these wings contained one room, with an attic above, and was connected with the main building by a short and narrow passage or entry. In one of these wings was the chamber of John Alvan Coe. It was a large room, with windows sheltered by Venetian blinds, and opening almost to the floor. A large yard, shaded by several old trees, extended from the front of the house and from the gables of the wings; the garden, in the usual fashion when attached to plantation houses of that time, was on the fourth side, or in the rear of the buildings. John Alvan Coe not only escaped from his pursuers, but arrived home before the two negro men who had accompanied him. He at once entered his room, and in a few moments--having first loaded his pistols and placed them on a table near the head of his bed, and having seen that the window-shutters were all made fast--sprung into bed, and was soon deep in that sound and refreshing sleep which fatigue always assures to healthy youth. About four o'clock, or at the earliest "peep of day," the young man was aroused from his slumbers by a light, grating noise, made by running a stick or a finger down along the outside of the Venetian shutters of one of the windows of his room. He immediately started from his sleep. "Who is there?" he exclaimed. "Get up, John, and let me in, quickly," said a voice from the outside of the window. "I have something interesting to tell you." "Is that you, Harry Marston?" asked John. "Wait a moment till I get on some of my clothes." In a few minutes the early visitor was admitted into the chamber. It was, as John had supposed, Henry Marston, the son of a wealthy planter in the neighbourhood. Being of an adventurous and roving disposition, he had been unwillingly allowed by his parents, some years before, to enter upon a seafaring life. He had risen rapidly in his chosen profession, and was now captain of the _Sea-bird_, a merchant vessel in which his father owned an interest, and which was engaged in trading between Baltimore and certain ports in the West Indies and along the Spanish main. Young Marston was tall and handsome. His hair and the slight moustache which shaded his upper lip were of dark brown hue. His dark, hazel eyes were expressive, at the first glance, of both gentleness and resolution; but a second, and more observant look, discovered something more in them--a something that created uneasiness and a want of trust. Every movement of his body seemed instinct with grace. His voice was soft and musical, but it did not at all remind you of the singing of birds or of the tones of other cheerful and innocent creatures. Still, there was a peculiar fascination in his speech and manner, which possessed a great influence over certain natures. The young man was on this occasion dressed in a handsome suit of black broadcloth. "How _are_ you, Harry?" exclaimed John, as soon as his visitor entered the room. "This is, indeed, a surprise, and a delightful one. When did you get back home?" "Last night," was the answer, "or, rather, I should say this morning, since it was fully one o'clock when I got home. Everybody was aroused from sleep by my arrival; and the old folks insisted upon dressing and coming down to see me at once. All the little ones, too, came out of their nests to see the long-absent Harry. Thus, it was nearly three o'clock before I got a chance of retiring to my chamber, by which time the excitement of seeing so many loved ones banished from me all weariness and inclination to sleep. And this brings me to the cause of my so early visit to you." "In the delight of seeing you," said John, "I had forgotten that subject entirely." "When I entered my chamber," continued Henry Marston, "I found upon the floor, directly in front of the door by which I had come in, this singular and enigmatical card, enclosed in an envelope directed to my address--`Captain Henry Marston, Blue Oldfields'--the name of my father's place, you know. Remembering your fondness for adventure--we are alike in that respect, in truth--I came over here at once, to ask your assistance in developing the mystery. There is no time for delays, you see, as to-day is the twenty-first." The young sailor handed to his friend a card, on which was written, in letters imitating print, these words: _May 21st, 1817, at 5:12 a.m_. At the Spout. _The number is_ *eight*. Be *Prompt*--*Be True*. _Forget not the Pass_. "A F E." "What do you want to do?" asked John, after reading the words on the card. "I can make but little meaning out of this." "Why, of course," replied Marston, "I want you to go with me to this rendezvous. I am determined to find out the mystery. You see, there will be eight there--seven besides myself; at any rate, that is what I understand the card to mean. If anything be wrong, I can scarcely hope to contend successfully against seven men. At an hour so early, few upon whom I could call for help will be about--probably not one at that lonely place. Yet I am determined, at all hazards, to solve the mystery. If you think there is too much risk in the affair, John, I will go by myself." "As to that matter," said John, "you know that I don't care about the risk, as you call it; so that if you are determined to go I will accompany you. But the affair may be only a joke; and I don't wish to do anything that will make me the subject of laughter." "It may be a joke to try my courage," observed Marston. "In any view of the case," he continued, after a pause, "I am determined to make the venture." "And I shall accompany you," said John. "The place designated, I suppose, is the Spout on Saint Leonard's Creek?" "Of course it is," was the answer. "There is no other place in this neighbourhood called the Spout." "But my going with you," said John, reflectively, "may be the very cause of danger to you, since I have received no card of invitation. By the way, what is that piece of paper on the floor behind you near the door. Bless my life!" he continued, picking up the paper; "it is addressed to me, and contains, word for word, a card like the one addressed to you." "You will go now, I suppose, unhesitatingly," said Captain Marston. "Certainly," was the reply. "But I had better awaken one of the servants, and leave a message for the family." "There is no use in doing that," said Henry. "I left no message at home. We shall be back, in all probability, by the time they are up. Have you not a pair of pistols? I remember that we each bought, in Baltimore, a pair precisely alike, during my last visit home. We should go well armed, and in that condition, I think, as we are both good shots, and not at all nervous, that we shall be very nearly, if not quite, a match for the other six." "My pistols," answered young Coe, "are here on the table, and ready for use. I loaded them immediately on my return from a drum-fishing excursion last night, on account of an adventure which befell me on my way home. This card may have something to do with that adventure." "Ah! What is that adventure to which you refer!" asked Captain Marston, with much expression of interest. While young Coe was relating to his friend the incidents of the night, he was also engaged in dressing. During the process of dressing, while young Coe's eyes were turned for a moment or two away from Marston, the latter took up the pistols which had been lying upon the table, and placed them in his pockets, and immediately afterwards put upon the table in their place another pair of pistols which were precisely similar in appearance to the former, and which he had withdrawn from another pair of pockets in his dress. "What befell you last night," remarked the captain, when John had concluded his narrative, "can have nothing to do with the present affair, because they could not have recognised you under the circumstances; and, besides, I should not have received a card as well as you, since I had nothing to do with that adventure." "True," replied John. "Yet I may have been recognised; who knows but that one or more persons of this neighbourhood who knows me are engaged in this smuggling business, and were there disguised? Moreover, the card sent to you also may be intended to put me off my guard." "If you feel any uneasiness about the matter," said Captain Marston, "you had better, perhaps, not go. I shall go, however, at all risks." "Oh!" exclaimed John, in an easy tone; "my thinking the affair a plot will not prevent me from trying to discover its meaning. If it be a trap to catch me, that trap is well set; for what is more apt to draw one on to adventure than mystery, especially when that mystery is awaited on by apparent peril? I am determined to solve the riddle, let it be attended by what danger it may be." "Come, then," said the captain, "are you ready? If so, let us go at once. Time is pressing." The two men then left the house, and proceeded to the stable, where John soon saddled two horses for the ride. Mounting, they rode slowly, for fear of disturbing the sleep of the household, down a land bordered with old cherry-trees, which led from the dwelling at Millmont to the public road at the distance of a few hundred yards; but on gaining this road their horses were urged to a fast gallop. The daylight was now shining broad and bright, although there was nearly half an hour to sunrise. The sky was softly blue, and clear of clouds, save a few light and fleecy ones, which sailed slowly along, seemingly far away in the depths of ether. "A dewy freshness filled the air," which was cool and bracing, and made sweet by the fragrant breath of grasses and leaves, and of the humble wild flowers which grew on either side of the road. The stimulating character of the atmosphere, and the elastic motion of their steeds, stirred the blood of the young men to a more, rapid circulation, and aroused them to a full enjoyment of the adventure in which they were engaged. "What a strange and inexpressible pleasure there is in danger!" said John. "There seems to me to be no enjoyment in life, unless there be obstacles to overcome, and perils to meet." "I agree with you," said Captain Marston. "But it requires caution as well as courage to win for us in the battle of life. Has it occurred to you that we have not the password to admit us to the rendezvous?" "No," replied John. "But what is the use of it? We have received cards of invitation, and we know the place and hour of meeting." "So we do," said Marston; "yet a want of knowledge of this password may give us inconvenience as well as trouble." "Probably," suggested Coe, "the letters `A F E' are the password." "But," objected Captain Marston, "perhaps they are only the initials of it; and in that case, the question arises, what do they stand for? It is well to be armed against all contingencies." "True," consented John. "But I am sure I have no idea what they can mean. Let me think for a minute or two." "Don't you remember," asked Marston, "the English story, which we read together when we were schoolboys, about a mysterious secret society? Can you recollect the initials of their password?" "Yes," was the ready reply; "they are `O F A--A F O,' which, being interpreted, mean `One for All, All for One.' Let me see! `A F E.' All for each. I wonder if that is not the password in this case?" "Very probable," assented Marston. "If necessary, let us try it, at all events." This proposition was agreed to. As the distance between Millmont and the Spout, over a road which traversed, in rapidly succeeding alternations, fields and forests, hills and plains, was fully nine miles, the two young men were obliged to put their horses to a tolerably high speed to reach the place of their destination in time. But little more conversation passed between them, therefore, until they arrived at the head of the ravine, down which their road led to the shore of Saint Leonard's Creek. STORY TWO, CHAPTER FOUR. AT THE SPOUT. *Ossario*. Stand, ho! Who are you? *Antonio*. We are true men, sir. *Ossario*. True men, give the word--and pass. _Old Play_. *Walter*. Only a pleasant jest, I do assure you. _The borry Joke_. When the two men descended the ravine leading to the shore, the sun was half an hour above the horizon. Before they left the mouth of the ravine, they dismounted, at the suggestion of Captain Marston, and fastened their horses to the drooping branches of a tree which grew by the side of the road. The animals were, in this situation, out of sight of the place of rendezvous. The companions having thus made their horses secure, advanced to the shore. The novelist, and even the poet, could find no lovelier locality, ready created for the scenes of fancied grief and pleasures, than that contained within lines embracing Saint Leonard's Creek and its immediate adjuncts. Not only is the stream itself--especially in the fair expanse near its junction with the river, which is now supposed to lie glowing and dimpling in the morning sunshines with varying lights and shadows, before the reader's mental eyes--remarkably beautiful; but all around it--every bill and dale, every field and grove, every jutting promontory and retiring cove--partakes of the same character of pre-eminent loveliness. On the southern side of the expanse mentioned is a broad beach of white sand. From the side of a cliff which towers above this beach flows a fountain of water, very pure, clear, and cold, and equally abundant at all seasons of the year. This fountain is known throughout a large district of surrounding country as the Spout, and is some fifty yards from the spot where the road, leading down the ravine before-mentioned, enters upon the sands. Just as Captain Marston and John Coe stepped upon the shore, and were turning to the left hand to seek the fountain, a short and stout man, about forty years of age, with long, curling locks of reddish-brown hair, and a face very darkly tanned by sun and breeze, and, probably, by battle, too--to judge by the marks upon his countenance--presented himself before them. "Stand!" exclaimed this individual, planting himself directly in front of the two young men, and presenting a cocked pistol in each hand. "We'll see about that," said John Coe, sternly, drawing a pistol also. But Captain Marston placed a hand upon the arm of the angry young man. "Don't be so fast, John," he said. "Don't you see the twinkle in the fellow's eyes? I am disposed to believe that this is but a jest after all. What do you want?" he continued, addressing the sailor. "No one can go beyond this spot," answered the stranger, "without giving the password." "A F E?" said Captain Marston, interrogatively. "There seems to be something in that," remarked the sailor; "but it will not answer." "How will this answer?" asked the captain. "`All for Each?'" "All right," was the reply; "pass, gentlemen." As the two young men walked forward, they were followed by the sailor, who still held the two pistols in his hands. On arriving in front of the Spout, they found a beautiful row-boat, the bow of which just touched the shore. It was manned by four sturdy seamen, whose hands rested upon their oars, which were ready placed in their rowlocks. A boy, apparently between fifteen and sixteen years of age, in straw hat and light blue trousers and jacket, occupied the stern seat. This last-mentioned person was remarkably handsome; his face was beautifully oval in its shape; its complexion was a pale brunette (if I may use the phrase), there being in it no tinge of red. His form was slender and graceful; his large, soft black eyes had a thoughtful, or rather a dreamy expression, and masses of jet-black curls hung down below his shoulders. "Jump aboard, gentlemen," said the sailor in fancy dress; "the time is fully arrived, and we shall be expected as soon as we can make the distance. If we don't go at once, somebody will be disappointed." "A moment, if you please, sir," said John, in a sarcastic tone and manner, and with a darkening expression of face. "May I claim the honour of knowing your name?" "Certainly, sir," was the answer, accompanied by a mock-ceremonious bow, which did not tend to cool the rising wrath of young Coe. "My name is William Brown, better known as Billy Bowsprit. This latter name may seem, unaccompanied by a proper explanation, to derogate from the dignity of the fair position which I occupy in maritime society, and with which, by-the-bye, I will presently make you acquainted. But it originated in what was, in fact, a compliment to my wit and my other good qualities. A highly intelligent gentleman, of French inclinations--having probably been born of such a disposition, seeing that he was a native of Paris--once did me the honour, on account of some slight jocular remark which fell from me in a social hour, of saying that I was a _beau esprit_. The rude, unlettered sailors," he waved a hand towards those in the row-boat, "have, in their ignorance, manufactured out of this compliment the absurd name of Bowsprit. I submit to the _soubriquet_, partly because those who use it do not know any better, but mainly because it intimates a just compliment, seeing that, as the bowsprit is in advance of the ship, so do I take the lead of all on shipboard in all affairs where either sagacity or boldness is required." "Well, Mr Brown," began young Coe-- "Allow me, if you please, sir," said Bowsprit, interrupting him, and making at the same time a low and apologetic bow; "I have not yet finished the catalogue of myself, a desire to become acquainted with which was intimated in your polite and very flattering inquiry. Permit me to add, to what I have already said, that I fill the honourable post of first-mate on board of as beautiful a little craft as eye was ever blessed with seeing." The reader will, perhaps, be surprised at the great apparent improvement in the language of Billy Bowsprit since his first introduction in the second chapter. The fact is, that individual had received what is called a good ordinary education, and prided himself upon his ability to talk in either good English, or in what he styled "sailors' lingo." "Well, Mr Brown, better known as Billy Bowsprit," said John Coe, in a tone of voice expressive of both anger and resolution, as soon as the voluble sailor gave him an opportunity of speaking, "I wish you to know that I do not allow myself to be dealt with in this summary manner. I shall return home, and any man who interferes with me will do so at his imminent peril." Saying this, he drew both of his pistols, setting the hammers with his thumbs in the act of drawing them from his pockets. Billy Bowsprit raised the pistol which was in his right hand, and was about to pull the trigger, when at a slight and rapid sign from Captain Marston, who stood a little in the rear of young Coe, he suddenly pointed the muzzles of both pistols towards the ground. At the same moment the captain drew both of his pistols also, and placed himself by the side of John. "Come," he said, addressing Billy Bowsprit in a really stern voice, "if this is a jest--as I think it is--we have had enough of it. Tell us what you want, and what the whole of this singular affair means." "Why, sir," replied the seaman, in a somewhat crestfallen tone, "no harm has been meant to either of you all the while; and if this young gentleman," looking at John, "hadn't been quite so fiery, everything would have been explained to you some time ago. The fact is, my captain is an old acquaintance of both of you; he hasn't seen either of you for years, and so is very anxious to see you both, if only for a short time. He wants you to come and take breakfast with him this morning. He had business with the schooner up the river here as far as Benedict, to land a cargo of goods. He has to get to Baltimore as soon as possible, but was determined to see you both first. So he landed me early yesterday morning, on this side of the river, opposite Benedict, to carry a message to you. But not knowing the latitude and longitude of that part of the country, I was obliged to take bearings and to make observations so often, that I did not arrive in your neighbourhood till after midnight; and I did not of course like to waken up families who were strangers to me at such a time of night. The notion about the cards was one of my own--a kind of experiment. I know how much curiosity there is in the world; and I felt certain, therefore, of seeing you two gentlemen here this morning." "Thank you for the compliment, Mr Bowlegs--I beg your pardon-- Bowsprit," said the captain. "You seem to be somewhat of a philosopher; you carry out a plan with so much coolness, so much self-possession, beings always on your guard neither to act nor to speak hastily or unadvisedly." There was evidently sarcasm, if not irony, in the captain's remarks. The sailor bowed merely; he seemed to be, to use a common expression, "struck dumb." Young Coe laughed heartily. Yet he must doubtless have felt somewhat abashed at the conviction that Marston's course of treating the affair as a farce was decidedly more successful than his own, of viewing it as a melodrama. There was silence for a minute or two, during which all the pistols which had been drawn were put out of sight. At length the stillness was broken by a question from John. "How did you manage to get your card or note into my room?" he asked of the sailor. "Allow me to keep that secret to myself," answered Billy Bowsprit, with a smile, holding out in his hand at the same time, however, several skeleton keys. "But you are not to suppose, Mr Coe, that these keys show that I have any bad habits; I have never used them except in such innocent ventures as the present." John took the skeleton keys in his hand; he had never seen such instruments before. "I don't think," he remarked, returning the keys, "that any one of those could possibly unlock my outer door." "One must understand the use of them," replied Billy Bowsprit. "I have others, however." "How did you so readily make your way to this point!" asked Captain Marston of Billy Bowsprit. "Why, sir," was the reply, "I have been over this road before, many years ago now. On that occasion, I was for a short time at the houses of both your father and Mr Coe. I came here because this was the place where this boat here was to meet you two gentlemen and myself." "Who is this friend of ours who wants to see us, Mr Bowsprit--I mean Mr Brown?" asked John. "I beg your pardon, sir," was the answer. "My captain particularly ordered me not to tell you; he wanted, he said, to give you a pleasant surprise." "What do you say, John?" asked Captain Marston. "Shall we accept the invitation of this unknown friend?" "If we knew what to do with our horses," said John, "and I could get a note home to tell them what has become of me, I should say `yes' at once." "If that is all that is in the way, gentlemen," said Mr Brown, _alias_ Bowsprit, "get your notes ready at once. Here, Tom," he continued, addressing the youth who was sitting on the stern seat of the row-boat, "do you knew the way to Millmont and to Blue Oldfields?" "If I don't, I can inquire for it, sir," answered the boy. "Then, as soon as you get the notes which these gentlemen want you to deliver at their houses," said Bowsprit, "take their horses, which you will find just behind those trees, _there_," pointing, "where the road corners with the shore; and as soon as you can do so, deliver notes and horses to their proper addresses. You will then walk down to Drum Point, where we shall be by that time, and we will there take you aboard." "Ay, ay, sir," said the boy. While these directions were being given, Captain Marston had drawn a note-book and a couple of lead-pencils from his pocket. Tearing a blank leaf from the book, he handed that and one of the pencils to John. Using their hats as writing-desks, the two young men soon finished their notes and handed them to the boy, who immediately started on his mission. The four men in the boat had been merely lookers-on and listeners in respect to what had been taking place on the shore. When the boy took his departure, Captain Marston, John Coe, and Billy Bowsprit leaped into the boat. "Will you steer, Captain Marston, if you please?" asked Bowsprit. "With pleasure," answered the captain. "Then, if Mr Coe will take his seat with you at the stern," said the sailor, "I will take my place at the bow, and act as lookout." The seats were taken, and the boat having been driven from the shore by one or two backward strokes of the oars, her head was turned down the creek. The supple rowers bending "with a will" to the elastic blades, the light craft fleetly bounded on her course over the glowing tide of Saint Leonard's, towards the broad Clearwater, which lay before them in the morning sunshine as ever bright and beautiful. STORY TWO, CHAPTER FIVE. ON BOARD THE SCHOONER. *Sebastian*. How are you, friends? I'm very glad to see you. _As You Will_. *Toby*. Who are these men, sir? *Wily Will*. They're travellers only. _The Masquerade_. The row-boats, carrying John, Captain Harry Marston, Billy Bowsprit, and the four seamen, leaving the mouth of Saint Leonard's Creek, entered upon that largest and fairest of the several lake-like expanses of the Clearwater--being six miles in length and three in width--which lies between Point Patience on the south-east, and Solitary Point on the north-west. On gaining an offing sufficient to give the occupants of the boat a view commanding the whole expanse, only one vessel was in sight. This was a graceful little schooner, of about thirty tons burden, which lay at anchor on a part of the river called the Flats, situate on the eastern side of the stream; she was in a position south-east of Otter Point, directly in front of Hungerford's Creek, and about a mile and a half from Point Patience. An easy row of three-quarters of an hour over the crystal-like waters, which were but slightly stirred by a slight wind, brought the boat from the Spout alongside of this schooner. A vessel so small required no steps to ascend her sides, and the occupants of the row-boat soon leaped upon the deck. They were there met by a young man about five feet and a half in height, with blue eyes, light flaxen hair, and cheeks which, originally fair, were somewhat tanned by exposure to sun, wind, and weather. He was dressed in roundabout and pantaloons of light blue cloth, pumps, and light straw hat. "How are you, John? how are you, Harry?" he exclaimed, shaking hands with Coe and Marston, with much appearance of cordiality. "I am very glad to see you. I hope that you are not offended with the _ruse_ which I used to bring you to see me for a short time? I feared that, if you knew who it was, you would not take the trouble to come to see me." Both of the young men assured him that a _ruse_ was not at all necessary; it was nearly preventing them from coming, and that, had they only known at once that it was their old school-friend, George Dempster, who wanted to see them, there would have been no hesitation on their part in coming to visit him. John Coe was much surprised at finding George Dempster--who had been his classmate at Princeton, and who was the oldest son of a planter in good circumstances on the eastern shore of Maryland--occupying the position of skipper of a small bay-craft; politeness, however, prevented him from making any allusion to what seemed to him so singular. Captain Dempster--to give him the title generally bestowed in courtesy upon the commander of the smallest trading craft, on the Chesapeake Bay, at least--invited his old friends to come at once into his cabin. Here a mahogany table was handsomely set out, being spread with a fine linen diaper cloth, and being covered with a porcelain breakfast-set. Cushioned mahogany seats for four surrounded the table. The steward--or he who in a vessel so small generally performs the duties of both that officer and of cook--had apparently already received his orders, for scarcely had the captain, his mate, and his two friends entered the cabin, when breakfast was placed on the table. Fragrant coffee, light rolls, fresh butter, ham and eggs, fried crocuses and soft crabs, formed the repast. "You may think it strange, my friends," said Captain Dempster, while the party of four were partaking of the meal, for which the bracing morning air and their early ride and row had given my hero and Captain Marston keen appetites, "that you find me in this position. The matter is easily explained, however. It is due to a compromise, agreed to by my father and myself, between my extreme views in favour of a life on the ocean and his extreme views in favour of a life for me on the land. Thus I can indulge, to a limited extent, my preference for a seafaring life, and he can enjoy what he honours me by calling the pleasure of seeing me frequently. I confess that I would much prefer a life on the open sea; but one must not be disobedient to an affectionate and generally indulgent father." While the three friends--Mr Bowsprit had left the table, as soon as his appetite was satisfied, to attend to duties upon deck--sat over their claret, talking of "old days," as, even when young, we fondly call them, hours sped on. In the meantime the anchor had been secured on board, the sails hoisted, and the vessel had laid her course down the river, impelled by a light wind from the west. Point Patience was soon rounded, and in two hours and a half or three hours from the time of leaving her anchorage, the schooner had passed down the lowest reach of Clearwater, and had rounded to at the extreme end of Drum Point, to take on board the lad who had been sent to deliver the horses and notes of John Alvan Coe and Captain Marston to their respective homes. The boy made excellent speed, and was waiting at the place of rendezvous when the schooner was still some miles from the Point. "Why, Dempster," said young Coe, seeing that they had passed Drum Point Harbour, "you are not going out upon the bay, are you?" "I have to take off a load of cord-wood," was the answer, "from the shore near the old Eltonhead Manor House, this side of Cove Point. We shall there be but little farther from your home than here at Drum Point; and I want to see all that I can of both of you. But think, Coe, of my carrying a load of fire-wood to Baltimore! "`To what base uses we may come, Horatio.'" "But how are Marston and myself to get home this evening?" asked John. "Oh! as to that matter," was the answer, "I can borrow horses from Mr Chew, whose house is but a few miles from Eltonhead; and the boy Tom, who took your horses home this morning, can go with you, and bring back the animals. But I hope that you will not return until the morning. Let me spend at least one evening with you." "What do you say, Marston?" asked John, who was enjoying the society of his friends very much. "I have not seen that lonely old Eltonhead house since I was a schoolboy, and I should like to see it again, especially if we could visit it `by the glimpses of the moon' to-night, since it has now, and has had for some time, I believe, the reputation of being haunted. I hardly think that they would feel uneasy at home on account of my continued absence, as I merely said in my note that I was going to visit a friend on board of his vessel." "If you are agreed, let us stay," replied Marston. "I should like to revisit the old house myself, especially as you say, to "`Visit it by the pale moonlight.'" "And, if you gentlemen desire it," said Captain Dempster, "I will have some hammocks swung this evening in the old manor house. We will pass the night there, and will thus--to take a liberty with Sir Walter Scott's verse--dare "`To brave the witches in their den, The spirits in their hall.'" This proposition being very agreeable to both Coe and Marston, they consented to continue as Captain Dempster's guests until the morning. The three young men remained upon deck to enjoy the glorious day and the beautiful and rapidly shifting scenes presented to their view, as the schooner skirted, within a few hundred yards of the beach, the northern shore of Patuxent Roads--a sheet of water which is, in fact (as I have before mentioned, I think), a gulf or widening of the Chesapeake Bay at the mouth of the Clearwater river. While the three friends were gaily chatting, inspired by the cheering influence of their surroundings, Mr Bowsprit walked up to the commander of the craft. "Captain Dempster," he said, "I think those sailors in the hold and forecastle will be getting into a state of mutiny soon, if we don't let them come out upon deck. They say that their quarters are too close." "Tell them," replied the skipper, "they can come up as soon as they please; we are now fairly out of the Clearwater--at least, out of sight of Drum Point Harbour." The sheet of water called Patuxent Roads is by some considered to be a part of the Clearwater river. "These men of whom Mr Brown speaks," continued Captain Dempster, addressing his two friends, "are some newly-discharged United States seamen, whom I am taking to Baltimore. I had a load of freight to carry from Baltimore to Portsmouth. At the latter place these men applied to me for passage to the former city. I told them that I had freight to take from Portsmouth to Benedict, and then a load of wood to carry to Baltimore. As they did not care much for the delay, I bargained to take them to Baltimore, and to charge them only for what their board while on the schooner might be worth, on condition that they would help us to load and to unload. I did not wish so many men to be seen on board of my craft while in the river, since such an incident would probably subject me to the delay of a search by the revenue officer, who, having but very little to do, naturally wishes to make the most of his office." About thirty rough, sunburnt and weather-beaten men now came upon the deck. Among them was almost every variety of dress which nautical fashions then allowed; but the cloth roundabouts and tarpaulin hats prevailed. They kept away from the after-part of the deck, gathering in groups amidships and towards the bow. They seemed to be in fine spirits, as frequent bursts of somewhat subdued laughter came from the different groups. Little did young Coe think that he was the subject of their merriment. It was scarcely half an hour after these men came upon deck when the schooner anchored about fifty yards from the beach, at a point where long ranks of pine and oak cord-wood were ranged along the edge of the cliff, which was here but from twenty to twenty-five feet high. A large flatboat, oblong in shape, and of the kind commonly called "scow," was lying on rollers far up on the beach and close under the cliff. As soon as the anchor was dropped overboard and the sails lowered and secured, the row-boat--which had been hanging from the davits at the stern of the schooner since the lad had been taken aboard at Drum Point--was forthwith let down into the water. It had to make three trips from the schooner to the shore before the unusually large number of hands were all landed. Then the scow was at once pushed into the water. Some of the seamen soon ascended the cliff by a small ravine near at hand; and the work of throwing down the wood to the beach, pitching it to the water's edge, and piling it into the scow was at once commenced. Our hero and his two friends passed the rest of the day, to all appearances, very pleasantly together; there was so much to say to each other of what young people call, queerly enough, "old times," so much that each had to tell to the others of what had occurred to himself since their last meeting. About an hour after the schooner came to anchor they took their dinner--which comprised "all the luxuries of the season"--in the elegant little cabin. Mr Bowsprit was present at this meal, and added to the enjoyment of it by his unique and pleasant sallies. This joyous individual was with them only at dinner; his duty required him to attend to the loading of the vessel. The dinner of the hands, by the way, was sent ashore to them, and eaten under the shade of the trees upon the cliff. STORY TWO, CHAPTER SIX. AT THE OLD MANOR HOUSE. A prisoner, didst thou say? O, gracious heaven! Have mercy on my parents and my friends, And for uncertainty let them not too long suffer! Oh speedily set me free!--_Anon_. *Cyrus*. Who art thou, fair and gentle princess? *Myranda*. Knight, I am, alas! unfortunate; but yet I wish thee well, and fain would do thee service. _Romance of Sir Cyrus_. I will not do it, lady; speak no more. _The Tempted_. About half an hour after the dinner was concluded, the three young friends were taken ashore in the jolly-boat. Leaving the beach, they pursued a path through a dense forest for about half a mile, when they came into a small opening in the woods, in the centre of which stood the old brick building known as Eltonhead Manor House, surrounded by its out-houses, all of brick. The opening in which this old-time mansion stood had evidently been in former days much more extensive, for among the small pine-trees covering the ground in the part of the forest nearest to the old house, the earth still distinctly bore the impress of corn-rows the marks of former cultivation of that species of grain first obtained from the red man. Desolation marked the spot. The yard and garden walls were broken down in many places; the gate at the end of the short avenue had fallen and now lay in ruins. The shade trees in the yard and avenue needed pruning; scions from their roots had sprang up in all directions. Even at this early season weeds spread over the yard and garden, and closed the gateways; yet the building itself was in comparatively good preservation. It was not by any means such a mansion as in Great Britain would be suggested to the mind by the title of manor house. It was built of bricks imported from England, and the walls were of such thickness that, though time had, in passing over them, stamped his impress upon them in weather-stains and moss and lichen, they stood, apparently, as firm as when first erected. The house, was two stories high; on the floor of the first storey, a wide hall passing through the centre of the buildings with two very large rooms on each side of it. The second storey, and the attic to some extent, corresponded to the first; a broad staircase led upwards from the hall on the ground floor. Some pieces of old and almost worn-out furniture remained in the building, one or two heavy old tables, and a dozen or so huge and very old-fashioned oaken chairs. In one of the rooms downstairs were two or three rude settees or benches, left by some tenant who had used the premises since they had been deserted by their proper occupants. During the afternoon Captain Dempster and his guests rambled through the woods and along the bay shore. When they had concluded their ramble and returned to the old manor house, the shades of twilight were gathering. They found that three hammocks, intended for their night's rest, had been swung in one of the large rooms of the second storey, and in another room on the same floor, a plentiful and well-lighted board was spread for supper. On a chair beside the supper table was an open hamper of champagne, beside which was a pack of playing cards. The intention of Captain Dempster was declared by himself to be to pass the evening at whist, admitting Mr Brown, _alias_ Billy Bowsprit, to complete the necessary party of four; the game to be enlivened by an occasional glass of wine. No game of whist was played that evening, however. John Coe, after he had finished his supper and taken one or two glasses of champagne, was obliged to plead overwhelming drowsiness, which he attributed to the interesting character and unusual excitement of the day. Although early in going to bed, yet it was late in the morning when the young man awoke. On looking around him he found that the other hammocks in the room were vacant. Springing out of bed he hurried to the door; it was locked. The windows were all down. On throwing open the sash of one of them and looking out, he saw a man with a musket on his shoulder, who was promenading to and fro in the yard below, and keeping an eye on the windows of his room. It seemed, then, that he was guarded as if a prisoner. He called out to the man who was apparently keeping watch in the court below. "What do you want?" asked the guard. "Where are Captain Dempster and Captain Marston?" exclaimed John. "I don't know of whom you are talking," answered the guard. "I only know that Captain Vance and Lieutenant Seacome took supper with you last night, after which you got drunk, and had to be put to bed; and that Captain Vance--my captain--said that you were on no account to leave the house. That is all I know about the matter, sir." "I was not drunk," said young Coe. "I took but two glasses of wine after supper. There must be some mistake somewhere. The gentlemen with whom I supped last night are two of my oldest friends. I never dreamed that they were capable, nor can I yet believe that they are, of treachery towards me." "I don't understand what you are talking about," said the man with the musket. "I only know that our orders are not only to keep you within this house, but not to let any one come near enough to the house to hear a human voice from it, even when raised to its highest pitch. We are also ordered, if you make a very loud call, to shoot you at once. We have nearly thirty men here; guards are placed all round the building, and scouts are spread through the country for a mile round. My own impression is, Mr Coe (that is your name I believe)--but it is, after all, only my opinion, mind you--that you are a very close prisoner. Moreover, I believe that I am authorised in saying to you that you are a prisoner to men from whom no one ever escaped alive. So, close your window, and make the best of your situation." John left the window, and walked to the door, which he found locked. On turning his face from the door he noticed, for the first time, in his astonishment at his situation, that a table was already neatly spread, near the middle of the room, with a clean, white damask table cloth, upon which a handsome breakfast-set of china-ware was arranged, with chairs, plates, knives and forks, cups and saucers, for two; but no viands were yet set out upon the board. The sight of the table so spread, creating in him a fear of being surprised by the entrance of a visitant before his toilet was completed, caused him to hurry on his dress. He found a pair of pistols in his pockets; they seemed to be his own, but on examining them closely, he found not the private mark which he had placed on each of them, soon after they were purchased, to distinguish them from Henry Marston's. It was evident that the re-exchange of pistols, by which his own should have been returned to him, had either been overlooked, or intentionally avoided by his captors the night before. Scarcely had his hasty toilet been completed, for which he had found in the room water, towels and soap, looking-glass, combs, brushes, shaving instruments, and even scented oils and waters--when the door opened, and two of the seamen came in, bringing the covers for breakfast. They placed upon the table the dishes which they carried, and then immediately retired, taking with them the three hammocks, and removing all vestiges of the room having been slept in. Shortly after they retired, two or three light taps were given at the door, and a soft and musical female voice was heard asking permission to enter. "Enter if you can," he said. The door was opened again, and what seemed to be a vision of loveliness entered. This vision was a lady, rather above than under the ordinary height, with a form as graceful as imagination can conceive. Her face was oval in shape, her complexion was very pure olive, beautifully tinged with rose. Her features were neither perfectly Grecian nor perfectly Roman, but of a style where the two were equally and beautifully blended. Her eyes were of jet-black, and of wonderful brightness, and her hair, of raven hue, was confined by a circlet of large pearls, with a single brilliant just above the forehead, and fell, in heavy and tastefully-arranged masses of curls, all round her head, to below her shoulders. Her dress was of rich black silk, elegantly fitted to her shape, and ornamented, on the flounces of the skirt and above the elbows of the loose sleeves, with thick and glossy fringes of the same hue and material as the dress. Light golden bracelets, ornamented each with pearls and a single diamond, encircled her wrists. As she advanced into the room, her very small and well-shaped feet--covered with a pair of light, black satin slippers, with high heels, and festooned with light gold buckles, flashing with tiny jewels--peeped in and out from under the sweeping folds of her skirt. This lady advanced gracefully to the head of the table, making an elegant courtesy to the astonished John, and inviting him, by a polite motion of the head, to take a seat. "A pleasant morning to you, Mr Coe," she said. "I should thank you for your good wish," answered the young man; "but, lady, I am a prisoner, I am informed. I have, it seems, been betrayed by those whom I thought my friends. Oh, madam! of all the pains in the world, the greatest is that which is caused by having been betrayed by those in whom we had unlimited faith." "There are cases in which that which seems to be treason is friendship in disguise. It was no wish to do you injury which caused you to be taken prisoner; but your friends wished to have you always with them. Had harm been intended towards you, I should not have been left here; it was thought that I might devise ways of making captivity more bearable to you. I fear that this opinion only flattered me." John was young, and therefore impressible; he could but feel the spell of so dazzling a presence. What could he do but make such answer as the lady had sought to obtain? "So much beauty, madam," he said with _empressement_, "has power to lessen the pain of the most wretched captivity." "You are improving vastly," said the lady, with a bright and fascinating smile. "We shall, I see, be very good friends, indeed. But the fact that we shall have to pass nearly, if not quite two weeks together, requires that you should have for me some less formal title than `madam.' Call me, hereafter, Ada." "You still leave me in doubt, madam. I cannot take the liberty of addressing you familiarly by your Christian name." The lady seemed for a moment to be in thought. "Know me then," she at length said, "as Miss Ada Revere." "Your face is strangely familiar to me," said John. "You saw me yesterday morning," answered the lady, with a sad smile, "at the Spout on Saint Leonard's Creek. You remember the lad who took charge of your and Captain Marston's notes and horses?" Young Coe's countenance expressed much surprise and interest. But Miss Revere gave him no opportunity to speak. "But I have known you much longer ago than that," she continued, after making but little pause--"long before either of us knew that there was evil or deceit in the world. I may, perhaps, by-and-bye tell you my sad history,"--an expression of intense pain passed over the beautiful face--"this is no time for such a narrative. Your own position requires consideration and action; and our first thoughts must be given to that." "Can you explain to me," asked John, "why I was captured, and why I am held as a prisoner?" "Yes," answered the lady; "and I am authorised to give you the information which you ask. I was not at the store at Drum Point the night before last, when you were seen by Captain Vance to look in at the window while certain goods were being conveyed to their secret depository; but I know all that took place. Ruin to Mr Ashleigh, and great injury to all connected with the brig would have been the certain result of your making publicly known what you had discovered. The first thought was to pursue and capture you at once; and the attempt to do so was made. That attempt was, as you know, a failure. The proposition was then made, as you were known to more than one of the brig's company, to seize you at once at your father's house. This proposition was made by one whom I hate, a man the enormity of whose villainy I have no words to express; I have no doubt that, had his proposal been acceded to, you would have been killed instead of captured. Captain Marston saved you from such a fate; he thought you might be enticed from your home, and even induced to join the ship's company. He has a great affection for you, as an old schoolmate and friend; he has told me, with his own lips, that there is no living man for whom he has greater regard than for yourself." "I do not, without much painful feeling, oppose a lady's views," said our hero, "and yours seem to agree with those of Captain Marston; but it would not be fair in me to allow you to entertain opinions so incorrect as are Captain Marston's respecting my character. True, I have been made a prisoner in the manner in which he had thought that I could be captured; so far his views were correct. But he does not understand my character entirely: I can be led--alas! too easily--even perhaps, to do what my moral sense disapproves of; but I cannot be driven. Had I been attacked in my father's house by open force, I do not think that I should have been captured; I had arms at hand, and should have resisted to the death. My father is himself a strong, sensible, and brave man; the negroes would have fought for both. We might, at least, have held out until the neighbourhood could have been aroused; and the result, instead of being disastrous to me, might have been ruinous to the assailants. As to Captain Marston's impression that I might be induced to join a ship's company, or any other company, engaged in illicit trade--especially without my father's consent--such a notion proves that he understands, and but to a small extent, only the outride of my character; while my inner and real life is to him a thoroughly sealed book." The lady reflected for some moments. She hardly knew how to act with the case before her. She saw clearly that he felt the power of her beauty; but that beauty, she began to think, would have no influence to change his opinions. She had been placed in the position in which we find her for the purpose of inducing young Coe to join the company of the brig; she was authorised to offer him a new office in that company which was to be created especially for him, that of commander of a kind of marine corps, to be organised especially on his account, and the chief officer of which organisation, should he become popular with his men, might have the power to defy the authority of the captain of the brig himself, or even to supersede him. Miss Ada Revere, as she called herself, determined, after some reflection, to pursue the subject no further for the present. "We shall be prisoners in this house, Mr Coe," she added, after a few moments' silence, "for some weeks, while the _Sea-bird_ is discharging and receiving freight, and perhaps undergoing some necessary repairs. In the meantime, it will be my duty to use my best efforts to make your captivity bearable. We have the materials here for chess, draughts, and backgammon. I sing a little, and also play upon several musical instruments; but only one instrument of the kind is here--a guitar. Should you wish to take a glass of wine, there are specimens of several vintages at hand. And believe, at any rate, that, whatever may happen, I am entirely your friend." The lady was evidently in earnest in this last declaration. John made a proper acknowledgment; and in a few moments the two were engaged in a game of chess. STORY TWO, CHAPTER SEVEN. ON BOARD THE BRIG--THE CHALLENGE. *Othario*. Remove the prisoner; the foe is near. _The Sea Witch_. He manned himself with dauntless air, Returned the chief his haughty stare. * * * * * Come one, come all! * * * * * Fear nought--nay, that I need not say-- But doubt not aught from mine array. Thou art my guest. _Lady of the Lake_. More than a week passed, and still John Coe was a prisoner at the old manor house. No chance of escape presented itself; and neither offers of money nor threats affected his guards. Yet, but for the name of captivity, and the thought of what might be in store for him in the future, his time would have passed pleasantly. Miss Ada Revere--as the lady chose to call herself--exerted all her talents and accomplishments to cause his time to pass agreeably. Games at chess and cards, books of poetry and romance, music of the guitar, and songs sung with charming taste, and accompanied by that fascinating instrument, varied her day and evening entertainments for the prisoner. As great as was the interest which he felt in her who made his captivity pleasant, and as much aroused, therefore, as was his curiosity to know what was meant by her declaration that he and she had known each other in earlier days, he could not induce her to tell him to what she referred; he could only obtain from her the promise that she would at some future time make him acquainted with her history. Miss Ada Revere had been commissioned by those who held John in captivity, not only to make his imprisonment more bearable, but also to endeavour to persuade him to join Captain Vance's band. In the former task the reader has seen that she was successful; but the latter seemed to her to be so hopeless, that she did not even attempt it; she contented herself by persuading him to yield so far to circumstances as to pretend to be inclined to join them, that he might by such means have some chance of securing an opportunity to escape. The violent indignation--to call the feeling by a mild name--which young Coe entertained against his pretended friends, Marston and Dempster, he made no secret of to the lady; but the earnest desire which he cherished to have each of them before him at the pistol's mouth, or at the sword's point, he kept to himself. Some ten or twelve days after that upon which young Coe had been so skilfully allured to imprisonment at the old manor house, the brig _Sea-bird_ Captain Henry Marston, dropped anchor off the Eltonhead landing. She had needed no repairs, and her unlading and relading in Baltimore had been executed with the greatest despatch. Without resistance John allowed himself to be taken from the manor house on board the brig. Where opposition would have been certainly unavailing, the attempt to make it would have been only a compromise of his dignity. As the moon was in its first quarter, that orb had long since set when the long-boat and jolly-boat belonging to the brig returned from the shore to the vessel, both heavily laden with the men who had been left at the manor house--those in the smaller boat having young Coe among them as prisoner. A single lantern, held by one of the seamen at the gangway, showed but a dim outline of the deck and rigging of the brig, as those newly arrived climbed her sides. John had but a short time to make observations, as he was at once hurried down into the after-cabin, and through that into a small and neat state-room forward of it. He parted with Miss Ada Revere immediately on gaining the deck. There was much expression of pain and uneasiness in the face of the mysterious young girl when she shook hands, on parting with the prisoner at the gangway, and whispered to him "Be firm and hopeful, and do not give way to anger, however just." When all had embarked, the boats were secured on deck, the anchor lifted, the sails hoisted, and the brig, impelled by a fair and light but freshening breeze from the north, sped on her course over the broad, bold waters of the Chesapeake towards the wide Atlantic. When a bright and cloudless morning, near the middle of June, arose in beauty over the wide and flashing expanse of the lower Chesapeake, Old Point Comfort lay in sight, but far away on the starboard-bow. A number of bay-craft, and a few sea-going vessels were scattered here and there, at points nearer or more distant, over the bright surface. The smoke of no steamer was seen; such vessels were at that period very rare, not only on the waters of the Chesapeake, but over the whole world. At this time, John was confined to his state-room; he had risen and dressed, but, on trying the door of his room, had found it locked. None of the seamen, either, except those consisting of the watch, were allowed to come upon deck while the brig was in such confined waters; such a large number of hands being seen would not comport with the _Sea-bird's_ character of a peaceful merchant vessel. The wind continuing to blow fair, although still somewhat light, the afternoon had advanced but two or three hours when the brig had passed out between the capes and was at sea, and entirely out of sight of land. All were now allowed to come upon deck, John among them, to find upon the quarter-deck Captains Marston and Dempster. Near to them stood Mr Bowsprit, Mr Afton, and Ada Revere--the latter wearing her sailor-boy dress. The rest of the crew were mostly on the deck amidships; some few were in the bows, and a group was gathered but a little forward of the quarter-deck. "Well, John," said Captain Marston, "I hope that you have made up your mind to join us. I can offer you a respectable position. We have very nearly fifty men, all told. I shall form thirty of these into a company of marines, and offer you the post of commander of this newly-made corps. But, before I proceed any farther, let me introduce you to some of your new shipmates. This old friend of ours, whom you know now, I suppose, as my first-mate, Mr Dempster, becomes my first lieutenant, Mr Seacome, when we enter the tropics; at the same time your humble servant takes the more convenient name of Captain Vance, and this good brig, the _Sea-bird_, becomes the _Falcon_--the free rover. This is my second mate, Mr Afton, who prefers to change, under such circumstances, his title only, and to be called Second-lieutenant Afton." This burly and savage-looking individual growled an oath or two about not being afraid of his own name. "This joyous individual," continued the captain, motioning his hand towards another of the party, "is my third-mate, or lieutenant, and selects his _sobriquet_ for his roving name--that is, Third-mate Brown becomes Third-lieutenant Bowsprit. You have already met this jolly person. You are also, I presume, well acquainted by this time, with this young gentleman, Master Revere, my clerk." At mentioning this last name, Captain Marston, with a slightly sarcastic expression of countenance, waved his hand towards Ada Revere. She cast her eyes to the deck, and a vivid blush spread over her beautiful face. Even in the midst of his own trouble, John could not help feeling pity for the poor girl. Often had the questions recurred to him: "What is her real position on board of this vessel? What is her history?" Sympathy with her lonely condition and the wrongs which he felt that she must have received from one leading member, at least, of the brig's company, strengthened the indignation which he experienced on account of his own injuries, and probably caused him to forget all prudence in answering Captain Marston's addresses to him. "You, Captain Marston," he said, in a firm and perfectly collected manner, and with a certain intensity of voice which intimated that he felt more than he spoke, "address me in calm tones and familiarly, as if you had done me no wrong to destroy the intimacy and kind feelings which existed between us in past years. In speaking thus, you add insult to injury; your words, manner, and voice suggesting that I am so simple, so very weak in intellect, as not to be able to appreciate the inexpressibly gross outrage which has been committed against me." "You do me wrong," said Captain Marston, "in supposing for a moment that I doubt that you possess a very unusual degree of intellect. I have always considered you one of the most remarkably endowed men, both in mind and body, with whom I ever met. In what other manner could I have spoken? and what was the use of my speaking with excitement? That you must remain with us is a fixed fact. You have learned things the public knowledge of which would ruin Mr Ashleigh, implicate--if an investigation should take place--the character of some gentlemen of the highest standing in Baltimore, or even endanger their safety--to say nothing of the security and interests of those among whom you are now standing. Self-preservation is the first law of nature; and you obliged us to make and hold you a prisoner, by informing yourself wilfully of secrets important to us, and of not the least concern to you. You have yourself alone to blame for the situation in which you are placed." "Every citizen," replied the spirited young man, "has not only a right, but it is his duty, if an opportunity occurs, to investigate whatsoever appears to him to be a breach of the laws of his country." "That remark does not affect us at all," answered Marston, "although it may have justified, to yourself and others, your curiosity and interference. Our duty is to defend ourselves against the laws." "With the view which you take of the matter," retorted John, feeling offended and irritated by Marston's application to him of the words "curiosity and interference," and determined to retort at all hazards to language which appeared to him personally insulting, "I should not have so much cause to complain had I been captured by open force; but my kind feelings towards yourself were played upon in a treacherous and cowardly manner to work out my own injury." A dark and lowering scowl came upon the face of Captain Marston, and he placed his right hand in his bosom as if to draw a weapon. At the same instant Afton drew a pistol from one of his pockets and raised it. "Do you dare," he cried, "to call our captain a coward?" Captain Marston, however, who seemed not yet to have overcome his rage sufficiently to speak, suddenly grasped Afton's weapon, and drew it from his hand. "This is courage, truly!" said young Coe, with bitter irony expressed in his voice, and addressing Afton. "You are _very_ brave in assaulting an unarmed man. You would feel and act very differently if you and I were alone, and equally armed." "Captain," exclaimed Afton, "what is the use of bandying words with this fool? Let us settle the matter at once by shooting him, and throwing him overboard. We needn't fear his betraying us then. `Dead men tell no tales.'" "Leave him to me," said Captain Marston, moving his hand towards Afton. Then, addressing John, he continued--"You take advantage, John Coe, of our relative positions; you know that I, as a brave man, cannot, while surrounded by my band, resent an insult from an unarmed prisoner. If I am a smuggler--and, perhaps, even what you would call a pirate--you know that I cannot so sacrifice my manhood as to take advantage of the means at my command to punish the gross insult which you have offered me." "If you boast so much of your manhood, which word also implies your honour, such as it is," said John, "and feel so wounded at what I have said, the same power which you possess over your band to bring them against me, should also be strong enough to prevent them from interfering while I render you the satisfaction for which you seem to long. Here, in the sight of your men, with no friend to see what is called fair play, I am willing to fight you with sword, pistol, or gun. Yes, I will do so, even though they may kill me, should I defeat you, the moment after; for I had as lief die as be debarred my liberty, or be obliged to yield my actions to the expediency which is merely suggested by opposing force." "I thank you for your proposition," said Captain Vance, "and accept of it. You shall have a fairer contest, too, than you seem to expect. Here, Dempster, Afton, Brown." The officers addressed drew around their captain. "Promise me," said Marston, "by all the pledges that bind our association together, that if Mr Coe should succeed in killing me, he shall receive no injury for doing so; and further, that, upon his mere pledge of honour to keep secret what he has learned about us, you will land him at any port, near to our course, at which he may wish to disembark. Promise, moreover, under the same pledges, that you will not interfere in the combat about to take place between Mr Coe and myself, by deed, word, or look." The officers addressed, even the brutal Afton, gave the pledges required unhesitatingly, being perfectly assured that their captain would gain the victory. "What weapons do you choose, Mr Coe?" asked Marston. "It is for you to choose," said John; "you have the right as the challenged party." "I select swords, then," said Captain Marston; "the conqueror with that weapon is not obliged to injure his adversary." "You seem to consider it as granted, by that remark," observed our hero, "that you will be successful?" "By no means," answered Marston. John turned upon his adversary an inquiring and rather threatening look; but he said nothing more on the subject. Lieutenant Dempster, or Seacome, was sent into the captain's cabin for a pair of small-swords. Ada Revere had looked imploringly upon Marston and Coe alternately, while the quarrel had been growing to its present condition. Anxiety and terror were both plainly expressed in her face; she had seemed, hitherto, desirous of interfering, but fearful of doing so; no doubt she had learned from much experience the danger of attempting to check Captain Marston in any of his acts. Now the prospect of an immediate conflict seemed to rouse her to action. She threw herself upon her knees between the two foes. "Oh! I beseech you," she cried, "let this quarrel go no farther. You know, Captain Marston, why I feel an interest in you; but you do not know that this gentleman, Mr Coe, rendered me, many years ago, one of those services which can never be forgotten. Think, gentlemen, what horror it would be to me to see one of you injured, or perhaps even killed by the other, and have pity upon me." John Coe raised her from her kneeling position with evident tenderness. "I do not fully know what you mean, madam," he said, "and cannot, therefore, make use of your meaning to put a stop to what is going on. But I can feel for your evident suffering without knowing its cause." "Master Revere," said Marston, with sadness and yet something of sternness in his voice, "if I could, I would consult your feelings in this matter. But what you say comes too late, even if it were fully explained. Mr Brown, do me the favour to lead this young gentleman to his state-room door." Mr Bowsprit advanced, and taking the hand of Ada led her away. She retired, still extending her disengaged hand towards the intended combatants, with an imploring glance. STORY TWO, CHAPTER EIGHT. THE SHIP DUCHESS. She was a vision of delight. _Ballad_. These treasures are for you, my own beloved one-- Laid up for you by your own father's hand. _Foxglove_. *Antonio*. A long, low, black and rakish vessel, say you? *Pietro*. Yes, captain; she's a pirate beyond doubt. *Antonio*. We'll have a fight or e'er she capture us. _The Storm_. The truth of my history obliges me to relate some occurrences powerfully bearing upon John's fortunes. It was in the early part of the month of June, in the year 1817, when the ship _Duchess_ left the port of Kingston, in the island of Jamaica, bound to the port of Havre, in France. She had been chartered for this voyage by a French merchant by the name of Jules Durocher. Jules Durocher had settled, when a young man, as a planter in the island of Hayti; but, dissatisfied with a planter's life, he had sold his land in that island, and afterwards removed from Hayti to Kingston, where he established himself as a merchant. Here he had succeeded in making a large fortune, when he was but little more than forty years of age. Having lost his wife, an English lady, whom he had married in Jamaica, and to whom he was much attached, and his health, which had for many years seemed to be good, failing at length suddenly from the insidious and slowly-working effects of the climate, he had determined to retire from business, to realise his gains, and to pass the remainder of his days in his native France, with his only child Louise. He had now so far carried out his intentions as to have converted into gold and bills of exchange all his large fortune, except the comparatively small portion which had been required to purchase a cargo of the native products of Jamaica for the ship he had chartered. So uncertain, however, are the calculations of men, that now, when the quietude in which he had long hoped to pass his declining years appeared almost certain of realisation, his health began rapidly to decline; and his state was so weak, when the lading of the _Duchess_ was completed, that he had to be taken from his bed on land and carried to one on board of the ship. Such was the state of things in which Jules Durocher and his daughter Louise left their home of many years in Kingston, to transfer their fortunes to the father's native France. Louise Durocher was very beautiful; but her beauty was not of the kind which we generally attribute to French ladies, and which is characterised by sparkling black eyes, raven-hued tresses, and a brunette complexion. Her loveliness was a direct antithesis to this description. Her hair deserved fully the title of "golden" on account of both its colour and its lustre, and held smoothly round her head by a plain riband, fell in a mass of rich curls over her shoulders. Her softly bright eyes, dark, but decidedly and purely blue, exhibited in every glance a tender heart and an intelligent mind. A soft rose-tinge upon her cheeks illustrated by a delicate contrast the pearly fairness of her complexion. At the time when she is introduced to my readers, she was dressed in a loose white muslin morning robe, slightly confined at the waist by a white silken cord; and from beneath the folds of this garment peeped out now and then two beautifully-shaped little feet clad in a delicate pair of white satin slippers. The band round her hair was also white. A dress of this description does not generally comport with beauty of the style of Louise's; but in the case of loveliness so exceeding as hers, it absolutely added to the effect. The pure, innocent, and elevated expression of her face, haloed by her lustrous wealth of golden hair, the beholder might be said to realise the ideal of the old masters. The cabin of the _Duchess_ occupied, as usual, the after-part of the ship. Directly at the stern, and dividing the width of the vessel between them, were two handsome and elegantly-furnished state-rooms--the one assigned to Mr Durocher, and the other to his daughter. Each of these state-rooms opened into the saloon, which, occupying the breadth of the ship, was very nearly square. Forward of this saloon, a narrow passage leading from it divided a double row of state-rooms--two upon each side--which were used by the officers of the ship. At the time when these new characters are introduced to the reader, the _Duchess_ had been some days out of port. She had gone through what is called the Windward Passage--between the islands of Cuba and Hayti--had passed through the channel crowded with many islets, which lies between Caycos and Turks islands and had fairly entered upon the broad Atlantic. The invigorating air of the open sea had so improved the health of Mr Durocher that he had been brought from the bed in his state-room to a sofa in the saloon. Here he was attended by his daughter and a young quadroon slave girl, who waited upon the young lady. Louise, who was skilled in music, and performed upon several instruments, had just finished singing, to an accompaniment on the harp, the beautiful old song entitled "My Normandy"--a genuine relic of the age of chivalry, of the days of the trouviers and troubadours--when her father's emotion caused her to put aside the instrument. That touching song, applying fully to the case of the returning exile himself, with its tender refrain-- "I long again the land to see, Which gave me birth--my Normandy," recalled the past vividly, with many a hope then entertained of a happy return to his native land--many a hope which the untimely death of his wife had destroyed for ever. "Dear Louise," said Mr Durocher, "how feelingly you sing that charming song of my native land! What happiness I used to anticipate in pointing out to your now sainted mother--when wealth, achieved through a long and tedious exile, should enable me to resume, in my Normandy, the station from which losses had reduced my family--all the beautiful scenes so familiar to my childhood. God destroys such hopes to draw our affections away from the things of earth. 'Tis now for you only, my beloved child, that I at all consider a worldly future. You will have wealth; few of the daughters of France born upon the soil will be heirs to such a fortune. But there are cares also belonging to the possession of riches; and how will an inexperienced young girl like you know how to meet these?" "Do not trouble yourself about me, my dear father," said the affectionate daughter. "Is not your health improving? Every day since we left Kingston you have gained strength. You will live yourself to see your money safely invested and your daughter's future secured. Let us hope that many, many happy years on earth await us." "If future years are in store for me, Louise," replied Mr Durocher, "they may be cheerful when blessed by your presence, but I cannot be happy where your mother is not. I feel convinced, however, that I shall soon meet her again; I am impressed with a feeling--though I know not why--that I shall never more see France." The young lady left her seat beside the harp and sat upon a chair near to the sofa on which her father was reclining. She placed her arm round his neck, and took in her disengaged hand one of his. "Dearest father," she said, in a tender and soothing tone of voice, "these low spirits are but the lingering effects of your illness. Life must still have much happiness in store for you. The grand and beautiful scenes of day and night, upon land and water, exhibiting, as they ever do, a proof of the power and goodness and love of God towards His creatures, must have an influence leading to happiness upon every human soul. I am sure that one so good as you must feel this blessed influence." "I do feel it, my dear child," said the invalid; "but that feeling cannot remove the uneasiness which I experience at the conviction that I must soon leave you alone in the world. I have a number of relations in France; but you are unknown to all of them; even I, so long has it been since I have met any of them, must be nearly, if not quite forgotten." The speaker paused awhile in reflection. Louise was also silent; she could make no reply to her father's last observation; its probable truth admitted of no just objection. Mr Durocher at length spoke again-- "Louise," he said, taking a pocket-book from an inside breast-pocket of his coat, "in this pocket-book are bills of exchange on different bankers in France to the amount of twelve hundred thousand francs. Even if these be lost, the money will still be safe; the bills are executed in triplicate; one copy of each has been left by me in the hands of a friend at Kingston, and the third copy of each has been sent to a gentleman in Havre. These bills can only be paid on my endorsement, or on that of my legal representative, in case of my death. There is a note of the names of these gentlemen and of a list of the drafts in my trunk; here is a copy of the same note which I wish you to take possession of. In the strong-box in my state-room are fifty thousand francs in gold; and the cargo of this ship should sell at Havre for at least a hundred and fifty thousand francs. In the event of my death, this property is yours. I should have mentioned to you these particulars before; I feel urged now to postpone no longer giving you this information." At this instant, and before Louise could make a reply, a loud voice giving orders and the noise of hurrying feet were heard upon deck. "Celeste," said Mr Durocher, addressing the quadroon girl, "go upon deck and see if you can learn what is the matter." The girl hurried up the cabin steps, as ordered, and soon returned accompanied by the captain. "What is the cause of the disturbance overhead, Captain Johnson?" asked the invalid. "We have been apparently pursued for some hours," was the answer, "by a rather suspicious-looking vessel. Pirates are by no means uncommon in these waters, and it is not improbable that this is one. As the wind is light, we have crowded on every yard of canvas. The stranger, nevertheless, is evidently gaining upon us. I have, therefore, ordered our two twelve-pounders to be made ready for service, and have directed the men also to look to their small-arms. If it were late in the day we might indulge a hope of keeping at a sufficient distance from the suspicious craft to make our escape in the night." The time was between nine and ten o'clock in the morning. The face of Louise became white with alarm. The poor girl seemed to be terribly frightened. "There is no need of feeling alarmed, Miss Durocher," said the captain, in a cheerful voice. "We are not by any means certain the stranger is a pirate. Should he prove to be such, the probabilities are in our favour that he will not molest us, when he finds, on nearer approach, that we are so strong; these sea-robbers are not apt to assault any vessel which they cannot capture without fighting. We are well manned, having sixteen officers and seamen, all able men. We have two cannons and plenty of muskets and cutlasses, besides a full supply of ammunition. Even if he should attack us, I think that we can easily beat him off. My vessel is larger than his, and manoeuvres well; and fully one-half of us are man-of-war's men." "Why do you suppose," asked Mr Durocher, "that the stranger is in pursuit of you?" "Because," replied Captain Johnson, "when we first saw him, the course which he was steering was due south-east as ours is north-east, and he is now directly astern of us. If Miss Durocher will come with me upon deck, she can see our pursuer very plainly by aid of the telescope. You are too weak, I suppose, to get upon deck yourself, Mr Durocher?" "I will try to do so, if you will give me your aid," answered the invalid. "You had better not undertake so much," said Louise. "I am afraid that the fatigue will do you harm." "It will not hurt him at all, miss," said Captain Johnson, cheerily. "He need not suffer from fatigue at all. If you will let that yellow girl of yours bring up an easy-chair, I will carry your father up in my arms." Captain Johnson was, indeed, a powerfully-made man; he was fully six feet in height, and stout in proportion. Constant exercise in the open air had given to him the full vigour to which his herculean frame seemed to entitle him. As soon as the invalid was made comfortable in his easy-chair, and was in a position from which he commanded a view of the ocean all around, the spy-glass was handed to him. Far away towards the south-west, and at first sight rather low upon the horizon, the strange sail could be seen by the unassisted eye; but the telescope showed that her hull was above the horizon. "There seem to be a number of men upon her deck," said Mr Durocher; "and she has one of those long pivot-guns amidships. That is a very dangerous cannon, Captain Johnson; our pursuer may, with a gun of so long a range, do us ruinous injury without coming near enough to allow us to do him harm with our small cannon." The telescope was passed to the captain, and by him to Louise. It was then handed to the officers of the ship. "Can you make out her hull?" asked the captain of one of these officers, who had at the moment the glass in his hand. "Partly," was the answer. "What I can see of it is entirely black. She seems to be clipper-built." "And these Baltimore clippers are so fleet," remarked the captain. Things began to look dark for those on board the ship, it must be confessed; if the stranger's intentions were hostile, his superior speed, and the long range of his pivot-gun, made the escape of the chase very doubtful. Captain Johnson, however, like a good officer, made every preparation for defence. His self-possessed and even cheerful manner inspired those under his command with confidence. But Louise became very pale, and Mr Durocher suffered much in mind, principally upon her account; but, for the sake of each other, their fears were kept to themselves. The quadroon girl shivered with terror, on her own account, and on account of those to whom she had been so much attached for many years. STORY TWO, CHAPTER NINE. THE COMBAT. The foe, invulnerable still, Foiled his wild rage by steady skill, Till, at advantage ta'en, his brand Forced Roderick's weapon from his hand. _Lady of the Lake_. *Orano*. We offer you the post of captain, sir. *Ortega*. I accept--with conditions. _The Onslaught_. A pirate ship, and a pirate crew. _Old Song_. The swords were brought. A clear space was left upon the deck for the combatants to move in, around which the sailors--first those who had stood near to the quarter-deck, and afterwards those from the more forward parts of the vessels formed a ring; all were eager and intensely interested, but quiet spectators. Seeing the officers offering no interference, they no doubt considered that it was also their part to make no interruption. Mr Dempster acted as second to Marston; Mr Brown, better known as Bowsprit, acted as second to John Coe. The swords were measured by the seconds and found of equal length. As both the weapons belonged to Captain Marston, the choice of them was offered to the prisoner, who took one of them at once, apparently without making any selection. The combatants were then placed in position; the salutes with the blades were given, and the fight began. It was very soon apparent that young Coe was the more expert swordsman. Captain Marston had, when young, as most young gentlemen of fortune were in the habit of doing, taken lessons in the small-sword exercise; but he had of late been accustomed only occasionally to combats with the cutlass; and such conflicts--as even one who is not an expert at either weapon must know--must rather tend to diminish than increase one's skill with the small-sword. His antagonist, on the contrary, had been in the habit for years of practising play with foils with young gentlemen in his neighbourhood, so that he had much improved his skill of late years. The sword-points were scarcely crossed before John was aware that his adversary's life was in his hands. This discovery was a great relief to his mind. He placed no faith in the pledges given by Captain Marston's officers; on the contrary, he felt assured that, if he should kill one who had virtually acknowledged himself to be a pirate chief, his own life would be forfeited; even if the officers should keep their pledges to the letter, the common sailors were bound by no pledge. These reflections caused him to use all his efforts to disarm his adversary; and added to these considerations, inducing him to pursue such a course, was the memory of early associations, and also the apparent generosity of his foe in granting him a combat at all, as equal almost as it could be made under the circumstances. Captain Marston, too, became very soon aware that he was fighting against one who was superior in the use of the weapon which he had selected. Shaken from his usual self-possession by a knowledge of this fact, and irritated by the forbearance of one whom he had considered his inferior with any weapon, and especially with the one which he had chosen, he made the mistake usual in such cases, "And showered his blows like wintry rain." John Coe, on the contrary, kept perfect control of his faculties. For an instant he retreated rapidly before the violent assault of his adversary; but the next moment, with a short, sudden and powerful blow of his sword, he sent Captain Marston's weapon flying over his own head. His own sword-point was immediately at the captain's breast. There was a sensation among the spectators at this sudden and totally unexpected result of the combat; but there was no movement towards any interference. Captain Marston's arms dropped by his side. He stood before his antagonist, as if ready to receive his sword-thrust. Coe stood, meanwhile, with his sword fixed, as it were, in the same position, while he kept his eyes firmly bent upon those of his conquered adversary. "I am at your mercy, Mr Coe," said Captain Marston, at length in a voice that palpitated, if I may use the term, partly on account of his recent violent exertion, and partly because of surprise at his defeat. "I wish you no harm," answered the victor, lowering his sword-point. "I only wished to show that had I been assailed by open force, I should not have been easily made a prisoner." The expression of the faces of the lookers-on showed that their captive had risen very highly in their estimation within the last few minutes. The most brutal and debased human being in the world still admires manly courage and magnanimity. The determined bearing of the prisoner, indicating a perfect preservation of his self-respect and self-reliance, in such adverse circumstances, and his willingness, even eagerness to prove his manhood by fighting Captain Marston in the very presence of his band, and the coolness, skill, and self-control which he had exhibited in winning and in using his victory, all manifested those qualities which men most admire in men. Captain Marston saw the admiration of his prisoner which was expressed in the faces of his officers and men; and he immediately resorted to an expedient which, by exhibiting on his part a generosity apparently equal, but in fact more than equal, to that of his adversary, might neutralise to some extent the injury which may have been done to his standing in the opinions of his band by the result of the contest. "You see, gentlemen," he said, addressing his ship's company, "that in the opinion which I have heretofore expressed to you of my friendly foe, I have not overrated his merits. Let us have three hearty cheers for John Alvan Coe." The three cheers called for were immediately given with a will. "I further propose, gentlemen," said Captain Marston, "that we proceed forthwith to form the corps of marines which I have before spoken of to you, and that Mr Coe be offered the captaincy of that band." "And with all due deference to Captain Vance," exclaimed Afton, before Captain Marston's proposition could be acted upon, and with his usual intermingling of expletives, "I propose that we either make Mr Coe commander of this brig, or throw him overboard. For my part, I should prefer to have the latter alternative carried out. No divided command can exist except to our disadvantage. If Mr Coe is, in your opinion, superior to Captain Vance, make him our chief; but do not give to him a charge which, unless he and the captain entirely agree, may cause civil war on board the brig." "I beg to differ with my honoured friend, Lieutenant Afton," said Bowsprit, facing the ship's company. "As Mr Coe has proved himself a brave and skilful man, we should try to secure him as a co-partner in our enterprises. As he is a born and bred gentleman, there are cogent reasons why he should hold a respectable position among us. But, although he has shown that he is superior to Captain Vance in the use of the small-sword, we are not therefore to suppose that he is co-equal with our distinguished chieftain in experience in seamanship and in habits of command. Nor would our new friend rank, in the position proposed, with our captain; he would be co-ordinate in rank with Lieutenant Seacome. There would be no danger of a conflict of authority with Captain Vance; there is a commander of marines on board of every man-of-war. I cannot, therefore, agree with either of the propositions of my distinguished friend Afton. His first would be unjust to our captain, his second would be an equal wrong to the gallant new comer. I second Captain Vance's motion." The speech of Billy Bowsprit was received with much applause, and the proposition of the captain was adopted by a vote of two to one. Mr Afton had his admirers among those old salts who were, like himself, rough in language, and especially hardened in crime. These men were not influenced in their votes by the authority of the captain, or the eloquence of Billy Bowsprit. "And now, Mr Coe," said the captain, "will you do me the honour of accepting the post to which we have elected you, and give me the pleasure of being the first to name you by your new title, Captain Coe, of the marine force?" Young Coe remembered the conversation upon this very subject which he had held, in anticipation, with Ada Revere, and her advice as to the course which he should pursue, should the offer be made to him. He called to mind also that, immediately preceding his duel with Captain Marston, she had declared that she was indebted to himself for an important service. He knew that that unfortunate girl must be better qualified by experience than he was himself to guide his course in relation to this matter. He determined, therefore, that he would consult with her again, and, should he find her sincere in her friendly feelings towards him, to be governed by her counsel in the desperate strait in which he was placed. With this purpose in view he made answer to Captain Marston's question-- "Your offer, Captain Vance, and gentlemen," he said, addressing the officers and seamen, and, for the first time, giving the captain of the brig his assumed name, "so changes the relation which I bore towards you but a few moments ago, that I must beg of you to grant me a little time to consider this question so suddenly placed before me. With your permission, I will retire for a few moments, and then return and give you my decision. In any case, I thank you for the favour you have shown to me." Having thus spoken on deck, he retired to the cabin. In the saloon he found Ada Revere. She sat upon a sofa, with her head resting upon her hands. On the entrance of our hero she rose at once to meet him, and her face, which had been sad, expressed a sense of relief. "Oh! I am so glad to see you, Mr Coe," she said. "Your face seems to show that nothing unpleasant has resulted from the state of things in which I left you. Tell me--do tell me quickly--what has happened?" John related to her all that had occurred. "And now, Miss Revere," he added, "I have come to ask an explanation of your language when you spoke some time ago of being under an obligation to me. When I saw you at the old manor house, your face seemed familiar to me. I thought that that recognition was accounted for by my having seen you in your boy's dress, at the Spout on Saint Leonard's Creek. But you appeared to refer to an acquaintance between us dating, farther into the past." "I can see nothing wrong, Mr Coe," answered the beautiful girl, "in telling you--in outline, at least--all my history. Do you remember Ada Ashleigh, who was one of your schoolmates at the old Manor Quarter school-house situate between Millmont and Drum Point?" "Certainly I do," was the answer. "What a sweet and guileless little girl she was!" "I was that little girl, Mr Coe," said Ada. "Do you not remember that, when any of the schoolchildren charged me with being the daughter of a man who received smuggled goods, after my father was brought before a court in Baltimore on such a charge, you always took my part? And once--an occasion which I shall never forget--when Mr Dempster, now an officer on board of this brig, but then a boy almost a year older than yourself, wounded my feelings even to weeping by his jeers, you rebuked him so severely for being rude, as you said, to a harmless little girl, that he challenged you to fight. I shall never forget the gratitude which I felt towards you for championing my cause, and my delight when you handled Dempster so roughly, that he was obliged to acknowledge himself beaten, and to promise never to say a harsh word to me again." "We had heard in Calvert," said John Alvan, "that Ada Ashleigh had made a runaway marriage in Baltimore, for which she was disinherited by her father. Since that intelligence was received, two or three years ago, I have heard nothing of her fate." "That runaway marriage was between me and Harry Marston," said Ada. "He intended it for a false marriage; and when he told me that it was such, I believed his words. But I learned, nearly a year ago now, from the friend of Captain Marston, whom he engaged to procure the services of some one, not a minister of the gospel, to perform the ceremony, that we had actually been wedded by a regular priest, and I have since obtained from that priest a certificate of the marriage. The conscience of Henry Marston's friend would not, at the last, allow him to take part in such deceit. My father never knew that it was with Captain Marston that I left his house; nor have I yet been able to summon the necessary courage to inform Captain Marston that we are really married. I wish that he knew it. I am sure that, had he been acquainted with the fact, he would never have commissioned me, his own wife, to act the part which he meant that I should act during your imprisonment at the old manor house and at the hut." "I would tell him for you myself, unhesitatingly," remarked John Alvan, "but the information would come most properly from you." After some further conversation upon the subject, young Coe asked-- "Do you still advise me, madam, to accept this position which is offered to me? I do not mean absolutely to accept it, but seem to accept it. I know now that you are really my friend, and have full faith in you." "I certainly do," answered the lady. "Your refusal to do so must eventuate in your death. They have gone too far to set you free, even under the most solemn pledges. As the most of these men would not be faithful to any pledge made to you, so they would not trust in any pledges made by you to them, under the circumstances. Whereas, by seeming to accept the offer, you will, in the ordinary course of things, have many chances of making your escape." "Yet," remarked the young man, "if they were to undertake, for instance, to capture a merchant vessel, I would die rather than give assistance in the commission of such a crime." "Of course," answered Ada, "but the `chapter of accidents' may make unnecessary your placing yourself in antagonism to the brig's crew on that question. We will hope so." "Have they ever really made such captures?" asked young Coe. "Many such," replied Ada. "They are pirates in the full meaning of the word." "In this business they must have committed murders," said John. "There is not a man in the brig, except yourself," answered Ada, "who is not responsible for the shedding of human blood." "Dear madam," said John, pityingly, "what a terrible life you must have led among such men." "I have often been able to save bloodshed," said Ada. "Most of the captures made by the _Falcon_ have been made without the taking of human life. When life has been taken it has been mostly in cases where a fight has followed a refusal on the part of a merchant vessel to surrender. I have never known a case where Captain Marston has allowed any one to be hurt after surrender. Indeed, I think at heart he is sick of the business in which he is engaged. Afton, however, and too many of the crew with him, appear to take pleasure in acts of cruelty." The conversation between Mrs Marston and young Coe here closed, and the latter returned upon deck. He expressed to the captain and the ship's company his acceptance provisionally of the post offered to him, it being understood that he reserved to himself the right to resign it whenever he thought proper to do so. Mr Afton loudly pronounced his maledictions against such "half-way" courses; and there were at first some dark scowls seen among the men. "I welcome you into our gallant service, Captain Coe," said Captain Marston, with much cordiality in his manner, "and am sure that no one member could be a greater addition to our company. As to the terms which Captain Coe makes," continued the pirate chief, addressing the men, "no one can object to them; any man has the right to resign at any time any office which he holds among us. The main thing is that Captain Coe is now a member of our band, and we all know how forcibly, in an instance of this kind, applies the old adage, `In for a penny, in for a pound!' Shipmates welcome our new comrade." These remarks of Captain Marston, intended to counteract what had been said by Afton, and to satisfy the crew with regard to the reservation made by Coe, were well-timed, and their new comrade was welcomed with loud cheers. The company of marines was at once formed, and "Captain" Coe, as they called him, immediately commenced the performance of his new office, by taking his men through such a preparatory drill as the short remaining time of daylight would allow. It was his determination to make himself as popular as he could among those who were placed under his command, with the view of using his influence for such good purposes as might hereafter present themselves. He was eminently successful in his endeavours to obtain popularity, his men already entertaining great admiration of his courage and resolute demeanour. The _Sea-bird_ continued for some days to run a southerly course, impelled by a moderate breeze from the west. Her prow was then turned towards the south-east, it being the intention of Captain Marston to get into the track of vessels trading between the West Indies and the Spanish Main, and the different European ports. While on this course certain changes were made in the appearance of the brig. The white stripe along her bends, just below the guards, was covered with a strip of black canvas; like strips, on which were painted the words the _Falcon_, were placed on each of her bows, and on her stern, over the name the _Sea-bird_, and the carved image of one bird was substituted for that of another as her figure-head. Other alterations were made in her rigging and elsewhere, so that the vessel's appearance was almost entirely changed. STORY TWO, CHAPTER TEN. THE CHASE. The western breeze is fresh and free; Before its power the vessels fleet, And, bounding o'er the flashing waves, Like lovers haste to meet. _Isobel--A Ballad_. And sweep through the deep, While the stormy tempests blow; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy tempests blow. _Mariners of England_. By each gun a lighted brand, In a bold, determined hand. _Battle of the Baltic_. Day after day the wind continued to blow mildly from the west, and the brig still made regular but slow progress before it, on her south-eastwardly course. One morning, before sunrise, a strange sail was espied upon the larboard bow. It was during Mr Afton's watch that this discovery was made. The second-lieutenant pronounced the stranger to be a merchant ship. This fact, with the opinion of the officer of the watch, being communicated to the commander of the brig, who was still in his hammock, and whom we must now call Captain Vance, orders were given by him to crowd all sail on the _Falcon_, and to pursue the stranger ship. Hour after hour passed away, and still the pirate vessel continued to gain on the chase, which had in the meanwhile been discovered to be a large and heavily-laden ship. Mile after mile the brig gained while the wind lasted; but towards two o'clock the light breeze, which had been blowing from the same point so many days, began to die away, and by noon there was an absolute calm. The brig was at this time still many miles distant from the ship. For more than an hour each vessel remained, except as affected by that unceasing swell (in this instance scarcely perceptible) which never allows the water to be perfectly tranquil, as motionless as-- "A painted ship Upon a painted ocean." Between one and two o'clock, clouds, in masses at first comparatively light, but which grew dense and denser, began to move overhead from the east towards the west; these were evidently impelled by a wind travelling in the same direction, and light flaws of which occasionally made faint shadows over the ocean by slightly stirring its waters, and sometimes gave a soft pulsation to the sails of the two vessels. Shortly after two o'clock, lightning flashes gleamed in rather quick succession, from below the eastern horizon; but no thunder was heard. At length a small portion of densely black cloud showed itself in the same direction, above the line dividing the ocean and sky. This cloud rapidly rose, spreading itself as it ascended, while flashes of lightning, followed, after fast-diminishing intervals, by grand and grander thunder-burst, flamed forth more and more frequently, from the dark and threatening mass of vapour. Soon blasts of wind, heavily laden with moisture, and each more powerful than that which preceded it, came with rapidly decreasing lulls, from the west, until the breeze, having at length become continuous, had grown almost to a storm. Both vessels had prepared for this increased force of the wind by shortening sail. The chase, however, urged by the necessity of escaping as well from the brig which pursued her as from the storm, still carried all the canvas which she could bear under the heavy pressure of the wind, almost directly before which both vessels were now steering an east-north-east course. Still the brig, built after the Baltimore clipper model, so famed for fleetness, continued to gain rapidly upon the ship. "Suppose, captain," said Afton, addressing Marston, "we range the `Long Tom' to bear upon her, and give her a shot?" "There is no chance of hitting her," answered the captain, "with the brig beginning to pitch in the way she is now; it will be but waste of powder. Besides, the distance is too great." "If we wait," objected the second-lieutenant (so-called), "until we get within range of her two cannon, she will have the advantage of us in the number of her guns. If we fire at her from a distance, on the contrary, her cannon will be of no use to her." The intelligent reader, of course, already understands that the ship pursued was the _Duchess_, which, with her passengers and captain, was introduced to his attention in a previous chapter. "In the present condition of the weather," replied the captain to the objections of his second officer, "we shall have to lose the advantage of the longer range of our gun, or lose our hoped-for prize. At the rate at which we are now gaining on her, it will be nearly sunset when we overtake her. The sky is already darkened by clouds, and if the rain--which is threatening to fall every moment--should continue into the night, we may lose sight of her altogether, and she may make her escape in the darkness. If she offers to resist, therefore, we shall have to fight at close quarters." "I hope that she may be worth the trouble she is likely to give us," muttered Afton, with his usual maledictions. "And I hope, Afton," retorted the captain, with a jesting smile, "that you have no intention of getting nervous about the matter?" "A pretty time of day," rejoined Afton, "for anybody to be doubting my courage. You know well enough that I was only wishing that we should make a good haul in capturing her." "We cannot tell what she is worth," said the captain, "until we get on board of her. This we know--that she is a large ship, and appears to be well laden. Others might give up the hope of capturing her on account of the state of the weather; I never give up what I undertake." "It is very evident," said Lieutenant Seacome, "from the manner in which she is handled, that the man who has charge of her is a thorough seaman." "Yes," assented the captain. "And there is something about the man's movements, as I note him through the telescope, which convinces me that he will make a fight of it before he yields. Captain Coe, you must see to it that your men are ready with all their side-arms. They evidently have men enough to manage both their cannon; and they will, therefore, have the advantage of us, unless we board them, or lay so closely alongside of them that our small-arms will tell. I am determined to board, however, if it be possible to do so in such a sea." "My men are prepared to act at a minute's notice," said the captain of Marines. Young Coe had made much progress in the last few days in perfecting his men in their drill. He had already gained their confidence in his capacity for command, his courage and skill, and his possession of all his faculties in moments of danger. Notwithstanding the language in which he had so promptly answered Captain Vance's (as we must call him now) inquiry, he entertained not the slightest intention of taking any part in the commission of crime; he was determined, on the contrary, to use his influence with his men to prevent it. For the manner in which he should carry out this latter determination he was compelled to trust to contingencies. On board the pirate-brig every preparation was made for a conflict. In the meantime the hours advanced, and at length the two vessels were within short cannon range of each other. It still wanted more than an hour to sunset, and notwithstanding the dense clouds which still covered the sky (the rain which had fallen heavily for a while had soon ceased) the daylight was still clear enough to distinguish objects on board of one ship from the other, whenever the upheaving and subsidence of the waves allowed the deck of the lower to be seen from that of the higher. As the brig overhauled the chase, Captain Vance directed his helmsman to steer to the larboard of the chase, on a line as near as it was safe to approach her; by this course he would not only take the weather-guage of the ship, but would also make his position more convenient to "speak" her. "Mr Bowsprit," said the captain to the officer who had charge of the cannon, "fire a shot across her bows. That is the best way to open the conversation." The shot was immediately fired; and the reverberation was deafening, in the damp, heavy atmosphere. The vessels were now not more than a hundred yards apart; so near were they to each other, that the shadow of the brig--the outlines of which were defined clearly by the light which came from the western sky, where the clouds were somewhat broken--fell almost aboard the ship. The shot brought immediately a hail from the deck of the _Duchess_. "Brig ahoy!" came through a speaking trumpet in stentorian tones from Captain Johnson. "Ay, ay," was the answer. "Who are you, and what do you want?" was the retort from the deck of the ship. "The _Falcon_, free rover," replied Captain Vance, "and we want you to surrender." "We will never surrender to pirates," answered Captain Johnson. "If you surrender without resistance, we will spare the lives of all on board," said the captain of the _Falcon_. "I would rather sink the ship," replied the captain of the _Duchess_. "Woe be to you then," exclaimed Captain Vance. "Your blood and that of those under your control be upon your own head." All this conversation between the vessels had been carried on through speaking-trumpets. "Mr Seacome," said Captain Vance to his first lieutenant, "display the flag." The pirate flag of those days, having a black ground with white skull and cross-bones displayed upon it, was immediately run up to the main mast-head of the brig. The gale still continued to blow with great force, and the waves were running higher and higher. Though I have said that the vessels were about a hundred yards apart, it is not to be supposed that there was any regularity in the distance between them. Now one vessel would be far below, then far above the other, as she sank into the trough of a sea, or rose upon the crest of a wave. Now the surging waters would drive them farther apart, and now closer together. Meanwhile, near and far over the sea, the fiercely-labouring winds and billows loudly roared in wild unison their stern and complaining songs. "Had we not better, captain," asked Seacome, "keep as near as we can to the ship until this gale has fallen, and then make the assault? We could scarcely board in such a wind as this, even should she surrender." John Coe wished sincerely that this proposition should be adopted. Only in case of boarding the ship could he hope to carry out his plans; and it did not seem to him possible that boarding could be done in such a state of the weather. Should muskets be used, while the vessels were thus running side by side, his men--acting under his orders too--would, like the rest of the pirate-brig's crew, do all the damage they could to those on board the ship; and he would have no means of preventing them. "It is not the wind that is in our way," answered Captain Vance to Mr Seacome, "so much as the waves; and seas will run higher and higher while this gale continues. Our best chance is now. Mr Bowsprit," he exclaimed, turning to that officer, "have you reloaded your gun?" "Ay, ay, sir," was the answer. "Then fire into them," said the captain, "and do them all the damage you can." The Long Tom again pealed a savage note. But the only damage done to the _Duchess_ was a small hole made through one of her sails. The shot was immediately returned; it was fired by Captain Johnson's own hand. The ball passed through the guards and swept across the deck of the _Falcon_, killing one man, and wounding two more by the splinters which it tore from the timbers through which it had forced its way. The loud peal of the cannon had not died away, when another shot from the _Duchess_ came almost upon its track, again killing one and wounding two more. "This will never do, Mr Bowsprit," said Captain Vance. "Is your gun loaded again?" "Yes, sir," was the reply. "Let me manage her this time," said the captain. His shot was well aimed; it struck the guards of the _Duchess_, scattering the splinters far and wide. "I'll guarantee that did them some damage," remarked Captain Vance. Scarcely had he spoken, when two cannon-shots came in quick succession from the _Duchess_. The one struck the deck of the _Falcon_, tearing up the splinters; the other again struck the guards, scattering fragments of timber. One sailor was killed directly beside Captain Vance; three others were slightly wounded. "Furies!" exclaimed the pirate chief, "that fellow knows his business. But this will never do. Give them a volley of musketry." The loud roar of the Long Tom, and the rattling peal of the muskets immediately blended into one tremendous sound. That sound was instantly echoed from on board the ship; two cannon-shots and a dozen musket-loads again poured devastation upon the deck of the brig. "We must come to close quarters," exclaimed the pirate chief; "we are fast losing the advantage of superior numbers. The terrible skill of that devil with his cannon is destroying our superiority in that respect. Give me a loaded musket." He waited until a partial lifting of the smoke-cloud gave him a glimpse of the stout, manly figure of Captain Johnson, then, in an instant, taking aim, he fired. The ceaseless motion of the vessels destroyed the effect of his aim; and the man who was fired at escaped unharmed. "Pistols and cutlasses!" exclaimed Vance, much excited. "Prepare to board. Forward with your men, Captain Coe. Helmsman, put us alongside of that vessel at once." "That's the way to talk," said Afton. "We'll give the whelps no mercy now." "We may sink both vessels by collision," said Seacome, "in such a sea as this." "Then let them sink," cried the pirate chief, all of whose evil passions were now aroused. "Lay us aboard quickly, helmsman." The helmsman did his work skilfully; the starboard-bow of the brig was brought to bear gradually towards the larboard bow of the ship; and the two vessels approached each other in such a manner that their sides when they touched formed, at the point of contact, a very acute angle. The guards of the ship were above those of the brig; yet grappling-irons were cast from the latter and the vessels were made fast together. But the independent rolling and pitching of each of them, which caused them sometimes to "yaw" asunder, sometimes to come together with a crash that sounded like thunder, made the passage from one to the other very dangerous. STORY TWO, CHAPTER ELEVEN. THE BOARDING ATTACK. Together they came with a crashing and rending, While the sounds of the battle and tempest were blending. _The Lost Ship_. We will be true to you, most noble sir. _Avator_. Oh, spare my daughter! Take my wealth--I care not; But spare my daughter. _Old Play_. Villain, forbear! Throw down your arms--surrender. _The Assault_. The last fire from the _Falcon_ had made sad havoc among the crew of the merchant vessel; two men were killed and three badly wounded by it. Hence it was that, when the pirates were thronging the brig's side, preparing to spring on board the ship, Captain Johnson had but nine men to aid him in resisting the assault, the tenth being at the wheel. The odds were fearfully against him, being more than three to one; the pirate chief, leaving ten men to take care of the brig, had still thirty-one men, besides those who had been placed _hors de combat_, with whom to board the ship. While John Coe was standing by the starboard guards of the brig, prepared to spring on board of the ship, with every nerve wrought up to its highest tension, he ejaculated prayers to the Almighty to guard him from sin and guide him to goodness in this terrible crisis of his fate. Just as the vessels were coming together, he felt his arm touched, and turning, saw Ada by his side. "For heaven's sake, madam," he said, in low but earnest tones, "what are you doing here? Do go into the cabin and seek out its safest corner. You are almost certain to lose your life here. This is no place for a helpless woman." "How can I stay there," she said, "while these horrible scenes are taking place? I am inured to danger, and put no value on my life. Besides, I feel impelled by a power within me, and which I cannot resist, to take part in the scenes about to occur on board of that ship. I put myself by your side, both because my husband would drive me away from his, and because, of all who are about to board that vessel, you alone have no evil in your heart, but are seeking to prevent it; and I wish to aid you in that good work. See! I also am armed." She showed a cutlass in her hand, and pointed to two double-barrelled pistols in a belt round her waist. "Keep closely by my side, then," said John, seeing her determination. "I will do all that I can to protect you." "Thank you," she replied. John turned towards his other side; there, near to him, stood Billy Bowsprit. "Bowsprit," he said, in a low voice, "keep near to me; and do not forget your pledge to give all the aid in your power to prevent, to such extent as we can, the shedding of innocent blood." "Mr Coe," answered Billy, earnestly and emphatically, yet in a whisper, "I am with you, heart and hand, I am yours in life and death." "And see, too," said Coe, in the same low tones, "that the five men of my band, who are with us, keep near to us, and that you and they follow me wherever I go." "They are here, sir," whispered Billy, "just behind you and me. Every man of them can be relied on; they are all devoted to you." "And you and they," replied John, still in the same undertones, "may depend upon my fulfilling my promise, should I escape with life and freedom from the perils of this night." Thus the thirty men of the _Falcon's_ crew detailed for the boarding-party, stood by the guards of the brig upon that side of her towards the ship, waiting for the moment when the upheaving and subsidence of the waters should uplift the former and depress the latter, that they might seize the opportunity to leap down upon the deck of the _Duchess_. Captain Johnson was also waiting for the same moment. He had stationed eight men each with a cutlass in his right hand and a pistol in his left, in a position to meet the pirates should they gain his deck. He had so carefully balanced and trained his two guns that, when they should be fired, the balls would come together at a short distance from the muzzles of the cannon. By one of these guns stood Captain Johnson himself, by the other one of his mates, upon whose coolness he could thoroughly depend. Each of these two resolute men held a lighted match in his hand. By this time the sun had been half an hour below the horizon, and the short twilight of that southern latitude was fast darkening into a night of storm and of unusual gloom; for although there was one clear spot in the western sky, all the rest of the face of heaven was veiled in heavy clouds. In his anxiety to gain as soon as possible the deck of the ship, Captain Vance had not noted all the dispositions made on board the _Duchess_; his attention had been given mainly to the ordering of his own men, and to the eight men arranged for the reception of his assaulting party. The critical moment, upon the results of which so much of vital importance to the combatants depended, arrived. The brig rose high upon the summit of a huge billow, while the merchant ship descended into the valley between that and another monster wave. At that instant the pirates sprung towards the deck of the _Duchess_, the eight men of the latter, who had been placed to meet this assault, fired their pistols, and Captain Johnson and his mate applied the matches to the cannon. Three of the pirates fell upon the ship's deck, two killed and one mortally wounded by the pistol-shots of their enemies; five made the leap too late, of whom two were crushed between the vessels, and fell into the sea, and three struck against the guards of the now rising ship, and were thrown back with violence upon their own deck. Captain Vance himself received a pistol-shot through the brain at the moment when he was about to spring from the guards of the _Falcon_ to the deck of the _Duchess_; he disappeared between the two vessels and sunk into the sea. John Coe--to avoid confronting the eight defenders of the ship--had taken his station with Ada, Billy Bowsprit, and the rest of the small party devoted to him, on the extreme left of the boarding-line of pirates. The next officer on his right was Lieutenant Afton, who was separated from him, however, by several men. At the extreme right of the whole line had been Captain Vance; Lieutenant Seacome being left in charge of the brig. Thus, when young Coe, holding Ada by the hand, alighted on the deck of the _Duchess_, he found the second-lieutenant of the _Falcon_--with a party of five men under his immediate command--between himself and the defenders of the ship. He saw the wretch Afton, ever intent upon spoil--after making, with all the assaulting party to his right, a rush against the ship's crew, which forced the latter to give back a space-- detach himself with four men from the rest of the pirates, and, crossing the deck, hurry along the starboard side of the ship towards the entrance to the cabin. It had been the first intention of Coe to throw himself, with his small force, between the contending parties, and to insist upon the pirates retiring to the brig; or, in case of their refusal to do so, to take sides against them in the fight. But, seeing that the odds against the ship's crew was now not so great, Captain Johnson and his mate having joined them, he determined, with his followers, to pursue Afton, and to prevent such mischief as he might be bent upon. Captain Johnson, when he saw so many of the pirate crew hastening towards the cabin, was also anxious to follow them; but he was too hard pressed by his enemies to allow him to do so. He hoped, moreover, that the tenants of the cabin had had the forethought to barricade the door, in which case the pirates might be prevented from breaking in upon Mr Durocher and his family until he could overpower the force immediately before him, and then, turning upon those who had gone towards the cabin, might thus be able to overcome his enemies in detail. The door of the cabin had been barricaded by Mr Durocher, as well as he could do so, with the aid of his daughter and the quadroon girl, but the fastenings scarcely withstood for one moment the violent assault of Afton and his men. They passed in without further opposition--the illness of Mr Durocher preventing him from offering even a moment's resistance. An instant of silence ensued, and then, above the noise of conflict without arose the cries of distress from the cabin--the shrieks of women! That was the cry most agonising to young Coe. "Here, my brave fellows!" he shouted, "follow me, and remember your own mothers and sisters at home!" He dashed off down the deck, past the assailants and assailed still struggling there, and, followed by Ada and his men, sprung into the cabin to confront Afton and his men in their fiendish scheme. Afton, having penetrated to the state-rooms, had seized Miss Durocher, and was trying to drag her forth, preparatory to removing her to the brig. "Unhand that lady, villain!" shouted Coe. "Villain yourself?" roared Afton. "Who made you my master, I should like to know?" Afton was a strong man, but young Coe was both stronger and more active, and when he was aroused and inflamed by a righteous anger the pirate was but a child in his hands. He said not another word, but releasing the lady from the grasp of the ruffian by a sudden and dexterous exertion, he seized the pirate with both hands and swung him with tremendous force through the state-room doorway into the saloon. So violently did the latter strike the floor, that he lay at once without sense or motion. One of Afton's men, drawing a pistol, had pointed it at the head of the infuriated rescuer; but ere he could pull the trigger, Ada, who already had a pistol in her hand, fired, and broke his right arm, which fell powerless to his side. He stooped to pick up the weapon which he had dropped with the hand of his uninjured arm, but Ada drew another pistol from her belt and presented it at his head. "If you attempt to take up that weapon again, Joe," she said, with firmness of purpose expressed in her tones, "you are a dead man." The man yielded at once, and stood motionless and silent before the pistol which she continued to hold with the muzzle towards him. At the same time when these scenes were occurring in the state-room, others were taking place in the saloon. "Unhand that gentleman," said Bowsprit, to two men who held the sick Mr Durocher prisoner. "We are acting under the orders of the second-lieutenant," replied one of the men. "Point your pistols at those men," said Bowsprit, addressing those under his command, himself presenting at them a weapon in each hand. His orders were at once obeyed. "We have pistols, too," gruffly said one of the men who held Mr Durocher. "Now," said Billy, "release your prisoner at once, or I'll warrant you'll never disobey orders again." At this moment the body of Afton came rushing head-foremost out of the state-room. Seeing the condition of their officer, the two men unhanded Mr Durocher, and sullenly threw their weapons upon the floor. The fourth of the men who had accompanied Afton, and who had stood at the state-room door through all these scenes, apparently stupefied by surprise, quietly handed his pistols and cutlass to Bowsprit. STORY TWO, CHAPTER TWELVE. THE FATE OF THE FALCON. Sir, I thank you-- My heart is full of thanks to you. _The Dream_. *John*. Surrender, sirs. *Isaac*. Never; we die first. _Old Play_. Full many a fathom deep they rushed Down--down the dark abyss. _Ballad_. Mr Durocher, with the vivacity and warm-heartedness of a Frenchman, embraced young Coe, calling him his preserver, and overwhelming him with thanks. "Thank only God, my dear sir," replied the deliverer. "I am not doing even all my duty. How many lives may be lost on deck while I am delaying here! Mr Bowsprit," he continued, addressing that individual, "bind the hands of your prisoners at once, and then come, with your men, upon deck with me." Through the open door of the state-room he could see Ada, still pointing her pistol at Joe, whose right arm hung loosely at his side. "Madam," asked John, "is that man's arm broken?" "Yes," she answered; "I broke it with a pistol-shot; but I understand a little of surgery, and can easily set it if I can get a few splinters of wood." Mr Durocher had hastened to his daughter and was holding her in his embrace, when hearing the word madam addressed to a person in male attire, he said-- "From this gentleman calling you madam, I suppose that you are a woman, and understand those sudden sicknesses caused by excited feelings, and peculiar to women?" "I am a woman," answered Ada, blushing; "and I understand you. I see that your daughter has fainted. I will attend to her. Have you any salts?" she continued, addressing Celeste. The poor quadroon girl was herself near to the point of swooning; but aroused herself when thus addressed, and hastened to bring the restoratives asked for. While she was searching for these among the vials and bottles of the medicine-case, Mr Durocher laid his daughter upon the bed. He then turned to Ada, and said-- "You need not trouble yourself with that man any more. Let him come into my state-room adjoining this, and lie upon my bed. I understand something of surgery myself; I also have the materials for making splinters, and will dress his wound." Meantime, in the saloon, the hands of the prisoners were bound, even those of Afton. Leaving one of his men to guard the prisoners, Coe and the rest hastened upon deck. Scarcely five minutes had elapsed since he had left the deck--so many incidents may occur in a brief period of time, when the struggle is one of life and death. The man who had been placed at the helm by Captain Johnson still kept his post. Through all the excitement and confusion, through the uproar and perils of the storm and the battle, that sturdy and brave seaman had, with unflinching patience and fidelity, and by a skilful management of the helm, watched for and warded off the effect of every huge wave which had threatened the safety of this ship. When the two vessels had come together, he had, by good guidance, broken to a great extent the force of the collision. When he had seen his comrades pressed by vastly superior numbers, and knew that his own safety depended on their successful defence--when he had seen the pirates hurry into the cabin where were only the sickly old man and the two helpless females--he had firmly maintained his post, steadily and faithfully performing the duties which had been assigned to him. He knew that upon him depended the safety of all on board; that the slightest neglect on his part, the slightest failure of hand or eye, might allow the ship to broach to and be swamped in the tremendous seas which were now running. Fidelity to duty, in instances of this kind, exhibits the purest type of heroism of character. And such instances are very common in ordinary life, among all classes, and especially among the humblest. There is seldom any genuine heroism in mere fighting; when man's passions are stirred--whether by feelings right or wrong--and his animal nature thoroughly roused, fighting is an absolute enjoyment to him; and in battle there is the additional incentive of glory to urge him to acts of valour. But, too often, in the apparent stillness of quiet life, there are duties which are discharged amid ceaseless temptations to neglect them. These nobody notes as worthy of especial honour; because they occur every day, every hour. Many persons cross the Atlantic to see Niagara, and they talk of its grandeur and sublimity--and justly do they do so; yet who speaks of, or even notes the fact, which all must acknowledge, that the sky, which by day and by night bends over the head of every man, woman, and child in every part of the world, is a thousand times grander and more sublime than even the wonderful cataract? A blessed truth it is to the humble disciples of humble duty, that, though no earthly being observes them with praise, God sees them. There was yet a faint glimmer of daylight when John Coe came upon the deck of the ship. In that dim light the fight was still going on. It had commenced with twelve men from the _Falcon_ on the one side, and ten men belonging to the _Duchess_ on the other. So nearly were the individuals of the contending parties balanced in personal strength and prowess, that the success of the pirates had been very nearly in exact proportion to their superiority of number. The loss was of two men upon each side, and the defenders of the ship had been driven back to a position very near to the quarter-deck; but of the pirates one was wounded and one was killed, while of the defenders two only were wounded. Both of the parties were fighting with cutlasses only; the pistols had all been fired in the beginning of the engagement, and there had since been no opportunity of reloading them. Coe, with his small force, threw himself between the contending ranks, flashing his cutlass right and left, and striking upwards the clashing weapons. "Hold your hands," he cried, in a loud voice. "My party is a small one; but we are enough to settle this contest at once in favour of the side into whose support we may throw ourselves." The pirates at once dropped their points and fell back; they, of course, felt convinced that a reinforcement had come to their help. Captain Johnson and his men, however, naturally looking upon the new comers as enemies, and supposing that Coe's mode of dealing with existing affairs was a _ruse_ to take them at disadvantage, were not disposed to cease fighting so readily. Still, Captain Johnson reflected that it would be well to hear what proposition was to be made. He, therefore, dropped his point and retired a step or two, and ordered his men to cease fighting and to fall back. His command was immediately obeyed. "Mr Brown," said Coe, addressing Bowsprit, as soon as he saw that the fighting was suspended, "you and your men are supplied with two pistols apiece, I believe?" "Yes, sir," answered Billy. "Are they all loaded?" asked Coe. "All loaded," was the echoed answer. "Then draw, each of you, one in each hand," said our hero, "and have each pistol ready for instant use. But keep your cutlasses suspended by the cord from the right wrist." Coe's order was instantly obeyed; and he himself at the moment prepared his weapons as he had commanded the others to prepare theirs. "Gentlemen pirates," he said, sarcastically, addressing those of the boarding-party who had been engaged in the fight, "you will remember that when I accepted the high and distinguished office of captain of marines on board of the brig _Falcon_, the free rover, I did so provisionally, and on the express condition that I retained the right of resigning whenever I should think proper to do so. I exercise that reserved right now. I resign the honourable post so flatteringly offered to me; and I am, therefore, no longer a member of the gallant band composing the crew of the brig _Falcon_." "What's the meaning of all this fine talk?" asked a gruff-looking pirate. "What have we got to do with your affairs at this time?" "It means that I never have been, and never have intended to be, a pirate," answered the captain; "I had rather die a thousand deaths than be one of your kind. I was taken prisoner by deceit, and was then entirely in your power; yet, even in such circumstances, my first impulse was to defy your whole band and thus to bring on my own death rather than to seem to become a member of your ship's company. I was induced to act as I have done, partly by the advice of a friend whom circumstances had forced to remain among you, but mainly by the conviction that the Ruler of Events would not have allowed me to be taken prisoner by you merely for the purpose of permitting my death. I hoped not only that I might thus be able to make my escape, but that I might prevent some of the evil which you are accustomed to do in your vocation, and might also find amongst your number some whom I could induce to become again honest men. I see a good prospect of success in all these objects." "What's the use of all this argufying?" said the sailor who had before spoken, and who was boatswain of the _Falcon_. "Tell us what do you mean? What are you going to do?" "What I mean is this," answered Coe. "Lay down your arms at once and surrender. You have no chance of defending yourselves successfully against such odds as will now be opposed to you." "You don't mean to say," said the boatswain, "that Leftenant Bowsprit and them others there have turned agin us?" "We are all," answered Bowsprit, "pledged to stand by Mr Coe for life or death." "As to them other fellows there," said the boatswain, "I never had much faith in them; but I didn't think, leftenant, that you would ever desert us." "I am determined," replied Bowsprit, "to live hereafter, and to die, an honest man." "And to get yourself hanged," sneered the sailor. "I had rather things should come to that," said Bowsprit, "than ever to be a pirate again." "Come," said Coe; "you must decide quickly. Do you surrender?" "Never," answered the boatswain. "We can hold out until old bully Afton comes from the cabin--confound him, he's always after the gals and the rhino--we shall then be equal to you. Never say `die'--heh, boys?" The pirates answered him by cheers, mingled with oaths, swearing that they would rather die where they stood like men, than to be hanged like dogs. "You need not expect help from Afton or his men," said the resolute Coe, addressing the pirates; "I have them all bound in the cabin." "Mr Coe," said Bowsprit, who did not like to take a part in consigning any of his old comrades to the gallows, "suppose we allow them to escape to the _Falcon_?" That question was never answered. The reference made by Bill Bowsprit to the brig caused most of the pirates, and the boatswain among the number, to turn their faces towards the vessel. What they saw determined them to immediate action. Most men come to a resolution very speedily when a sudden emergency leaves them but a brief time for doing so. When the two cannon were fired by Captain Johnson and one of his mates at the very moment when the pirates boarded the _Duchess_, the effect of the rebound of the guns upon one vessel and of the striking of the shot upon the other had a violent tendency to drive the ship and the brig apart. The hold of the grappling-irons and other fastenings which kept the two vessels together was therefore, much weakened by the shock. The violent dashing against each other of the ship and the brig had not only carried away a considerable part of the upper-works, but threatened, if continued much longer, to dash in the very sides of the two vessels; of course, this ceaseless motion tended to weaken more and more the bonds which held the ship and the brig together. At the very moment when the boatswain and others of the pirates looked towards the brig, these fastenings gave way, and the two vessels were about to part. "Come, boys! quick!" cried the boatswain, rushing towards the guards of the ship. He was immediately followed by all of his men who were left alive, except the one who lay wounded upon the ship's deck. The next instant they sprang from the broken guards of the _Duchess_ towards the deck of the _Falcon_; in the confusion and hurry three of them missed the leap, fell into the sea and were drowned. At the same time the vessels parted. When the boatswain gained the brig, he turned round to those whom he left on the deck of the ship, shook his fist, and exclaimed, in a voice that was heard above the sound of the wind and the sea: "Look out for the Long Tom!" "We should not have allowed them to escape," said John Coe to Captain Johnson. "It is better as it is," said the captain. "We have escaped from a fate so terrible, that all minor perils are but as trifles in comparison. I know not who you are, young gentleman; but your appearance and action among us have been so wonderful that it almost seems as if you were an angel sent from heaven to rescue us." "You do me too much honour," said the young man. "But I will explain to you everything when we have leisure. At present, there are the wounded to be attended to." "True," replied the captain. Then turning to his men, he added, "Bring lights, some of you, and remove the wounded below." By this time the vessels were some twenty yards apart. "See!" exclaimed Billy Bowsprit, "they are loading the cannon on board the _Falcon_." Only dimly through the night shadows could the deck of the brig be seen; for now the last vestige of daylight had departed. Some of the men who belonged to the _Duchess_ were enabled to assist in loading the two cannon; for Captain Johnson had expressed his determination that, if a shot was fired from the pirate-brig, he would, as before, return them two for one. "The two shots which I fired at the moment of their boarding us," he said to Coe, "made a good-sized hole in their hull just above the water-mark; and they must have taken in considerable water through it, during the tossing and pitching of the brig. I will make another hole in their timbers if they fire at me again." Even while he spoke a shot came from the _Falcon_. It was fired, probably, by the skilful hand of Seacome; for it again carried away a part of the guards. Fortunately, no one was injured. Captain Johnson quickly responded with his two guns. His object was to strike the enemy's hull, near where his last two shots had struck; and he probably did so, for, in a few moments afterwards--by the light of the lamps on board the _Falcon_--men were seen hurrying to and fro in apparently great excitement. Loud tones were also heard, seemingly giving orders. All who were on the deck of the _Duchess_ stood still, listening and watching. "Your shot must have done them serious damage," said Coe, at length, to Captain Johnson; "the excitement seems to increase." "It seems to me," said Billy Bowsprit, who was watching things sharply, "the _Falcon_ is settling in the water." Upon the background of the sky, the spectators on board the _Duchess_ could see the masts of the brig slowly bend forward; still slowly for a while they moved onward in the same direction, sinking, sinking from the horizontal line in the sky which they had formerly touched; and then their motion was gradually accelerated. "See!" exclaimed Bowsprit, "her bows are going under, as sure as my name is William." That instant, a wild, despairing and mingled cry arose from the deck of the _Falcon_; the next moment that gallant craft plunged head-foremost into the sea and disappeared. "God have mercy on their souls!" exclaimed Captain Johnson. "The best among them can be but little prepared to enter the other world." The captain of the _Duchess_ then ordered a thorough examination to be made of the damage done to his ship. For many feet along the larboard beam and larboard bow the guards were almost entirely torn away. From the fact that the ship was also leaking, it was evident that the planks had been started somewhat where the larboard side of the _Duchess_ had been beaten against by the starboard of the _Falcon_; a single pump kept regularly at work easily balanced the effects of this leak. A part of this labour was performed by some of Billy Bowsprit's men, all of whom-- at the suggestion of Coe--reported themselves to Captain Johnson for duty as a part of his crew. Afton and three of his men who were unwounded were put in irons and removed to safe keeping in the forward part of the ship; and the man whose arm had been broken by Ada Marston's shot was placed with the rest of the wounded in the sailor's quarters, where they were all made as comfortable as circumstances would allow. After these tasks had been attended to, Captain Johnson read the "funeral service at sea" over the bodies of the dead, which, enshrouded and with weights attached to them, were launched into the ocean. The decks were then scrubbed by the light of lanterns, the watch set for the night, and all made secure. These duties being performed, Captain Johnson, Coe, and Bowsprit went down into the cabin, to look after the condition of things there. They found Louise recovered from her swoon, but still very pale and nervous. She sat beside the sofa, on which lay her father, very ill from the shock of his recent terrible excitement. The quadroon girl was crouched upon the floor at the feet of her mistress; she also was very pale, and her eyes still had a wild and alarmed look. Ada, too, sat upon the floor, at a little distance from the others, her head against the seat of a chair, and her face hidden in her hands. She had been upon deck and had seen the brig sink in the ocean. She had learned of her husband's death; that she was weeping proved that she was a woman. There was not much rest for Captain Johnson that night; the leaky condition of his ship, and the still strong gale and high-rolling waves kept him on the alert. Billy Bowsprit, who was a thorough seaman, insisted upon watching with the captain. Coe was assigned a berth in one of the state-rooms forward of the saloon. Knowing that he could be of no farther use, he consented to retire for the night. Being much fatigued, he soon fell asleep, in dreams to recall, in forms more or less distorted, all the incidents of the day; yet amid all the scenes which his memory presented to his imagination, bent over him the soft, appealing eyes, the pale and beautiful face of Louise Durocher. STORY TWO, CHAPTER THIRTEEN. GATHERED ENDS. Melting and mingling into one Two kindred souls. _Anon_. And so his life was gently exhaled in peace. _Anon_. Hail, wedded love! _Paradise Lost_. That's the very moral on't. _Nym_. The gale continued blowing all that night, all the next day, and for two or three days following. The injured condition of the ship made it unsafe for her to contend against the force of so strong a wind; and she was, therefore, kept directly before it. While the _Duchess_ was thus running before the wind, two of the wounded pirates and three of the wounded of the ship's crew died, and were committed to the deep. The man whose arm had been broken by Ada's pistol-shot, and the other two of the wounded men belonging to the ship's company, recovered before the arrival of the vessel in port. A consultation was held in Mr Durocher's state-room, on the day after the fight, between Mr Durocher himself, Captain Johnson, and John Coe, to which Billy Bowsprit was also admitted, and in which it was determined that as soon as the gale should abate, the ship should be steered for the nearest port in the United States. This determination was formed, that the ship might receive the necessary repairs, and that the captured pirates might be surrendered to the Government whose citizens they were. On the fourth day after the fight the wind from the west had so abated that the course of the ship was changed, and she was headed towards the west. On the fifth day a fresh wind from the north arose; and, impelled by it, the _Duchess_ made good progress for the American coast. Meanwhile, the gallant young Marylander had become intimately acquainted with Mr Durocher and his daughter. He told to them the singular history of his connection with the pirates, of which Ada had already given them some particulars. The warm-hearted old French gentleman became much attached to the brave fellow, upon whom he could not look, he said, without remembering the awful horror from which he had delivered his daughter and himself. Besides, he esteemed him as an impersonation of courage and genius, because, in circumstances in which, according to ordinary apprehension, it seemed impossible to avoid being forced to the commission of crime, he had not only overcome his enemies, saving the penitent, and destroying the hopelessly guilty, but had also escaped from all the difficulties which had surrounded him, with his own hands unstained by human blood. The fair and gentle Louise, too, was not insensible to the merits of her deliverer; her fervid feelings recognised in him a personification of the knights of old; and, with the spirit of self-sacrifice which greatly influences the tender and amiable of her sex, she longed to devote the services of her life to him in requital for her salvation from a horrible doom. It must be confessed that "the deliverer" was not unimpressible nor unimpressed. Fixed for ever in his memory was the image of that young and loving girl, as he first beheld her when she lay pale, senseless, and perfectly helpless in the power of the pirate. And when he saw her afterwards, fully awakened to life, and her intelligent and enthusiastic mind and kind and loving heart expressing themselves in every glance of her soft blue eyes, in every flush that tinged her fair cheeks, in every expression of her beautiful lips, and in every musical sentence that issued from between them, he could scarcely realise that the bright form, clad in white robes, expressive of purity, and the shining face, surrounded by a halo of golden hair, belonged not to an angelic presence. Indeed, these two young hearts required but an uttered word to cause the fountain of mutual love, like the waters of Horeb brought forth by the touch of the prophet's wand, to pour out for each other its treasures of tenderness. And that word was at length spoken, with the entire approbation of Mr Durocher, whose friendship and fatherly regard for the young man was almost as great as his daughter's love. The merchant's health, already weak, had received a terrible shock from the agony which his heart experienced on the evening of the assault of the pirates, a shock from the effects of which he never recovered, and when the _Duchess_ entered Charleston Harbour, three weeks after that dreadful evening, he had to be carried on a bed from the boat to the rooms engaged for his party at the hotel. To this house, Ada Marston and John Coe accompanied him. Immediately on arriving at Charleston, John wrote to his parents, informing them of all the remarkable adventures which had befallen him, and mentioning the state of affairs between Louise and himself. In due course he received letters from his father and mother, stating the great happiness of all the family at hearing of his safety, and expressing the full and joyous consent of Mr and Mrs Coe to the engagement of their son with Miss Durocher. These letters gave great satisfaction to Mr Durocher. He learned from them that his child was about to enter a family by whom she would be received and cherished as indeed a daughter and sister. As his health was rapidly failing, and he felt that death was near at hand, he expressed an earnest desire that the marriage ceremony between John and Louise should not be postponed; he wished, before his departure, to see his daughter in the lawful care of a protector in whose honourable character and sincere love for her he himself had perfect faith. His will was law under the circumstances; and, on the second day after the receipt of the letters from Millmont, John Alvan Coe and Louise Durocher were united for life, at the bedside of the bride's dying father, by a minister of the church to which all the parties belonged. Mr Durocher survived his daughter's marriage but two weeks. His sick-bed was waited on by two attentive and affectionate children, and his last days were soothed by the knowledge that he had done all that could be done to secure for his beloved child a happy life. A few days after the death of Mr Durocher, John Coe and his wife left Charleston, and arrived in due course of time at the young husband's old home at Millmont--but a little more than two months after he had disappeared from the latter place in a manner apparently so mysterious. In less than a year John realised the amount of his wife's fortune, with a part of which a large estate was purchased in one of the upper counties of Maryland. Upon this estate a handsome building was erected, to which he removed his family in the second year of his marriage. His descendants, distinguished, like their ancestors, for intellect and energy, still occupy that mansion. A few words must be allowed with regard to our other characters. Afton and the four pirates taken prisoners with him, were tried, a few months after their capture, before one of the United States Courts, in Baltimore, to which port their vessel had belonged. They were all found guilty and sentenced to be hanged. Two of them died in prison before the day appointed for their execution, the other three--of whom the ruffian Afton was one--suffered the extreme penalty of the law. John Coe kept his promise to Billy Bowsprit and the five repentant pirates. His father's influence, and that of all his father's friends, was used to obtain their pardon; and when it was made clearly apparent that but for their help the result of the fight between the _Duchess_ and the _Falcon_ would have been entirely different, that pardon was readily granted. Perhaps the reader has some desire to know what was the future fortune of Ada. She accompanied Coe and his wife from Charleston to Maryland. Here a fresh grief awaited her. Her father, in alarm at hearing of the safety and early return of young Coe, and in dread of the consequences of the exposure which must ensue, had hastily and rashly taken his own life. By the death of her father without a will, she became heir to one half of his wealth, there being but one other child of Mr Ashleigh, a grown son, to divide his property with her. She thus became an heiress; and several young gentlemen in the neighbourhood of Drum Point and elsewhere were quite willing, on account of her riches and her great beauty, to forget that she was the daughter of a receiver of smuggled goods and the widow of a pirate, and made her a tender of their hands. Ada, however, politely declined all these disinterested offers. About a year and a half after the death of her first husband she was married to Billy Bowsprit. Billy had been the only person on board the brig who had invariably treated her with kindness and respect; he had been her champion on all occasions, and she knew that he was devoted to her. Moreover, he could not upbraid her for having been the wife of a pirate. Mr and Mrs Brown (to give them their right title) wished to be away from the neighbourhood of those who were acquainted with their antecedents. The lady's portion of her father's estate was, therefore, soon after her marriage, converted into funds, with which a large plantation was purchased in Mississippi. To this they removed, where they prospered, and some of their descendants still flourish in that State. THE END. 
32454	----	[Transcriber's note: In Appendix I in the original publication the "Original Latin" and "English Translation" are show side by side.] CALVERT AND PENN; OR THE GROWTH OF CIVIL AND RELIGIOUS LIBERTY IN AMERICA, AS DISCLOSED IN THE PLANTING OF MARYLAND AND PENNSYLVANIA: [Illustration] A DISCOURSE BY BRANTZ MAYER, DELIVERED IN PHILADELPHIA BEFORE THE PENNSYLVANIA HISTORICAL SOCIETY, 8 APRIL, 1852. "Se mai turba il Ceil Sereno "Fosco vel di nebbia impura, "Quando il sol gli squarcia il seno, "Piu sereno il ciel si fa. "Rea, discordia, invidia irata "Fuga il tempo, e nuda splende. "Vincitrice e vendicata. "L'offuscata Verita." PRINTED FOR THE PENNSYLVANIA HISTORICAL SOCIETY BY JOHN D TOY BALTIMORE CALVERT AND PENN. It is a venerable and beautiful rite which commands the Chinese not only to establish in their dwellings a Hall of Ancestors, devoted to memorials of kindred who are dead, but which obliges them, on a certain day of every year, to quit the ordinary toils of life and hasten to the tombs of their Forefathers, where, with mingled services of festivity and worship, they pass the hours in honoring the manes of those whom they have either loved or been taught to respect for their virtues. This is a wholesome and ennobling exercise of the memory. It teaches neither a blind allegiance to the past, nor a superstitious reverence for individuals; but it is a recognition of the great truth that no man is a mere isolated being in the great chain of humanity, and that, while we are not selfishly independent of the past, so also, by equal affinity, we are connected with and control the fate of those who are to succeed us in the drama of the world. The Time that merges in Eternity, sinks like a drop in the ocean, but the deeds of that Time, like the drop in the deep, are again exhaled and fitted for new uses; so that although the Time be dead, the acts thereof are immortal--for the achieved action never perishes. That which was wrought, in innocence or wrong, is eternal in its results or influences. This reflection inculcates a profound lesson of our responsibility. It teaches us the value of assembling to look over the account of the past; to separate the good from the false; to winnow the historical harvest we may have reaped; to survey the heavens, and find our place on the ocean after the storm. And if such conduct is correct in the general concerns of private life, how much more is it proper when we remember the duty we owe to the founders of great principles,--to the founders of great states,--of great states that have grown into great nations! In this aspect the principle rises to a dignity worthy our profoundest respect. History is the garnered treasure of the past, and it is from the glory or shame of that past, that nations, like individuals, take heart for the coming strife, or sink under irresistible discouragement. Is it not well, then, that we, the people of this large country, divided as we are in separate governments, should assemble, at proper seasons, to celebrate the foundations of our time-honored commonwealths; and, while each state casts its annual tribute on the altar of our country, each should brighten its distinctive symbols, before it merges their glory in that great constellation of American nations, which, in the political night that shrouds the world, is the only guiding sign for unfortunate but hopeful humanity! * * * * * When the Reformation in England destroyed the supremacy of the Roman Church, and the Court set the example of a new faith, it may readily be supposed, that the people were sorely taxed when called on to select between the dogmas they had always cherished, and those they were authoritatively summoned to adopt. The age was not one either of free discussion or of printing and publication. Oral arguments, and not printed appeals, were the only means of reaching the uncultivated minds of the masses, and even of a large portion of the illiterate gentry and aristocracy. If we reflect, with what reverence creeds are, even now, traditionally inherited in families, we must be patient with their entailed tenure in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. The soul of nations cannot be purged of its ancestral faith by Acts of Parliament. There may be submission to law, external indifference, hypocritical compliance, but, that implicit adoption and correspondent honest action, which flow from conscientious belief, must spring from sources of very different sanctity. When the world contained only one great Christian Church, the idea of Union betwixt that Church and the State, was not fraught with the disgusts or dangers that now characterize it. There were then no sects. All were agreed on one faith, one ritual, one interpretation of God's law, and one infallible expositor; nor was it, perhaps, improper that this law--thus ecclesiastically expounded and administered in perfect national unity of faith--should be the rule of civil and political, as well as of religious life. Indeed, it is difficult, even now, to separate the ideas; for, inasmuch as God's law is a law of life, and not a mere law of death--inasmuch as it controls all our relations among ourselves and thus defines our practical duty to the Almighty--it is difficult, I repeat, to define wherein the law of man should properly differ from the law of God. Mere morality--mere political morality,--is nothing but a bastard policy, or another name for expediency, unless it conforms in all its motives, means and results, to religion. In truth, morality, social as well as political, to be vital and not hypocritical, must be religion put into practical exercise. This is the simple, just, and wise reconciliation of religion and good government, which I humbly believe to be, ever and only, founded upon Christianity. But it was a sad mistake in other days, to confound a Primitive Christianity and the dogmas of a Historical Church. Unfortunately for the ancient union of Church and State, this great identification of the true christian action of the civil and ecclesiastical bodies, was but a mere fiction, so far as religion was concerned, and a fact, only so far as power was interested. Christianity ever has remained, and ever will remain, the same radiant unit; but a church, with irresponsible power--a church which, at best, is but an aggregation of human beings, with all the passions, as well as all the virtues of our race--soon, necessarily, abandons the purity of its early time, and grows into a vast hierarchy, which, founding its claims to authority on divine institution, sways the world, sometimes for good and sometimes for evil, with a power suited to the asserted omnipotence of its origin. But the idea of honest union between church and state was naturally destroyed, in the minds of all right thinking persons, from the moment that there was a secession from the Church of Rome. The very idea, I assert, was destroyed; for the Catholic Princes and the sects into which Protestants divided themselves, began an internecine war, which, in effect, not only forever obliterated supremacy from the vocabulary of ecclesiastical power, but almost destroyed, by disgracing, the religion in whose name it perpetrated its remorseless cruelties. The social as well as religious anarchy consequent upon the Reformation, was soon discerned by the statesmen of England, who took council with prudent ecclesiastics, and, under the authority of law, erected the Church of England. In this new establishment they endeavored to substitute for Romanism, a new ecclesiastical system, which, by its concessions to the ancient faith, its adoption of novel liberalities, its compromises and its purity, might contain within itself, sufficient elements upon which the adherents of Rome might gracefully retreat, and to which the Reformers might either advance or become reconciled. This scheme of legislative compromise for a national religion, was doubtless, not merely designed as an amiable neutral ground for the spiritual wants of the people, but as the nucleus of an institution which would gradually, if not at once, transfer to the Royalty of England, that spiritual authority which its sovereigns had found it irksome to bear or to control when wielded by the Pope. The architects of this modern faith were not wrong in their estimate of the English people, for, perhaps, the great body of the nation willingly adopted the new scheme. Yet there were bitter opponents both among the Catholics and Calvinists, whose extreme violence admitted no compromise, either with each other, or with the Church of England. For them there was no resource but in dumbness or rebellion; and, as many a lip opened in complaint or attempted seduction, the legislature originated that charitable and reconciling system of disabilities and penalties, which a pliant judiciary was not slow in enforcing with suitable rigor. While the Puritan could often fairly yield a sort of abstinent conformity which saved him from penalties, the Roman Catholic, who adhered faithfully and conscientiously to his ancestral church, made no compromise with his allegiance. Accordingly, on him, the unholy and intolerant law fell with all its persecuting bane. "About the middle of the reign of Queen Elizabeth there arose among the Calvinists, a small body, who bore nearly the same relation to them, which they bore to the great body of the Reformed; these were ultra Puritans, as they were ultra Protestants. These persons deemed it their religious duty to separate themselves entirely from the church, and, in fact, to war against it. The principle upon which they founded themselves, was, that there should be no national church at all, but that the whole nation should be cast in a multitude of small churches or congregations, each self-governed, and having only, as they believed, the officers of which we read in the New Testament,--pastor, teacher, elder and deacon."[1] * * * * * Such was the ecclesiastical and political aspect of England, and of a part of Scotland, about the period when the First James ascended the British throne. As there is nothing that so deeply concerns our welfare as the rights and duties of our soul, it is not at all singular to find how quickly men became zealous in the assertion of their novel privileges, as soon as they discovered that there were two ways of interpreting God's law, or, at least, two modes of worshiping him,--one wrapped in gorgeous ceremonial, the other stripped in naked simplicity,--and that the right to this interpretation or worship was not only secured by law, but was inherent in man's nature. Personal interests may be indolently neglected or carelessly pursued. It is rare to see men persecute each other about individual rights or properties. Yet, such is not the case when a right or an interest is the religious property of a multitude. Then, community of sentiment or of risk, bands them together in fervent support, and when the thing contended for is based on conscience and _eternal_ interest, instead of personal or _temporary_ welfare, we behold its pursuit inflame gradually from a principle into a passion,--from passion into persecution, until at length, what once glimmered in holy zeal, blazes in bigoted fanaticism. Thus, all persecutors may not, originally, be bad men, though their practices are wicked. The very liberty of conscience which freemen demand, must admit this to be possible in the conduct of those who differ from us most widely in faith and politics. Religious Conscience, therefore, is the firmest founder of the right of forming and asserting Free Opinions; and when it has securely established the great fact of Religious Freedom, it at once, as an immediate consequence, realizes Political Freedom, which is nothing but the individual right independently to control our personal destinies, as well as to shape our conscientious spiritual destinies. The right of free judgment asserts that Christianity put into vital exercise, in our social or national relations, is, in fact, the essence of pure democracy. It is liberty of action that produces responsibility--it is equal responsibility that makes us _one_ before the law. To teach man the humility and equality of his race, _as rights_; and to illustrate the glorious lesson that from the cottage and cabin have sprung the intellects that filled the world with light, it pleased the Almighty to make a stable the birth-place of our Redeemer, and a manger his lowly cradle! * * * * * When the valiant men of olden times had checked the corporate system of theology in England and Germany, and established their right, at least, _to think_ for themselves; and when the Reformation had subsequently received a countercheck in Germany, England and France,--the stalwart, independent worshippers, who could no longer live peacefully together within their native realms, began to cast about for an escape from the persecutions of non-conformity and the mean "tyranny of incapacitation." The Reformation was the work of the early part of the sixteenth century. The close of the fifteenth had been signalized by the discovery of America, and by the opening of a maritime communication with India. The East, though now accessible by water, was still a far distant land. The efforts of all navigators, even when blundering on our continent, were, in truth, not to find a new world, but to reach one already well known for the richness of its products, and the civilization of its people. But distant as it was, it presented no field for colonization. It was the temporary object of mercantile and maritime enterprise, and although colonial lodgments were impracticable on its far off shores, it nevertheless permitted the establishment of factories which served, in the unfrequent commerce of those ages, as almost regal intermediaries between Europe and Asia. But the Western World was both nearer, and, for a while, more alluring to avarice and enterprise. It was not a civilized, populous, and warlike country like the East, but it possessed the double temptation of wealth and weakness. The fertility of the West Indies, the reports of prodigious riches, the conquests of Cortez and Pizzaro, the emasculated semi-civilization of the two Empires, which, with a few cities and royal courts, combined the anomaly of an almost barbarous though tamely tributary people--had all been announced throughout Europe. Yet, the bold, brave and successful Spaniard of those days contrived for a long while to reap the sole benefit of the discovery. What he effected was done by _conquest_. _Colonization_, which is a gradual settlement, either under enterprise or persecution, was to follow. The conquest and settlement of the Southern part of this continent are so well known, that it is needless for me to dwell on them; but it is not a little singular that the very first effort at what may strictly be called colonization, within the present acknowledged limits of the United States, was owing to the spirit of persecution which was so rife in Europe. The Bull of the Pope, in its division of the world, had assigned America to Spain. Florida, which had been discovered by Ponce de Leon, and the present coast of our Republic on the Gulf of Mexico, were not, in the sixteenth century, disputed with Spain by any other nation. Spain claimed, however, under the name of Florida, the whole sea-coast as far as Newfoundland and even to the remotest north, so that, so far as _asserted_ ownership was involved, the whole of our coast was Spanish domain. The poor, persecuted, weather-beaten Huguenots of France, had been active in plans of Colonization for escape from the mingled imbecility and terrorism of Charles IX. They saw that it was not well to stay in the land of their birth. The Admiral de Coligny, one of the ablest leaders of the French Protestants, was zealous in his efforts to found a Gallic empire of his fellow subjects and sufferers on this continent. He desired, at least, a refuge for them; and in 1562, entrusted to John Ribault, of Dieppe, the command of an expedition to the American shores. The first soil of this virgin hemisphere that was baptised by the tread of refugees flying from the terrors of the future hero of St. Bartholomew--of men who were seeking freedom from persecution for the sake of their religion--was that of South Carolina. Ribault first visited St. John's River, in Florida, and then slowly coasted the low shores northward, until he struck the indenture where Hilton-Head Island, and Hunting and St. Helen's Islands are divided by the entrance into the ocean of Broad River at Port Royal. It was a beautiful region, where venerable oaks shadowed a luxuriant soil, while the mild air, delicious with the fragrance of forest-flowers, forever diffused a balmy temperature, free alike from the fire of the tropics and the frost of the north. Here, in this pleasant region, he built Fort Carolina, and landed his humble colony of twenty persons who were to keep possession of the chosen land. But Frenchmen are not precisely at home in the wilderness. They require the aggregation of large villages or cities. The Frenchman is a social being, and regret for the loss of civil comforts soon spoils his vivacious temper, and fills him with discontent. Accordingly, dissensions broke forth in the colony soon after the departure of Ribault for France; and, most of the dissatisfied colonists, finding their way back to Europe as best they could, the settlement was broken up forever. Yet, Coligny was not to be thwarted. In 1564, he again resolved to colonize Florida, and entrusted Laudonnière--a seaman rather than a soldier, who had already visited the American coasts,--with three ships which had been conceded by the king. An abundance of colonists, not disheartened by the failure of their predecessors, soon offered for the voyage, and, after a passage of sixty days, the eager adventurers hailed the American coast. They did not go to the old site, marked as it was by disaster, but nestled on the embowered banks of the beautiful St. John's, or, as it was then known--"The River of May." But the French of that era, when in pursuit of qualified self-government or of any principle, either civil or religious, were not unlike their countrymen of the present time. They found it difficult to make enthusiasm subordinate to the mechanism of progress, and to restrain the elastic vapor which properly directed gives energy to humanity, but which heedlessly handled destroys what it should impel or guide. Religious enthusiasm is not miraculously fed by ravens in the wilderness. Coligny's emigrants were improvident or careless settlers. Their supplies wasted. They were not only gratified by the sudden relief from royal oppression, but the removal of a weight, gave room for the display of that secret avarice, which, more or less, possesses the hearts of all men. They had heard of the Spaniard's success, and were seized with a passion for sudden wealth. They became discontented with the toil of patient labor and slow accretion. Mutiny ripened into rebellion. A party compelled Laudonnière to suffer it to embark for Mexico; but its two vessels were soon employed in piratical enterprises against the Spaniards. Some of the reckless insurgents fell into the hands of the men they assailed, and were made prisoners and sold as slaves, while the few who escaped, were, on their return, executed by orders of Laudonnière. The main body of the colonists who had either remained true to their duty or were kept in subjection, had, meanwhile, become greatly disheartened by these occurrences and by the failing supplies of their settlement, when they were temporarily relieved by the arrival of the celebrated English adventurer--Sir John Hawkins. Ribault soon after came out from France to take command, and brought with him new emigrants, seeds, animals, agricultural implements, and fresh supplies of every kind. These occurrences, it will be recollected, took place in Florida, within the ancient claim of Spain. It is true that the country was a wilderness; but Spain still asserted her dominion, though no beneficial use had been made of the neglected forest and tangled swamp. At this epoch, a certain Pedro Melendez de Aviles--a coarse, bold, bloody man, who signalized himself in the wars in Holland against the Protestants, and was renowned in Spanish America for deeds which, even in the loose law of that realm, had brought him to justice, was then hanging about the Court of Philip II. in search of plunder or employment. He perceived a tempting "mission" of combined destruction and colonization in the French Protestant settlement in Florida; and, accordingly, a compact was speedily made between himself and his sovereign, by which he was empowered, in consideration of certain concessions and rights, to invade Florida with at least five hundred men, and to establish the Spanish authority and Catholic religion. An expedition, numbering under its banner more than twenty-five hundred persons, was soon prepared. After touching, with part of these forces, on the Florida coast, in the neighborhood of the present river Matanzas, the adventurer sailed in quest of the luckless Huguenots, whose vessels were soon descried escaping seaward from a combat for which they were unprepared. For a while, Melendez pursued them, but abandoning the chase, steered south once more, and entering the harbor on the coast he had just before visited, laid the foundations of that quaint old Spanish town of ST. AUGUSTINE, which is the parent of civic civilization on our continent. Ribault, meanwhile, who had put to sea with his craft, lost most of his vessels in a sudden storm on the coast, though the greater part of his companions escaped. But Melendez, whose ships suffered slightly from this tempest, had no sooner placed his colonists in security, at St. Augustine, than he set forth with a resolute band across the marshy levels which intervened between his post and the St. John's. With savage fury the reckless Spaniard fell on the Huguenots. The carnage was dreadful. It seems to have been rather slaughter than warfare. The Huguenots, unprepared for battle, little dreamed that the wars of the old world would be transferred to the new, and vainly imagined that human passion could find victims enough for its malignity without crossing the dangerous seas. Full two hundred fell. Many fled to the forest. A few surrendered, and were slain. Some escaped in two French vessels that fortunately still lingered in the harbor. The wretches who had been providentially saved from the wreck, were next followed and found by this Castilian monster. "Let them surrender their flags and arms," said he, "and thus placing themselves at my discretion, I may do with them what God in his mercy desires!" Yet, as soon as they yielded, they were bound and marched through the forest to St. Augustine, and, as they approached the fort which had been hastily raised on the level shores, the sudden blast of a trumpet was the signal for the musketeers to pour into the crowd a volley that laid them dead on the spot. It was asserted that these victims of reliance on Spanish mercy, were massacred, "not as Frenchmen, but as Lutherans;"--and thus, about nine hundred Protestant human beings, were the first offering on the soil of our present Union to the devilish fanaticism of the age. But the bloody deed was not to go unrevenged. A bold Gascon, Dominic de Gourgues, in 1567, equipped three ships and set sail for Florida. He swooped down suddenly, like a falcon on the forts at the mouth of the St. John's, and putting the occupants to the sword, hanged them in the forest, inscribing over their dangling corpses, this mocking reply to the taunt at the Lutherans: "I do this not as unto Spaniards and sailors, but as unto murderers, robbers and traitors!" The revenge was merciless; and thus terminated the first chapter in the history of religious liberty in America. BLOOD stained the earliest meeting between Catholic and Protestant on the present soil of our Union! * * * * * The power of Spain, the unattractiveness of our coast, the indifferent climate, and the failure to find wealthy native nations to plunder, kept the northern part of our continent in the back ground for the greater part of a century after the voyages of Columbus and Cabot. There were discouragements at that time for mercantile or maritime enterprise, which make us marvel the more at the energy of the men who with such slender vessels and knowledge of navigation, tempted the dangers of unknown seas. Emigration from land to land, from neighboring country to neighboring country, was, at that epoch, a formidable enterprise; what then must we think of the hardihood, or compulsion, which could either tempt or drive men, not only over conterminous boundaries, but across distant seas? Feudal loyalty and the strong tie of family, bound them not only to their local homes, but to their native land. The lusty sons of labor were required to till the soil, while their stalwart brethren, clad in steel, were wandering on murderous errands, over half of Europe, fighting for Protestantism or Catholicity. Adventure, then, in the shape of colonization, must hardly be thought of, from the inland states of the old world; and, even from the maritime nations, with the exception of Spain and Portugal, we find nothing worthy of record, save the fisheries on the Banks, the small settlements of the French in Acadia and along the St. Lawrence, and the holy efforts of Catholic Missionaries among the Northern Indians. If we did not know their zeal to have been Christian, it might almost be considered romantic. Soon after the return of De Gourgues from his revengeful exploit, the report of the daring deed and its provocation, was spread over Europe, and excited the people's attention to America more eagerly than ever. Among those who were attracted to the subject, was a British gentleman, whose character and misfortunes have always engaged my sincere admiration. Sir Walter Raleigh was the natural offspring of the remarkable age in which he lived. We owe him our profoundest respect, for it was Sir Walter who gave the first decided impulse to our race's beneficial enjoyment of this continent. It was his fortune to live at a time of great and various action. The world was convulsed with the throes of a new civilization, and the energy it exhibited was consequent upon its long repose. It was an age of transition. It was an age of coat and corselet--of steel and satin--of rudeness and refinement,--in which the antique soldier was melting into the modern citizen. It was the twilight of feudalism. Baronial strongholds were yielding to municipal independence. Learning began to teach its marvels to the masses; warfare still called chivalrous men to the field; a spirited queen, surrounded by gallant cavaliers, sat on a dazzling throne; adventurous commerce armed splendid navies and nursed a brood of hardy sailors; while the mysterious New World invited enterprise to invade its romantic and golden depths. It was peculiarly an age of thought and action; and is characterized by a vitality which is apparent to all who recollect its heroes, statesmen, philosophers and poets. Sir Walter Raleigh was destined, by his deeds and his doom, to bring this northern continent, which we are now enjoying, into prominent notice. He was the embodiment of the boyhood of our new world. In early life he had been a soldier, but the drift of his genius led him into statesmanship. He was a well known favorite of the Virgin Queen. A spirit of adventure bore him across the Atlantic, where, if the occasion had offered, he would have rivalled Cortez in his courageous hardihood, and outstripped him in his lukewarm humanity. He became a courtier; and, mingling in the intrigues of the palace, according to the morals of the age, was soon too great a favorite with his sovereign to escape the dislike of men who beheld his sudden rise with envy. From the palace he passed to prison; and, scorning the idleness which would have rusted so active an intellect, he prepared that remarkable History of the World, wherein he concentrated a mass of rare learning, curious investigation, and subtle thought, which demonstrate the comprehensive and yet minute character of his wonderful mind. A volume of poems shows how sweetly he could sing. The story of his battles, discloses how bravely he could fight. The narrative of his voyages proves the boldness of his seamanship. The calmness of his prison life teaches us the manly lesson of endurance. The devotion of his wife, denotes how deeply he could love; while his letters to that cherished woman--those domestic records in which the heart divulges its dearest secrets--teem with proofs of his affection and Christianity. Indeed, the gallantry of his courtiership; the foresight of his statecraft; the splendid dandyism of his apparel; the wild freedom and companionship of his forest life, show how completely the fop and the forager, the queenly pet and loyal subject, the author and the actor, the noble and the democrat, the soldier and the scholar, were, in the age of Elizabeth and James, blent in one man, and that man--Sir Walter Raleigh. Do we not detect in this first adventurous and practical patron of North America, many of the seemingly discordant qualities which mingle so commonly in the versatile life of our own people? If the calendar of courts had its saints, like the calendar of the church, well might Sir Walter have been canonized as protector of the broad realm for which the brutal James made him a martyr to the jealousy and fear of Spain.[2] Queen Elizabeth was the first British Sovereign who built up that maritime power of England which has converted her magnificent Island--dot as it is, in the waste of the sea--into the wharf of the world. She was no friend of the Spaniards, and she had men in her service who admired Spanish galeons. Wealth, realized in coin, and gold or silver, in bulk, were tempting merchandize in frail vessels, which sailors, half pirate, half privateer, might easily deliver of their burden. It was easier to rob than to mine; and, while Spain performed the labor in the bowels of the earth, England took the profit as a prize on the sea! Such were some of the elements of maritime success, which weakened Spain by draining her colonial wealth, while it enriched her rival and injured the Catholic sovereign. Yet, in the ranks of these adventurers, there were men of honest purpose; and, among the first whose designs of colonization on this continent were unquestionably conceived in a spirit of discovery and speculation, was the half brother of Sir Walter Raleigh--Sir Humphrey Gilbert. But Sir Humphrey, while pursuing his northern adventures, was unluckily lost at sea, and Sir Walter took up the thread where his relative dropped it. I regret that I have not time to pursue this subject, and can only say that his enterprises were, doubtless, the germ of that colonization, which, by degrees, has filled up and formed our Union. You will remember the striking difference between colonization from England, and the colonization from other nations of ancient and modern times. The short, imperfect navigation of the Greeks, along the shores and among the islands of their inland sea, made colonization rather a diffusive overflow, than an adventurous transplanting of their people. They were urged to this oozing emigration either by personal want, by the command of law, or by the oracles of their gods, who doubtless spoke under the authority of law. Where the national religion was a unit in faith, there was no persecution to drive men off, nor had the spirit of adventure seized those primitive classics with the zeal of "annexation" that animated after ages. The Roman colonies were massive, military progresses of population, seeking to spread national power by conquest and permanent encampment. Portugal and Spain, mingled avarice and dominion in their conquests or occupation of new lands. The French Protestants were, to a great extent, prevented by the bigotry of their home government, as well as by foreign jealousy, from obtaining a sanctuary in America. France drove the refugees chiefly into other European countries, where they established their manufacturing industry; and thus, fanaticism kept out of America laborious multitudes who would have pressed hard on the British settlements. In the islands, a small trade and the investment of money, rather than the desire to acquire fortune by personal industry, were the motives of the early and regular emigration of Frenchmen. The Dutch, devoted to trade, generally located themselves where they "have just room enough to manifest the miracles of frugality and diligence."[3] Thus, wherever we trace mankind abandoning its home, in ancient or modern days, we find a selfish motive, a superstitious command, a love of wealth, a lust of power, or a spirit of robbery, controlling the movement. The first adventurous effort towards the realization of actual settlement on this continent, was, as we have seen, made by the persecuted Huguenots, and was, probably, an attempt rather to fly from oppression, than to establish religious freedom. The first English settlement, also, was founded more upon speculation than on any novel or exalted principle. There was a quest of gold, a desire for land, and an honest hope of improving personal fortunes. VIRGINIA had been a charter government, but, in 1624, it was merged in the Royal Government. The crown reassumed the dominion it had granted to others. Virginia, in the first two decades of the seventeenth century, although exhibiting some prosperous phases, was nothing more than a delicate off-shoot from the British stock, somewhat vigorous for its change to virgin soil, but likely to bear the same fruit as its parent tree. Virginia was a limb timidly transplanted,--not a branch torn off, and flung to wither or to fertilize new realms by its decay. This continent, with all that a century and a half of maritime coasting had done for it, was but thinly sprinkled with settlements, which bore the same proportion to the vast continental wilderness that single ships or small squadrons bear to the illimitable sea. But the spirit of adventure, the desire for refuge, the dream of liberty, were soon to plant the seeds of a new civilization in the Western World. * * * * * Henry VIII, Founder of the English Church, as he had, whilom, been, Defender of the Roman Faith, was no friend of toleration; but the rigor of his system was somewhat relaxed during the reign of the sixth Edward. Mary, daughter of Henry, and sister of Edward, re-constructed the great ancestral church, and the world is hardly divided in opinion as to the character of her reign. Elizabeth re-established the church that had been founded by her father; and her successor James I of England and VI of Scotland,--the Protestant son of a Catholic mother,--while he openly adhered to the church of his realm, could not avoid some exhibitions of coquettish tenderness for the faith of his slaughtered parent. But, amid all these changes, there was one class upon which the wrath of the Church of England and of the Church of Rome, met in accordant severity;--this was the Puritan and ultra Puritan sect,--to which I have alluded at the commencement of this discourse,--whose lot was even more disastrous under the Protestant Elizabeth, than under the Catholic Mary. The remorseless courts of her commissioners, who inquisitorially tried these religionists by interrogation on oath, imprisoned them, if they remained lawfully silent and condemned them if they honestly confessed! A congregation of these sectaries had existed for some time on the boundaries of Lincoln, Nottingham and York, under the guidance of Richard Clifton and John Robinson, the latter of whom was a modest, polished, and learned man. This christian fold was organized about 1602; but worried by ceaseless persecution, it fled to Holland, where its members, fearing they would be absorbed in the country that had entertained them so hospitably, resolved in 1620 to remove to that portion of the great American wilderness, known as North Virginia. Such, in the chronology of our Continent, was the first decisive emigration of our parent people to the New World, _for the sake of opinion_. It is neither my purpose, nor is it necessary, to sketch the subsequent history of this New England emigration, or of the followers, who swelled it into colonial significance. Its great characteristic, seems to me, to have been, an unalterable will to worship God according to _its_ own sectarian ideas, and to afford an equal right and protection to all who thought as _it_ did, or were willing to conform to its despotic and anchoritic austerity. It is not very clear, what were its notions of abstract political liberty; yet there can be very little doubt what its practical opinions of equality must have been, when we remember the common dangers, duties, and interests of such a band of emigrants on the dreary, ice-bound, savage haunted, coasts of Massachusetts. "_When Adam delved, and Eve span, Pray who was then the gentleman?_" may well be asked of a community which for so long a time, had been the guest of foreigners, and now saw the first great human and divine law of liberty and equality, taught by the compulsion of labor and mutual protection, on a strip of land between the sea and the forest. The colonists were literally reduced to first principles; they were stripped of the comforts, pomps, ambitions, distinctions, of the Old World, and they embraced the common destiny of a hopeful future in the New.[4] They had been persecuted for their opinions, but that did not make them tolerant of the opinions of their persecutors. It was better, then, that oppressor and oppressed should live apart in both hemispheres; and thus, in sincerity, if not in justice, their future history exhibits many bad examples of the malign spirit from which they fled in Europe. If they were, essentially, Republicans, their democracy was limited to a political and religious equality of Puritan sectarianism;--it had not ripened into the democracy of an all embracing Christianity.[5] These occurrences took place during the reign of the prince who united the Scottish and English thrones. At the Court of James, and in his intimate service, during nearly the whole period of his sovereignty, was a distinguished personage, who, though his name does not figure grandly on the page of history, was deeply interested in the destiny of our continent. SIR GEORGE CALVERT, was descended from a noble Flemish family, which emigrated and settled in the North of England, where, in 1582, the Founder of Maryland was born. After taking his Bachelor's degree at Oxford and travelling on the Continent, he became, at the age of twenty-five, private Secretary to Sir Robert Cecil, the Lord Treasurer--afterwards the celebrated Earl of Salisbury. In 1609, he appears as one of the patentees named in the new Charter then granted to the Virginia Company. After the death of his ministerial patron, he was honored with knighthood and made clerk of the crown to the Privy Council. This brought him closely to the side of his sovereign. In 1619, he was appointed one of the Secretaries of State, and was then, also, elected to Parliament; first for his native Yorkshire, and subsequently for Oxford. He continued in office, under James, as Secretary of State, until near that monarch's death, and resigned in 1624. Born in the Church of England, Sir George, had, in the course of his public career, become a Roman Catholic. With the period or the means of his conversion from the court-faith to an unpopular creed, we have now no concern. Fuller, in his "Worthies of England," asserts that Calvert resigned in consequence of his change of religion;--other writers, relying, perhaps, more on the _obiter dicta_ of memoirs and history, believe that his convictions as to faith had changed some years before. Be that, however, as it may, the resignation, and its alleged cause which was well known to his loving master, James, produced no ill feeling in that sovereign. He retired in unpersecuted peace. He was even honored by the retention of his seat at the Privy Council;--the King bestowed a pension for his faithful services;--regranted him, in fee simple, lands which he previously held by another tenure; and, finally, created him Lord Baron of Baltimore, in Ireland.[6] Whilst Sir George was in office, his attention, it seems, had been early directed towards America; and in 1620, he is still mentioned in a list of the members of the Virginia Company. Soon after, he became concerned in the plantation of Newfoundland, and finally, obtained a patent for it, to him and his heirs, as Absolute Lord and Proprietary, with all the royalties of a Count Palatine. We must regret that the original, or a copy of this grant for the province of Avalon, in Newfoundland, has not been recently seen, or, if discovered, transmitted to this country. Here, Sir George built a house; spent £25,000 in improvements; removed his family to grace the new Principality; manned ships, at his own charge, to relieve and guard the British fisheries from the attacks of the French; but, at length, after a residence of some years, and an ungrateful return from the soil and climate, he abandoned his luckless enterprise. Yet, it was soil and climate alone that disheartened the Northern adventurer:--he had not turned his back on America. In 1629 he repaired to Virginia, in which he had been so long concerned, and was most ungraciously greeted by the Protestant royalists, with an offer of the Test-Oaths of Allegiance and supremacy. Sir George, very properly refused the challenge, and departed with his followers from the inhospitable James River, where the bigotry of prelacy denied him a foothold within the fair region he had partly owned. But, before he returned to England, he remembered that Virginia was now a Royal Province and no longer the property of corporate speculation;--he recollected that there were large portions of it still unoccupied by white men, and that there were bays and rivers, pouring, sea-like, to the ocean, of which grand reports had come to him when he was one of the committee of the Council for the affairs of the Plantations. Accordingly, when he left the James River, he steered his keel around the protecting peninsula of Old Point Comfort, and ascending the majestic Chesapeake, entered its tributary streams, and laid, in imagination, at least, the foundations of Maryland. His examination of the region being ended, Calvert went home to England, and in 1632, obtained the grant of Maryland from Charles I, the son of his royal patron and friend. The charter, which is said to have been the composition of Sir George, did not, however, pass the seals until after the death of its author; but was issued to his eldest son and heir, Cecilius, on the 20th of June, 1632. The life of Sir George had been one of uninterrupted personal and political success; his family was large, united and happy; if he did not inherit wealth, he, at least, contrived to secure it; and, although his conscience taught him to abandon the faith of his fathers, his avowal of the change had been the signal for princely favors instead of political persecution. Here the historic connexion of the _first_ LORD BALTIMORE with Maryland ends. The real work of Plantation was the task of CECILIUS, the first actual Lord Proprietary, and of LEONARD CALVERT, his brother, to whom, in the following year, the heir of the family intrusted the original task of colonial settlement. If anything was done by SIR GEORGE, in furtherance of the rights, liberties, or interests of humanity, so far as the foundation of Maryland is concerned, it was unquestionably effected anterior to this period, for we have no authority to say, that after his death, his children were mere executors of previous designs, or, that what was then done, was not the result of their own provident liberality. I think there can be no question that the charter was the work of Sir George. That, at least, is his property; and he must be responsible for its defects, as well as entitled to its glory.[7] I presume it is hardly necessary for me to say what manner of person the King was, whom Calvert had served so intimately during nearly a whole reign. James is precisely the historical prodigy, to which a reflective mind would suppose the horrors of his parentage naturally gave birth. In royal chronology he stands between two axes,--the one that cleft the ivory neck of his beautiful mother--the other that severed the irresolute but refined head of his son and heir. His father, doubtless, had been deeply concerned in the shocking murder of his mother's second husband. Cradled on the throne of Scotland; educated for Kingship by strangers; the ward of a regency; the shuttle-cock of ambitious politicians; the hope and tool of two kingdoms,--James lived during an age in which the struggle of opinion and interest, of prerogative and privilege, of human right and royal power, of glimmering science and superstitious quackery, might well have bewildered an intellect, brighter and calmer than his. The English people, who were yet in the dawn of free opinions, but who, with the patience that has always characterized them, were willing to obey any symbol of order,--may be said, rather to have tolerated than honored his pedantry in learning, his kingcraft in state, his petulance in authority, and his manifold absurdities, which, while they made him tyrannical, deprived him of the dignity that sometimes renders even a tyrant respectable. You will readily believe that a man like George Calvert found it sometimes difficult to serve such a sovereign, in intimate state relations. In private life he might not have selected him for a friend or a companion. But James was his King; the impersonation of British Royalty and nationality. In serving him, he was but true to England; and, even in that task, it, no doubt, often required the whole strength of his heart's loyalty, to withstand the follies of the royal buffoon. Calvert, I think, was not an enthusiast, but, emphatically, a man of his time. His time was not one of Reform, and he had no brave ambition to be a Reformer. Accustomed to the routine of an observing and technical official life, he was, essentially a practical man, and dealt, in politics, exclusively with the present. Endowed, probably, with but slender imagination, he found little charm or flavor in excursive abstractions. His maxim may perhaps have been--"_quieta ne movete_,"--the motto of moderate or cautions men who live in disturbed times, preceding or succeeding revolutions, and think it better-- "---- to bear those ills we have "Than fly to others that we know not of!" Yet, with all these characteristics, no one will hesitate to believe that Calvert was a bold and resolute person, when it is recollected that he visited the wilderness of the New World in the seventeenth century, and projected therein the formation of a British Province. But, in truth, our materials for his biography are extremely scant. He died at the very moment when America's chief interest in him began. He belonged to the Court Party, as distinguished from the Country Party. He is known to have been a zealous supporter of the "supremacy of authority." He held, that "America, having been acquired by conquest, was subject, exclusively, to the control of royal prerogative." He was the defender of the Court in its diplomacy; and, ultra as James was in his monarchical doctrines, there can be little doubt that he would have dismissed Calvert from office, had there not been concord between the crown and its servant, as to the policy, if not the justice, of the toryism they both professed. But let us not judge that century by the standards of this. That would be writing history from a false point. Let us not condemn rulers who seem to be despotic in historic periods of transition--in periods of mutual intolerance and distrust--in periods when men know nothing, from practical experience, of the capacity of mankind for self government.[8] The charter which Sir George Calvert framed, and the successor of James granted, was precisely the one we might justly suppose such a subject, and such a sovereign would prepare and sign. It invested the Lord Proprietary with all the royal rights, enjoyed by the Bishop of Durham, within the County Palatine of Durham. He was the source of justice. He was the fountain of honor, and allowed to decorate meritorious provincials with whatever titles and dignities he should appoint. He had the power to establish feudalism and all its incidents. He was not merely the founder and filler of office, but he was also the sole executive. He might erect towns, boroughs and cities;--he might pardon offences and command the forces. As ecclesiastical head of the Province, he had the right to found churches, and was entitled to their advowsons.[9] In certain cases he had the dangerous privilege of issuing ordinances, which were to have the force of sovereign decrees. In fact, allegiance to England, was alone preserved, and the Lord Proprietary became an autocrat, with but two limitations: 1st, the laws were to be enacted by the Proprietary, with the advice and approbation of the free men, or free-holders or their deputies,--the "_liberi homines_" and "_liberi tenentes_," spoken of in the charter;--and 2nd, "no interpretation" of the charter was "to be made whereby God's Holy Rights and the true Christian Religion, _or_ the allegiance due to us," (the King of England,) "our heirs and successors, may, in any wise, suffer by change, prejudice or diminution." Christianity and the King--I blush to unite such discordant names--were protected in equal co-partnership.[10] The first of these reserved privileges of the people, the Lord Proprietary Cecilius understood, to mean, that _he_ had the exclusive privilege of proposing laws, and that the free-men, or free-holders of his province, could only accept or reject his propositions. These laws of the province were not to be submitted to the King for his approval, nor had he the important _right of taxation_, which was expressly relinquished. In the early legislation of Maryland, this supposed exclusive right of proposing laws by the Proprietary, was soon tested by mutual rejections, both by the legislative Assembly and by Cecilius, of the Acts, which each had separately passed or prepared. But the other clause, touching "God's Holy Rights and the true Christian Religion," was one, in regard to the practical interpretation of which, I apprehend, there was never a moment's doubt in the mind either of the people or of the Proprietary. It is a radiant gem in the antique setting of the charter. It is the glory of Calvert. It is the utter obliteration of prejudice among all who professed Christianity. Toleration was unknown in the old World; but this was more than toleration, for it declared freedom at least to _Christians_,--yet it was not perfect freedom, for it excluded that patient and suffering race--that chosen people--who, to the disgrace even of republican Maryland, within my recollection, were bowed down by political disabilities. I am aware that many historians consider the religious freedom of Maryland as originating in subsequent legislation, and claim the act of 1649 as the statute of toleration. I do not agree with them. Sir George Calvert had been a Protestant;--he became a Catholic. As a Catholic, he came to Virginia, and in the colony where he sought to settle, he found himself assailed, for the first time in his life, by Protestant virulence and incapacitation. He was now, himself, about to become a Lord Proprietor. The sovereign who granted his charter was a Protestant, and moreover, the king of a country whose established religion was Protestant. The Protestant monarch, of course, could not _grant_ anything which would compromise him with his Protestant subjects; yet the Catholic nobleman, who was to take the beneficiary charter, could not _receive_, from his Protestant master, a grant which would assail the conscience of co-religionists over whom he was, in fact, to be a sovereign. In England, the King had no right to interfere with the Church of England; but in America, which was a vacant, royal domain, his paramount authority permitted him to abolish invidious ecclesiastical distinctions. Calvert, the Catholic, must have been less than a man, if he forgot his fellow sufferers and their disabilities when he drew his charter. His Protestant recollections taught him the vexations of Catholic trials, while his Catholic observation informed him sharply of Protestant persecution. Sectarianism was already rampant across the Atlantic.[11] The two British lodgments, in Virginia and New England, were obstinately sectarian. Virginia was Episcopalian; New England was Puritan;--should Maryland be founded as an exclusively Protestant province, or an exclusively Catholic settlement? It is evident that either would be impossible:--the latter, because it would have been both impolitic and probably illegal; and the former because it would have been a ridiculous anomaly to force a converted Catholic, to govern a colony wherein his own creed was not tolerated by a fundamental and unalterable law. It is impossible to conceive that the faith of Calvert and the legal religion of Charles, did not enter into their deliberations, when they discussed the Charter; and, doubtless, both subject and sovereign justly decided to make "THE LAND OF MARY," which the Protestant Charles baptised in honor of his Catholic Queen, a free soil for Christianity. It was Calvert's duly and interest to make Charles tolerant of Catholic Christianity; nor could he deny to others the immunity he demanded for himself and his religious brethren. The language of the charter, therefore, seems explicit and incapable of any other meaning. There were multitudes of Catholics in England, who would be glad to take refuge in a region where they were to be free from disabilities, and could assert their manhood. The king, moreover, secured for his Catholic subjects a quiet, but chartered banishment, which still preserved their allegiance. At the court there was much leaning towards the church of Rome. It was rather fashionable to believe one way, and conform another. The Queen was zealous in her ancestral faith; and her influence over the king, colored more than one of his acts. Had Calvert gone to the market place, and openly proclaimed, that a Protestant king, by a just charter of neutrality, had established an American sanctuary for Catholics, and invited them thither under the banner of the cross, one of his chief objects, must have been at once defeated; for intolerance would have rallied its parties against the project, and the dream of benevolence would have been destroyed for ever. If by the term, "God's Holy Rights and the true Christian religion," the charter meant, _the church of England_, then, _ex vi termini_, Catholicity could never have been tolerated in Maryland; and yet it is unquestionable that the original settlement was made under Catholic auspices--blessed by Catholic clergymen--and acquiesced in by Protestant followers. Was it not wise, therefore, to shield conscience in Maryland, under the indefinite but unsectarian phraseology of "God's Holy Rights and the true Christian Religion?"[12] * * * * * So far, then, for the basis of the charter, and for the action of Sir George Calvert. After his death, the planting of the colony took place under the administration of Cecilius, who, remaining in Europe, dispatched his brother Leonard to America to carry out his projects. If the personal history of the Calverts is scant, the history of the early days of Maryland is scarcely less so; but the industry of antiquarians, and the researches of a learned Catholic clergyman, have brought to light two documents which disclose much of the religious and business character of the settlement. The work entitled:--"A RELATION OF MARYLAND," which was published in London in 1635, and gave the first account of the planting of the province, is a minute, mercantile, statistical, geographical and descriptive narrative of the landing and locating of the adventurers who set sail in 1633, and of their genial intercourse with the aborigines. If I had time, it would be pleasing to sum up the facts of this historical treasure, which was evidently prepared under the direction of Cecilius, Lord Baltimore, if not actually written by him. It is full of the spirit of careful, honest enterprise; and exhibits, I think, conclusively, the fact that the design of Calvert, in establishing this colony, was mainly the creation of a great estate, manorial and agricultural, whose ample revenues should, at all times, supply the needs of his ten children and their descendants. The other document to which I refer, is a manuscript discovered some years ago, by the Rev. Mr. McSherry, in the archives of the college of the Propaganda, at Rome, and exhibits the zeal with which the worthy Jesuits, whom Lord Baltimore sent forth with the first settlers, applied themselves to the christianization of the savages. It presents some beautiful pictures of the simple life of these devotees. It shows that, in Maryland, the first step was _not_ made in crime; and that the earliest duty of the Governor, was not only to conciliate the Indian proprietors, but to purchase the land they were willing to resign. Nor was this all; there was provident care for the soul as well as the soil of the savage. There is something rare in the watchful forethought which looks not only to the present gain or future prospects of our fellow men, which takes heed not only of the personal rights and material comforts of the race it is displacing, but guards the untutored savage, and consigns him to the vigilance of instructed piety. This "NARRATIVE OF FATHER WHITE," and the Jesuits' letters, preserved in the college at Georgetown, portray the zeal with which the missionaries, in their frail barks, thridded the rivers, coves and inlets of our Chesapeake and Patapsco;--how they raised the cross, under the shadow of which the first landing was effected;--how they set up their altars in the wigwams of the Indians, and sought, by simplicity, kindness and reason, to reach and save the Indian. In Maryland, persecution was dead at the founding;--prejudice, even, was forbidden. The cruelties of Spanish planting were unknown in our milder clime. No violence was used, to convert or to appropriate, and thus, the symbol of salvation, was properly raised on the green Isle of St. Clement, as an emblem of the peace and good will, which the Proprietary desired should sanctify his enterprise.[13] I think there ran be no doubt that this adventure had the double object of affording an exile's refuge to Calvert's co-religionists, as well as of promoting the welfare of his family. It was designed for land-holders and laborers. It was a manorial, planting colony. Its territory was watered by two bays, several large rivers, and innumerable streams. Its fertile lands and thick forests, invited husbandmen, while its capacious coasts tempted the hardy fisherman. And so it is, that in the Arms which were prepared for the Proprietary government, the baronial shield of the Calvert family, dropped, in America, its two supporting leopards, and received in their stead, on either side, a Fisherman and a Farmer. "Crescite et Multiplicamini,"--its motto,--was a watchword of provident thrift. * * * * * Forty-nine years after the charter was granted to Lord Baltimore, King Charles II issued a patent, for a magnificent patrimony in America, to WILLIAM PENN. But what a change, in that half century, had passed over the world! A catalogue of the events that took place, in Great Britain alone, is a history of the growth of Opinion and of the People. Charles's efforts to overthrow the Presbyterian Church in Scotland, and to enforce Episcopacy, brought on the war with the stern enthusiasts of that country. Laud, in the Church, and the Earl of Strafford, in the Cabinet, kept the King in a constant passion of royal and ecclesiastical power. Strafford fell, and the civil war broke out. Cromwell towered up suddenly, on the bloody field, and was victorious over the royalists. The King perished on the scaffold. Cromwell became Lord Protector. Anon, the commonwealth fell; the Stuarts were restored, and Charles II ascended the throne;--but amid all these perilous acts of political and religious fury, the world of thought had been stirred by the speeches and writings, of Taylor, Algernon Sydney, Hampden, and Milton. As the people gradually felt their power they learned to know their rights, and, although they went back from Republicanism to Royalty, they did so, perhaps, only to save themselves from the anarchy that ever threatens a nation while freeing itself from feudal traditions. Besides these political and literary phases of the time, there had been added to the Catholic, Episcopal, and Puritan sects, a _new_ element of religious power, which was destined to produce a slow but safe revolution among men. An humble shoemaker, named GEORGE FOX, arose and taught that "every man was complete in himself; he stood in need of no alien help; the light was free of all control,--above all authority external to itself. Each human being, man or woman, was supreme." The christian denomination called Quakers, or more descriptively--"Friends,"--- thus obtained a hearing and a standing among all serious persons who thought Religion a thing of life as well as of death. Quakerism, with such fundamental principles of equality in constant practice, became a social polity. If the Quaker was a Democrat, he was so because the "inner light" of his christianity made him one, and he dared not disobey his christianity. He recognized no superiors, for his conscience taught him to deny any privileges to claimed superiority. But the Quaker added to his system, an element which, hitherto, was unknown in the history of sects;--he was a Man of Peace. It is not to be supposed that any royal or ecclesiastical government would allow such radical doctrines to pass unnoticed, in the midst of a society which was ever greedy for new teachings. The Quaker, therefore, soon participated in the persecutions which prelacy thought due to liberal christianity. But persecution of the Friend, was the Friend's best publication, for he answered persecution, not by recantation, but by peaceful endurance. Combative resistance, in religious differences, always gives the victor a right, or at least, an excuse, to slay. But Quakerism, a system of personal and religious independence and peace,--became slowly successful by the _vis inertiæ_ of passive resistance. All other sects were, more or less, combative;--Quakerism was an obstinate rock, which stood, in rooted firmness, amid a sea of strife:--the billows of faction raged around it and broke on its granite surface, but they wasted themselves--_not_ the rock! And this is a most important fact in the history of Religion in its development of society. All other sects lost caste, power or material, either by aggression or by fighting. But the Quaker said to the Prelate, the Puritan, and the Catholic, you may annoy us by public trials, by denial of justice, by misrepresentation, by imprisonment, by persecution, by the stake,--yet we shall stand immovable on two principles, which deny that God is glorified by warfare--especially for opinion. Our principles are, equality and peace--in the church and in the world. Equality is to make us humble and good citizens. Peace is to convert this den of human tigers into a fold, wherein by simply performing our duties to each other and to God, we may prepare ourselves for the world of spirits. You can persecute--_we_ can suffer. Who shall tire first? We will be victorious by the firmness that bears your persecutions; and those very persecutions, while they publish your shame, shall proclaim our principles as well as our endurance. They knew, from the history of Charles 1st, that the worst thing to be done with a bad king was to kill him; for, if the axe metamorphosed that personage into a martyr, the prison could never extinguish the light of truth in the doctrines of Quakerism![14] * * * * * You will pardon me, gentlemen, for having detained you so long in discussing the foundation of Maryland. The planting of your own state is familiar to you. It has been thoroughly treated in the writings of your Proud, Watson, Gordon, Du Ponceau, Tyson, Fisher, Wharton, Reed, Ingraham, Armstrong and many others. Can it be necessary for me to say a word, in Philadelphia, of the history of WILLIAM PENN;--of him, who, as a lawgiver and executive magistrate,--a practical, pious, Quaker,--_first_ developed in state affairs, and reduced to practice, the liberty and equality enjoined by his religion and founded on liberal christianity;--of him who _first_ taught mankind the sublime truth, that-- "Beneath the rule of men entirely great "The PEN _is mightier than the sword? Behold_ "The arch-enchanter's wand,--itself a nothing! "But taking sorcery from the master hand "To paralyse the Cesars! _Take away the sword_, "_States can be saved without it!_" It would be idle to detail the facts of his life or government, for, not only have Pennsylvanians recorded and dwelt upon them until they are household lessons, but they have been favorite themes for French, British, Italian, German and Spanish philosophers and historians. * * * * * It was Penn to whom the charter of 1681 was granted, half a century after the patent issued to Cecilius Calvert. The instrument itself, has many of the features of the Maryland grant; but it is well known that the absolute powers it bestowed on the Proprietary, were only taken by him in order that he might do as he pleased in the formation of a new state, whose principles of freedom and peace, might, first in the World's history, practically assume a national aspect. I shall not recount the democratic liberalities of his system, as it was matured by his personal efforts and advice. Original, as he unquestionably was, in genius; bold as he was in resisting the pomp of the world, at a time when its vanities sink easiest and most corruptingly into the heart,--we may nevertheless, say, that the deeds and history of his time, as well as of the previous fifty years, had a large share in moulding his character. In William Penn, the crude germs of religious originality, which, in Fox, were struggling, and sometimes almost stifling for utterance, found their first, ablest, and most accomplished expounder. He gave them refinement and respectability. His intimacy with Algernon Sidney taught him the value of introducing those principles into the doctrines of government;--and thus, he soon learned that when political rights grow into the sanctity of religious duties, they receive thereby a vitality which makes them irresistible. Penn, in this wise, become an expanded embodiment of Fox and Sidney; and, appropriating their mingled faith and polity, discarded every thing that was doctrinal and not practical, and realized, in government, their united wisdom. Nobly _in his age_, did he declare: "I know what is said by the several admirers of monarchy, aristocracy, and democracy, which are the rule of one, of a few, and of the many, and are the three common ideas of government when men discourse on that subject. But I choose to solve the controversy with this small distinction, and it belongs to all three:--_any government is free to the people under it, whatever be the frame, where the laws rule and the people are a party to those laws; and more than this is tyranny, oligarchy, and confusion._"[15] In these historical illustrations, I have striven to show that Primitive Christianity was the basis of equal rights and responsibilities. The alleged defence of this christianity, in the land of its birth, gave rise to "holy wars," in which Feudalism and Chivalry originated. Feudalism was the source of the strictest military dependence, as well as of manifold social perversions. The knight expanded into a lord,--the subject commoner dwindled to a soldier or a serf. Thus Feudalism and a great historical Church, grew up in aristocratic co-partnership over the bodies and souls of mankind, until the one, by the omnipotence of its spiritual authority, ripened into an universal hierarchy, while the other, by the folly of its "divine right," decayed into a temporal despotism that fell at the first blow of the heads-man's axe. The reformation and revolution broke the enchanter's wand; and, when the cloud passed from the bloody stage, instead of seeing before us a magician full of the glories of his art and almost deceived himself, by the splendor of his incantations, we beheld a meagre and pitiful creature, who though blind and palsied, still retained for a while, the power of witch-like mischief. But his reign was not lasting. The stern Puritan,--the pioneer of Independence,--advanced with his remorseless weapon,--while quietly, in his shadow, followed the calm and patient Friend, sowing the seed of Peace and Good-Will in the furrows plowed by the steel of his unrelenting predecessor. And thus again, after ages of corrupt and desolating perversion, the selfish heart of man came humbly back to its original faith that Liberal Christianity is the true basis of enlightened freedom, and the only foundation of good and lasting government. * * * * * The bleak winds of March were blowing in Maryland, when Calvert conciliated and purchased from the Indians at Saint Mary's; but Autumn was "Laying here and there "A fiery finger on the leaves," when Penn, also, established a perfect friendship with the savages at Shackamaxon.[16] Calvert, a protestant officer of the crown, became a catholic, and, retiring to private life, was rewarded by his king, with a pension, estates, and an American principality;--Penn, the son of a British Admiral, and who is only accurately known to us by a portrait which represents him _in armor_, began life as an adherent of the Church of England, and having conscientiously, doffed the steel for the simple garb of Quakerism, was persecuted, not only by his government but his parent. Calvert took the grant of a feudal charter, and asserting all its legislative and baronial powers, sought to fasten its Chinese influence, in feudal fixedness, on his colonists;--but Penn, knowing that feudalism was an absurdity, in the necessary equality of a wilderness, embraced his great authority in order "to leave himself and his successors no power of doing mischief, so that the will of one man might not hinder the good of a whole community."[17] Calvert seems to have thought of English or Irish emigration alone;--Penn, did not confine himself to race, but sought for support from the Continent as well as from Britain.[18] Calvert was ennobled for his services;--Penn rejected a birthright which might have raised him to the peerage. Calvert's public life was antecedent to his American visit--Penn's was almost entirely subsequent to the inception of his "holy experiment." Calvert laid the foundations of a mimic kingdom;--Penn, with the power of a prince, stripped himself of authority. The one was naturally an aristocrat of James's time; the other, quite as naturally, a democrat of the transition age of Sidney. Calvert imagined that mankind stood still; but, Penn believed, that mankind _ever_ moves, or, that like an army under arms, when not marching, it is marking time. While to Calvert is due the honor of a considerable religious advance on his age, as developed in his charter,--Penn is to be revered for the double glory of civil and _perfect_ religious liberty. Calvert mitigated man's lot by toleration;--Penn expanded the germ of toleration into unconditional freedom. Calvert was the founder of a Planting Province, mainly agricultural, and creative of all the manorial dependencies;--but Penn seems to have heartily cherished the idea of a great City, and of the commerce it was to gather and develope from a wilderness over which it was to stand as guardian sentinel. As farming was the chief interest of the one, trading, became, also, a favorite of the other; and thus, while the _transient_ trader visited, supplied, and left the native Indian free,--the _permanent_ planter settled forever on his "hunting grounds," and drove him further into the forest. Calvert recognized the law of war;--Penn made peace a fundamental institution. They both felt that civilized nations have a double and concurrent life,--material and spiritual;--but Calvert sought rather to develop one, while Penn addressed himself to the care of both. Calvert's idea was to open a new land by old doctrines, and to form his preserving amber around a worthless fly;--but Penn's Pennsylvania was to crystalize around the novel and lucid nucleus of freedom. Calvert supposed that America was to be a mere reflex of Britain, and that the heart of his native Island would pulsate here; but Penn, seeing that the future population of America, like the soil of the Mississippi Valley, would be an alluvial deposit from the overflow of European civilization, thought it right to plant a new doctrine of human rights, which would grow more vigorously for its transplanting and culture. * * * * * The germs of Civil and Religious freedom may be found elsewhere in the foundation of American provinces and colonies. I know they are claimed for the cabin of the Mayflower, the rock of Plymouth, and the sands of Rhode Island. But I think that William Penn is justly entitled to the honor of adopting them on principle, after long and patient reflection, as the seed of his people, and thus, of having taken from their introduction by him into this country, all the disparagement of originating either in discontent or accident. His plan was the offspring of beautiful design, and not the gypsey child of chance or circumstance. History is to man what water is to the landscape,--it mirrors, but distorts in its reflection, and the great founder of Pennsylvania has suffered from this temporary distortion. But, at length, the water will become still, and the image will be perfect. Penn is one of those majestic figures that loom up on the waste of time, in the same eternal permanence and simple grandeur in which the Pyramids rise in relief from the sands of Egypt. Let no Arab displace a single stone! APPENDIX No. I. It is singular that the clause in the XXII section of Charles Ist's charter to Lord Baltimore, relating to the interpretation of that instrument in regard to religion, has never been accurately translated, but that all commentators have, hitherto, followed the version given by Bacon. I shall endeavor to demonstrate the error. The following parallel passages exhibit the original Latin, and Bacon's adopted translation: ORIGINAL LATIN. The 22nd section of the charter of Maryland, copied from Bacon's Laws, wherein it was adopted from an attested copy from the original record remaining in the Chapel of Rolls in 1758: "SECTION XXII. Et si fortè imposterum contingat Dubitationes aliquas quæstiones circa verum sensum et Intellectum alicujus verbi clausulæ vel sententiæ in hâe presenti CHARTA nostrâ contentæ generari EAM semper et in omnibus Interpretationem adhiberi et in quibuscunque Curiis et Prætoriis nostris obtinere VOLUMUS præcipimus et mandamus quæ præfato modò Baroni de BALTIMORE Hæredibus et Assignatis suis benignior utilior et favorabilior esse judicabitur Proviso semper quod nulla fiat Interpretatio per quam sacro-sancta DEI et vera Christiana Religio aut Ligeantia NOBIS Hæredibus et successoribus nostris debita Immutatione Prejudicio vel dispendio in aliquo patiantur:" &c. &c. ENGLISH TRANSLATION. Translation of the 22nd section of the charter, from Bacon's Laws of Maryland, wherein it is copied from an old translation published by order of the Lower House in the year 1725: "SECTION XXII. And if, peradventure, hereafter it may happen that any doubts or questions should arise concerning the true sense and meaning of any word, clause or sentence contained in this our present charter, we will, charge, and command, THAT Interpretation to be applied, always, and in all things, and in all our Courts and Judicatories whatsoever, to obtain which shall be judged to be more beneficial, profitable and favorable to the aforesaid now Baron of BALTIMORE, his heirs and assigns: Provided always that no interpretation thereof be made whereby GOD's holy and true christian religion, or the allegiance due to us, our heirs and successors, may, in any wise, suffer by change, prejudice or diminution:" &c. &c. It will be noticed that this _Latin_ copy, according to the well known ancient usage in such papers, is not punctuated, so that we have no guidance, for the purpose of translation, from that source. The translation of this section as far as the words: "_Proviso semper quod nulla fiat interpretatio_," &c. is sufficiently correct; but the whole of the final clause, should in my opinion, be rendered thus:-- "Provided always that no interpretation thereof be made, whereby GOD'S HOLY RIGHTS _and_ the TRUE CHRISTIAN RELIGION, or the allegiance due to us our heirs or successors, may, in any wise suffer by change, prejudice or diminution." Let me offer my reasons for this alteration: 1st, This new translation harmonizes with the evident grammatical construction of the Latin sentence, and is the easiest as well as most natural. The common version, given by Bacon: "GOD'S holy _and_ true CHRISTIAN religion,"--is grossly pleonastic, if not nonsensical. Among christians, "God's religion," can of course, only be the "christian religion;" and, with equal certainty, it is not only a "true" religion, but a "holy" one! 2nd, The word _Sacrosanctus_, always conveys the idea of a _consecrated inviolability, in consequence of inherent rights and privileges_. In a dictionary, _contemporary with the charter_, I find the following definition,--_in verbo sacrosanctus._ "SACROSANCTUS: Apud Ciceronem dicebatur id quod interposito jurejurando sanctum, et institutum erat idem etiam significat ac sanctus, _santo_. _Tribunus plebis dicebatur sacrosanctus, quia eum nefas erat attingere, longè diviniori ratione Catholici appellamus ecclesiam Romanam sacrosanctam._ Calpinus Parvus;--seu Dictionarium Cæsaris Calderini Mirani: _Venetiis_, 1618." Cicero, _in Catil_: 2. 8.--uses the phrase--"Possessiones sacrosanctæ," in this sense; and so does Livy in the epithet,--"Sacrosancta potestas," as applied to the Tribuneship; and, in the sentence,--"ut plebi sui magistratus essent sacrosanctæ." From the last sentence, in the definition given in the Venetian Dictionary of 1618, which I have cited in italics, it will be seen that the epithet had a peculiarly Catholic signification _in its appropriation_ by the Roman Church. 3d, I contend that "_sacrosancta_" does not qualify "_religio_," but agrees with _negotia_, or some word of similar import, understood; and thus the phrase--"_sacrosancta Dei_"--forms a distinct branch of the sentence. If the translation given in Bacon is the true one, the positions of the words "sacrosancta" and "Dei" should be reversed, for their present collocation clearly violates accurate Latin construction. In that case, "_Dei_" being subject to the government of "_religio_," ought to precede "_sacrosancta_," which would be appurtenant to "_religio_," while "_et_," which would then couple the two adjectives instead of the two members of the sentence, should be placed immediately between them, without the interposition of any word to disunite it either from "_sacrosancta_" or "_vera_." If my translation be correct, then the collocation of all the words in the original Latin of the charter, is proper. If "_sacrosancta_" is a neuter adjective agreeing with "_negotia_," understood,--and "_et_" conjoins members of sentences, then the whole clause is obedient to a positive law of Latin verbal arrangement. Leverett says: "The genitive is elegantly put before the noun which governs it with one or more words between; _except_ when the genitive is _governed by a neuter adjective_, in which case, _it must_ be _placed after it_." 4th, Again:--if "_et_" joins "_sacrosancta_" and "_vera_," which, thereby, qualify the same noun, there are _then_ only two nominatives in the Latin sentence of the charter, viz: "_religio_" and "_ligcantia_." Now these nouns, being coupled by the disjunctive conjunction "_aut_," must have the verb agreeing with them _separately_ in the singular. But, as "_patiantur_" happens to be in the plural, the author of the charter must either have been ignorant of one of the simplest grammar rules, or have designed to convey the meaning I contend for. I must acknowledge the aid and confirmation I have received, in examining this matter, from the very competent scholarship of my friend Mr. Knott, assistant Librarian of the Maryland Historical Society. APPENDIX No. II. The scope of my discourse is confined to the illustration of _principles_ either announced, or acted on, in the _founding_ of Maryland and Pennsylvania. I have contended that Sir George Calvert, the _first_ Lord Baltimore, so framed the charter which was granted by Charles I, that, without express concessions, the general character of its language in regard to religious rights, would secure liberty of conscience to christians. I: 1632.--Language can scarcely be more perspicuously comprehensive, than in the phrase: "God's Holy Rights and the true Christian Religion." Under such a clause, _in the charter_, no particular church could set up a claim for its exclusive christianity. There was no mention, in the instrument, of "the Established Church," or, of "the Church of England." The Catholic could not deny the Episcopalian's christianity; the Episcopalian could not deny the Catholic's, nor could the Puritan question the christianity of either. All professed faith in Christ. Each of the three great sects might contend that its _form_ of worship, or interpretation of the Bible, was the correct one; but all came lawfully under the great generic class of christians. And, while the political government of the colonists was to be conducted by a Catholic magistrate, in a province belonging to a Catholic Lord,--the _interpretation_ of the law of religious rights was to be made, not by the laws of England, but exclusively under the paramount law of the provincial charter. By that document the broad "rights of God," and "the true christian religion," could not "suffer by change, prejudice or diminution." This view is strengthened by a clause in the 4th section of the charter, by which the king granted Lord B. "the patronages and advowsons of ALL _churches_ which, _with the increasing worship and_ RELIGION OF CHRIST, (_crescenti Christi cultu et religione_,") should be built within his province. The right of _advowson_, being thus bestowed on the Lord Proprietary, for _all Christian Churches_; his majesty, then, goes on, empowering Lord B. to erect and found churches, chapels, &c. and _to cause_ them to be dedicated "_according to the Ecclesiastical laws of our kingdom of England_." The general right of advowson, and the particular privilege, conceded to a Catholic, of causing the consecration of Episcopal churches, are _separate_ powers and ought not to be confounded by a hasty reader of the charter. I think there can hardly be a fair doubt that the interpretation I give to the 22nd clause is the one assigned to it by the immigrants from the earliest colonial movement in 1633. We may assert, therefore, the fact, that religious freedom was offered and secured for christians, in the province of Maryland, from the very beginning. II: 1633.--We must recollect that under the English statutes, _adherents of the national church required no protection_; they were free in the exercise of their faith; but Catholics and Puritans were not so happily situated, and, accordingly, they sought, in the new world an exemption from the disabilities and persecutions they experienced at home. Can it be credited, that, under such vexations, the Catholic Lord Baltimore would have drawn a charter, or, his Catholic son and successor, sent forth a colony, under a Catholic Governor, when the fundamental law, under which alone he exercised his power, did not secure liberty to him and his co-religionists? It is simply necessary to ask the question, in order to demonstrate the absurdity of such a supposition. III: 1634.--If we show, then, that Catholic conscience was untrammeled in Maryland, I think we may fairly assume the general ground as satisfactorily proved. What was, briefly, the first movement of this sect, under the Lord Proprietary's auspices? When Lord Cæcilius was planning his colonial expedition in 1633, one of his earliest cares was to apply to the Order of Jesus for clergymen to attend the Catholic planters and settlers, and to convert the natives. Accordingly, under the sanction of the Superior, Father White joined the emigrants, _although, under previous persecutions in England, he had been sent into perpetual banishment, to return from which subjected the culprit to the penalty of death_! These facts are set forth, at page 14 of the 2nd volume of Challoner's Memoirs. Historia Anglo-Bavara, S. J. Rev. Dr. Oliver's collections illustrative of the Scotch, English and Irish Jesuits, page 222, and in the essay on the Early Maryland Missions, by Mr. B. U. Campbell. Fathers Andrew White and John Altham, and two lay brothers, named John Knowles and Thomas Gervase, accompanied the first expedition, and were active agents in consecrating the possession of the soil, and converting _Protestant immigrants_ as well as heathen natives. The colony, therefore, cannot properly be called a Protestant one, when its _only_ spiritual guides were Catholics; and consequently if it was more of a Catholic than a Protestant emigration, it must, by legal necessity, have been free from the moment it quitted the shores of England. If the Catholic was free, all were free. IV: 1637.--Our next authority, in regard to the _early interpretation_ of religious rights in Maryland, is found in a passage in Chalmers's Political Annals, page 235. "In the oath," says he, "taken by the Governor and Council, _between_ the years 1637 and 1657, there was the following clause, which ought to be administered to the rulers of every country. 'I will not, by myself or any other, directly or indirectly, trouble, molest or discountenance, any person professing to believe in Jesus Christ, for or on account of his religion.'" This shows, that "belief in Jesus Christ," under the constitutional guaranty of the charter, anterior to the enactment of any colonial law by the Maryland Assembly, secured sects from persecution. The language of the oath, which was doubtless promulgated by the Lord Proprietor, is as broad as the language of the charter. The statement of Chalmers has been held to be indefinite as to whether the oath was taken _from_ 1637 to 1657, or, whether it was taken in some years _between_ those dates; but, if the historian did not mean to say that it had been administered _first_ in 1637, and continued afterwards, why would he not have specified any other, as the beginning year, as well as 1637? The objection seems rather hypercritical than plausible. Chalmers was too accurate a writer to use dates so loosely, and inasmuch as he was an old Maryland lawyer and custodian of the Maryland provincial papers, he had the best opportunity to designate the precise date. A Governor's oath was a regular and necessary official act. No one can doubt that an oath was required of that personage in Maryland; and the oath in question, is precisely such an one as Protestant settlers, in that age, might naturally expect from a Catholic Magistrate, who, (even from motives of the humblest policy,) would be willing to grant to others what he was anxious to secure for himself. If ever there was a proper time for perfect toleration, it was at this moment, when a Catholic became, _for the first time in history_, a sovereign prince of the _first province_ of the British Empire! Mr. Chalmers could not have confounded the oath whose language he cites, with other oaths which the reader will find cited in the 2nd volume of Bozman's History of Maryland, at pages 141, 608, 642. The oath prepared for Stone in 1648, appears to have been an augmented edition of the one quoted by Chalmers, and is so different in parts of its phraseology as well as items, that it cannot have been mistaken by the learned annalist. Bancroft, McMahon, Tyson, C. F. Mayer and B. U. Campbell, adopt his statement as true. V: 1638.--In regard to the early _practice of Maryland_ tribunals, on the subject of tolerance, we have a striking case in 1638. In that year a certain _Catholic_, named William Lewis, was arraigned before the Governor, Secretary, &c., for _abusive language to Protestants_. Lewis confessed, that, coming into a room where Francis Gray and Robert Sedgrave, servants of Captain Cornwaleys, were reading, he heard them recite passages so that he should hear them, that were reproachful to his religion, "viz: that the Pope was anti-Christ, and the Jesuits anti-Christian Ministers, &c: he told them it was a falsehood and came from the devil, and that he that writ it was an instrument of the devil, and so he would approve it!" The court found the culprit "guilty of a very offensive speech in calling the Protestant ministers, the ministers of the devil," and of "exceeding his rights, in forbidding them to read a lawful book." In consequence of this "offensive language," and other "unreasonable disputations, in point of religion, tending to the disturbance of the peace and quiet of the Colony, committed by him, _against a public proclamation set forth to prohibit all such disputes_," Lewis was fined and remanded into custody until he gave security for future good behaviour.[19] Thus, four years, only, after the settlement, the liberty of conscience was vindicated by a recorded judicial sentence, and "unreasonable disputations in point of religion," rebuked by a Catholic Governor in the person of a Catholic offender. There could scarcely be a clearer evidence of impartial and tolerant sincerity. The decision, moreover, is confirmatory of the fact that the Governor had taken such an oath as Chalmers cites, in the previous year, 1637; especially as there had _already been a "proclamation to prohibit disputes_!" VI: 1638.--At the _first efficient_ General Assembly of the Colony, which was held in this year, only two Acts were passed, though thirty-six other bills were twice read and engrossed, but not finally ripened into laws. The second of the two acts that were passed, contains a section asserting that "Holy Church, _within this province_, shall have all her rights and liberties;" thus securing the rights of Catholics;--while the first of the thirty-six incomplete acts was one, which we know only by _title_, as "An act for _Church liberties_." It was to continue in force until the end of the next General Assembly, and then, with the Lord Proprietary's consent, to be perpetual. Although we have no means of knowing the extent of the proposed "Church liberties," we may suppose that the proposed enactment was general, in regard to all Christian sects besides the Catholics. VII: 1640.--At the session of 1640, an act for "Church liberties" _was passed_ on the 23d October, and confirmed, as a perpetual law, in the first year of the accession of Charles Calvert, 3d Lord Baltimore, in 1676. This Act also declares that "Holy Church, within this province, shall have and enjoy all her rights, liberties and franchises, wholly and without blemish." Thus, in 1640, legislation had already settled opinion as to the rights of Catholics and Protestants. Instead of the early Catholics seeking to contract the freedom of other sects, their chief aim and interest seem to have been to secure their own. I consider the Acts I have cited rather as mere declaratory statutes, than as necessary original laws. VIII: 1649.--In this year, an assembly, believed to have been composed of a Protestant majority, passed the act which has been lauded as the source of religious toleration. It is "An Act concerning Religion," and, in my judgment, is less tolerant than the Charter or the Governor's Oath, inasmuch as it included Unitarians in the same category with blasphemers and those who denied our Saviour Jesus Christ, punishing all alike, with confiscation of goods and the pains of _death_. This was the epoch of the trial and execution of Charles I, and of the establishment of the Commonwealth. IX: 1654.--The celebrated act I have just noticed, however, was passed fifteen years after the original settlement, which exceeds the period comprised in the actual _founding_ of Maryland. Besides this, the political and religious aspect of England was changing, and the influence of the home-quarrel was beginning to be felt across the Atlantic. In 1654, during the mastery of Cromwell, religious freedom was destroyed: Puritanism became paramount; Papacy and Prelacy were denounced by law; and freedom was assured only to Puritans, and such as professed "faith in God by Jesus Christ, though differing in judgment, from the doctrine or worship publicly held forth." X. It has been alleged that the clause in the Maryland Charter securing "God's holy rights and the true Christian religion," is only an incorporation into Lord Baltimore's instrument, of certain clauses contained in the early Charters of Virginia. If the reader will refer to the 1st volume of Henning's Statutes at large, he will find all those documents in English, but _unaccompanied by the original Latin_. Thus, we have no means of judging the _accuracy of the translation_, or _identity of language_ in the Maryland and Virginia instruments. Adopting, however, for the present, the translation given by Henning, we find no coincidence of phraseology either to justify the suspicion of a mere copy, or to subject our charter to the _limitations_ contained in the Virginia patents. Disabilities are to be construed strictly in law, and our charter is not to be interpreted by another, but stands on its own, independent, context and manifest signification. The first Virginia Charter or Patent was issued to Sir Thomas Gates and others, April 10th, 1606, in the 4th year of James's English reign. Among the "Articles, Orders, Instructions," &c., set down for Virginia, 20th Nov., 1606,--(though nothing is said about restrictions in religion, while the preamble commends the noble work of propagating the Christian religion among infidel savages,)--is the following clause:--"And we doe specallie ordaine, charge, and require the presidents and councills," (of the two Colonies of Virginia,) "respectively, within their severall limits and precincts, that they with all diligence, care and respect, doe provide, that the _true word and service of God and Christian faith_, be preached, planted and used, not only within every of the said severall colonies and plantations, but alsoe, as much as they may, among the salvage people which doe or shall adjoine unto them, or border upon them, _according to the_ DOCTRINE, RIGHTS, _and_ RELIGION, _now professed and established within our realme of England_."--_1st Henning_, 69. The second charter or patent, dated 23d May, 1609, 7th "James I," was issued to the Treasurer and Company for Virginia, and in its XXIX section, declares: "And lastly, because the principal effect, which we can desire or expect of this action, is the conversion and reduction of the people in those parts unto the _Worship of God and Christian religion, in which respect we should be loath, that any person be permitted to pass, that we suspected to affect the superstitions of the Church of Rome_; we do hereby declare that it is our will and pleasure that none be permitted to pass in any voyage, from time to time, to be made unto the said country, but such as shall first have taken the Oath of Supremacy;" &c., &c.--_1st Henning_, 97. The third Charter of James the I, in the 9th year of his English reign, was issued 12th March, 1611-12 to the Treasurer and Company for Virginia. The XIIth section empowers certain officers to administer the _Oath of Supremacy and Allegiance_, to "all and every persons which shall at any time or times hereafter go or pass to said Colony of Virginia." The Instructions to Governor Wyatt, of 24th of July, 1621, direct him:--"_to keep up the Religion of the Church of England, as near as may be_," &c., &c.--_1st Henning._ All these extracts, it will be observed, contain _limitations_ and _restrictions_, either explicitly _in favor_ of the English Church, or _against_ the, so called, "superstitions of the Church of Rome." The Maryland Charter shows no such narrow clauses, and consequently, is justly free from any connexion, _in interpretation_, with the Virginia instruments. Besides this, we do not know that the language of the original Latin of the Virginia Charters, is the same as ours, and, therefore, it would be "reasoning in a circle," or, "begging the question," if we translated the Maryland Charter into the exact language of the Virginian. The phraseology--"God's holy rights and the true Christian religion,"--_unlimited in the Maryland Patent_,--was a distinct assertion of broad equality to all professing to believe in Jesus Christ. It was not subject to any sectarian restriction, and formed the basis of religious liberty in Maryland, until it was undermined during the Puritan intolerance in 1654. CORRESPONDENCE. HALL OF THE HISTORICAL SOCIETY OF PENNSYLVANIA,} PHILADELPHIA, _April 12th, 1852_. } DEAR SIR: We have been appointed a committee to communicate to you the following resolution passed at a meeting of the Historical Society held this evening: "RESOLVED, That the thanks of the HISTORICAL SOCIETY, are hereby returned to MR. BRANTZ MAYER, of BALTIMORE, for his very able and eloquent address, delivered before it, on Thursday evening, the 8th instant; and that MESSRS. TYSON, FISHER, COATES and ARMSTRONG, be appointed a committee to transmit this resolution to Mr. Mayer, and request a copy of the address for publication." Permit us to express the pleasure we derived from the delivery of your Discourse, and, also, the hope that you will comply with the Society's request. We remain, with great respect, your obedient servants, JOB R. TYSON, J. FRANCIS FISHER, B. H. COATES, EDW. ARMSTRONG. To MR. BRANTZ MAYER, BALTIMORE. BALTIMORE, _15th April, 1852_. GENTLEMEN: I am much obliged to the PENNSYLVANIA HISTORICAL SOCIETY, for the complimentary resolution it was pleased to pass in relation to the Discourse I delivered before it on the 8th of this month. In compliance with your request, I place a copy of the address at your disposal; and, while thanking you for the courtesy with which you have communicated the vote of your colleagues, I have the honor to be, your most obedient servant, BRANTZ MAYER. To MESSIEURS JOB R. TYSON, } J. FRANCIS FISHER,} Committee, &c. &c. &c. B. H. COATES, } EDW. ARMSTRONG, } FOOTNOTES: [1] Mr. Joseph Hunter's "Collections concerning the Early History of the Founders of New Plymouth." London, 1849: No 2 of his Critical and Historical Tracts, p. 14. [2] It is believed by historians that Sir Walter Raleigh fell a victim to the intrigues of Spain at the Court of James. His American adventures and hardihood were dangerous to the Spanish Empire. A small pamphlet entitled: A NEW DESCRIPTION OF VIRGINIA, published in London in 1619, a reprint of which is possessed by the Virginia Historical Society, shows how the prophetic fears of the Spaniard, even at that early time, conjured up the warning phantom of Anglo-Saxon "_annexation._" "It is well known," says the pamphlet, "that our English plantations have had little countenance; nay, that our statesmen, (when time was,) had store of Gundemore's gold," (meaning Gondomar, Spanish Minister at James's Court)--"_to destroy_ and discountenance the plantation of Virginia; and he effected it, in great part, by dissolving the company, wherein most of the nobility, gentry, corporate cities, and most merchants of England, were interested and engaged; after the expense of some hundred of thousands of pounds; for Gundemore did affirm to his friends, that he had commission from his master"--(the King of Spain,)--"to destroy that plantation. For, said he, should they thrive and go on increasing, as they have done under that popular Lord of Southampton, _my master's West Indies_, AND HIS MEXICO, _would shortly be visited by sea and by land, from those Planters in Virginia_." Generals Scott and Taylor--both sons of Virginia--have verified, in the nineteenth century, the foresight of the cautious statesman of the seventeenth. _See Virginia His. Reg. Vol. 1. p. 28._ [3] Dr. Miller's "History Philosophically Illustrated," vol 1. p. 95. [4] "Men who have to count, miserly, the kernels of corn for their daily bread, and to till their ground, staggering through weakness from the effect of famine, can do but little in settling the metaphysics of faith, or in counting frames, and gauging the exercises of their feelings. Grim necessity of hunger looks morbid sensibility out of countenance."--_Rev. Dr. G. B. Cheever's edition of the Journal of the Pilgrims;--1848: p. 112._ [5] "The New England Puritans, though themselves refugees from religions intolerance, and martyrs, as they supposed, to the cause of religious freedom, practiced the same intolerance to those who were so unfortunate as to differ from them. In 1635, Roger Williams was banished from the Massachusetts colony for differences of religious opinions with the civil powers. This was the next year after the arrival of the Maryland colony. In 1659, fifteen years later, a Baptist received thirty lashes at the whipping post, in Boston, for his peculiar faith; and nine years later, three persons suffered death by the common hangman, in the same place, for their adherence to the sect of Quakers."--_Rev. Dr. Burnap's Life of Leonard Calvert, in Sparks's Am. Biog. 2nd series, vol. IX. p. 170, Boston, 1846._ On the 13th Sept. 1644, these N. England Puritans, passed a law of banishment against Anabaptists; in 1646, another law, imposing the same punishment, was passed against Heresy and Error; in 1647, the order of Jesuits came in for a share of intolerance;--its members were inhibited from entering the colony; if they came in, heedless of the law, they were to be banished, and if they returned after banishment, they were to be _put to death_. On the 14th of October 1656, the celebrated law was enacted against "the cursed sect of heretics lately risen up in the world, which are commonly called Quakers:"--by its decrees, captains of vessels who introduced these religionists, knowingly, were to be fined or imprisoned; "quaker books or writings containing their devilish opinions," were not to be brought into the colony, under a penalty; while quakers who came in, were to be committed to the house of correction, kept constantly at work, not allowed to speak, and severely whipped, on their entrance into this sanctuary!--See original Acts, _Hazard's His. Coll. 1, pp. 538, 545, 550, 630_. [6] See Mr. John P. Kennedy's discourse on the life and character of Sir George Calvert, and the reviews thereof, with Mr K's reply, on this question of religion, in the U. S. Catholic Magazine, 1846. Since the publication of Mr. Kennedy's discourse and the reviews of it, in 1846, I have met with an English work published in London in 1839, _attributed_ to Bishop Goodman, entitled an "Account of the Court of James the first." In vol. 1, p. 376, he says: "The third man who was thought to gain by the Spanish match was Secretary Calvert; and as he was the _only Secretary employed in the Spanish match_, so undoubtedly he did what good offices he could therein, for religion's sake, _being infinitely addicted to the Roman Catholic faith, having been converted thereto by Count Gondemar and Count Arundel, whose daughter Secretary Calvert's Son had married; and, as it was said, the Secretary did usually catechise his own children, so to ground them in his own religion; and in his best room having an altar set up, with chalice, candlesticks, and all other ornaments, he brought all strangers thither, never concealing anything, as if his whole joy and comfort had been to make open profession of his religion_." As the Prelate was a _contemporary_, this statement, founded, as it may be, on report, is of considerable importance. Fuller, also, was a contemporary though thirty years younger than Calvert. The Spanish match, alluded to, was on the carpet as early as 1617, and was broken off in the beginning of 1624. It was probably during this period that Lord Arundel and the Spanish Minister influenced the mind of Sir George as to religion. [7] Mr. Chalmers, in his Hist. of the Revolt of the Am. Col. B. 2 ch. 3, says that the charter of Maryland was a _literal copy_ from the prior patent of Avalon; but of this we are unable to judge, as he neither cites his authority nor indicates the depository of the Avalon Charter. If the Maryland charter is an _exact_ transcript of the Avalon document, it is interesting to know the fact, as Calvert may have been a Protestant, when the latter was issued. Bozman states an authority for its date, as of 1623, which would indicate that this document may still probably be found in the British Museum. If it was issued in 1623, it was granted a year before, Fuller says, Calvert resigned because he had become a Catholic. In all likelihood, however, Sir George was not converted in a day!--_See Bozman Hist. Maryland ed. 1837, vol. 1 p. 240 et seq. in note._ [8] The Baron Von Raumer, in his Hist. of the XVI and XVII Centuries, vol. 2, p. 263, quoting from Tillieres, says of Calvert: "He is an honorable, sensible well-minded man, courteous towards strangers, full of respect towards embassadors, zealously intent on the welfare of England; but by reason of all these good qualities, entirely without consideration or influence." The only original work or tract by which we know the character of Sir George Calvert's mind is "THE ANSWER TO TOM TELL-TROTH, THE PRACTISE OF PRINCES AND THE LAMENTATIONS OF THE KIRKE, _written by Lord Baltimore, late Secretary of State_." London, _printed 1642_:--a copy of which, in MS., is in the collections of the Maryland Hist. Soc. This is a quaint specimen of pedantic politics and toryism--larded with Latin quotations, and altogether redolent of James's Court. It was addressed to Charles I, and shows the author's intimate acquaintance with the political history and movements of the continental powers. We may judge Calvert's politics by the following passage in which he _commends_ the doctrines of his old master:-- "King James," says he, "in his oration to the Parliament, 1620, used these words _very judiciattie_; Kings and Kingdoms were before Parliaments; the Parliament was never called for the purpose to meddle with complaints against the King, the Church, or State matters, but _ad consultandum de rebus arduis, Nos et Regnum nostrum concernantibus_; as the writ will inform you. I was never the cause, nor guiltie of the election of my sonne by the Bohemians, neither would I be content that any other king should dispute whether I am a lawful King or no, and to tosse crowns like Tennis-balls." [9] It may seem strange, that, being a Catholic, he still had the right of advowson or of presentation to Protestant Episcopal Churches; but it was not until the Act of 1st William and Mary, chapter 26, that Parliament interfered with the right of Catholics to present to religious benefices. That Act vested the presentations belonging to Catholics in the Universities. An Act passed 12th Anne, was of a similar disabling character.--_Butler's Hist. Mem. vol. 3, pp. 136, 148, 149._ [10] See Appendix No. 1, in regard to the erroneous translation of this clause from the Latin, that has hitherto been adopted from Bacon's laws of Maryland. [11] As an illustration of this feeling, I will quote a passage showing how it fared with Marylanders in Massachusetts in 1631. "The Dove," one of the vessels of the first colonists to Maryland, was dispatched to Massachusetts with a cargo of corn to exchange for fish. She carried a friendly letter from Calvert and another from Harvey, but the magistrates were suspicious of a people who "_did set up mass openly_." Some of the crew were accused of reviling the inhabitants of Massachusetts as "holy brethren," "the members," &c., and just as the ship was about to sail; _the supercargo, happening on shore, was arrested in order to compel the master to give up the culprits_. The proof failed, and the vessel was suffered to depart, but not without a special charge to the master "_to bring no more such disordered persons!_"--_Hildreth Hist. U. S., vol. 1, 209_. [12] See Appendix No. 2. [13] In order to illustrate the spirit in which the region for the first settlement at St. Mary's was acquired, I will quote from a MS. copy of "A Relation of Maryland, 1635," now in my possession: "To make his entrie peaceable and safe, he thought fit to present ye Werowance and Wisoes of the town (so they call ye chief men of accompt among them,) with some English cloth (such as is used in trade with ye Indians,) axes, hoes, and knives, which they accepted verie kindlie, and freely gave consent toe his companie that hee and they should dwell in one part of their towne, and reserved the other for themselves: and those Indians that dwelt in that part of ye towne which was allotted for ye English, freely left them their houses and some corne that they had begun to plant: It was also agreed between them that at ye end of ye Harvest they should have ye whole Towne, which they did accordinglie. And they made mutuall promises to each other to live peaceably and friendlie together, and if any injury should happen to be done, on any part, that satisfaction should be made for ye same; and thus, on ye 27 DAIE of MARCH, A. D. 1634, ye Gouernour took possession of ye place, and named ye _Towne--Saint Marie's_. "There was an occasion that much facilitated their treatie with these Indians which was this: the Susquehanocks (a warlike people that inhabit between Chesapeake Bay and Delaware Bay) did usuallie make warres and incursions upon ye neighboring Indians, partly for superioritie, partly for to gett their women, and what other purchase they could meet with; which the Indians of _Yoacomaco_ fearing, had, ye yeere before our arivall there, made a resolution, for there safetie, to remove themselves higher into ye countrie, where it was more populous, and many of them where gone there when ye English arrived." At Potomac, Father Altham,--according to Father White's Latin MS. in the Maryland Hist. Soc. Col.--informed the guardian of the King that _we_ (the clergy) had not come thither for war, but for the sake of benevolence,--that we might imbue a rude race with the principles of civilization, and open a way to Heaven, as well as to impart to them the advantages enjoyed by distant regions. The prince signified that we had come acceptably. The interpreter was one of the Virginia Protestants. When the Father, for lack of time, could not continue his discourse, and promised soon to return: "I will that it should be so," said Archihau--"our table shall be one; my men shall hunt for you; all things shall be in common between us." The Werowance of Pautuxent visited the strangers, and when he was about departing, used the following language, as recorded in the MS. Relation of Maryland of 1635: "I love ye English so well that if they should goe about to kill me, if I had so much breath as to speak, I would command ye people not to revenge my death; for I know they would not doe such a thinge except it was through mine own default." See also Mr. B. U. Campbell's admirable SKETCH OF THE EARLY MISSIONS TO MARYLAND, read before the Md. Hist. Soc. 8th Jan. 1846, and subsequently printed in the U.S. Catholic Magazine. [14] In William Penn's second reply to a committee of the House of Lords appointed in 1678, he declares that those who cannot comply with laws, through tenderness of conscience, should not "revile or conspire against the government, _but with christian humility and patience tire out all mistakes against us_, and wait their better information, who, we believe, do as undeservedly as severely treat us." [15] Preface to Frame of Government, 25 April, 1682. [16] Those who desire to know the precise character of the celebrated Elm-tree Treaty, should read the Memoir on its history, in vol. 3, part 2, p. 145 of the Memoirs of the Pennsylvania Hist. Soc., written by the late Mr. Du Ponceau, and Mr. Joshua Francis Fisher. It is one of the finest specimen of minute, exhaustive, historical analysis, with which I am acquainted. These gentlemen, prove, I think, conclusively, that the Treaty was altogether one of amity and friendship, and was entirely unconnected with the purchase of lands. [17] Janney's Life of Penn, 163. [18] See 2nd Bozman Hist. Md. p. 616--note XLIII, Conditions, &c. [19] 2d Bozman, 597, and Orig. MS. in Md. His. Soc. 
38477	----	scanned images of public domain material from the Google Print archive. IN JEOPARDY BOOKS BY VAN TASSEL SUTPHEN * * * * * IN JEOPARDY THE CARDINAL'S ROSE * * * * * HARPER & BROTHERS, Publishers Established 1817 IN JEOPARDY _By_ Van Tassel Sutphen _Author of_ "The Cardinal's Rose," Etc. HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS NEW YORK AND LONDON Copyright, 1922 By Harper & Brothers CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. I FIND SOME NEW RELATIONS 3 II. THE SETTING OF THE STAGE 25 III. HILDEBRAND OF THE "HUNDRED" 40 IV. SOME HYPOTHETICAL QUESTIONS 54 V. THE MISSING LINK 68 VI. "MADAME COLETTE MARINETTE" 83 VII. THE WHISPERING GALLERY 99 VIII. ADVENTURING ON "SUGAR LOAF" 106 IX. 1-4-2-4-8 127 X. I RECEIVE AN ULTIMATUM 138 XI. THE RIDER OF THE BLACK HORSE 157 XII. SAFE FIND, SAFE BIND 171 XIII. LE CHIFFRE INDÉCHIFFRABLE 180 XIV. ANOTHER BREAK IN THE CIRCLE 192 XV. ONE CORNER OF THE VEIL 202 XVI. AD INTERIM 211 XVII. THE MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S BALL 217 XVIII. I BREAK A PROMISE 225 XIX. THE SEAT PERILOUS 235 XX. THE BLIND TERROR 255 XXI. A LOST CLUE 265 XXII. THE GRAPES OF WRATH 281 XXIII. THE END OF THE COIL 289 Chapter I _I Find Some New Relations_ The letter which lay before me had been written in old-fashioned longhand on the business stationery of the law firm of Eldon & Crawford, their given address being Calverton, Maryland. For the third time I read over the missive, although certainly it was short and to the point, its meaning unmistakable. But judge for yourself. CALVERTON, MARYLAND, _June 22, 1919._ MY DEAR SIR,--The funeral services for the late Francis Hildebrand Graeme Esqre., of "Hildebrand Hundred," King William County, Maryland, will be held at S. Saviour's Church, Guildford Corners, Maryland, on Thursday, June 24, 1919, at three o'clock post meridian. In view of the fact that you are a beneficiary under Mr. Graeme's will I am forwarding this communication by special delivery, in the hope that you may be able to attend the services and be present at the reading of the testament. I am enclosing a time schedule of the Cape Charles route, and would suggest that you take the morning express from Baltimore. By giving notice to the conductor the train will be stopped at Crown Ferry, the nearest railway point to "Hildebrand Hundred." If you will advise me by telegraph of your coming I will see that a conveyance is in waiting. Trusting that you may find it possible to make the journey, and taking the liberty of placing our legal services at your disposal, I remain, my dear sir, Your obedient servant, JOHN ELDON. HUGH HILDEBRAND, ESQRE. Yes, this was all perfectly plain and understandable. Francis Graeme, the distant cousin whom I had seen just once in my life, had died suddenly at his Maryland home; as a member of the family and a presumptive legatee it was my duty to offer the last respects in person. Yet there had been something more or less odd about the whole business. It had been the Civil War which had made a lasting breach between the Northern and Southern branches of the Hildebrand family; for more than a generation there had been no social intercourse whatever. Moreover, during that period, the name had shown a tendency to disappear for good and all, the usual fate of old families who live too close to the ancestral soil and dislike the noisy wheels of the world's progress. The late owner of the "Hundred" did not even bear the family patronymic, his Hildebrand descent being on the distaff side. I, in turn, am an orphan, without brothers or sisters; more than that I have no near relatives in the paternal connection; indeed I had never heard of any immediate bearers of my name until one day, some three months ago, when Francis Graeme called at my Philadelphia office, introduced himself, claimed me as kin, and carried me off to a luncheon which extended itself into dinner and then lasted to a midnight supper. It had been a case of liking at first sight, although Graeme was a man of forty-five or so, while I lacked three years of thirty. However, years--mere years--don't signify if people really "belong," and Graeme and I had lost no time in laying the foundations of a friendship that promised a more than ordinary degree of permanence. It had been arranged that I should come down to "Hildebrand Hundred" for a long visit, but one thing after another had happened to prevent; I had been presented with an actual law case, Graeme was called West for a month, one of my college class reunions had been scheduled for the first part of June; so it went. And now poor Graeme was dead and nothing could be as we had planned it during that long afternoon and night at the old University Club on Walnut Street. Strange, I had not heard that he was ill, but our correspondence had been most irregular, and most likely the attack had been a sudden one--heart disease or perhaps a stroke. Of course I must go down to Maryland, albeit the journey would be a depressing one; I might even find it a little awkward to appear at the house in the character of a new-found relative. I ought to explain that the family at the "Hundred" now consisted of Miss Lysbeth Graeme and her cousin, Miss Eunice Trevor. Of course I had never met either of them, but Graeme had spoken of both girls at our first and only meeting; he seemed especially fond of Lysbeth, or Betty, as he called her. Betty Graeme--rather an attractive name I think--was some half dozen years my junior, and any normal-minded young man would find the acquisition of a brand-new feminine cousin an interesting possibility. But that was before this distressing business of Francis Graeme's death, and I should feel more or less the intruder. It was evident, however, that Mr. Eldon's letter must have been sanctioned by Miss Graeme, and, I dare say, Graeme had spoken to his daughter of having made my acquaintance, and warmly, too; consequently, I should have to go and be decent, stay over night if that were unavoidable, and then slip away Friday morning with my legacy--perhaps a hundred dollars with which to procure the mourning-ring so dear to the hearts of mid-Victorian novelists. In spite of the special delivery stamp the letter had been delayed somewhere, and it was not handed over to me until early Thursday morning, the messenger awaking me out of an unusually sound sleep by the simple expedient of keeping his finger pressed firmly upon the electric push button of my tiny room-and-bath lodgings in the "Clarendon." When I had rubbed the Sandman's dust out of my eyes, and had taken in the general purport of the epistle, I glanced at the clock and saw that I had less than an hour in which to make my toilet, settle my business affairs and catch the train. Yet I made it easily enough, for, outside of bath and breakfast, I had only to telephone the friend with whom I shared a diminutive law office that I should not be back until Friday, and that our progressive match at golf would have to be postponed to that date. Happily or unhappily, as you choose to look at it, there were no clients to put off and no real business exigencies to consider. Come to think of it, I am not so sure that I was ever intended for the bench and bar, and certainly the world has not gone out of its way to avail itself of my store of legal knowledge. Mine was just the usual case of a young man reading law because, on leaving the university, nothing more tangible had presented itself. Moreover, the quarterly paid income from my mother's estate is sufficient for my modest needs and perhaps deprives me of any real incentive for hard work. Now the successful man is usually self-made, meaning that he has been forced to play the role of a creator and make something out of nothing. It makes me blush sometimes when I reflect what would happen if that quarterly cheque ever failed to turn up in the mail; had I anything of real value to offer the world in exchange for shelter, raiment, and what my newsboy calls three "squares" a day? Not that I am altogether a cumberer of the ground (as a golfer I have been well-trained and always take care to replace my divots), but there is no particular reason for my existence on this planet, and there are not many people who would either know or care that I was no longer of their number. Cynical? not at all; at least I had not intended to give that impression. But my two years' war service destroyed some illusion, even though I hadn't the luck to get across the water. Finally, I may call myself a decent enough chap when compared to the ordinary run of men, and while I don't pretend to philanthropic activities I can say quite honestly that there is no man, or woman either, who may truthfully affirm being the worse off for having enjoyed the distinction of my personal acquaintance. At best, this is only a negative virtue, and there are times when I feel keenly that I ought to be adding something definite to the world's stock of material good or ethical treasure. I can't flatter myself that I possess anything more than the one talent, and my quarterly dividend makes a convenient napkin in which to enwrap it; the old allegory seems to fit my case precisely. I dare say that life for me has been a trifle too pleasant and well-ordered; people who live on Easy Street become more and more attached to their _otium-cum-dig_; I have visions of myself less than a score of years away: portly, tonsured, inclined to resent the existence of boys and dogs, fussily addicted to carrying about to dinner parties my own particular brand of pepper in a little, flat, silver box. Perhaps if I should fall in love, but pooh! I have been invoking that contingency so long and so unavailingly that it has lost a large portion of its pristine appeal. No, I can't see that there is anything better for me to do than to go on drawing my income, sitting religiously for at least six hours a day in my office, sticking at golf until I finally get the best of that hideous tendency to hook, and dining as usual on Mondays with the Mercers _en famille_; in short, whittling my individual peg to fit my allotted hole. I do think, however, that I'll tell Bob Mercer he can count upon me for one evening a week at his Julian Street settlement. Bob is the right sort of a cleric, and I know that he talks by the card when he insists that giving and getting are really interchangeable terms. But one always hates to make the effort and so prove the truth of the assertion; it is infinitely less trouble to let some other fellow get the true meaning and joy out of life while you content yourself with the corner seat at the club fireside and the comfortable certainty that the chef understands to a dot how you like your cutlets and asparagus tips. Just the same I will speak to Bob--and meanwhile I have awakened to the realization that it is ten minutes to nine and that only a taxi-driver with no reverence for the speed laws can deliver me at the Pennsylvania station in time for the southbound train. I do make it, with a quarter of a minute to spare, and now I remember that I have forgotten to send a wire to Mr. Eldon. I can telegraph him at Wilmington, but there is small chance of its being delivered in time; probably I shall have to rustle my own means of conveyance to "Hildebrand Hundred." I shall have full two hours between the arrival of my train at Crown Ferry and the time appointed for the funeral. That ought to be sufficient even if I have to walk. The ride over the Cape Charles route is not particularly interesting; moreover, it was infernally dusty, and the food provided by the buffet on the Pullman seemed extraordinarily unappetizing. Where on earth does the company procure such tasteless provender? Everything tastes so desiccated and deodorized, the mere shadow of really substantial viands, a veritable feast of Barmecide. There was the usual delay owing to a freight wreck, and my two hours of leeway had shrunken to a scant sixty minutes by the time I had alighted at the little flag station of Crown Ferry. Not a very inviting place, this shabby way station set in a wilderness of jack-pine and hackberry trees. There was not a soul in sight, outside of the depressed looking individual who served as general utility man and who apparently resented the intrusion of a stranger upon his lonely domain. To my inquiry concerning the possibility of obtaining some sort of conveyance, he returned a monosyllabic "Nope," and he showed not the smallest inclination to give me any real assistance in finding my way to "Hildebrand Hundred"; he pointed out the general direction, with a lean, tobacco-stained finger, and let it go at that. There was no house in sight, nothing but the two rutted tracks of a sandy country road leading off toward the west and bifurcating itself a couple of hundred yards away from the station--"deepo" in the vernacular. I understood, from the scant information vouchsafed me, that I was to take the left-hand fork, and after prevailing upon the agent, in consideration of two of my choice cigars, to take temporary charge of my kit-bag, I started off on my three-mile tramp. Once through the belt of scrubby woodland, the appearance of the country began to change for the better, and the further I traveled from the coast line the more rolling and diversified it became. The sand gave place to loam, an improvement in which the highway shared, the fields were neatly fenced, and, with the added attractions of oak and hickory groves, the landscape began to appeal; this was good farming land and a pleasant place of rural residence. I passed several farm houses, but since the day was unusually cool for the month of June and as I rather enjoyed the exercise of walking, I concluded not to bother about hiring a trap. A farmer whom I encountered, at a cross-roads where there was a little cluster of half a dozen houses, informed me that S. Saviour's Church was distant about a mile; but already it was half after two o'clock and I realized that I should not have time to present myself at the house before the funeral cortège started. The obvious procedure was for me to wait at the church until the party from "Hildebrand Hundred" had arrived; I could then introduce myself to Mr. Eldon and be assigned to my proper position among the mourners. "Or if you like," continued my new acquaintance, "you can save more'n half way to the church by cuttin' across the Thaneford property. You go in by that stile yander," and he pointed a hundred yards down the road. I felt a trifle doubtful about the propriety of taking a short cut across private grounds, and said as much. "You are quite sure that Mr. Thaneford doesn't object?" I asked. "Of co'se he objects," declared my rural friend, who now informed me that his name was Greenough and that he was the newly elected sheriff of the county. "He objects powerful. But the Co'te has decided that it's a public right-of-way. And when the law gives a man his rights he's bound to maintain them." "Why the right-of-way?" I asked. "The Thaneford property was a royal grant," explained Sheriff Greenough, "but S. Saviour's had been built before that, and the folks here in Guildford Corners retained right of access to their parish church. By the road it's full a mile." "A relic of the established church of colonial days," I remarked. "Nowadays no one is obliged to attend S. Saviour's." "No," admitted the Sheriff, "and I'm a Baptis' myself. But we keep our rights, for nobody knows when we may want to use 'em." Since Mr. Thaneford was apparently unreconciled to the exercise of ancient ecclesiastical privilege, I was about to say that I, as a stranger, did not propose to become a party to the controversy; but a glance at my watch showed me that I would have to take the short cut if I hoped to reach the church by three o'clock. "Mr. Graeme's funeral?" inquired Greenough. "Well, he was a good man and a good neighbor. I'd be there myself if I hadn't business at the Co'te-house to look after. Yes, sir, straight ahead and you can't miss the path. Glad to have obliged you, sir; good evening." Beyond the stile the path ran across a piece of meadow land; thence through a hardwood grove, rising gently to a little plateau upon which the mansion was situated. The house was of the Georgian period with the usual pretentious portico; it seemed badly out of repair and was surrounded by unkempt lawns, paddocks, and gardens. I saw that the path would lead me within a comparatively short distance of the house, and I rather sympathized with the owner's resentment at the invasion of his privacy under cover of law. Yet I must go on, and I quickened my pace so as to get out of sight of the house as quickly as possible. A powerfully built young man came around the corner of what, in its day, must have been a very considerable glass-house, and confronted me. Not a pleasant face, with its prominent cheekbones and black V of eyebrows furrowing the low, heavy forehead. "What are you doing on this property?" he demanded with a truculency that made me dislike him instantly and completely. "It's a public right-of-way," I retorted. "We don't admit that," he said hotly. "The case has been appealed; if necessary, we'll carry it to Washington." Well what was I to do? I had no desire to get into a dispute with this rustic boor, and yet it was imperative for me to go on if I were to reach the church in time for the service. Much as I disliked the man I must put myself in the position of asking a favor from him. "I presume that I am addressing Mr. Thaneford?" I began inquiringly. "I'm John Thaneford--what then?" "As you see, I am a stranger here. At the Corners I was told that I could take this short cut and so save time and distance in reaching the church." "Oh, S. Saviour's!" "Yes. I am a relative of the late Mr. Francis Graeme and came this morning from Philadelphia to attend the funeral." John Thaneford looked up sharply, the V of eyebrows narrowing. "I didn't know Graeme had any kin in Philadelphia," he said suspiciously. "Or, for that matter, anywhere." "That may be true so far as the Graeme side of the family is concerned," I rejoined. "My name is Hildebrand." "Hildebrand!" He stared at me even more intently than before, and I fancied that there was a subtle note of dismay in the ejaculation. I determined to follow up the advantage, if advantage it was. "Hugh Hildebrand, to be precise," I continued, eyeing him steadily. "We are of the Northern branch, and since the Civil War there has been little or no intercourse with the family of the 'Hundred.'" "Yet you come to Francis Graeme's funeral. Why?" My temper flashed up. "And what damned business is that of yours, Mr. John Thaneford!" I snapped out. "Am I to pass or not?" For an instant he glowered, and I saw the pupils of his coal-black eyes contract to a pin point. Then he took an evident pull upon himself; he spoke with a marked change of demeanor, almost courteously. "I'm afraid I've been acting rather rudely," he said, and stepped aside out of the path. "But these country bullies have been most annoying of late, insisting upon their so-called rights out of mere, petty spite. It's part of their creed, you know, to hate a gentleman." I nodded. I could see now that John Thaneford was by no means the rustic lout of my first impressions. Not that I liked him any the better, but at least we spoke the same language. "It's a silly fiction," he went on, "this alleged necessity of access to the parish church. Nowadays, everybody at the Corners goes to the Baptist or Methodist meeting-house, and S. Saviour's congregation is gathered chiefly in the churchyard. Outside the Graeme and Thaneford families there ar'n't more than a dozen regular parishioners, and the church is only opened for service once a month." By this time we were walking side by side in the direction of the house. For some inscrutable reason Mr. John Thaneford had made up his mind to be decently polite; indeed the effort was plainly apparent. Consequently, I could do no less than fall in with his new mood. "I suppose S. Saviour's is a colonial foundation," I remarked. "Yes, even to the inevitable Queen Anne Communion plate. But the countryside has changed and the bigger estates have been cut up into small holdings. That always brings in a different set of people. And the old and the new don't mix well." "Precisely. And so there are empty pews at S. Saviour's." "More of them every year. A young chap comes over from Lynn the first Sunday in the month and holds service; so I'm told, at least. Otherwise, the church is only opened for weddings, christenings, and funerals; and the latter outnumber both the former. What's the answer?" He laughed cynically. "It's a pity," I said regretfully. "I always hate to see the old order displaced. But surely if someone took the lead--well, why not yourself?" "I haven't been inside the building since I used to get whaled for not knowing my catechism. And I've small use for parsons," he continued, dourly. We walked on in silence, that hostile silence which sooner or later is sure to declare itself between two natures essentially antagonistic. Since John Thaneford and I could not be friends, nor even remain indifferent, we should never have met at all. But the fact had been accomplished and we should have to put up with it; I fell to wondering if he, too, sensed the vague presentiment of future clash and struggle; in the meantime I was uncomfortable; I wanted to get away. "The original right-of-way turns here," said Thaneford suddenly, "but I can take you across the lawn, and thence it is only a step, through a fir plantation, to the churchyard. Besides, I want you to meet my father; he will be interested in knowing you since the Hildebrands and the Thanefords have been neighbors for seven generations; yes and kin, too, as we reckon such things down here. My mother was a sister of old Richard Hildebrand, and that makes me a second or third cousin of this Francis Graeme, who inherited the family property, although he did not bear the family name. If it were a question of direct descent either you or I might have put in a better claim to the 'Hundred.'" He looked at me slantingly as though to assure himself that the idea had not already presented itself to my mind. I murmured an unintelligible assent; what was coming now? "And it follows logically that we two are kin. How does that strike you, Cousin Hugh Hildebrand," he added coolly. "Better than being thrown out as a trespasser," I answered with the most convincing imitation of a smile that I could conjure up. "But I think I ought to be getting along; it's ten minutes to three." "Remember that you are now south of Mason and Dixon's line," he rejoined, "and time is made only for slaves. But come along," and he led me, inwardly protesting, across the weedy expanse of what had once been a handsome piece of ornamental grass to where an old man sat in a big arm-chair under the shade of the most beautiful white oak that I had ever beheld in my life, an almost perfectly symmetrical ball of limbs and foliage. Then I looked at Fielding Thaneford and straightway forgot about the wonders of inanimate nature. Certainly a very old man, and yet his skin was of a remarkable texture and quality, apparently as fine and softly pink as that of a baby. The resemblance to an infant was intensified by one distinguishing characteristic of the massive head and features--the total absence of any hirsute adornment; there was not a vestige of hair, beard, eyelashes, or eyebrows, and the effect was singularly repulsive. Yet he did not seem to be afflicted with the ordinary infirmities of senility, for he turned at the slight noise of our approaching footsteps and the eye that scanned me was of a cold, bright blue, indicative of a keen and finely coordinated intelligence. "Father," said John Thaneford in his hatefully false voice of assumed cordiality, "this is our cousin, Hugh Hildebrand, of Philadelphia." I fancied that the placid figure in the great chair stiffened slightly at the sound of my name. But otherwise he made no movement or sign, continuing to gaze upon me with those unflinching eyes, as horrible in their total lack of lashes as the optics of a vulture. "He is here to be present at the funeral of Cousin Francis Graeme." Again that coldly devouring gaze passed over me; involuntarily I shivered and stepped back. What was the impression that was being made upon me? Not of malignancy certainly, nor even of ordinary cold-bloodedness; there was something too detached about this singular personality to suggest any kind of commonplace, healthy passion; if the crater had ever existed it had long since cooled to slag and ashes. There was but one fitting adjective--inhuman. Whatever spirit it was that still held its abode behind that fresh, childlike masque it endured altogether of its own volition and outside the sphere of those blessed, understandable things of our common life. In the world but not of it, if one may use that divine metaphor in its inverted sense. The babe possesses innocence in that it has never come into contact with sin and death, and a man may finally withdraw himself from the defilements of this naughty world and become again as a little child. Yet without repentance and so without grace. Lucifer himself could never assume the role of penitent, but he may easily take front rank as an ethical philosopher. And so Fielding Thaneford and I looked upon one another. Either might have put out a touching hand, and yet a thousand leagues could not have spanned the abyss that separated us. And in that selfsame moment the bell of S. Saviour's began to toll for the passing of him who had been master of "Hildebrand Hundred," and kin, through the blood tie, to one and all of us who waited and listened. Fielding Thaneford had turned his eyes away, and they were fixed on the road winding far below the plateau on which stood "Thane Court"; in the distance appeared a stately moving cortège, the hearses and the carriages containing the mourners; there was a flutter of sable draperies and of funeral plumes; the old man looked, but remained immobile and impassive. With a nod of acknowledgment and farewell to John Thaneford I made my own way down the slope and into the shadow of the plantation of firs. There still remained the faint traces of a path, and presently it led me to the brick wall surrounding the churchyard, a wall built after the curious serpentine pattern generally ascribed to the inventive genius of Thomas Jefferson, and still to be seen at the University of Virginia. A door, painted a dull, faded green, had evidently been the private approach of the Thaneford family in days gone by, but now it was secured by a huge, rusty padlock, and I was obliged to skirt the wall and so reach the open lawn upon which the church faced. Chapter II _The Setting of the Stage_ S. Saviour's, with its tiny portico and steeple of distinctly Christopher Wren design, presented an interesting study in colonial architecture. It was built of brick, with solid, white wooden shutters, and the side walls were mantled by a wonderful growth of true English ivy. There was no central entrance, access to the interior being afforded by two side doors at the extreme ends of the portico. The reason for this unusual arrangement became apparent upon entering the church, the shallow chancel, together with the pulpit and lectern, being situated at the front end of the edifice, with the pews facing toward the entrance doors. This made it rather awkward for the late comers, as the laggards were obliged to meet the united gaze of the congregation already seated; also the ladies of S. Saviour's enjoyed exceptional opportunities for appraising the interesting features of their neighbors' costumes. Doubtless this singular reversal of the ordinary ecclesiastical plan had been adopted purposely, so as to carry out the principle of orientation. The church happened to face directly east, and consequently the chancel and sanctuary had to be placed opposite their usual positions, a curious survival of mediævalism. Under the trees two or three ancient surreys had been parked, and a glance through the side windows disclosed an audience of perhaps a dozen persons, small farmers of the neighborhood and their wives, people to whom a public function of any nature offered acceptable diversion from the routine of daily life. Of the old-time gentry of the countryside there was not a single representative present; then I literally lost my breath in amazement as John Thaneford brushed past me without a word, strode into the church, and seated himself in a large, square pew, furnished, after the manorial fashion, with carpet, table and chairs; evidently the ecclesiastical freehold of the Thaneford family. Yet why should I feel any particular degree of surprise? The Graemes and the Thanefords were "kin," and it was simple decency that John Thaneford should show his cousin the last tribute of respect; his presence was perfectly natural and proper, and assuredly it was none of my business to either question or resent it. At this moment I became aware that the funeral procession had arrived at the gate, and I took up a convenient position for presenting myself to the attention of Mr. Eldon; I fancied that it would not be a difficult task to identify him. There were but three coaches in the queue, the first containing the undertaker and his assistants, the second conveying two heavily veiled ladies, presumably the daughter and niece of Francis Graeme; and the third occupied by an elderly couple who could be none other than Mr. and Mrs. Eldon. I stepped forward as the latter party alighted. "Mr. Eldon?" I inquired. "I am Hugh Hildebrand." Mr. Eldon extended a plump, warm hand. "So glad you were able to get here," he whispered. "This is Mrs. Eldon. You must sit with Miss Trevor and Betty; wait, and I'll explain it to them." The clergyman in his robes was standing at the door, and the service was about to begin. I took my designated position, walking immediately behind the two chief mourners; and we followed the great, black cloth-covered coffin into the stillness of the sacred edifice. The committal office was said at the graveside in the Hildebrand family plot, a walled enclosure set off from the general churchyard and entered through a lych-gate beautifully fashioned from black bog oak that resembled ebony in color and closeness of grain. Strange, how the attention strays even upon occasions such as this; for I found myself contemplating the lych-gate with absorbed interest, trying to think where I had seen its prototype; doubtless in some English parish churchyard. Then, as I heard the symbolic clod falling from the hand of the officiating minister, I recalled myself to reality--earth to earth, dust to dust. The slender, black-garbed figure on my right shook slightly and swayed against my shoulder; instantly I put out my hand to steady her. Up to this moment my participation in the ceremony had been of a purely formal nature, but now some underlying and compelling force was drawing me into the circle of sorrow; the dead man was of my blood, and this was the passing of something in the universe that was akin to my very self. John Thaneford had not been present at the interment. After the church service he had met and engaged Mr. Eldon in earnest conversation for perhaps half a minute; then he had taken a visibly hurried departure. The funeral party returned to the church, and the coaches drove up to the carriage-block. "This is Mr. Hugh Hildebrand," announced Mr. Eldon, as he presented me to the two ladies. "Miss Graeme and Miss Trevor," he continued with a touch of old-time courtliness, his top-hat held at a strictly ceremonious angle, "Mr. Hildebrand." Miss Trevor merely bowed, but Miss Graeme smiled--such a frank, friendly smile--and held out her hand. There are people who greet you with a reserve which at least temporarily chills, and there are others who make you feel that this particular meeting is the one they have been pleasurably anticipating from the very beginning of created things. And so, when I felt the strong, warm pressure of Betty Graeme's palm, how could I help being flattered, even intrigued. I concluded that my new cousin must have liked me on sight, and I was quite ready to return the compliment in kind. Under the heavy, black veil I could discern a symmetrical oval of countenance, and imagination easily supplied the customary accessories of vermilion lips, challenging eyes, and perfumed tresses. In reality, I should never in the world have been able to recognize Betty Graeme by the sense of sight alone, but I should know that handclasp anywhere; and that was enough. "Of course you are coming back to the house," said Miss Graeme. "Will you ride with us--but I see that Mr. Eldon has arranged to take you with him. Are you ready, Eunice?" Sitting opposite Mr. and Mrs. Eldon in the big, lumbering landau of _ante-bellum_ days I began my explanations and apologies. "That doesn't matter in the least," interrupted Mr. Eldon. "We'll send over to Crown Ferry for your bag, and after you get the railroad dust washed away you can make your peace with Betty. The important thing is that you are here now." "I hadn't expected to remain at the 'Hundred' for more than an hour or two," I continued. "There is an up train through at six o'clock, and I had arranged to stay over at Baltimore." "I'm afraid that you'll have to put up with us for this particular night," rejoined Mr. Eldon. "Perhaps longer," and the shadow of an enigmatical smile passed over his pleasantly curved lips. "But at a time like this!" I protested. "Remember that I met Mr. Graeme only once, and that I am an entire stranger to his niece and daughter. Even Southern hospitality has its limits, and I don't want to overstep them." Mr. Eldon brushed my objections away with a commanding wave of his hand. "Not much danger of that," he said. "You are one of the family, duly accredited and acknowledged. So unless there is some pressing--I should say imperative--necessity for your going North to-night----" "Oh, not at all," I interrupted. "Not the least necessity, if that is what you mean." "Of course you must stay," put in Mrs. Eldon. "Betty expects it, and she would never understand any conventional excuse." Another carriage, driven at a much faster pace than the ancient Eldon bays were capable of achieving, had drawn up from behind, and was now passing us. To my surprise, I saw that the back seat was occupied by John Thaneford and his father; no salutations were exchanged, and the Thaneford equipage rolled onward in a cloud of dust. Mr. Eldon noticed my evident astonishment, and proceeded to enlighten me. "Yes, they are going to the 'Hundred.' You know that the will is to be read immediately following the return of the funeral party from the church." "As they always do in English novels of the Trollope period." "I dare say it is one of our imported Maryland customs. The Thanefords are blood relations, and, _ipso facto_, that gives them a right to be present at the reading of the testament." "Relations, but not necessarily friends," I hazarded, and Mr. Eldon looked surprised. "I should have explained that I have already made the acquaintance of Mr. Fielding Thaneford and his son," I went on, and Mr. Eldon registered, in movie parlance, still greater astonishment. I proceeded to tell of my chance encounter. "Fielding Thaneford never misses a Hildebrand funeral," remarked Mr. Eldon, and there was a peculiar sense of dryness in his tone. "Moreover, this is the second occasion of the sort within a twelvemonth." "Mr. Graeme succeeded his maternal great uncle, I believe." "Yes, that was old Richard Hildebrand who reigned at the 'Hundred' for over half a century. Fielding Thaneford married his much younger sister, Jocelyn, and consequently young John really stood closer in the line of inheritance than did Francis Graeme, the latter being one step further removed. But there was no entail and old Richard could devise the property as he saw fit." "A disappointment then to the Thanefords?" "Well, there's the 'Hundred'; you can judge for yourself." We had turned out of the main road, and, having passed through a pair of finely wrought iron entrance gates, we were now proceeding along an avenue of noble lindens. Across the stretch of ornamental water on our right appeared the really imposing facade of "Hildebrand Hundred"; I scanned the edifice with a keen and growing interest; this was the ancestral home of all the Hildebrands, and a sudden emotion held me in grip. The house was built of yellow brick imported, so Mr. Eldon informed me, from Holland. The entrance porch, two stories in height, was of semi-circular design with columns of limestone, and the fenestration above the principal entrance embodied the familiar Palladian motive. The main part of the building was almost a square, but it was balanced by wings on either side. At the extreme rear was another rectangular extension, one story and a half in height, oblong in shape, and surmounted by a squat dome. "The library," explained Mr. Eldon, as the curving driveway carried us past the terrace commanded by the lofty windows of this subsidiary structure. "That stained glass is English, and the experts pronounce it to be of unusually fine quality." "Rather surprising when one thinks of all the bad glazing in our churches," I remarked interestedly. "Well, if you know or care much about such things you'll find the 'Hundred' glass worth your attention." He turned to his wife: "Ellen, my dear, if you will take charge of our guest, I'll get my papers together and meet you in the library. The sooner the formality is over the better for Eunice and Betty." Alighting, in our turn, at the entrance porch I followed Mrs. Eldon through the great doors and into a handsome octagonal hall, paved with black and white marble squares, with its well open to the roof beams. On the right, splendid mahogany folding-doors gave into the dining room, and the corresponding room on the left was evidently the drawing room. At the back of the hall the principal staircase rose in two semi-circular sweeps, meeting at a landing place on the first floor level and connecting with longitudinal galleries on either side of the hall. Of the two wings, the one on the left contained the ballroom and picture gallery, while that on the right was taken up with the kitchen, pantries, and other offices. Passing under the staircase landing and proceeding along a comparatively narrow corridor, lined on either side by glazed bookcases, one entered the library extension at the extreme end of the house. "Will you go in and wait for a few minutes," whispered Mrs. Eldon. "John never knows where all his papers are, and I must help him sort them out." I bowed and walked on. At the library door an imposing figure of a negro butler relieved me of my hat, gloves and stick; I slipped into a seat near the entrance and looked about me with no small degree of curiosity. The Thanefords, father and son, were established near the fireplace, directly opposite the entrance door, but since they did not look up at my appearance nor pay the smallest attention to my half bow of salutation I was perfectly content to maintain the _status quo_ of non-intercourse. The apartment was assuredly one of noble proportions, being full forty feet in length by perhaps twenty-five in width. The ceiling of this story and a half extension must have been at least sixteen feet in height. The shallow dome had a diameter of fourteen feet or so; it was unpierced by windows and the painting in distemper which ornamented its smooth convexity represented the classic adventure of Jason and the Golden Fleece. The fireplace was of Caen stone with the family arms of the Hildebrands sculptured in the central panel. Not being versed in heraldic lore I may say briefly that the shield bore checkerboards and conventionalized lilies in alternate quarterings, while the crest was a mailed arm holding a burning torch or cresset. This last was interesting to me, for we Northern Hildebrands have always used as our crest a battlemented tower with flames issuing from its summit. But the motto: "Hildebrande à moy," is shared in common by both branches of the family. The side walls had no openings and were lined from top to bottom with book shelves. The unusual height of the ceiling made narrow iron balconies necessary in order to give access to the upper shelves, and these galleries were reached by spiral staircases placed behind grilles in the dark corners on the entrance side. The end wall was pierced by four immense windows, two on either side of the fireplace, and these were filled with the English stained glass of which Mr. Eldon had spoken. They really seemed to be excellent examples of the art, and I proceeded to examine them with interest. The designs were of Scriptural origin, Old Testament scenes to be exact, and I note them in order from left to right. The window at the extreme left depicted the youthful Joseph journeying to Dothan and wearing his coat of many colors; in the background his jealous brethren are awaiting his coming and fomenting their unfraternal conspiracy. The window adjoining the fireplace on the left represented the rebellion of the sons of Korah and their terrible fate in being swallowed up alive by the gaping earth; the black and menacing sky, shot through with the red zigzag of the lightning, seemed exceedingly realistic. In the companion window on the right was shown the return of the Israelitish spies from the coveted land of Canaan, bearing great clusters of purple grapes from the valley of Eschol; in the distance, Jericho, with Rahab's house perched high upon the city wall and distinguished by its hanging cord of scarlet. The fourth window, the one at the extreme right, reproduced the contest on Mount Carmel between Elijah and the pagan prophets, the fire from heaven consuming the burnt offering of Jehovah, the terror-stricken flight of the hierophants of Baal, and the little cloud, like to a man's hand, arising from the sea. Of the four windows this last one was perhaps the most interesting, although all of them were excellent in composition, substantially and skilfully leaded, and gorgeously rich in color. I don't know why we can't make such reds and blues in this country, but of course the old established English firms have been perfecting their formulas and processes throughout the centuries. Since three of the four walls were lined with bookcases, and the remaining one had to provide for the windows and fireplace there was no available space for pictures, but on the blank wall above the central entrance door hung a magnificent tapestry depicting the tragic fate of Actæon devoured by his own hounds. The polished black oak floor was covered with Eastern rugs, and a fine silver-tip grizzly bearskin lay on the hearthstone. The couches and big, comfortable reading chairs were upholstered in dark green leather, very handsome and substantial, while directly under the dome stood a massive, flat-topped library desk made of teakwood. The accompanying swivel-chair was mounted on a bronze mushroom foot firmly secured to the floor by means of bolts; it was so placed that the occupant had his back to the windows, with the light coming over his shoulder after the proper fashion for comfort. I have been particular in thus describing the furnishings and internal economy of the library, for in this room lay the very heart of the mystery so soon to present itself; later on I was destined to make myself acquainted with every square inch of its large area, only to fail in my attempt to discover its menacing secret. Fortunate indeed that Betty's feminine intuition asserted itself in the nick of time. But I must not anticipate the solution of the problem while the prime factors in the equation still remain unstated. Enough then to acquaint the reader with the general disposition of the stage upon which the drama was shortly to unfold itself. The great room was very quiet, the evening shadows were beginning to lengthen, and still we waited. Chapter III _Hildebrand of the "Hundred"_ It must have been close to an hour before Mr. Eldon joined us; evidently his papers had been in more than usual confusion. A few minutes later the ladies appeared, together with a dozen or more negro servants connected in various capacities with the estate. John Thaneford jerked himself to his feet in apparently unwilling acknowledgment of the social amenities; his father, sitting impassively upright in an immense leather chair, looked more than ever like some gigantic, impossible infant. Miss Graeme went over and spoke a few words to him, but he barely nodded in reply; Buddha himself could not have improved upon that colossal, immemorial serenity. I had hoped that Betty would say something to me, but she contented herself with the briefest of smiles in my direction. A pretty girl? Why, yes, I suppose she would be so considered, with her slim, graceful figure and that pronounced type of Irish beauty--dark hair, eyebrows, and eyelashes; but the eyes themselves of the clearest cerulean blue, rubbed in with a smutty finger, as the saying goes. Yet somehow one never thought over-much of how fair Betty Graeme might be to look upon; perhaps it was just her perfect and altogether adorable femininity which made her different from other women; she entered the room, and forthwith all eyes were inevitably focused upon her; when the gods arrive the half-gods go, as Mr. Emerson acutely remarked. A phenomenon then, but I can't account for it and don't intend to try. Personality, magnetism--but these are just words, and she was Betty Graeme. A line from an old, half forgotten mediæval romance came back to me as I gazed upon her: "By God's Rood! that is the one maid in the world for me." A revelation then, but love at first sight is by no means so common a thing as youth is apt to suppose. Only when it does come there can never be any doubt about it. I drew in my breath sharply, and the tense thrill seemed to permeate every molecule and atom of my being. Then came the reactionary thought: "But what can she be thinking of me?" and my exalted spirits evaporated with startling suddenness. The very warmth and kindliness with which she had at first greeted me only emphasized the immensity of the distance that divided us. The goddess may condescend to smile upon a mortal, but that does not imply that the poor man is safely on the Mount Olympus list. Just then I happened to glance up and caught the look bent upon her from under John Thaneford's beetling eyebrows. That boor, that uncouth, rustic bully! And yet he was of her class; they must have been playmates from childhood, the Thaneford acres marched with the Hildebrand holdings--why not? and my heart sank to my boots. Then I realized that I was on the point of making a pretty considerable fool of myself, and I resumed my seat; Mr. Eldon went through the usual preliminary hemmings and harrings, and the company prepared itself to listen. The crisp sheet of parchment crackled in the lawyer's hands, and now he was reading, in an even monotone, the last will and testament of Francis Graeme. A few minor legacies to the servants and dependents, the bequest of a thousand dollars for the endowment of S. Saviour's parish, and then: "To Lysbeth Effingham Graeme, my dearly beloved daughter by adoption, I give and bequeath the sum of one hundred thousand dollars, invested in first mortgage bonds of the Southern Railway, the silver dinner service bearing the Effingham coat-of-arms, and the four portraits of the Graeme family now hanging in the long gallery at 'Hildebrand Hundred'; the inheritance tax to be paid from the residue of my personal estate. I furthermore bequeath to the said Lysbeth Graeme my gold hunting-case watch, with the accompanying fob and seals, together with such articles of _vertu_, not specifically enumerated in the annexed inventory of Hildebrand goods and chattels, as she may select." The speaker paused and cleared his throat; from some far corner of the silent room came a half suppressed exhalation, the physical reaction from tensely held emotion; I looked over at the elder Thaneford, and noted wonderingly that he had risen from his chair and that the extraordinary pink-and-white of his complexion had changed to a dull, minatory brick-red; he seemed about to speak, and I held my breath. Then, as Mr. Eldon indicated that he was on the point of resuming, the old man yielded to the insistent pressure of his son's hand, and sank back in his seat. I suppose that I must have listened physically to that next paragraph, but my mind was slow, deadly slow, in comprehending the full measure of its import; then, suddenly, I understood. To dispense with legal phraseology, the testator now directed that the undivided estate of "Hildebrand Hundred," together with the remainder of all personal property, should go to his friend and near kinsman, Hugh Hildebrand, of Philadelphia, to be held by him and his heirs forever. Well, you remember that I had been expecting the bequest of a small sum of money for the purchase of some such trifle as a ring or a stick-pin; and it took me a full minute to realize that this incredible thing had actually happened: a man whom I had seen but once in my life had made me his heir, and I was now the master of a great estate and a personage to boot; I sat motionless, trying to sort out my ideas into some degree of order and sequence. Fielding Thaneford had found his feet again; he must, in his prime, have been a big and powerful man, for he still overtopped his stalwart son by full two inches of height. He looked particularly at Mr. Eldon, but with a commanding sweep of his arm he seemed to draw the entire company into the circle of his attention; he dominated us all by the sheer weight of his will; he opened his mouth to speak, and we inclined our ears to listen. But the words trembling upon his lips never found utterance, for now a terrible thing had happened and Fielding Thaneford fell to the floor and lay there, his face twitching strangely. A paralytic stroke, of course, but one must be an eye witness, see the victim actually struck down, to realize the full import of such a tragedy. One moment the man stands erect and serene in the unquestioned possession of all his godlike qualities of mind and body; the next, he lies as inert and insensate as an ancient tree trunk riven and felled by the lightning stroke. Fielding Thaneford was an old man--nearly ninety, as I was later on to learn--but so well preserved that it was difficult to realize that the hour of his passing had struck. And the determining factor in this final equation is so often comparatively insignificant. Here is a human being, an integral member of the visible universe, by right enumerated in every taking of the cosmic census: somewhere a minute blood vessel fails to perform its function, and the number is instantly replaced by a cipher. When the family physician, Doctor Marcy, finally arrived he directed that the sick man should be put to bed at "Hildebrand Hundred"; in the absence of a regular ambulance it would be unwise to try and get him home. It was Betty who came and told me of the doctor's decision. "You will have to make formal tender of your hospitality to John Thaneford," she said. "I!" I gazed at her in honest stupefaction. "You are Hildebrand of the 'Hundred,'" she reminded me, her lip trembling ever so slightly as she spoke. "If you wish it so," I said humbly, and thereupon I went upstairs and knocked at the door of the sick room. John Thaneford opened it, and stood glowering as I delivered my message. I dare say I expressed myself in bungling terms, but my awkwardness was easily outpaced by his ungraciousness; he intimated curtly that neither he nor his father would be dependent upon my hospitality an instant longer than might be absolutely necessary. I proceeded to fume inwardly as I walked away, but my irritation vanished the moment I rejoined Betty; somehow one could not cherish mere pettiness in her serene presence. "Can you spare me a few moments?" I asked, and with an assenting nod she led the way back to the now deserted library. The westering sun was pouring through the great windows, and the purple radiance from the gigantic bunch of grapes borne by the Israelitish spies lay in a crimson pool on the oaken floor; involuntarily I drew aside, unwilling to step upon the apparently ensanguined spot. Betty divined instantly my movement of repulsion. "It does suggest that very thing," she said, with a little shiver. "Come over here by the chess table. Father and I were accustomed to play every night; he used to wonder what sort of game you would give him when you came on that long expected visit." "Sorry, but I'm not a chess player. However, that doesn't matter now, and I've brought you here to say that I don't propose to take advantage of that will. Your father couldn't have meant it; it's your property and you should have it. The whole thing is absurd; he couldn't have realized what he was doing." "You met my father at least for that one time," she retorted. "Did he give you any reason to think that he didn't know his own mind, or that the time would ever come when he wouldn't know it?" I was silent. Certainly, infirmity of purpose was the very last thing to be predicated of the more than ordinarily forceful personality of the late Francis Graeme. But I am somewhat stubborn myself. "I don't care," I persisted. "'Hildebrand Hundred' isn't mine, and I won't take it." Miss Graeme looked at me. "You know the will refers to me as only his daughter by adoption," she said, "and I could have no right to inherit the 'Hundred.' That was always clearly understood between us. He did leave me all that he could call his own." "I don't see how that matters. The estate belonged legally to Mr. Graeme." "Merely because Mr. Richard Hildebrand chose to ignore the claims of the heir-at-law. And a blood relation at that." "Meaning Mr. John Thaneford, I suppose." Miss Graeme looked surprised. "Has Mr. Eldon been acquainting you with the particulars of the family history?" she asked. "I first learned of the actual facts from Mr. John Thaneford himself." Now there was something more than surprise in my Cousin Betty's demeanor; she seemed agitated, even uneasy. "Apparently," I went on, "both the Thanefords resent what they consider to be an alienation of the estate. I don't believe they will feel the original wrong has been righted by my becoming the heir, even though I happen to be the only titular Hildebrand among us all." "But this is Maryland, you know, and many of the old English customs are still in force. Not legally, of course, but practically." "Such as primogeniture and the continuous entail," I suggested. "Yes. But only among the old families, you understand. It's a purely sentimental feeling." "How long have the Hildebrands been at the 'Hundred'?" "There was Lawrence Hildebrand----" "My great-great-great-grandfather," I interjected. "Yes. Well, he received a patent from the Crown. It must have been early in the seventeenth century when the second Charles Stuart was giving away principalities with both hands. There has been a Hildebrand as master ever since, except for my poor father's brief reign." "Brief?" "Richard Hildebrand died in June, 1918. That is just a year ago." "My father was proud of the old family connection," continued Miss Graeme, after a little pause, "and at one time he even contemplated changing his patronymic, and so becoming actually Hildebrand of the 'Hundred,' But he never quite got to the legal process, or perhaps he then heard of you and that served to divert the current of his thoughts. When was it that he hunted you up in Philadelphia?" "It was in March." "He liked you certainly, and he was most anxious to have you visit us at the 'Hundred.' You were to come in the early part of June, I think." "Yes, but that was the week of my college reunion, and I had to decline. I wrote that I would accept for a later date--any time in July." "I remember his being very much disappointed. But he must have made up his mind finally about that time, for the will is dated May 20, a little over a month ago. I dare say he was anxious to tell you of his wishes in the matter." "It's rather extraordinary, you'll admit. A man whom I had met but once!" "Well if one belongs at all, you know it. I think I can guess what was in his mind; something like this: 'Hildebrand Hundred' ought to go back to the direct heirs, and it was a choice between you and John Thaneford. Only you were you, and a real Hildebrand besides. So there you are." "You mean that I must accept, or let everything go to the younger Thaneford?" "I'm not a lawyer, but I think it would be that way. He is related by blood, and as my father had no children of his own there are no direct heirs." A sudden thought presented itself. "How would _you_ like it settled?" I asked, audaciously. "I think that you ought to carry out my father's wishes," she answered, with a simplicity that made me a little ashamed of my disingenuous attempt to inject a purely personal note into the discussion; for the moment I had quite forgotten that this was a house of mourning. Miss Graeme had risen, and I realized that the interview was at an end. "You will want to go to your room," she said, as we walked out to the entrance hall, our footsteps resounding hollowly upon its marble pavement of alternate white-and-black chequers. She clapped her hands, and a young negro servant presented himself. "Mr. Hildebrand is to have the red room, Marcus," explained Miss Graeme. "Dinner is at seven," she went on. "You won't mind if Eunice and I don't come down. You can have your own meal served in your room, if you prefer." "But there is Mr. Thaneford," I suggested. "Also Doctor Marcy." My cousin Betty frowned. "I suppose they are our guests," she admitted, and I experienced an odd thrill at the feeling of intimacy expressed in that little word, "our." "I think I had better do the honors in the dining room," I went on. "I wish you would, then." She stopped at the lower step of the staircase, and held out her hand. "Good night, Cousin Hugh." Now it is possible to shake hands with hundreds and thousands of people, and find it a perfectly uninteresting operation; it may even be a painful one if you happen to be President of the Republic or the hero of the passing hour. But now and then someone comes along whose hand seems to fit, perhaps too fatally well, and that is different. And so when Betty Graeme slid her slim white hand into mine I knew instantly that it belonged there, always had belonged, and always would. An interesting fact, this, in the natural history of selection, but it has to be recognized by both parties to the transaction before it can be set down as an absolute and accepted truth. It suddenly occurred to me that my Cousin Betty was entirely too frank and cousinly in her behavior to justify any jumping at conclusions. I was naturally exhilarated by the astonishing change in my material fortunes, while she was in sorrow, a sorrow whose full realization still lay before her. I must be patient and wait. Wherefore I returned my Cousin Betty's parting word in kind, and followed Marcus to the red room, where, left alone, I resorted to the childish trick of pinching myself; could this really be I? Chapter IV _Some Hypothetical Questions_ Dinner was not a particularly cheerful meal. I had to take the head of the table, and therefore sat in the chair so lately vacated by my Cousin Francis Graeme. Really I should have preferred a decent delay in the matter, but old Effingham, the family butler for two generations past, would have it so, and any protest would have been both futile and unseemly. There were three of us at table, for Doctor Marcy was staying on to look after the sick man, and would remain over night in default of the regular nurse, who could not be secured until the next day. I liked the doctor, a blunt, ruddy faced man of forty-five or so. He told me that he was a graduate of Edinburgh, and that he had led an adventurous life for several years after taking his medical degree, including service in the British army during the Boer War. He had a curious scar running down the left side of his jaw and extending nearly to the chin. Naturally I had not commented upon the disfigurement, but somehow the subject of insanity came up, and he told us of a remarkable experience of his hospital days. A patient, subject to periodical fits of mania, was to be operated upon, and Marcy was alone with him in a large room where the instruments were kept. With his hands full of chisels, trephines, and mallets Marcy went to cross the room, and chanced to trip on a rug, falling headlong. Instantly the patient, an English army officer of tremendous physique, was upon him, kicking him in the face with his heavy, double-welted boots. Marcy, fearing that the madman might get hold of the eight-pound mallet, rolled over and flung the whole lot of instruments across the room; thereby he exposed the other side of his head, and the consequence was another terrific kick on the left jaw. With his mouth full of blood and broken teeth Marcy grappled with his man, dragged him to where he could reach a push-button, and held him until help arrived. The curious part of the affair lay in the fact that up to the moment of the fall the patient had been perfectly sane, talkative, and friendly. Marcy's sudden slip and defenseless position had simply unchained the beast in the man. It must have been an Homeric struggle, for Marcy himself, though comparatively short of stature, possessed the most marvelous muscular development I have ever seen, his forearm being bigger than the average man's leg. When I add that, despite his terrible injuries, Marcy assisted that same afternoon at the operation (which in the end restored the patient to perfect mental health), it will be evident that there was little of the weakling about him; as I have said, I liked him from the start. John Thaneford ate and talked but little during the meal. He drank several glasses of whiskey and water, and smoked a cigarette between every course. The cloud of his sullen temper was oppressive, and both the doctor and I felt relieved when he abruptly declined coffee, and announced his intention of returning to the sick room. The elder Thaneford still continued in a comatose condition, and really there was nothing to do but wait for whatever change might come; accordingly Doctor Marcy ran upstairs for a hasty look at his patient, and then rejoined me in the library, where coffee and liqueurs had been served. Effingham had taken his tray and retired to the pantry. Doctor Marcy pulled at his cigar until it glowed redly; then he looked over at me. "You're Hildebrand of the 'Hundred,' I hear," he began abruptly. "Yes." "Consequently you ought to know of something that has been bothering me more than a little. Has it ever been intimated to you that there was anything peculiar about the death of your cousin?" "Francis Graeme! Why, no; nothing has been said to me." "Well, I don't think his death was a natural one." It startled me, the assured manner in which he spoke; in an instant, the atmosphere of this quiet country room seemed to have grown tense and heavy. "Go on," I said briefly. "As you know," continued Doctor Marcy, "Mr. Graeme died suddenly on Tuesday, June 21, presumably from heart failure or a cerebral hemorrhage. As a matter of record, my routine certificate gives the latter as the cause of death. The fact of a brain lesion was fully established, as I'll explain later, but I'm not at all satisfied as to the predisposing cause." "Yes." "You'll understand what I'm driving at when I tell you that I saw Francis Graeme professionally that very morning, and I know that he was in the best of health for a man of his age. He had been thinking of taking out additional life insurance, and as I am the county examiner for the company, he asked me to drop in Tuesday morning and go over him. Mind you, I had been his regular physician for a number of years, long before he came to the 'Hundred,' and I knew him inside and out. A straighter, cleaner man never lived, and he had always kept himself in top condition; I had never discovered the least sign of any degenerative process. "Well, I did come over, and I saw him in this very room where we are sitting. He was cheerful as usual, and even joked me on the possibility that I might at last uncover one of the insidious enemies to health that so often make their appearance in middle life. But there was nothing, absolutely nothing--heart, lungs, circulatory system--all in first-class shape. As a matter of form, there would have to be a laboratory analysis, but otherwise I was prepared to give him a clean bill of health, and I told him so. He took it quite as a matter of course, and, after arranging for a round of golf that same afternoon at the Lost River Country Club, we parted. That was around ten o'clock, and at half past two I had a telephone from the 'Hundred,' asking me to come over at once. When I arrived I was taken in here. Graeme lay on the floor, alongside the big library table. On his right temple there was a noticeable contusion, triangular in shape. He was stone dead." "Could you tell how long?" "Probably a couple of hours." "The wound, of course, was your first thought." "Naturally. And in itself it was quite enough to have caused death. Remember that it was on the temple, a vulnerable spot." "An assailant then?" "By hypothesis certainly. I may say that I have had some experience in criminal cases; accordingly I was very careful not to disturb anything, and up to this time I had only touched the man's wrist to assure myself that the pulse was gone." "Who was it that gave the alarm?" "I am told that one of the servants, Effingham, to be precise, knocked on the library door at about half past one o'clock, to announce the serving of luncheon. He then went away without waiting for an answer from Mr. Graeme; it seems that was his custom on the occasion of this particular summons. A half hour later, when Mr. Graeme failed to appear at the table, Miss Trevor told Effingham to go again and make sure that his master had heard the message. I understood that occasionally Graeme would not come to luncheon, especially if he happened to be more than usually busy; he might appear an hour or so later, and forage around for a glass of milk and a couple of biscuits." "His tardiness then excited no surprise?" "Apparently not. But Effingham went again to the library, and knocked two or three times without getting any response." "Must have been very alarming to Miss Graeme." "Oh, luckily Betty wasn't at home. Miss Trevor was alone in the house, and everything devolved upon her. Finally she decided to have the door broken down, but after she had given the order Effingham reminded her that it would not be necessary. A few months before Graeme had installed a complete system of modern locks throughout the house, and the butler had the master key in his possession." "That's an interesting point." "Yes--very. Well, Effingham went to the butler's pantry and got the key." "Oh, then it was not in his immediate possession after all?" "I believe he was in the habit of keeping it behind the clock in the pantry instead of with his regular bunch. Of course the idea was that if any of the ordinary keys were lost, or indeed the whole lot of them, he would still have the master key in reserve." "Do you suppose that anyone else--especially among the other servants--knew about the master-key and where it was kept?" "Effingham is quite sure that no one did know, but really it's impossible to say. You understand what darkies are--as curious as magpies and quite as lighthanded. If one of them had chanced to see Effingham hiding something behind the clock, he would be sure to investigate for himself at the first convenient opportunity." "While a clever thief, guessing that a master-key must be in existence, would go straight to such a prominent object as a clock for his first try. Curious, isn't it, how human nature prefers beaten trails, the old ruts, the obvious grooves in which to run. Take the ordinary small suburban house, with nobody home and everything supposed to be tightly locked up. It's a one-to-three shot, at least, that the front door key will be found neatly tucked away under the mat. But I shouldn't have interrupted." "The more light the better," nodded the doctor, helping himself to a fresh cigar. "Where was I? Ah, yes, at the opening of the door. Miss Trevor, so I understand, hung back a little; a woman naturally shrinks from this sort of thing, and Marcus, the house-boy, was the first person to enter. For the instant it seemed as though the room was empty, and Effingham says he heard Marcus exclaim: 'Marse Francis he done gone out!' Then as the boy drew level with the high leather screen, standing at the right of the big desk as one enters the room, he saw the body, yelled in terror, and bolted. Miss Trevor had fainted----" "When? Exactly when?" I broke in. "I don't know," returned Marcy. "It may have been before she heard Marcus scream, and it may have been after. I dare say everybody's nerves were pretty tense by this time." "Well, Effingham seems to have kept his head. He ordered out the other servants, had Miss Trevor carried into the dining room, where she quickly revived, and finally he telephoned for me." "At Miss Trevor's request?" "At Miss Trevor's request. That brings us up again to my arrival on the scene, and my first hasty impressions. "As I have said, Mr. Graeme lay face downward alongside the desk, just hidden by the screen from the gaze of anyone entering the room from the hall. Since the head was turned slightly to the right, the wound was not visible unless one knelt, as I did, directly beside the body. "Now a wound of this nature could have been received in two easily understandable ways. Either Mr. Graeme, overcome with vertigo, had fallen and hit his head against some sharp corner, or he had been attacked and struck down by a weapon in the hands of some unknown assailant. "Hypothesis No. 1, or the accident theory. I can state positively that Francis Graeme was not in the least subject to vertigo or fainting spells, and there was nothing to indicate an ordinary trip-up and fall. There is no rug at this point, the floor while smooth is not noticeably slippery, and Graeme was dressed for golf, wearing rubber-soled shoes which must have given him a particularly firm footing. Finally, there was no apparent sharp corner on which his head could have struck. From the position of the body it was clear that he had fallen entirely clear of the writing-desk." "That seems to dispose of the accident theory." "Seems to--yes. But it's still a possibility that he might have fallen and struck on something calculated to inflict an injury of this nature, a something which was afterward removed." "By whom?" "Who knows? There was time enough for many things to happen between my departure from the house and the discovery of the body. In the meantime no one, supposedly, saw him. So nearly as I can determine, he died a little after twelve o'clock, but the door was not opened until two. A person who knew the house well could have secured the master-key, entered the room, and left it again with little danger of detection." "It's an impertinent observation, Doctor Marcy, but you say that _no one_ saw Mr. Graeme alive after your departure from the library at ten o'clock?" "Oh, I have my alibi straight enough," smiled the doctor. "Miss Trevor happened to be passing through the hall as I left the room. I stopped and spoke to her, made some jesting remark about Graeme's being good for a thousand years, more or less. At that same moment he came to the library door and waved his hand to us both; then he turned back, and we heard the click of the spring-latch. I believe that he usually set the catch when he wanted to make sure of not being disturbed. "Now we come to hypothesis No. 2, the possible assailant. The door leading into the hall was locked. There are no roof openings. The windows of stained glass in leaded frames are immovable; otherwise there would be danger of the valuable glass being broken or knocked out through an accidental jar. But for purposes of ventilation there is inserted in each section a pridella. Ah, you don't understand--come over here." Doctor Marcy conducted me across the room to the window on the right of the fireplace, the one depicting the return of the spies from the land of Canaan. "You will notice," he said, "that there are three panels in the window, each carrying a part of the general picture. Then, in the lower part of the central panel, there is a small subsidiary scene; in this particular case it represents a field of waving wheat in which scarlet poppies are interspersed. This section is technically called the pridella. Being small and exactly square in shape it can be easily hinged. See, I pull the cord that controls the locking-catch--thus--and this small window swings open. "Tuesday the twenty-first of June was a warm day, and the pridella in each of the large windows was in use. Now the available aperture is about twenty inches by ten, the glass revolving on central pivots. A boy, or a very small man, might possibly squeeze through, but the bottom ledge of the window being some five feet above the terrace level he would have to use a ladder or a pair of steps in order to reach it. Now, as it chanced, that portion of the lawn lying adjacent to the library terrace was in process of being mowed that morning. I saw the men at work, two of the farm negroes. Assuredly they would have noticed any attempt to scale the windows." "They themselves are quite above suspicion, I suppose." "Unquestionably. They are elderly men who have been employed at the 'Hundred' all their lives, and who bear excellent characters. Zack is the local colored Baptist preacher, and Zeb is an assistant field overseer. Impossible to suspect either, let alone both." "Wouldn't they knock off for dinner at noon? Go to their cabins, I mean." "Ordinarily, yes. But on Tuesday Mandy, Zack's wife, went to Calverton, and didn't return until late in the evening, or afternoon, as you would say. Accordingly she made up pail dinners for both Zack and Zeb, the latter being a boarder in their family. The men ate their food in the shadow of the osage hedge directly opposite the terrace; Effingham saw them and told me so." "You seem to have covered the ground pretty thoroughly," I observed approvingly. "And for good reasons, too," remarked the doctor. "For if I really believed the circumstances warranted the step it would be my duty to communicate my suspicions to the coroner." "Then you haven't done so!" I was surprised and doubtless my voice showed it. "No," assented Marcy deliberately. "In the first place I was determined to keep every [Note: There was a misprint here in the book. Instead of the end of this paragraph, the preceding paragraph was duplicated.] I started; I fancied that I had caught just the faintest suggestion of a sigh. Let me explain that the great room was in darkness except for the circle of yellow light cast by the shaded lamp that stood on a table at my right. I listened intently, but I could hear nothing more. Chapter V _The Missing Link_ "I beg your pardon," repeated Doctor Marcy, looking at me uncertainly. "I should beg yours, doctor," I answered as easily as I could. Some sixth sense had made me aware that Betty Graeme was standing in the shadow behind me. She must have heard more than enough already, and now she would demand the whole truth. Assuredly I must protect her in her evident desire to remain unnoticed. "I didn't mean to interrupt," I continued, "but my cigarette was burning my fingers--too much interested, you see." "Secondly, then," went on Doctor Marcy, "I have found the missing 'something' that serves to link up the chain." The doctor took a small key from his waist-coat pocket and proceeded to unlock a compartment in the great, flat-topped desk, the latter constructed after the usual design with a set of drawers, and other storage places, on either side of a central well for the accommodation of the writer's feet and legs. From this compartment he unearthed a despatch box made of iron, an old-fashioned piece that might have come down from Revolutionary days. It measured about fifteen inches, by ten, by seven; and the corners were bound in brass. "Yes, it could have done the business without a doubt," said Marcy, answering my unuttered question. "The box must have been standing on the floor near the screen. Francis Graeme rises, perhaps with the intention of picking it up. He suffers a cerebral rush of blood, becomes dizzy, falls, and strikes his head against this sharp corner. A severe blow in the region of the temple may be instantaneously fatal." There was a rustle of feminine garments, and my Cousin Betty came from behind the screen and stood before us. "There is only one flaw in your argument, doctor," she said, with just the thin edge of a tremor in her high, sweet voice. "Where was that box when you first came in the room and knelt by my--my father?" "Sorry you had to know, my girl," said the doctor; he had risen and was standing close to her, holding both her hands in his own big, warm palms. "Sorry you had to know," he repeated. "But since it has come about I shan't be keeping anything back. I wanted to spare you." "Yes, I understand that," she returned, "and I'm grateful, too. Yet after deciding that an inquest is not necessary, after signing a certificate that death was due to natural causes, you're not satisfied in your own mind. I come in here and find you telling my Cousin Hugh that there is some mystery in the affair, that all is not straight and aboveboard. You even offer a perfectly plausible explanation of what--of what really happened. Yes, and I would have accepted it like everyone else--only for one thing----" "Yes?" queried the doctor. "I'll put my question again. Where was that iron despatch-box when you first entered the room, and saw--well, what you saw?" Doctor Marcy waited a moment or two before replying. "There isn't any doubt in my mind," he began, "but that your father did fall and that the contusion on his forehead was caused by that actual iron box. I confess that I didn't notice it when I first saw the body and knelt down to feel the pulse. I assume that it had been accidentally pushed out of sight in the angle formed by the screen and the desk; it was just there that I found it later on." "On your second visit to the room?" "Yes." "Well, suppose you tell Cousin Hugh what you were doing in the interval. I want to see if his mind will work in the same direction as mine." "I had stepped into the hall just in time to see you riding up the green drive," said the doctor, "and I realized that someone must prepare you for what had happened. I asked Miss Trevor to do it, but she insisted that she could not go through the ordeal. Consequently, I put Effingham on guard at the library door with instructions to let no one pass; then I went down to the horse-block and assisted you to dismount. You saw instantly that something was wrong, and you begged me to tell you the truth. But I would not say a word until we were in the parlor. Then I admitted that your father had met with an accident. Before I could prevent it you had rushed into the hall and down to the library door." "Go on," ordered Betty, as he hesitated. "Tell Cousin Hugh who was standing there." "It was Miss Trevor," said Doctor Marcy, dropping his voice and glancing over at me. "It wasn't the time to ask for an explanation," continued the doctor. "You remember, Betty, that Eunice took you in her arms, and told you very gently what had happened. She tried to persuade you not to go in the room, but you refused to be put off. Effingham came and unlocked the door; you and I went in and looked at him still lying by the side of the big desk. It was then that I saw the despatch-box, and wondered why I had not noticed it before, especially as it was just the link that I needed to fit into the accident hypothesis." "I don't think I have any theory," answered Doctor Marcy. "Up to this moment my mind had been more concerned with the stark fact of Graeme's death than with the predisposing cause. Of course I had taken the temple bruise into account, and in a superficial way it seemed to explain everything. But I really hadn't tried to formulate my ideas clearly. The thought of you, Betty, had presented itself, and I was chiefly engaged in wondering how you were to be told and how you would take the shock." "But afterwards?" persisted Betty. "Then I tried to build up the accident theory. Everything fitted beautifully except for the little uncertainty about the despatch-box." "May I ask a question or two," I interrupted. "Surely." "You say that you left Effingham to guard the library door while you went to meet my Cousin Betty?" "Yes." "How long were you away?" "Approximately five minutes." "And when you again came to the library door Miss Trevor was standing there and Effingham was gone?" "Yes." "Then it is possible that Miss Trevor may have entered the room--let us say--for the purpose of replacing the despatch-box in its original position?" "Possible--yes." "Which implies that she must have paid a previous visit to the room and carried the box away?" "If you like." "We assume that the despatch-box held important papers belonging to Mr. Graeme----" "Including his will," interjected Miss Graeme. "But I thought that Mr. Eldon----" I began in surprise. "I was referring to an earlier will," returned my Cousin Betty. "But I forget that you don't know about that. It reads exactly like the present one except that John Thaneford is named as the residual heir." "Did anyone, besides Mr. Eldon, know that a later will--the one in my favor--had been made?" "Yes. Father told Eunice and me that he had decided to make the change. He had met you in Philadelphia and liked you. He made inquiries about you and what he heard increased that liking. He had never cared over-much for John, and had considered him only as representing the Hildebrand family, the heirs of the blood. He was delighted to discover that your relationship was quite as close as that of John Thaneford; moreover, you possessed the advantage of bearing the actual name." "Did Eunice offer any objection to the change?" asked Doctor Marcy. "Why, no," returned Betty, knitting her brows. "Her advice in the matter had not been asked, and she would hardly have offered it. I don't remember that she said anything at all." "How about you?" Betty colored. "I did suggest to father that he needn't be in such a hurry," she answered. And then with a quick glance at me: "You see, Cousin Hugh, none of us had met you outside of father himself. You might be very nice and probably were, but the acquaintance had been so short, and he might have been deceived. We women tried to persuade him that he had been a little hasty; we wanted him to wait until you had paid that projected visit to the 'Hundred' and given us the chance to look you over." "We!" put in the doctor significantly. "So it appears that Eunice did take a hand in the discussion." "Oh, in that way--why, yes. We felt exactly alike about it, knowing that father was apt to be too generous in his estimate of the people he met; he had been cheated so many times." I began to feel a trifle embarrassed, and Betty, in that wonderful way of hers, divined it instantly. Not that she said anything. She just looked at me again, and I understood that I need no longer consider myself rated as a doubtful quantity; a mightily cheering thought I found it. "Was Eunice persistent in her endeavor to change Mr. Graeme's resolution?" asked Doctor Marcy. "You mean about cutting out John and putting in Mr. Hugh Hildebrand?" "Yes." "Persistent! Well, I dare say you could have called it that," replied Betty thoughtfully. "She certainly said several times that John Thaneford believed himself entitled to the property; she pointed out that when father succeeded his cousin, Richard Hildebrand, he had as much as promised to make such disposition of the 'Hundred.'" "Which he really had done," I suggested. "The first will was in existence; only now he proposed to alter it." "Yes." "Suppose Mr. Graeme had died intestate," I went on. "What then?" "I dare say the real property would have gone to Betty as his legally adopted daughter," answered Doctor Marcy. "No, not legally," explained Betty, much to our surprise. "My name is really Graeme, but it comes to me from my own father who was Francis Graeme's older brother. I was only a baby when my parents died, and my uncle simply took charge of me. It didn't seem necessary to take out formal adoption papers, and anyhow it was never done." "Oh, undoubtedly there would have been a lawsuit, in the event of no will," remarked the doctor. "Both Betty and John Thaneford could put in the claim of blood relationship; you, too, Mr. Hildebrand, if it comes to that. Bear in mind there is no entail." "Was Mr. John Thaneford aware that there had been a will drawn in his favor?" I asked. "I can't say, Cousin Hugh. Probably not, for even I never heard of it until father announced that he intended to supersede it." "When did that particular conversation take place?" "To-day is Thursday; just a week ago then." "Mr. Graeme himself may have spoken to Thaneford." "About what?" put in Doctor Marcy. "The making of the first will, or the fact that he had determined to alter it?" "Well, he might have told him the whole story." The doctor shook his head. "I doubt it very much," he said. "Graeme had grown to dislike John Thaneford--dislike him intensely." "Why?" Doctor Marcy did not reply in words, but eyebrows rose significantly as he glanced in Betty's direction. "Confining ourselves to facts," continued the doctor, "it can be established that a will was made in favor of John Thaneford, and that Mr. Graeme had determined to set it aside. That first will was kept by Mr. Graeme in this very despatch-box; it is there now." Doctor Marcy selected another small key from his bunch, and opened the iron box. "You know I am a co-executor with Henry Powers," he said, "and so I am acting within my rights." He took out a number of legal papers, and presently offered one for our inspection. It was a testamentary document precisely like the will read by Mr. Eldon, except that the residuary estate went to John Thaneford instead of Hugh Hildebrand. It was dated some six months back. "And was the second will, the one in my favor, also kept in this box?" I asked. "No," answered Doctor Marcy. "Mr. Eldon, who of course drew it, had retained it in his own possession. You see, it had only been executed a few days ago; to be exact, the Friday before Mr. Graeme's death. Perhaps Mr. Eldon persuaded Mr. Graeme to let him keep it locked up in the office safe, at least temporarily." "Yet someone, who knew Mr. Graeme's habits and about this despatch-box, may have come to the conclusion that the new will was kept in the same place as the old one." Doctor Marcy nodded. "It follows," he said meditatively, "that on the morning of June 21 'someone' obtained possession of the master-key and entered the library with a definite purpose in view, a purpose identified with the contents of that iron despatch-box. That is your idea?" "And the obvious criticism is that the master-key would hardly have been used at a time when Mr. Graeme was actually occupying the room." "Well, 'someone' may have expected to find the tragical situation which we know existed; a forewarning had been received that there would be no human obstacle to the search for the iron despatch-box. Whereupon the entrance was made and the box was found. There was no attempt to examine its contents on the spot." "Why not?" "There was danger in remaining in the room, and the papers were too numerous to be sorted out at a glance. Or some outside disturbance may have occurred to frighten the intruder. At any rate, 'someone' withdrew, taking the despatch-box along for leisurely examination." "Then it was not this 'someone' who killed Mr. Graeme," I remarked. "No one ever intimated it," returned the doctor. "Remember that Graeme sat with his back to the fireplace and windows, and facing the entrance door. It would not be easy for 'someone' to unlock the door, pass to the vicinity of the writing desk, and strike the fatal blow--all without attracting the attention of the victim. Now no sounds of a struggle were heard by anyone, and there was nothing in the disposition of the body to suggest a physical encounter. No, you can't get away from the plain and simple facts: Mr. Graeme is taken with vertigo; he staggers and falls; his temple comes into contact with the sharp corner of that iron despatch-box; he becomes unconscious immediately, and shortly afterwards he dies. What more do you want to know?" "So that is what killed him?" "If I were perfectly convinced of the truth of my own theory," returned the doctor, "would I have ever intimated to you, Mr. Hildebrand, that there was something odd about the business? Betty put her finger at once upon what had been vaguely in my mind. _Where was that despatch-box when I first entered the room and found Francis Graeme lying dead upon the floor?_ I don't know, do you?" "There ought to be an inquest," I declared. "And of course an autopsy. You are willing?" I asked, turning to Betty. "Yes." "Then it is decided. Who is the coroner, Doctor Marcy?" "John Thaneford." For a moment I thought the doctor guilty of execrably bad taste in making a joke of the matter; then I saw that he was in sober earnest. "For some extraordinary reason," he explained, "Thaneford took it into his head to try the political game. The local Democratic slate had already been made up, but he was told that he could have one of the minor offices. Accordingly, he accepted the nomination for coroner and was elected by the usual party majority." "Well, he is sworn to do his duty," I persisted. "Surely." "Suppose we present what evidence we have to-morrow, including, of course, the withdrawal of your original death certificate, Doctor Marcy." "It may get me into all sorts of trouble," commented the doctor ruefully. "But there's nothing else to be done; I see that clearly. The bare thought that Francis Graeme, he of all men--sorry, Betty, my girl! I dare say this is getting a bit too much for you." My cousin Betty had broken down and was crying softly on Doctor Marcy's broad shoulder; he petted her and talked to her as though she had been a little child. And so at last we parted for the night, Doctor Marcy taking up his quarters in an anteroom adjoining the sick chamber, and Betty deciding to seek companionship with Miss Trevor. I tumbled into bed at once, but it was many an hour before sleep came to me. Chapter VI "_Madame Colette Marinette._" Dr. Marcy was the first person to join me in the breakfast room the following morning. To my surprise, he informed me that Mr. Fielding Thaneford had passed a comfortable night and was better. "Of course I am speaking in comparative terms," he added. "The old man has had a stroke of apoplexy. He is partially paralyzed on the right side, and his power of speech is gone entirely. He cannot recover, but he may linger on for some time." "A week?" "Perhaps longer. It is impossible to say--and here comes John." The younger Thaneford favored us with a short nod and an unintelligible word, and demanded of Effingham a full pot of coffee, strong and hot. I made some obligatory enquiries, in my capacity of host, but my unwelcome guest gave me only the curtest of replies. Nevertheless I felt sufficiently large-minded to make allowances. After all, the man had received two pretty severe blows, in the loss of his inheritance and in the strickening of his father; and it could not be pleasant for him to be accepting my hospitality. Doctor Marcy waited until Thaneford had finished his breakfast; then he bluntly asked for the holding of an inquest on Francis Graeme's death. "I formally withdraw the medical certificate," he continued, "on the ground that new evidence has come to light." "What new evidence?" inquired John Thaneford, his beetling eyebrows contracting angrily. "I'll submit it to your jury," retorted the doctor. There was no further discussion of the main point. Legally it was for Thaneford alone to decide upon the necessity for an inquest, and for a moment or two I thought he looked disinclined to give in. Then, apparently, he changed his mind. "You don't seem to have much confidence in your own medical opinions," he said nastily. "But I'm as anxious as anybody to ferret out the truth behind this business. And possibly we may get some light upon the making of that remarkable will. I take it that Mr. Hugh Hildebrand will offer no objection." I made no answer to the taunt, and Thaneford went to the telephone to call his jurors together. It was not until two days later that the members of the jury were finally assembled at the "Hundred." Two of them were neighboring farmers; there were also a couple of small business men from Calverton. The fifth man was a Mr. Chalmers Warriner, a chemist and the head of the experimental department of the Severn Optical Glass Works; and, greatly to my surprise, I was ordered by the coroner to take the sixth and last place in the panel. All of my associates had known Francis Graeme personally, and it was apparent that the unusual circumstance of the holding of the inquest after the interment had aroused curiosity and no small amount of speculation. By direction of the coroner the body had been exhumed and an autopsy performed. The expert examination had been made by Dr. Clayton Williams of the Johns Hopkins Medical School, and he was the first witness called. Doctor Williams told the jury that while the wound on the temple might have been sufficient to cause death still he was not prepared to pronounce positively upon the point. In answer to a question from Professor Warriner, Doctor Williams went on to say that the autopsy had revealed a very peculiar condition of the brain--a lesion of most unusual character. "Not necessarily caused by the blow on the temple?" asked Warriner. "I do not think so," answered the witness. "Can you assign a cause?" "I have never seen anything quite like it, Mr. Warriner. In consequence, I haven't any theory of causation to advance." "But you must have come to some conclusions," persisted Warriner. "All I can say is that the degenerative process observed by me resembled that induced by sunstroke, but on a greatly intensified scale. It is possible, of course, that Mr. Graeme may have had some obscure brain disease, and that it had progressed to a critical stage quite unsuspected by himself, or even by his medical advisers." "You mean," continued Warriner, "that the deceased may have had a sudden seizure, resulting in his falling from his chair and striking his head upon the corner of that iron despatch-box placed in evidence by Doctor Marcy?" "It is possible." "Then it is a perfectly plain case?" "I'm not so sure about that," returned Doctor Williams. "The brain lesion may have killed him before he fell; the superficial injury may have no importance whatever. Or the wound may have been caused by a weapon in the hands of another person." "But there is no question of another person," put in John Thaneford. There was nothing more of a tangible character to be obtained from the testimony of the medical gentlemen; for Doctor Marcy could only reiterate his belief that Francis Graeme had appeared to be in perfect health on that fatal morning. Of course there had been no opportunity for the usual laboratory tests, but his physical condition could not have been precarious; that was unthinkable. There were just two factors in evidence--the internal lesion and the external injury. Which was the predetermining cause, and which was the final effect? Or was it that neither fact had any real relation to the death of Francis Graeme? No one could say, and Doctor Williams was finally permitted to retire. I fancied that the saturnine countenance of Coroner Thaneford showed a secret satisfaction in the apparent confusion of testimony. The customary depositions were taken from the house servants, but they added little or nothing to our stock of knowledge. Effingham, the butler, was asked to explain his five minutes' absence from sentry duty at the library door while Doctor Marcy was engaged in meeting Miss Graeme. He answered very simply that Miss Eunice Trevor had sent him to her dressing-room for smelling-salts and a bottle of aromatic spirits of ammonia. When questioned about the master-key he declared that no one knew of its hiding place behind the clock in the pantry; he did not believe that it had been touched until he had taken it himself, shortly before two o'clock, for the purpose of unlocking the library door. Finally Doctor Marcy told the jury of the peculiar circumstances concerning the iron despatch-box. But he could not positively affirm that the box was not in the room when he first examined the body; he was obliged to admit that he might have merely overlooked its presence. John Thaneford turned to the jury. "Is there any use in going on with the inquiry?" he asked. "I don't believe we can do more than return a non-committal verdict--dead by the visitation of God, or something like that." "Or alternatively, by the act of party or parties unknown," interpolated Warriner. "Don't see why you should say that," retorted Thaneford, scowling darkly. "Well, Doctor Marcy has pointed out the unexplained disappearance of the iron despatch-box; I mean between his first and second visit to the room. I think we ought to make sure that no other person entered the library in the interim, or had the opportunity and means to do so." "Just what do you want?" demanded Thaneford truculently. "Let's have Effingham back again," said Warriner calmly. "I want to ask some questions that I didn't think of before." There could be no valid objection to this procedure; and, accordingly, the coroner directed that the negro butler should be recalled. While we were waiting Warriner had risen and was walking about the room, examining its details with profound attention. He was particular in assuring himself that the main windows could not be opened, and that the apertures provided by the swinging of the pridellas on their pivots were impracticable to anyone except a really small boy. When Effingham reappeared Warriner took the examination into his own hands. "Now, Effingham," he began, "I want to know everything about this room. Are there any traps leading to the cellar, any scuttle-panels in the dome?" "Nossir. It am tight all roun'--like um bottle. Doan know nuffin' 'bout traps and scuttles." "Undoubtedly correct," commented Warriner, looking around at us. "I have tested the floor pretty thoroughly, and it is solid everywhere. The same, I think, may be said of the dome and ceiling--not the sign of a crack or jointure." He turned savagely on Effingham. "Now tell me, you black scoundrel, where the secret door is?" Effingham's countenance of shining ebony took on the ashy tinge peculiar to his race under the emotional stress of fright or duress. "Nebber heard of 'im," he said quickly, and relapsed into wary silence. "You know me," continued Warriner, "and what I can put on you if you don't obey me and answer my questions. Where is it?" Effingham's knees shook in visible terror. Professor Warriner enjoyed a wide reputation among the colored folk as a dealer in "cunjers" and other forbidden arts; was not his physical laboratory the veritable anteroom to the infernal regions. The old negro, torn between superstitious fears and his inherited sense of loyalty to the Hildebrand family, trembled and gasped as he tried to face his terrible inquisitor. "Whuffer you pick on ole Effingham?" he protested feebly. "I doan know nuffin 'bout any secret doah." "Do what the gentleman tells you, Effingham." The voice was quiet and controlled, and yet there was an undertone of emotional vibration in it; I turned and saw Miss Trevor, who had entered the room unbidden and unannounced. I thought that John Thaneford looked both angry and dismayed, but he did not attempt to exercise his official authority. "Yessum," returned Effingham with cheerful alacrity. Since one of the ladies of the family had assumed the responsibility it was not for him to offer any further objection. He went over to the right side of the great fireplace and touched a spring in the paneling; a door, just high and wide enough to accommodate an ordinary sized person, swung open. "Nothing very romantic about this door," commented Miss Trevor. "It is merely a short cut to the terrace and gardens, besides being a convenient means of avoiding uncongenial visitors. But I don't think Mr. Graeme often used it, and none of the servants, except Effingham, are even aware of its existence." We all crowded around the secret entrance. The short passage turned sharply to the left behind the massive bulk of the chimney breast; we caught just a glimpse of a second and outer door, strongly built and banded with stout iron. Warriner stepped forward and entered the passage, reappearing almost immediately. "The outside door is unlocked," he said. "But that doesn't prove anything of itself. Before proceeding further I think it would be wise to examine the exterior situation." I happened to catch Miss Trevor's eye, and I could have sworn that a spark of relief-cum-triumph burned there for the infinitesimal part of a second. We trooped into the hall and left the house in order to gain the library terrace. There was the door, cleverly masked by vines, in a corner of the chimney stack. Moreover, its wooden surface had been veneered with stucco, colored and lined to simulate the brick of the chimney; the deception was quite good enough to pass casual inspection. "The vines don't count for much," said Warriner. "Easy to push them aside. But hullo! what's that?" Plastered squarely on the line of the door opening was the empty cocoon of a moth. It was perfectly evident that the door could not have been opened without destroying the fragile structure, and of course it must have been fixed in position months before to give time for the transformation of the pupa into the perfect insect. That seemed to settle the question of either entrance or exit for a period long antedating the death of Francis Graeme. "Pretty conclusive testimony," remarked Warriner. "I take it we're all witness to the fact, and so if no one has any objection----" And then, before a protest could have been voiced, he coolly picked off the cocoon and dropped it into his pocket. When we were reassembled in the library John Thaneford again suggested that we might proceed to the formality of a verdict; he pointed out that there was no shred of evidence connecting any definite person with the tragedy. But once more Warriner was ready with a counter-proposal; he wanted to examine the two negroes who were working on the south lawn between those fateful hours of noon and two o'clock on the twenty-first of June. "But Doctor Marcy has their positive assurance," urged Thaneford, "that no stranger was seen about the place that day. Isn't that so, doctor?" he continued, turning to Marcy. Doctor Marcy nodded. "Yes, and I've known both men all my life," he said. "I can vouch for them as being perfectly straight." "Better have them in and get their evidence on the record at first hand," persisted Warriner. There was incontrovertible reason in this, and Zack and Zeb were sent for. John Thaneford still looked like a thunder cloud, and I found it difficult to make up my mind. Was he annoyed at the masterful way in which his official authority was being usurped, or was he inwardly anxious to keep the inquiry within conventional bounds; was it even possible that he was seeking to shield somebody? His personal skirts must be clear, for it was positively established that he had been at "Thane Court" the entire day of June the twenty-first. Being a relative, the tidings of Mr. Graeme's death had been sent to him by telephone, and he had replied that he would come immediately to the "Hundred." But he had not put in an appearance until the next morning. The one suspicious circumstance was his willingness, almost eagerness, to accept Doctor Marcy's certificate without making any investigation on his own account, coupled with his subsequent reluctance to reopen the inquiry. Finally, his attitude throughout the inquest had been restless and perfunctory; it could be easily seen that the exercise of his duty as coroner was most distasteful to him. But I was keenly aware that I did not like John Thaneford; all the more reason that I should not do him any injustice. And so I kept my cogitations to myself. Zack and Zeb proved to be model witnesses under Warriner's skilful tutelage. It was positively determined that no stranger had been near the library terrace between eleven and two o'clock on the day in question. "Or anybody else?" asked Warriner. "Miss Eunice she done come by thar; walkin' up fum de gyarding," answered Zeb. "What time was that?" "Ah reckon 'bout one o'clock, sah." "How do you know? Do you carry a watch?" "Nossah, but de oberseer's bell for de fiel' hands just done rung," asserted the witness with conviction. "Where did Miss Trevor go?" "I doan know, sah. I speck she went plum into de manshun house--roun' de cornah, sah." Zack could add nothing more to this statement, and Zeb, when called in his turn, merely produced corroborative testimony. "I think we had better see Miss Trevor herself," said Warriner, after Zeb had bowed and scraped his way out. "All damned nonsense," objected Thaneford, looking uglier than ever. "And I must say, Mr. Warriner, that you are taking a great deal too much on yourself. I'm the coroner, and I know my duty." Warriner stuck to his guns, and he was backed up by a juryman named Orton, a well-to-do farmer and an unusually intelligent man, as it seemed to me. Thaneford finally yielded ungracious assent and Miss Trevor again entered the room. As she stood confronting us I was struck by the intense pallor of her skin, when contrasted with the coal blackness of her hair and her sombre apparel of mourning. Yet she appeared perfectly collected and self-possessed; she admitted readily that she had been on the library terrace at the approximate hour of one o'clock; she explained that she had gone to the walled garden to cut some flowers for the luncheon table; she had returned by the terrace as that was the shortest way to the front door; she had entered the house, and, after arranging the flowers, she had retired to her own room. Warriner put a question or two relative to her taking Effingham's post at the library door while Doctor Marcy was endeavoring to break the news to Betty; her answers were definite and given without hesitation. Yes, she had sent the servant upstairs to get the smelling salts and the ammonia; she had thought the restoratives might be needed. Her account of the finding of the body agreed perfectly with the story told by Doctor Marcy. "Thank you, Miss Trevor," said Warriner. "Just one more question. What sort of flowers did you cut on your visit to the garden?" "Yellow roses. I think the variety is called _Madame Colette Marinette_." Upon Miss Trevor's retirement the verdict was taken. It was unanimous and to the effect that Francis Hildebrand Graeme had come to his death through the visitation of God. The jurymen climbed into their surreys and Fords and took their departure. Warriner lingered behind, and a few minutes later he joined me on the porch, where I was smoking a long longed-for cigarette. Miss Trevor had gone upstairs, and John Thaneford had betaken himself to the sick-room; we were entirely alone. "I found this in the passage behind the secret door," he said, and handed me the withered remains of what had been a magnificent yellow rose. "Interesting exhibit, isn't it," he went on dryly. "You don't--you don't mean?" I stammered. "I'm not very much up on floriculture, but this particular variety happens to be one of my favorites. The florists call it----" "Yes?" "_Madame Colette Marinette._" Chapter VII _The Whispering Gallery_ The long afternoon went by, but we had accomplished nothing more than the consumption of an unlimited amount of tobacco. "Certainly not convincing evidence," said Warriner with a final shrug of his shoulders. "Still my yellow rose is worth preserving along with the moth cocoon," and he put the pathetic dead flower carefully away in his empty cigarette case. For a minute or two the silence remained unbroken. "I wonder if you would mind spending a few days here at the 'Hundred?'" I blurted out; suddenly I was aware that I had taken a strong liking to Chalmers Warriner. "I've no end of things on hand," he answered, smiling cordially, "but I'll see what I can do. Suppose I run into Calverton, look over my mail, and return here around ten o'clock." "It would be a great kindness," I said heartily. We shook hands, and he jumped into his perfectly appointed cross-country car and drove away. Yes, I did like Chalmers Warriner very much, and he seemed to have a head on him. Doctor Marcy also left us. His patient had continued to improve, and of course he had his other practice to look after. It was a pleasanter dinner than that of the night before inasmuch as John Thaneford was at "Thane Court," while Miss Trevor pleaded a headache and had tea and toast served in her room. But there was my Cousin Betty Graeme to do the honors of my board--how strange it still seemed to use the possessive pronoun!--with all possible grace and dignity. Also I had the pleasure of welcoming a new addition to the household, a Mrs. Anthony, an old family friend and Betty's godmother to boot. Circumstances had prevented her attendance at the funeral, but she had reached the "Hundred" at last, to Betty's infinite comfort and satisfaction. Mrs. Anthony was a delightful old person, with the figure of a young girl and the flashing eyes and snowy bob curls of a French marquise. I did myself the honor of kissing the small hand extended to me, and was taken into favor at once. Yes, we were an entirely congenial dinner party. We spoke of Francis Graeme several times, and without the least embarrassment or restraint; quite as though he might return at any moment to resume his rightful place in the circle. And more and more I came to realize that I had lost a great deal in not knowing him sooner and better. A good and gallant gentleman! who was I that I should presume to stand in his shoes. Even now I am beginning to perceive that a great inheritance has its burdens as well as its privileges; I see that it is no small thing to become Hildebrand of the "Hundred." The ladies retired early, and a few minutes after ten Warriner redeemed his promise by making a welcome appearance. I told him that I had some necessary letters to write, and that I should not make company of him; he was to consider himself entirely at home. He nodded acquiescently and spent some twenty minutes in wandering about the library; then he settled down with a book. It really was imperative that I should acquaint certain people--my quasi-partner Anstruthers, the Mercers and others--with the great change that had taken place in my life and fortunes; my affairs in town would have to be wound up, and it might be a fortnight before I could get to Philadelphia. My correspondence proved more lengthy than I had anticipated, and it was long after midnight when I had sealed and stamped the last enclosure. Warriner threw down his book, and I crossed the room and joined him. "By way of resting our eyes," I said, and thereupon I extinguished the only light in the room, an Argand-burner oil lamp. We exchanged half a dozen desultory sentences, and then relapsed into that intimate silence which is only possible between real friends. For perhaps half an hour we sat quietly thinking and smoking; then---- "There is nothing I can say or do; understand?" I recognized the rough, forbidding quality of John Thaneford's voice, and instantly I was all attention. Of course he must be speaking to somebody; who could it be? Presently the answer came. But it was not in words; all I could make out were sounds of weeping and smothered sobs, unmistakably feminine in character. Now I should have explained that Warriner and I had been sitting close to one of the side walls of the library; indeed our heads were almost in actual contact with the plaster. Thaneford and his companion were undoubtedly in the great hall whose circular walls probably formed a natural whispering gallery. How the sounds could be transmitted through the straight connecting passage under the stairs, and then shunted upon the rectangular walls of the library, was a problem in applied acoustics that I did not attempt to solve. The conversation was being conducted under the breath, as we say, but every word fell with perfect distinctness upon my ears. Of course it was a private conversation, one to which I had no right to listen. I did make a motion to pull away from the wall, possibly with the vague idea of uttering a warning admonition to these indiscreet chatterers, but Warriner's ready hand pushed me back in my chair; he laid his finger upon my lips, and I had no option but to yield to his stronger will. This was war, war in which all is fair. "You've made a mess of it, my girl," went on Thaneford, "and I can't stop to help clear it up. That's flat." "You mean that you won't keep your promise?" The words were low and thick with emotion; I could not seem to recognize the ownership of the voice. "No, I don't say that at all. But I'm up to my neck at 'Thane Court,' and I was counting upon the 'Hundred' to pull me out. Give me half a chance and I'll do the square thing--by you and everybody." "What more do you want of me?" "Just keep your eyes and ears open. I saw Grimes to-day, and he thinks there is a fair possibility of breaking the will--_non compos_, you know. Why think of it! Francis Graeme never saw this Yankee Hildebrand but once in his life, and then for a couple of hours only. It stands to reason that a man in his right senses doesn't hand over a fortune as though it were nothing more than a Key West cigar. Grimes advises me to fight, and I'd like nothing better than to do it. But fighting costs a lot of money," he concluded gloomily. "You know that if I had it----" "All I know is that you haven't got it," he interrupted coldly. "For heaven's sake! don't let us get sentimental again." There was a brief silence, and then came a badly suppressed yawn, coupled with a declaration that the speaker was dog-tired and ready to fall asleep standing up. We could hear retreating footsteps, and the occasional creaking of a loose board in the tread of the staircase; then all was quiet again. "Eunice Trevor, of course," announced Warriner meditatively. "I should never have known her voice," I protested. "Exactly so. And for the very sufficient reason that she is accustomed to riding under double-wraps, as the hunting men say. A cold, calculating, iceberg sort of creature--that's the way you've thought of her." "Dare say you're right." "But deep in the heart of the iceberg there burns a flame, glowing and intense. Now and then it melts its way out, and for a few minutes there are gorgeous fireworks. That was the young woman's natural voice, and she was improving the infrequent opportunity of using it by letting herself go." "What do you think----" I began. "I don't think at all," he broke in. "At least for to-night. In the morning my brain may begin to function again, but it refuses to be squeezed any further at present." "They've had their five minutes grace," remarked Warriner, after another brief pause, "and I'm off to bed. Good night." Warriner seemed to melt away and become part of the surrounding darkness; after a minute or two I followed, and reached my room without further incident. Again my night's rest was a troubled one. Chapter VIII _Adventuring on "Sugar Loaf"_ It was a glorious summer morning, and as I descended the staircase I could look through the wide opened door and see the rolling acres of "Hildebrand Hundred" lying gracious and fair under a cloudless sky. Bees were humming among the flowers, and a whiff of new mown hay drifted in on a vagrant breeze. Yes, this old world is a pretty pleasant place to live in, provided of course that one doesn't make a tactical mistake and settle down too far East or West, as the case may be. But given the right place and the right people, and existence on this planet may be very comfortable indeed. Nobody seemed to be around, although it was nearly nine o'clock, and I walked into the library. There I found Chalmers Warriner bending over a large glazed case which stood in a remote corner of the room. "Good morning," he smiled. "I've been amusing myself in looking over the collection of butterflies and moths made by your predecessor, old Richard Hildebrand. I believe it is considered valuable." I glanced carelessly at the rows of inanimate insects fixed in their painful museum attitudes. There can be no quarrelling with tastes, but mine do not run in this direction. I made some perfunctory assent to Warriner's glowing encomiums upon the quality of Uncle Richard's _magnum opus_ (it seems that our good Chalmers is himself an amateur of distinction in entomological science), and then haled him off for breakfast. Quite naturally we drifted back to the library. It was the pleasantest and most homelike room in the house, a characteristic that persisted for all that the shadow of a possible tragedy still rested there. But after all, men must die somewhere, some time, and it would be impracticable to transform every death chamber into a mortuary chapel. Death is a natural process; why try to invest it with unnatural terror. "My dear," said a very old woman to her blooming goddaughter, "you will some day come to know that old age needs and desires death just as youth needs and desires sleep." Warriner started immediately upon a close and systematic examination of the apartment and its appurtenances. From his pocket he drew a geologist's hammer and a slender rod of steel, and for nearly an hour he occupied himself in probing the wainscoting and walls and in making test knocks. I had expected to see him give particular attention to the secret passage behind the fireplace, but he ignored it entirely. I expressed some surprise. "It's told me already all it had to tell," he answered, and did not vouchsafe any further elucidation of his pronouncement. Nor did I ask for it; I realized that a man should be allowed to work in his own way. Finally, Warriner asked me to sit down in the fixed revolving chair that stood before the great, flat-topped library desk. I did so with some inward reluctance, for this was the seat _par excellence_ of the master of "Hildebrand Hundred"; from this very coign of vantage Francis Graeme had toppled to his death. But as well now as ever, and accordingly I complied with the request. At Warriner's further suggestion I bent forward as though engaged in writing. Suddenly he appeared from behind the screen of stamped Spanish leather which stood between the table and the door leading to the great hall; instantly, I became aware of his presence; involuntarily I looked up. "Not so easy to surprise a man from this side, even if he were engaged in writing or study," mused Warriner as he walked over to the fireplace. "Now suppose I had entered from this secret postern or side door," he went on. "I should have no particular difficulty in stealing up behind you and striking a fatal blow." "Perhaps not," I assented. "The rug is deeply piled, and a man would have to walk pretty heavily to be heard." "A man--or a woman," amended Warriner. Of course I understood him, but it was none of my business to prejudice Eunice Trevor's case. The very fact that I instinctively disliked her imposed its obligations. Warriner motioned me to yield him the revolving chair, and I arose with alacrity. He sat down quite as though intent upon testing the smoothness of the swivelling and the depth and comfort of the upholstery. But presently he swung round and faced the fireplace and windows. Then he drew from his pocket a pair of French folding opera glasses and continued his observations for several minutes; finally, he glanced at me and beckoned. I went over to the big desk. "From where I sit," began Warriner, "I can see an odd-appearing break in the woods on 'Sugar Loaf.' Take the chair and I'll explain what I have in mind." I obeyed and Warriner leaned over my shoulder, pointing. "Look straight," he said, "through that small, square panel in the window on the left of the fireplace; it is called the pridella, I believe. Now take the glasses." The window was the one depicting the rebellion of the sons of Korah; it was a vivid representation of the earth opening under the feet of the guilty men, and was brilliant with yellow and crimson flames arising from the abyss. Through the open pridella I could see "Sugar Loaf," the latter a hill of a peculiar conical shape that rose directly from the meadows watered by the little river Whippany. Its distance from the house was about half a mile, and it was covered with a dense growth of oaks and beeches. Now that I had the glasses focussed I understood what Warriner was driving at. Framed in the square of the pridella was a small opening in the leafy wall; it looked as though a shelf had been cut out of the cliff face, and evidently with a purpose. But what sort of a purpose? "An observation post," I hazarded. Warriner nodded. "Something like that was in my own mind," he said. "What do you say to our walking over there and making a reconnaissance?" "Just as you like," I assented. "Anyway it will be a pleasant stroll." Supplying ourselves with the primal necessities of stout sticks and brierwood pipes we set out. Gyp, an Irish terrier, looked longingly upon us, and Warriner, after a momentary hesitation, told him that he might accompany the expedition; whereupon there followed much staccato yelping and the apparent vision of one small dog in several places at once. The side of the hill facing the "Hundred" was rather too steep for comfortable climbing; moreover, there seemed to be a wagon road, on the right hand slope, which promised a practicable means of ascent. We walked across the lawn and a horse paddock to the Whippany, following the bank of the stream to where it was crossed by a picturesque stone bridge. Straight on lay the road to Lynn C. H., while our woodland way branched off to the left. It was pleasantly cool in the woods, and inside of twenty minutes we were well up on the hillside, and the library wing of the "Hundred" was in plain view. But there was still no sign of "Warriner's Shelf," as I chose to dub it, and I began to chaff him gently. However Gyp, by way of repaying the favor of being allowed to join us, pushed an inquisitive nose into a mass of tangled wild grapevines. Here was plain token of human progress, and we followed the narrow trail that presently dipped down sharply and then around the shoulder of a big, square rock. "Warriner's Shelf" at last, a natural bench in the escarpment, not larger than ten feet by six, with a comparatively level floor, and partially sheltered by the overhanging rock wall. The bushes and foliage in general had been cut away in front, leaving an irregular opening about the height of a man and four or five feet in width. "I should never have picked it out in the world," said Warriner, "but for that glint of white." And as he spoke, he detached from a hazel twig a square of cambric, a man's handkerchief. I followed the direction of his glance, and read the initials in one corner--"J. T." "What do you make of it?" I asked, feeling more than a little puzzled. "A signal, of course. A sharp eye could pick it out from the terrace, particularly if a hand was waving it." "Anyhow it is proof that John Thaneford knows of this eyrie and is accustomed to visit it," I added. "Perfectly. Do you realize, by the way, that we are now on Thaneford property?" "How so?" "The dividing line runs a few yards away, and you will find a monument near the base of that white pine. I came up here once with old Richard Hildebrand, and he pointed it out to me. This side of Sugar Loaf belongs to 'Thane Court.'" "Then we are trespassers." "In the technical sense I suppose we are." "And John Thaneford doesn't welcome visitors," I remarked, recalling the incidents of our first meeting. "Well, we're only looking around; no harm done." Warriner reloaded his pipe leisurely. "What do you suppose is the meaning of that contraption?" he continued, indicating a singular framework of iron, painted green, that stood in the opening and pointed directly toward the house; we both examined it with keen attention. It consisted of a narrow trough of metal--probably the half section of a four-inch pipe--and was some three feet in length. It was supported by tripods at either end, firmly fixed in the ground. The whole arrangement was solidly put together, and seemed intended as a rest for some sort of instrument. Warriner seated himself on a flat stone, and sighted along the trough. Then he supplemented his observations with the binoculars. "It appears to line exactly with the pridella opening of the 'Korah' window," he said at length. "Adjust a high-powered rifle in the trough, and it ought to be possible to send a bullet directly into the library at the 'Hundred'; yes, and it would strike pretty close to anyone who happened to be occupying the swivel-chair at the big teakwood desk. Of course, without instruments, I can't speak definitely about the trajectory, but we must be a couple of hundred feet above the house which should compensate for the natural drop in the arc." "The fatal objection to that theory," I retorted, "is the non-existent bullet. There can't be the slightest ground for thinking that Francis Graeme came to his death through the agency of a gunshot wound." "No, there isn't," admitted Warriner. "All the same, it opens up some interesting possibilities." "For example?" A third person was suddenly taking part in the conversation. I turned quickly to see John Thaneford standing besides us. He was accompanied by a big collie, an ill-tempered brute, who eyed Gyp with disdainful truculence. The like adjectival description might have been applied to Thaneford himself as he stood there with his white teeth just showing through the close drawn lips, and one muscular fist, with its tufted knuckles, knotted about a blackthorn cudgel. "You were speaking, I think, of interesting possibilities," he continued, looking at each of us in turn, "Perhaps I could add something of value to the discussion." "You have already contributed Exhibit A," said Warriner, handing him the handkerchief. As he spoke, he rose to his feet, and it seemed to me that just before doing so he picked up a small object from the ground, and kept it concealed in the hollow of his hand. But the action had been so swift that I could not be sure. John Thaneford took and pocketed his handkerchief with the utmost sangfroid. "Thanks," he said carelessly. "I must have left it here by inadvertence, and nowadays even a few inches of real Irish linen is a possession not to be despised. It is certainly mine, and, moreover, it was found on Thaneford property. Under the circumstances you will hardly be justified in putting in a claim for treasure-trove." This with a sneer that fully bared his close set teeth. I was feeling rather uncomfortable, but Warriner's cool urbanity never failed him. "Glad to have obliged you," he said easily. "The next strong wind probably would have blown it down the cliff. Lovely view, isn't it?" And indeed it was a charming prospect--the silver ripples of the shallow Whippany edging the emerald meadows that stretched up to meet the shaven lawn of the "Hundred"; the massive ochre bulk of the house, with its roofs of dark gray slate; and, beyond, the copper glow from a clump of purple beeches melting insensibly into the sombre hues of pine and hemlock; in the middle distance, the golden ocean of the wheat; and still farther on, a battery of motor tractors moving snail-like but inexorably against the gallant green lances of the haying fields--"Hildebrand Hundred" in all its glory. "A _belvedere_ in quite the proper sense," commented Warriner. "I dare say you are rather fond of coming here--by way of viewing the promised land, as it were." He smiled provokingly. John Thaneford was not nimble witted, and he found no fitting rejoinder to Warriner's sarcasm. "I don't know that it is any of your damned business," he barked out, flushing redly. It was time for me to intervene, for clearly our position was not a tenable one; we were trespassers. "I am sorry to have intruded for the second time within a week," I said evenly. "Unintentional of course." He made no definite reply, and I swung round. "Get to heel, Gyp," I ordered. "One moment," demanded Thaneford, "I've been intending to tell you that I shall go back to 'Thane Court' this evening; I mean for good. I'm afraid that my father"--he gulped at something in his throat--"can't be moved for the present." "Mr. Thaneford will be welcome to the hospitality of the 'Hundred' so long as the emergency exists," I returned smilingly. "I would say as much for yourself, but of course you will do as you please." "I always intend to," he countered instantly. Then, as though a bit ashamed of his boorishness, he added: "You will have no objection, I suppose, to my coming over to the 'Hundred' to see him?" "Surely not. And there is also the telephone. I promise that you will be kept fully informed. Good day, Mr. Thaneford." "Mr. Thaneford!" he echoed. "My dear Cousin Hugh, are you oblivious of the fact that this is the South, and that we are kin?" "Even if a little less than kind," put in Warriner. "Cousin John, then," I amended, determined to give no open ground for offence. "Shall I have your traps sent over to the 'Court?'" "Thanks, but I'm looking in on father around five o'clock, and so won't have to bother you. Down, Vixen!" he added, dealing the collie a hearty cuff as she snapped at Gyp, discreetly paddling at my heels. Warriner started to say something civil, but was ignored, and we passed on without another word. "Sulky brute!" offered Warriner, but I merely nodded. "Did you notice that no allusion was made, on either side, to that singular metal rest?" he persisted. "What was there to say?" "True for you; but I still contend that the possibilities are interesting--perhaps infinitely so. For instance----" he opened his hand and showed me what lay snugly ensconced within. "Looks like a piece of glass." "Man, don't you know a telescopic lens when you see it!" Warriner produced a silk handkerchief, and with it carefully cleaned and polished what I now fully recognized as a bit of some optical apparatus. He held it up to his eye, and squinted through it. "Do you know there is something peculiar about this blooming lens," he said at length. "I think I'll drive over to Calverton after luncheon, and make a laboratory test. Who knows...." "What?" "Tell you later--if there is anything to tell." And not another word on the subject could I get out of him. * * * * * Mrs. Anthony and Betty had been over to the cemetery all morning, and they did not appear at luncheon. Miss Trevor, looking as implacable as a Medusa-head, a comparison inevitably invited by the snaky black ringlets depending on either cheek (an ante-bellum monstrosity which she seemed to affect out of sheer perversity), presided at the table, and most of the conversation was carried on in monosyllables. The poor girl did look wretchedly careworn, and I had the uneasy consciousness of being in part a confidant of her unhappiness through my involuntary espionage in the affair of the whispering gallery. But there was nothing that I could say or do to relieve the tension of the situation. How much did she know concerning the mystery of Francis Graeme's death? To what extent was she an accessory to the crime, if crime it could be proved? When she handed me my tea it was quite in the grand Lucrezia Borgia manner, and it was as certain as anything could be that she and I must remain antagonists until the end of time. But I could make allowances. Eunice Trevor had played the part of poor relation all her life, and the bread of dependence is both a dry and a bitter morsel in the mouth. Not that Betty Graeme would ever have said or done anything to emphasize the obligation under which her cousin's daily existence was passed; on the contrary, I knew that she treated Eunice with unvarying kindness and consideration. But when one is living on the broken meats of charity it is destructive to be always nibbling, between meals, at one's own heart. Warriner went off to Calverton, and I had a horse saddled in order to ride over the farm and so get a general idea of my inheritance. And indeed it was a glorious one; insensibly a new and stimulating ichor entered into my veins; this was my own country, the chosen home of my forebears: this gracious and beautiful land was part of myself; deep down in its generous bosom went the essential roots of my being, and I thrilled with the consciousness of a new life, a life far more satisfying and abundant than I had ever known before; I was Hildebrand of the "Hundred." Late in the afternoon I returned, and ran upstairs to freshen my appearance before joining the ladies for a cup of tea on the library terrace. As I passed the sick room I heard the sounds of a violent altercation, and I recognized the voices as belonging to Eunice Trevor and John Thaneford; how indecent for them to be quarrelling in the presence of a man actually moribund! I had no taste for more eavesdropping, but the door was partially ajar, and I could not help overhearing one significant sentence. Eunice Trevor was speaking. "As for Betty Graeme, there is no chance there for recouping your fortunes. How do I know? I am a woman myself." I went on quickly and reached my room. But my blood was hot within me. That surly, brutal boor! All the time I was changing my clothes I could hear the discussion proceeding, although the words themselves were inaudible. Then came the clumping of heavy boots on the staircase. I looked out of my window, which commanded a view of the carriage sweep, and saw John Thaneford's disreputable old dog-cart waiting before the front door. Presently Thaneford himself appeared, carrying a couple of handbags; he threw the luggage in the cart, mounted, and drove away. On my own way down I had to go by the room occupied by the elder Thaneford. Quite involuntarily I glanced through the half-opened door; a curious feeling possessed me that the sick man was being dealt with unfairly, that he needed the protection which a guest has a right to expect from his host. Fielding Thaneford lay, immense and quiescent, in the old-fashioned, canopied bed. He was not asleep, for his eyes were open and rolling restlessly, while the infantile pink and white of his complexion had darkened to a dull crimson; it was plain that he was uneasy, suffering even. And then I realized the source of his discomfort. Eunice Trevor sat in a highbacked chair at the foot of the bedstead, gazing intently at the helpless man. I used to think that the metaphorical, "If looks could kill!" was mere rhetoric, but now I knew that there may be a deadliness in pure hatred which needs neither spoken word nor overt act for its vehicle of expression. The Medusa-head again, an incarnation of implacable malignity; no wonder that Fielding Thaneford's big, babyish cheeks were beaded with sweat and that his breath came and went in short gasps. One thought involuntarily of the mediæval sorceress sticking her lethal pins into the waxen image of her victim. Only that in this instance the counterfeit presentment was not necessary; the man himself lay bound hand and foot, delivered to the tormentors as they that go down quick into hell. Unable to move or speak he must remain in his physical straitjacket while this tigerish woman was doing him to death, at her leisure, with the invisible knife-thrusts of a great and consuming hatred It was unbearable, and I entered the room with the merest apology for a knock; instantly the eyes of the basilisk were veiled. "I was looking for Mr. Thaneford's nurse," I began awkwardly. "Miss Davenport is off duty from two until five o'clock," answered Miss Trevor with entire composure. "I told Betty that I would take the relief on alternate days. Here is Miss Davenport now." I turned to greet the pleasant-faced, capable looking young woman who entered, and Miss Trevor glided away without another word. I made the usual inquiries about the patient's condition. "Not quite so well, perhaps," I suggested. "He does seem a little flushed and restless," answered the nurse, producing her clinical thermometer. "I don't understand it, for he was decidedly better this morning." "Possibly some outside disturbing influence," I ventured. "Mr. John Thaneford was with his father late this afternoon, and I suspect there was some sort of family jar." "That big, black man!" said Miss Davenport indignantly. "I can't abide him!" She looked around sharply. "Where is he?" "I believe he has returned to 'Thane Court.'" "Well, I shan't let him in the room again if he can't behave himself. See that!" and she showed me the thermometer, which registered a two-degree rise over normal. "Shameful I call it! and I won't have any interference with my patient, no matter who it is." "I'll back you up there. And perhaps we had better make some other arrangements for the afternoon relief. Miss Trevor has been very obliging, but I'm not sure that she has the proper--well, call it the necessary temperament." "I know it 'ud give me the creeps to have that slinky, black shadow hovering over me," returned the downright-minded Miss Davenport. "I think I'll put a stop-order on her from this time on." "I dare say Miss Graeme and I can share the duty between us; at least until it is possible to get hold of another nurse. I'll speak to my cousin and let you know later." Miss Davenport nodded and turned to her patient. "Cheerio! old son," she said with the breezy cameraderie born of her two years' experience as an army nurse. "After this we'll keep the willies brushed off, and you'll soon be hitting on all six again. Remember now what your Aunt Flo tells you." It was impossible to say how much or how little the sick man understood of all that had passed. But as I left the room I murmured a parting word that was intended to be sympathetic and reassuring. I may have been mistaken, but it seemed as though a flash of intense gratitude momentarily softened the stony, blue-china stare of those inscrutable eyes. After Mrs. Anthony had gone to dress for dinner I talked the matter over with Betty. "I think you must be mistaken about poor Eunice," she said perplexedly. "But just now I know she is pretty much on edge, and if Miss Davenport doesn't want her that settles it. So if you will help me, Cousin Hugh, I dare say we can manage." Cousin Hugh! That sounds pleasanter every time I hear it And I like, too, the possessive "we." Late that evening Warriner telephoned that he had been called to Baltimore on business and would be away for several days. Of course he would see me immediately on his return. At present there was nothing to report. Chapter IX _1-4-2-4-8_ A full fortnight went by, and we seemed to be simply marking time. Warriner was still away, and I had had no word of importance from him. Mr. Fielding Thaneford's condition showed little apparent change, but Miss Davenport told me privately that he was failing steadily. John Thaneford had called some half a dozen times, but his visits to the sick room had been brief and entirely devoid of incident. Either Miss Davenport or Betty and I took care to be present whenever he appeared, and there had been no repetition of any untoward scene. The younger Thaneford contented himself with a few perfunctory inquiries, never addressing his father directly. What would have been the use, since the line of communication had been broken? Moreover, the patient, on his part, never manifested the least desire for more definite intercourse; he seemed to recognize the physical presence of his son, but that was all. And so John Thaneford would come and seem to fill the room for a few moments with his great, black bulk, and again depart. As the door closed behind him, there was never the slightest discernible quiver on the immobile masque propped and bolstered in that amazing vastness of a four-poster, but always the glitter would seem to die out of the watchful eyes, and the slow breathing would become more regular. Whatever the nature of the tension between father and son there could be no question of its reality. I had taken upon myself the delicate task of telling Eunice Trevor that her volunteer service in the sick room could no longer be accepted. But she acquiesced in the decision with admirably assumed indifference, and thereafter never came near the invalid. Indeed, in those days, I hardly saw her except at luncheon and dinner. Certainly we were not friends, but neither were we avowed enemies; I even realized that, to some extent, I was indispensable to the carrying out of her own tortuous purposes. Once or twice, however, I sensed something in her voice, when she happened to be speaking to Betty, which filled me with a vague disquiet. For remember the knowledge I had acquired of the intimate relations existing between this enigmatic woman and John Thaneford. It was also certain that the latter's financial ruin was impending, and that Betty, even without the landed ownership of the "Hundred," was possessed of no inconsiderable fortune, and therefore a prize worth acquiring. Not that I believed, for an instant, that a girl like Betty Graeme would even consider such a suitor, and Eunice Trevor had said as much to Thaneford himself; had warned him that his hopes in that direction were assuredly futile. Yet even that certainty could be made the foundation, in the feminine mind, of a justifiable grudge; Betty Graeme could be kind or a good deal less than kind to John Thaneford, and in either case Eunice Trevor would hold it up against her. Any woman will understand how this can be, and I may as well be honest and confess that I got my explanation from Betty herself--only that was a long time afterward. I can easily comprehend why no one could meet Betty Graeme without wanting to love her, and most of us ended by actually doing so. But that even Betty could have worked the miracle of reaching what passed with Fielding Thaneford for a heart! It does seem incredible. And yet, if she had not accomplished that impossible thing, I know very surely that I should not be telling this particular story. It had been ordained that I should succeed to the seat perilous of "Hildebrand Hundred," and sooner or later must I have paid the predestined price of my great possession. Truly love is the master-key to every door, but few of us think it worth while to try it, or are even willing to make the attempt. I have spoken of the gulf which seemed to open between Fielding Thaneford and me from the very moment of our first meeting--unbridgable, impassable. But Betty crossed it as easily and as surely as a bird on the wing. "It seems so unnatural and horrible," she said one afternoon as we were sitting in the sick room. "There he lies within hand reach, and yet immeasurably removed. Silence and darkness--oh, I can't bear it!" "I think he understands what is said to him," I ventured. "All the worse if he can't break through from his side of the wall. But there must be a way, and I am going to find it." She left the room, returning a few minutes later with a large square of cardboard on which she had printed the letters of the alphabet. Now I should have made it plain that the sole physical function remaining to Fielding Thaneford was a limited control of the right hand; we had learned to distinguish in its movements the two elementary expressions of assent and dissent. Betty went to the bedside, and gently slipped the sheet of cardboard under the sick man's right hand. "You see what I mean, Mr. Thaneford," she said, with an infinite note of sympathy in her voice. "If you would point out the letters one by one, no matter how slowly. We will both be very patient--please now." Fielding Thaneford's hand--the hand of a very old man, with its thickened knuckles and swollen blue veins--quivered slightly, but remained motionless. Yet I fancied that his glance consciously sought the girl's face and rested there; ordinarily you felt that his gaze merely passed over you, and then travelled inimitably onward and outward. It was certain that he understood the proposal, even while unwilling to act upon it. Twice she repeated the suggestion; and then, too tactful to force the point, she smiled and withdrew the square of cardboard. "Perhaps to-morrow," she said with exceeding gentleness, while I marvelled that any human being could have withstood her. But then what quality of our common humanity could inhere in that huge, inert mass of flesh, animated, as it was, by a mere spark of conscious intelligence. Betty was not one to be easily discouraged. On the morrow she tried again, and again without definite result. The third day the miracle seemed on the point of fulfillment. Fielding Thaneford's forefinger actually moved to the letter B, and rested there. No amount of feminine cajolery could bring about any further compliance, but surely the first step had been taken. "I really believe," said Betty to me, between a smile and a tear, "that he had my name in mind." "How could he help it," I retorted; whereat she blushed so divinely that I could barely resist taking her bodily in my arms--then and there, for once and for all. "You will see to-morrow," she predicted with gay confidence. But to-morrow brought an unexpected turn. Some subtle change had come upon the sick man in the night, and Doctor Marcy, after the usual examination, looked grave. "I can't be positive," he said, "but I think he has had another slight stroke. Probably a question now of a few hours." Nevertheless at noon he appeared to revive, and was able to take some gruel and the white of an egg whipped up in sherry. Miss Davenport went for her usual constitutional, and we decided that it would not be necessary to notify John Thaneford. The latter had not been near the house for two days, and had not even troubled himself to telephone. But, considered from any point of view, his absence was preferable to his presence. It was very quiet in the sick room. The day was warm, but not uncomfortably so, and a cooling breeze, heavy with the fragrance of summer flowers, drifted in at the casement windows. Suddenly Betty seized her square of cardboard. "He wants to say something?" she whispered, as she passed me. "Don't you see it in his face?" But I, being a man, and so dull of understanding, could only nod and wonder dumbly. Too late it seemed, for the stiffening fingers had lost even the small powers of functioning that they had hitherto preserved. Even I could now see that Fielding Thaneford was desirous of speaking some last word, of voicing some final message. But, apparently, coordination between brain and muscle had ceased entirely. Absorbed and intent, Betty leaned over him. "Is it John?" she asked. The hand achieved an almost imperceptible motion, but both of us recognized the emphatic quality of its dissent. "Oh!" cried Betty, with an overwhelming rush of sympathy, and took the almost nerveless member into the intimate fellowship of her two warm, exquisitely sensitive palms. Do you remember my speaking of the supreme distinction of her handclasp; how it seemed to fit so perfectly? Yes, it was undeniably evident that the spirit of Fielding Thaneford was striving desperately to rend its clayey envelope, and deliver its message in terms intelligible to mortal senses. But surely the vehicle was wanting; it could not be. And then, quite certainly, I knew that something had been transmitted through the mediumship of that intimate handclasp. Betty's eyes grew luminous as stars; she whispered some words too low for me to hear. "Is that it?" she concluded. The fast glazing eyes said yes, as plainly as lips could have uttered the word. What had happened? Suddenly the spark of life behind the monstrous masque that had been Fielding Thaneford's face had disappeared; quite as when the wind extinguishes the candle in a paper lantern. Betty turned to me in a rain of tears. "He is gone," she murmured. * * * * * Strange! that I of all men should be the one to compose Fielding Thaneford's hands upon his breast and close his sightless eyes. But life's obligations are none the less imperative that they are unforeseen. The man lying dead upon the bed had never spoken a single word to me; indeed our glances had met but once, and then had instantly fallen away. How could we be other than eternally alien, and yet these final offices to our common mortality had fallen to my hand. And it was still short of a month since the messenger of fate had brought me the invitation to attend the funeral services of my kinsman, Francis Graeme. * * * * * Miss Davenport came back from her walk, and assumed charge of affairs with her accustomed efficiency. I offered to do the telephoning to John Thaneford, but Betty determined that the announcement ought to come from her. Just before dinner he drove over, and remained in the room for perhaps a quarter of an hour. None of us saw him, but he had the grace to leave a brief word of thanks to Betty for the profusion of white carnations that she had insisted on cutting and arranging with her own hands. Late that evening Betty came to me on the library terrace where I sat smoking innumerable cigarettes. "You know he tried to tell me something at the end," she said. "Yes." "All he could manage was just the slightest possible pressure of the hand. A succession of numbers then." "Do you want to tell me what the numbers were?" "Of course. They were 1-4-2-4-8. I am sure I got them correctly." "Not much to be made out of that," I commented. "No, but I feel certain that he meant something by the message, something of importance." "To whom?" "How can anyone say? Will you write the figures down, so that there can be no possibility of my forgetting." I pulled out my note-book, and inscribed the unintelligible formula: 1-4-2-4-8. The resolution of the problem naturally intrigued me, and the obvious first line of approach was the application of the old Russian "knock" system in which each letter is identified with its numerical position in the alphabetical sequence. I explained the theory to Betty, and she was all eagerness for me to try it out. It took but a moment or two to replace the numbers by their corresponding letters; for example, the figure 1 stands for A, the first letter of the alphabet, and the figure 4 represents the fourth letter or D. The complete series read: A-D-B-D-H. "Not even a vowel to juggle with," I said ruefully. "Blinder than ever, I should say." "But it does mean something," returned Betty stoutly. "And some day we shall know." Chapter X _I Receive an Ultimatum_ Fielding Thaneford was buried three days later in S. Saviour's churchyard. As relatives, even in remote degree, we were bound to attend the services, and also to be present at the interment. For Betty it was an ordeal, the reopening of a half-closed wound, and I could feel her hand tremble as it lay in the crook of my arm, the grave yawning at our feet. In my capacity as Hildebrand of the "Hundred" I was already her official protector, and I was looking forward to the establishment of a relationship infinitely nearer and dearer. Even now I think she sensed what was in my mind and heart; but, after all these emotional upheavals, there must be a decent interval for a new adjustment to the facts of life--compensation, as the mathematical formula has it. The mutual understanding had already been established, and the flower of our future happiness would be all the lovelier for that we did not seek to force its bourgeoning. As the funeral party withdrew from the burial enclosure, John Thaneford presented himself. "I shall be going away Saturday," he began, fixing his eyes exclusively on Betty's face. "Do you mean for a visit?" she inquired. "I don't quite know," he evaded. "But I dare say the 'Court' will be shut up indefinitely." "I am sorry for that." "Are you going to be at home within an hour or so? There is something I have to say to you. Now then, I won't be put off by made-up excuses," he added, seeing that Betty hesitated. "Come any time after five," she answered. He stood aside, and we passed on. After luncheon I went down to the lower reach of the Whippany where we were preparing to install a small electric power and storage plant. Presently, I saw a familiar figure walking over from the house--Chalmers Warriner. "Just got back from New York last night," he explained, "and thought I'd run over and see you all. So the old man died?" We talked generally on the events of the last fortnight; then I went more particularly into the circumstances attendant upon Fielding Thaneford's last hours, and Warriner listened attentively. The series of numbers which Betty had obtained from the dying man plainly appealed to his imagination, but he agreed with me that neither the numbers themselves nor their alphabetical equivalents offered any intelligible clue. "Of course he wanted to put over some message," he mused, "and he trusted to Betty's intuition to make things plain." * * * * * Betty, instead of Miss Graeme! Really, I hadn't been aware that Warriner was on so intimate a footing at the "Hundred." But of course it was all right; Warriner was older, by at least ten years, than either Betty or myself, and he probably looked on himself as a sort of elder brother to the entire household. I tried to recall if Betty was accustomed to call him by his Christian name. But I could not remember ... it was none of my business ... what difference anyway could it make. Unconsciously I had yielded to the slight pressure of Warriner's hand upon my arm. He led me away from the noisy gang of negroes working on the projected dam and power-house; presently we were within sight of one of the farm barns. The great double doors were open, but the distance was full half a mile, and nothing within the structure was discernible. Warriner unwrapped the slender parcel that he was carrying, and produced what looked very much like an old-fashioned spy glass, only of most unusual length. "And that's just what it is," he said, divining my thought. "Except that I have replaced the object glass with the lens I picked up the other day at Thaneford's crow's-nest on Sugar Loaf." "Go on." "I told you that there seemed to be some extraordinary optical properties in that piece of glass. I tried it out in my own laboratory, and got certain results. Then, when I was in Baltimore, I had Carter of Johns Hopkins check me up with his more complete apparatus. Some rather astonishing conclusions." "How so?" "Well, you've probably heard of the telephoto lens--a sort of long distance microscope, to use very colloquial language. I have seen telephoto pictures of the Matterhorn, taken five or six miles away, in which you could make out the actual geologic texture of the rocks. "But, of course, there must be plenty of light on the object to get clear definition. On the same principle, one can stand inside a room and see everything outdoors with perfect distinctness. It's a very different thing, trying to look into a room from without. The visibility is low, as they say, and you don't get much." "Yes, I understand that." "Again there are optical lenses specially designed to make the most of poor illumination. A familiar example is the sailor's night-glass. "You guess what I'm coming to. This particular lens has the telephoto range, and, at the same time, it works with the minimum of illumination. Never saw anything like it before, and it would be worth a fortune in the binocular field." "Show me." Chalmers Warriner rested the long glass on a fence post, ranged it on the open door of the barn nearly three thousand yards away, and did some preliminary focussing and other adjustments. He took a look, and then invited me to do the same. It was truly marvellous! It seemed as though I were standing on the very threshold of the barn and looking inside. I recognized Adam Lake, the field foreman, working on the engine of a small tractor. In the background, Zack was oiling a set of harness. The details were astoundingly distinct. "It's evident now," continued Warriner, "that the iron trough at Thaneford's observation point was intended to support a telescope such as this. The instrument is too long to hold steadily in the hand, and it had to be ranged precisely on the two-foot opening of the pridella. It was therefore possible to sit comfortably concealed on Sugar Loaf, and keep accurate tab on whatever was passing in Francis Graeme's library; provided, of course, that one of the pridellas was open. Even this wonderful lens could not penetrate stained glass. It isn't an X-ray apparatus." "Granting all your premises--why?" "And that's just what I would like mightily to know," answered Warriner. "But let's go back to the house; there's something else I want to show you." We went to the library, and, by way of refreshment after our long walk in the sun, I told Effingham to make us some claret cup. Presently he brought it in, and proceeded to fill a couple of long, Rhinewine glasses with the beverage. The big cut-glass pitcher was heavily beaded with cool moisture, and looked irresistibly inviting; the Eighteenth Amendment was unanimously declared unconstitutional, and we drank and drank again. So long as the cellar of "Hildebrand Hundred" continued to function it was still worth while to acquire a thirst. Warriner took a small object from a cardboard box, and passed it over to me. "Remember that?" he asked. "I suppose it's the same moth cocoon which we found plastered on the postern-door----" "And directly on the line between door and casing," interjected Warriner. "Being proof positive that the door could not have been opened for a period considerably antecedent to Graeme's death." "I presume so." "Well, I took that cocoon home, and made some tests. It had been fastened on the door by means of mucilage--common, ordinary mucilage." I stared at Warriner without speaking. This was indeed confounding. "To air some of my recently acquired entomological knowledge, I may tell you that the moth caterpillar generally goes underground to enter the pupa stage," continued Warriner. "If the transformation does take place at the surface the cocoon is sometimes found under a dead leaf or a fallen branch; still more rarely beneath the bark of a tree. It is virtually impossible that it should have been fixed naturally in such an exposed position as the crack of a door. "Even more significant is the fact that this cocoon is of a species not indigenous to Maryland; in fact, it doesn't belong to this country at all. Come over here," and he led me to the corner in which stood the glass cases containing Richard Hildebrand's famous collection of the _lepidoptera_. Warriner pointed out a magnificent specimen of the Great Peacock moth of Europe, an entomological aristocrat described by the French naturalist, J. H. Fabre, in one of his fascinating essays. Now all the other specimens of the adult butterfly or moth were accompanied by their respective cocoons. But below the Great Peacock was a vacant space. Warriner lifted the lid of the case, and extended his hand for the cocoon that I still held. He fixed it in the empty place. "Certainly it looks as though it belonged there," he said tersely. Effingham came in to take away the tray of pitcher and glasses. "Come here, boy," said Warriner with the confident command of the born and bred Southerner, and Effingham was prompt to obey. "You remember the day Marse Francis died?" "Yassah." "When Miss Eunice sent you up stairs to get the ammonia was she wearing any kind of a wrap?" "Nossah. Dere was a lil' brack shawl er-hangin' on 'er arm; nuffin else." Warriner glanced at me. "Keep that in mind," he said quietly. He turned again to Effingham. "Did she ask you for anything?" he continued. "Nossah." "I believe you're lying to me. Just think it over ... carefully now." With the greatest deliberation Warriner took some strands of coarse green and yellow worsted from his pocket, and proceeded to tie them into an intricate-appearing knot. Effingham watched him with concentrated and fascinated attention. . "Well?" said Warriner sharply, and leaned forward with the variegated knot depending from his forefinger. Effingham shivered, and backed away. "I do 'member one lil' thing," stammered the old man. "Mis' Eunice, she done tole me to-gib 'er----" "The master-key?" "Yassah, dat's ezackly what she done said. She 'splained the doctah might want to go in the liburry befo' I come back." "Then you did give it to Miss Eunice?" "She grabbed it fum me, right outen my han', and tole me to git erlong. An' dat's de whole Gawd's truf, Marse Chalmers." "All right," nodded Warriner, and Effingham retired with every indication that he was glad to get away. "Anything is voodoo to one of the old-time darkies," smiled Warriner. "A bit of colored ribbon and two crossed sticks is a good enough 'cunjer' for almost any emergency." "I recall your threat at the inquest about the postern-door," I assented. "It brought home the bacon without delay. All the same, my dear chap, you must admit that these revelations are most disturbing. I don't know----" "----what to think of Eunice Trevor." Warriner had interrupted to finish out my sentence for me. "But let me sum up my conclusions to date," he continued. "Miss Trevor was on the library terrace around one o'clock. Presumably she received a signal from the observation point on Sugar Loaf that Francis Graeme was lying dead, and that she might safely enter the room, and abstract the iron despatch-box which was supposed to contain the will disinheriting John Thaneford. She hadn't the nerve to examine the box in the dead man's presence, or she may have been alarmed by some interruption from without--say Effingham's summons to luncheon. The thought occurred to her of blinding her own trail, and so she snatched a cocoon at random from the case of mounted specimens, daubed it with library gum, and stuck it on the crack of the postern-door, of course from the outside, as she was making her escape by the secret entrance. Naturally she was not aware that, in her haste, she had dropped one of her roses in the passageway. "In the seclusion of her room she opened and thoroughly searched the box, but found only the original will in which John Thaneford had been named the residuary legatee. The natural explanation would be that Francis Graeme had been prevented from carrying out his intention of making you his heir, and that no later instrument was in existence. In her devotion to John Thaneford's interests, it would now become necessary for her to get the despatch-box back in the library before the tragedy should be discovered and the room carefully examined. She found her opportunity when Doctor Marcy went to meet Betty, leaving Effingham on guard at the library door. You remember the darky telling us that she had a shawl on her arm, an obvious means of concealing such an object as the despatch-box. Then she took the master-key from him----" "Why did she wait so long?" I interrupted. "She might never have had that chance." "Well, at the first opening of the library door she may have been too unnerved to risk it. You recall that she fainted at the moment when Marcus, the house-boy, made the discovery of the body. "In the second place the box is rather bulky, and she would have found great difficulty in placing it in position, under the alert and curious eyes of the servants. Finally, she may have had some thought of re-entering the room by means of the postern-door, which still remained unlocked." "A desperate _dernier ressort_," I observed. "Somebody would have certainly seen her." "Granted. Anyway Betty's arrival did give her a chance, and she was quick to take advantage of it. "Well, that's my case," concluded Warriner. "How does it strike you?" "It has its weak points." "Agreed." "Who unlocked the library door when Doctor Marcy returned with my Cousin Betty?" "Marcy says it was Effingham. Miss Trevor would want to get the master-key out of her possession the instant that she had accomplished her purpose of replacing the despatch-box. And somehow she managed it, even though Betty and the doctor arrived on the scene a trifle in advance of Effingham's return with the ammonia." "Very well; we'll drop that issue for the present. Assuming that you have fairly reconstructed the action connected with the abstraction of the despatch-box and its return to the room, there still remains the question of how Francis Graeme came to his death. Was it the accident of his falling and striking his head on that same iron box, or was he attacked from behind? Remember that the postern-door was unlocked all the time." "I don't think it was Eunice Trevor who killed him," returned Warriner. "Of course, it is conceivable that she entered by the secret way, struck Graeme down, and escaped with the despatch-box; everything else following as before. But, in the first place, she is a woman, and below the normal feminine in the matter of physique. An assault of this nature is no child's play, even granting the element of complete surprise. Secondly, it is pretty clear that she entered the library in obedience to a signal from John Thaneford. He had been watching the progress of events through his wonderful telephoto lens, and the waving of a handkerchief told her that the way was open." "How about Thaneford himself?" "Assuming that it was a murder, I still see no ground for trying to fix the guilt on him. He could hardly have approached the library that morning without being seen by Zack and Zeb." "He might have had an accomplice, or rather a tool. But I suppose that hypothesis is open to the same objection--the continued presence of the two men who were mowing the lawn?" "Yes and no," returned Warriner thoughtfully. "A white man certainly would be noticed. But there are always negroes coming and going about our Southern houses, and Zeb and Zack would have paid no attention to anyone of their own color. Moreover, there are plenty of bad niggers capable of cutting your throat for a couple of dollars." "But think of the risk involved in using such an instrument!" I exclaimed. "And somehow I can't quite believe it of John Thaneford, heartily as I dislike him. I can understand his committing this alleged crime with his own hand, but I don't see him hiring a black thug to act for him." "Nor I," agreed Warriner. "It isn't in the picture." "And so we come back to the verdict of the coroner's jury: Dead by the visitation of God. Only it's curious----" "Yes?" "----that John Thaneford should have had such definite foreknowledge that the visitation in question was impending. Remember the look-out on Sugar Loaf and the handkerchief marked with his initials." "It's a blind alley right enough," assented Warriner. He picked up the spy glass with which he had been experimenting, and looked it over with minute attention. "Did you ever hear," he asked, "that in his younger days Fielding Thaneford was considered to be an expert in the science of optics? He made a number of improvements in lenses, and enjoyed a reputation quite analogous to that of John Brashear, of Pittsburg. I dare say he constructed this very lens." "But on the twenty-first of June, this year of grace, the old man was physically helpless. He couldn't have walked ten feet without assistance." "I'm not trying to bring him into it," replied Warriner calmly. "I merely state another fact that should be borne in mind." * * * * * The noise of wheels on the gravelled driveway announced the arrival of a visitor, and presently I recognized John Thaneford's voice inquiring for Betty. It annoyed me that he should come to the house, but Betty had given him the appointment, and I had no shadow of an excuse for interfering. After fidgetting around for some ten minutes I begged Warriner to make himself at home, and left the house for the ostensible purpose of giving some directions to the workmen who were relaying a brick wall leading to the glass-houses. But I kept an eye on the front door, and when, a quarter of an hour later, John Thaneford finally made his appearance, I managed to meet him on the portico. One glance at his dark face satisfied me as to the nature of the answer he had received from Betty. That was all I wanted to know, and I would have passed him with a bare word and nod. But he would not have it so. "I have just one thing to say to you, Cousin Hugh," he began. Cousin Hugh again! It was astonishing what concentrated insolence this rural bully contrived to put into this ostensibly friendly salutation. But no matter; I did not intend to have any brawling on my own doorstep, and I determined to take no notice of covert provocation. "And it's this," he continued. "The girl or the 'Hundred'--you can choose between them. But both you shan't have." He waited for me to reply, but I only stood there and looked at him. "Which is it to be?" he asked, his thick, black eyebrows narrowing to a V-point. "I've nothing to say to you," I answered. "Very good. Only remember that I played fair, and gave you your choice. Good evening, Cousin Hugh, and damn you for a white-livered Yank that I wouldn't feed to my hawgs." He raised his hand as though half inclined to strike me; then he changed his mind and dropped it. "Please don't hesitate on my account," I observed. "I can take whatever you may be able to give." Whereupon he favored me with another scowl, and departed. "That puts him out of the running," I reflected with no small satisfaction. But my complacency was short-lived. Chalmers Warriner stayed to dinner, and my worst fears were confirmed; Betty did call him by his Christian name, and the two were evidently on the very best of terms. I dare say I must have sulked a little, for after Warriner had driven back to Calverton Betty became appallingly distant and reserved. I had to make my peace, and I did so with all humbleness. I fancied that there was a subdued glint of amusement in Betty's eye as I stumbled through some banal excuses about a splitting headache--I am nothing if not original. But she gave me absolution very generously, and we both agreed that Warriner was one of the best fellows on earth. "It's mostly on account of the reputation of the 'Hundred' for hospitality," added Betty. "You know, we think a lot of that down here, and you are now the head of the family. Of course you understand; and so, good night, Cousin Hugh." Cousin Hugh again! But with a difference; all the difference. * * * * * I had been sitting alone in the library after the retirement of the ladies. It struck eleven o'clock, late hours for country mice, and I rose to go to my room. Just then the telephone bell rang, and I found Warriner on the wire. "I have this moment learned," he began, "that a negro named Dave Campion was arrested late this evening, charged with the murder of Francis Graeme. You had better come to Calverton the first thing in the morning." Chapter XI _The Rider of the Black Horse_ Given the exigency, and through what tortuous and secret channels will not the human mind seek to communicate with its kind! Call it telepathy or what not, the phenomenon itself is a well established fact; one that we accept without attempting to explain it. Not a syllable of Warriner's message had crossed my lips, and yet by breakfast time the bruit of it was in the very air; the negroes were collecting here and there in little whispering groups; I overheard Eunice Trevor telephoning to Calverton for a confirmation of the report; finally, Betty herself asked me what it all meant. I had just finished telling her the bare facts when Warriner's car came swiftly up the drive; he alighted and we went into the library. "No use in your going over until three o'clock," he began. "At least that is the time set by the magistrate for the hearing, and it will take several hours to get the material witnesses together. I believe that summonses have been served on some of your people, including Marcus, the house-boy, and Zack and Zeb." "Who is the man, and what were the circumstances of his arrest?" I asked. "His name, as I told you last night, is Dave Campion." "Oh, I know him," put in Betty. "He is a sort of peddler; at least he travels around with a miscellaneous lot of perfumes and hair ribbons for the women, and cheap safety razors for the men." "Ostensibly so," nodded Warriner, "but his real business is bootlegging." "You mean whiskey?" "Yes, and worse. You have heard of 'coke'?" "Cocaine powder?" "Yes." "'Happy dust' the darkies call it," added Betty. "Last month father forbade Campion to ever come on the place again." Warriner looked interested. "I suppose Campion resented the exclusion," he remarked. But on this point Betty could say nothing; Mr. Graeme had merely told her that the negro peddler had been warned off the "Hundred" property. "He is a smart nigger," explained Warriner. "And so light in color that you would hardly suspect the dash of the tar brush, as the English say. He was educated at Hampton-Sidney, and talks just like a white man--rather proud of it, too--but worthless in every way, and a menace to the community." "Education then isn't any guarantee of morality among the negroes," I observed. "Why should it be any more than with our own class?" retorted Warriner. "No, Campion is a bad nigger, and even Hampton-Sidney couldn't make him over." "But about the arrest?" I urged. "The fellow was drunk last night, and openly displayed a handsome matchbox; gold with a turquoise set in the spring knob. Several persons recognized it as belonging to Mr. Francis Graeme; in fact, it bore his initials. The police were informed, and the arrest followed." "No explanations were made, I suppose." "I told you he was a smart nigger. Not a word could they get out of him, beyond a general denial of any wrongdoing." "Dave Campion was at the 'Hundred' the day my father died," said Betty. "I met him as I was riding down the Green Drive on my way to 'Powersthorp.' I dare say he took the drive in preference to the regular carriage road so as to avoid observation." "About what time of the day was that?" asked Warriner. "Close to one o'clock. I was lunching with Hilda Powers, and had been late in starting." "That's an important point," mused Warriner. "Do you think I ought to go to the hearing and testify?" continued Betty, evidently troubled. "Not the least in the world," said Warriner promptly. "Sheriff Greenough may be countrified, but he can see through a grindstone with a hole in it as quickly as the next man. Undoubtedly he knows all about Campion's visit to the 'Hundred' that morning, and has his witnesses to prove it." Warriner had business farther on, and presently he left us with the understanding that he would be at the magistrate's court at three o'clock. I was rather surprised to hear Betty express a wish to accompany me to Calverton. "Not to the hearing," she explained; "I don't think I could stand that. But I have some shopping to do, and then I'll go to Mary Crandall's for a cup of tea. You can pick me up there." I felt bound in courtesy to invite Miss Trevor to make one of the party. But she refused, with a curtness that was almost rude. "I shan't waste any time running up blind alleys," she said sharply. "There won't be a shred of direct evidence against Campion, and the Court will be obliged to discharge him." "But the matchbox," I persisted. "Surely he will have to explain very convincingly how it came to be in his possession." "Well, you might ask Judge Hendricks why he doesn't read the papers once in a while," replied Miss Trevor, her black eyes snapping and her thin upper lip curling disdainfully. Evidently it was not for me to argue the case any further, and, personally, I was only too pleased that I should now have Betty to myself on the trip to Calverton and back. Shortly after luncheon we started, Betty driving her own pony pair to a trim basket-phaeton. To think of going anywhere nowadays in other form of conveyance than the gas-wagon! But I fully appreciated the distinction of an equipage really well turned out, and then I was sitting at Betty Graeme's side; yes, I found it all very pleasant. Arrived at Calverton I dropped Betty at White and Callender's, put up the team at a livery stable, and found my way to Justice Hendricks' chambers. Warriner joined me a few minutes later, and presently my former acquaintance, Sheriff Greenough, brought in the prisoner and the hearing began. Dave Campion was a rather good-looking mulatto, keen-eyed, and apparently quite able to take care of his own interests. On being questioned by the judge, he made no secret of his having been at the "Hundred" the morning of June the twenty-first. "Had you not been warned by Mr. Francis Graeme not to trespass upon his property?" asked Judge Hendricks. "Yes, sir." "Why did you disregard that injunction?" "I went to the 'Hundred' on business." "What sort of business?" "Private, sir. With Mr. Graeme himself." "Did you see him?" "No, sir. Marcus, the house-boy, told me that he was at work in the library, and had left orders not to be disturbed." "Then you were in the house?" "Yes, sir. I went to the kitchen door, and Marcus took me to the butler's pantry." "Where was Effingham?" "At work in the dining room. I didn't see him at all." "How long were you in the house?" "About twenty minutes, I should say, sir. It was just quarter after one o'clock when I went away." "What did you do then?" "I went to the south lawn, and saw Zack Cameron." "He bought some article, or articles, from you?" "Yes, sir." "How did Mr. Graeme's matchbox come into your possession?" "I found it in the road nearly opposite S. Saviour's Church?" "When?" "About two weeks ago, sir." "And you came to the 'Hundred' intending to return it to Mr. Graeme?" "Yes, sir." "That's all for the present. No; wait a moment. What particular article did you sell to Zack Cameron?" Campion hesitated for a barely perceptible interval; then he answered steadily: "A pint of whiskey, sir." "You knew that you were breaking the law?" "Yes, sir." On the whole Campion's testimony had been in his favor. His answers had been clear and apparently ingenuous, and his frank admission of the minor offence of illicit liquor selling added weight to his other statements. Zack Cameron, on being closely interrogated, owned that he had not been entirely truthful about the presence of strangers at the "Hundred" on the morning in question. He admitted that the peddler, Dave Campion, had appeared on the south lawn a few minutes after he and Zeb has started on their post-meridian stint. "What did you buy of him?" Zack rolled his eyes, and looked excessively uncomfortable. "Campion says it was a pint of whiskey. Is that true?" "Yassah, dat am puffeckly c'rect. You see, Boss, I had a toofache----" "Stand down," ordered the magistrate, and Marcus was called. The house-boy corroborated in general the statements made by Campion. He had admitted the peddler at the back entrance, and had taken him to the butler's pantry. Campion had asked to see Mr. Graeme, and had been told that he was engaged. "Were you with Campion all the time he was in the house?" asked Judge Hendricks. "Yassah, 'cept when Mr. Effingham done call me into the dining room to help him turn ober the rug." "Five minutes perhaps?" But Marcus could not be positive about the elapsed period. He could only assert that when he returned to the pantry Campion had gone; presumably he had let himself out. "But there is a door from the pantry into the short passage that leads to the library, isn't there?" "Yassah." "How about Effingham's master-key; did you ever hear of it?" Marcus grinned all over with the irresistible comedy of his race. "Eberybody know all about 'um," he chuckled throatily. "Mr. Effingham hid 'um behind clock like old dog wif bone. Yah! yah!" "Then it was no particular secret, the master-key and its hiding place?" "Nossah." "That will do. Let's have the prisoner again." Campion remained perfectly cool and self-possessed. He readily agreed that he had been left alone in the pantry for a period of five minutes; it might even have been longer. He admitted that he had gone to the library door, and had knocked two or three times. "That may have been what disturbed Eunice Trevor," whispered Warriner in my ear. "Just at that moment she must have been in the room with the despatch-box in her hand." "You got no reply to your knock?" continued Judge Hendricks. "No, sir." "Did you know of the master-key?" "Yes, sir. Marcus showed me its hiding place behind the clock, and we had been laughing at old Effingham's simplicity." "Then it didn't occur to you that you might use the master-key?" "Well, I didn't fancy the idea of actually intruding upon Mr. Graeme. You remember, sir, that he had forbidden me to come on the place." "Yet you summoned enough courage to knock?" "That was a little different, sir, from walking in on him unannounced. Besides, I really did wish to see him." "For what purpose?" It was the crucial question, and we all craned our necks in our eagerness to catch the reply. But Campion's voice was without a tremor. "To restore the matchbox and claim the twenty dollars reward," he answered. "What proof can you give that the article in question was lost and a reward offered for its return?" The mulatto drew a folded newspaper from his pocket, and handed it to Judge Hendricks. It was a copy of the _King William County Clarion_, and a paragraph in the advertising columns was heavily blue-pencilled. It was to the effect that a gold and turquoise-jewelled matchbox, bearing the initials F. H. G., had been lost on the road between Calverton and Lynn. A reward of twenty dollars was offered for its return to Mr. Graeme of "Hildebrand Hundred." "The date of this copy of the Clarion," said Judge Hendricks, frowning portentously, "is June 10, 1919. In the absence of any further evidence I direct the discharge of the prisoner." * * * * * "There still remain some interesting possibilities," said Warriner to me, as we walked down the street. "On one side of the locked door that black shadow of a woman, ready to do anything to save her lover's fortune; on the other, that yellow-faced scoundrel, eager for plunder, fingering the master-key, and trying to muster up enough courage to use it. And between them, a dead man. Or was he dead at that particular moment? Perhaps the two of them, working together, might have brought the thing about." "But Campion could hardly have committed the murder, returned the master-key to its position behind the clock, and left the house, by the kitchen entrance, in the short space of five minutes," I objected. "Well, how is this for an hypothesis?" retorted Warriner. "Campion is the tool employed by John Thaneford to do the dirty work. He is instructed to be at the library door at a few minutes past one. Thaneford, with his telephoto lens, sees that Graeme is dozing in his chair. He signals to Eunice, who enters by the postern-door and admits the waiting Campion, the master-key not being used at all. The crime accomplished, both escape by the secret door, leaving the cocoon gummed in place to destroy the clue." "Rather fortuitous, don't you think? The whole train of circumstances goes off the track in case Mr. Graeme doesn't fall asleep at just the right moment." "Of course," agreed Warriner. "And I was beginning to fancy myself as an amateur sleuth," he added a trifle ruefully. "Anyway you have the magnifying telephoto lens and the purloined cocoon to your credit, my dear Chalmers. As for the rest of it, we may as well fall back on our coroner's verdict: Dead by the visitation of God. Will you come back to dinner this evening?" But Warriner declined, pleading the pressure of his laboratory work. I picked up Betty at the Crandall's, and we drove back slowly to the "Hundred." It was nearing sunset as we rolled up the drive under the arching shadow of the lindens. Suddenly Betty started, and grasped my arm. Directly opposite rose the massive bulk of the Sugar Loaf. In an open space a portion of the woodland road was visible, where it wound around the upper escarpment of the dome; and there, outlined against the level rays of the sinking sun, stood motionless a great black horse. The powerful figure of the rider was readily recognizable--John Thaneford. "He told me that he was going away to-day," whispered Betty, as though fearful of being overheard. "For an indefinite period," she added. "Forever, I hope," I muttered under my breath. The silhouette of horse and rider stood out stark, almost colossal, against the crimsoning skyline. But the black shadow of Sugar Loaf was lengthening swiftly over the level meadows that margined the little river Whippany; the advancing darkness seemed to be sucking out, in its chill embrace, all the warmth and brightness of the summer day. Betty shivered, touched up the horses and we speeded on. But so long as I could see the great black horseman remained motionless, watchful, eternally menacing. Chapter XII _Safe Find, Safe Bind_ Let me now pass over some six months concerning which there are no events of particular moment to be recorded--I mean in connection with the tragedy. Late in December Betty and I were married very quietly-at S. Saviour's Church, Bob Mercer coming down to assist in the ceremony. During the summer and autumn I had been absent almost continuously in Philadelphia, engaged in winding up the trusteeship which had formed the bulk of my professional work. Of course, I had already come to a full understanding with my dear girl, and it was quite natural that she should continue to live on at the "Hundred," the only home that she had ever known. The presence of Mrs. Anthony preserved the convenances; and, after long cogitation, I had formally requested Eunice Trevor to stay on, in her old capacity of paid companion to Betty. Perhaps it was an unwise decision, but let me briefly recapitulate the influencing circumstances. Here they are: Eunice was Betty's first cousin, and the two girls had been brought up together, almost from infancy. Moreover, they were friendly, if not precisely intimate. Eunice was absolutely penniless, and I could not send her away, even with provision for her financial future, without a full explanation to Betty. Now whatever my surmises and suspicions there was no direct evidence that Francis Graeme's death had been due to violence; he was resting quietly in S. Saviour's churchyard, and Betty's sorrow ought not to be reawakened except for grave cause. Whatever part Eunice Trevor had taken in the tragedy--always assuming that there had been a tragedy--must have been a consequent of her unfortunate entanglement with John Thaneford; and God knows she had been punished for her fault through the irremediable wound to her affections. I could not believe, moreover, that she had been an active participant in any crime, overt or covert. Circumstances might have made her a confidante, even a tool, but she had not been an actual accessory to Francis Graeme's death, either before or after the event. So much by way of simple justice to the girl. In the second place, the chapter of incidents seemed to have closed with the acquittal of Dave Campion and the disappearance of John Thaneford. No word of any kind had come from the latter, and his whereabouts remained entirely unknown; it was a fair presumption that he never would reappear to trouble us. His financial affairs were hopelessly involved, and "Thane Court" itself was to be sold at public auction in February in order to satisfy the demands of the creditors. And finally, while the young woman's conduct had been indiscreet, if not absolutely disloyal, her lesson had been an exceedingly bitter one, and it was charitable to assume that it had been taken to heart. After my marriage to Betty in December it would be time enough to consider making other arrangements. Yes, my decision was taken, and now it was necessary to communicate it to Eunice herself. Miss Trevor listened to my proposal in stony silence, but in the first flush of my new happiness I could easily overlook even a direct ungraciousness. Mrs. Anthony was old and a semi-invalid; Betty would have her cousin's companionship during my long continued absence North, and that was enough. The upshot of our conference was that Miss Trevor agreed to stay on at the "Hundred." She admitted that the arrangement would be convenient, as the school position for which she had applied would not be available until the following September. "Then it is settled," I concluded, with as much cordiality as I could put into my voice. "I'm trusting Betty in your hands; you'll take good care of her." "Yes, Mr. Hildebrand, I can certainly promise to do that," she began; then she broke off and looked away as though regretting that she had said even that much. "That's all I want," I said, "and I'm glad we understand each other." I made a half motion to offer my hand, but she did not appear to notice the gesture, and we parted. Again I felt a twinge of disquietude, but the affair had been decided, and it was too late to reopen the discussion. A strange creature was Eunice Trevor, but I believe even now that she did love Betty Graeme. If only she had never looked into John Thaneford's baleful black eyes! As I have said before, my marriage to Betty took place in the last part of December. We went to Aiken for the honeymoon, intending to be back at the "Hundred" for the Christmas holidays. But we had been gone only four days when we were recalled by Mrs. Anthony's fatal attack of pneumonia. She died on December the twenty-third, and the holly wreaths and mistletoe remained unhung for our first Christmas in the old homestead, while the festivities of the season had to be confined to the servants' hall and the quarters. But we had Chalmers Warriner and Doctor Marcy in for dinner, and in my heart of hearts I was not sorry that the big, county family functions had to be postponed indefinitely. I am a quiet person, and I best enjoy my happiness when there is no one to look on. A selfish attitude perhaps, but I try to pay my debts to humanity in other ways. Generally Betty sees to it that I do so. In February "Thane Court" was sold at auction, and I bought it in. The property marched with that of the "Hundred," and being so well rid of one objectionable neighbor I had no mind to run any chances. Moreover, the land was of excellent quality, impoverished, it is true, by want of care and scientific cropping, but still capable of revival under reasonable management. I had bid it in for a price far under its real value, and I could easily get a tenant in case I concluded not to farm it myself. The house was old and in poor condition, and I determined to pull it down in the spring. But I was spared the trouble, for one windy night in March I was awakened by the light pressure of Betty's hand on my shoulder. "There is a big fire over in the west," she said excitedly, "and I think it must be 'Thane Court.'" I scrambled into some clothes, summoned all the men within reach, and made the best of my way to the scene of the conflagration, rather more than a mile distant. Betty was right. "Thane Court" was on fire, and it was evident, at a glance, that the house was doomed. Buckets and handpumps were useless, and long before the fire apparatus from Calverton could cover the ten miles of rutted, frozen roads the edifice had been reduced to a smoking ruin. It was three or four days later before we could venture to explore the smouldering debris. The furniture and other interior fittings were old and of no great value; all, of course, had been totally destroyed. The only thing left intact was a small safe, which I was informed, had stood in the room used by the elder Thaneford as an office. Now John Thaneford had not appeared at the sale, nor had he taken any steps to protect what interests he still retained in the estate. Everything in and about "Thane Court" had become my legal property, and so I had no hesitation in ordering the safe taken over to the "Hundred," it being my intention to open it and examine the contents. Of course any personal property would belong to John Thaneford, and I was quite sure of my own good faith in the matter. It might be impossible to locate the missing owner for some time to come, but we could cross that bridge when we came to it. The safe was of comparatively modern workmanship, and seemed to have suffered no damage from its ordeal by fire. It was equipped with the usual numbered dial lock, and, naturally, I did not possess the combination. I could have sent for a safe expert from Baltimore, but the expense would have been considerable. Or mechanics from Calverton could have forced an opening by means of the oxygen flame, but so violent a procedure would have destroyed the safe itself, and I was not quite certain that I had the right to take such drastic action. True, John Thaneford had abandoned his property, and everything had been sold without reserve; nevertheless, I wanted to be sure of my ground before going further. The safe had been thoroughly cleansed, and now stood temporarily under the principal staircase. I never passed it without an inquiring glance; somehow Betty and I could not resist the temptation of speculating about it; we were as curious as children, ever intent upon discovering what secrets it might hold. But how to find the key to the mystery? And then one evening Betty had a brilliant idea. "Do you remember," she asked, "a series of numbers that I got from Mr. Thaneford the day he died?" "Of course." I pulled out my note-book, and read the formula aloud: "1-4-2-4-8." "He certainly wanted to tell me something," persisted Betty. "Why shouldn't it have been the very combination we are looking for?" "Easy enough to find out," I answered. I went over to the safe, knelt down and took hold of the knob. Betty stood at my elbow, the note-book in her hand. "Ready?" she asked. "The numbers are: 1-4-2-4-8." I turned the knob, counting the clicks as they passed. The door yielded and swung open. Not much of a find after all--nothing but a leather-bound book resembling a diary in appearance. One of the covers had been slightly scorched by the intense heat, but the MS. seemed to be in excellent condition. I opened the book, scanned two or three lines, and looked up at Betty, who was leaning over my shoulder. "Why it's just a jumble of letters!" she exclaimed in poignant disappointment. "I can't read a word of it; what does it mean?" "Undoubtedly written in cypher," I replied. We looked at one another and laughed. Here indeed was an anti-climax. Chapter XIII _Le Chiffre Indéchiffrable_ During the world war I had been on duty in the intelligence department, and I had taken much interest in the science of cryptography, although not connected personally with the handling of cypher despatches. I could therefore explain to Betty that cypher systems fall under four general heads. 1. The giving to words, or groups of letters, a purely arbitrary significance. 2. The use of mechanical transformers in the shape of a screen or grid. 3. The substitution of numbers or other symbols for the original characters. 4. The transposition of letters according to a constant formula. "Obviously," I began, "the example before our eyes--long lines of letters without breaks or marks of punctuation--does not come under the first heading. It contains no recognizable words, or phonetic groups, which might correspond in the code book to actual sentences. For example, in the ordinary commercial systems, the word _Barbarian_ may mean: 'The wheat market is advancing.' But if I cable the word _Civilisation_ I really intend to say: 'Australian wool crop is a failure.' The principal value of the elaborate code system is in the saving of cable tolls, a single word conveying the meaning of an entire sentence. It is necessary, of course, that all of the correspondents should possess individual copies of the code, and loss or theft of the book discloses the whole secret. Do you understand?" Betty thought she did, and seemed so interested that I was emboldened to assume my best lecture manner. "Under the second head we may consider the mechanical device known as the grid, grille, or screen. "The instrument in question consists of a plate, usually made of metal, pierced by a number of holes of different sizes and irregularly spaced. When the writer sets out to prepare his message he lays the grid on the paper, and marks in the letters making up the words of his despatch through the apertures. Then the screen is removed, and the blank spaces are filled up with writing which has nothing to do with the real subject matter, the process being repeated until the entire message has been coded. The recipient is provided with a precisely similar grid. By applying it to the communication he is then able to read, through the holes, the text of the secret message. The ancient Romans used a variation of this method, somewhat as follows. A long strip of paper was wound spirally about a cylinder or cone; the writing was then done parallel with the axis of the metal form. When unrolled, the communication seemed to be made up of arbitrary signs really parts of letters which were entirely unintelligible. The recipient, however, by rewinding the strip on a precisely similar form, would be able to read the message. "Of course we may rule out the mechanical device. In this case we have a long communication of several hundred words, and the grille would be impracticable--too wasteful of space." "That disposes of No. 2," said Betty hopefully. "What next?" "In class 3 the coded message consists of numbers, or even of pure symbols--stars and daggers or what not. The latter variation is generally pure substitution, and may be called kindergarten cryptology. No one but a rank amateur would employ such a system. "In the numeral code each correspondent is supplied with a dictionary, the same edition of course. Each word of the original message is represented by a group of five numbers, two designating the location of the required word on the page, and the remaining three denoting the number of the page itself. The process, both of coding and of uncoding, is very laborious, and hardly pays for the trouble involved. Another way to use the two dictionaries is to interpret the words of the code message by substituting other words removed a certain definite distance up or down the column. Suppose it is agreed that 'fifteen down' shall be the key, and that the despatch, as received, reads: _Bull Collier_. The recipient takes his copy of the dictionary, looks up the word _Bull_, and counts down fifteen, getting the word _Buy_. Similarly, _Collier_ gives him _Copper_, and the decoded message will mean: 'Buy copper.' Finally, we may use a predetermined series of numbers as a key formula. We then divide the message to be coded into the same number of letter groups, and work out an intricate transposition, reversing the process in order to decode." "Rather makes your head ache," remarked Betty plaintively. "Besides, this cypher doesn't use numbers at all." "Right you are," I acquiesced, "and we are undoubtedly dealing with a system of the fourth order in which the letters are transposed according to a constant prearranged formula. "Let us first consider the simple form; the regular substitution of one letter of the alphabet for another. For example, X always takes the place of E, while B invariably means T, and so on. Such cyphers are easily read by the expert, who works on the principle that all the letters of the English alphabet may be ranked on a numerical scale of average frequency in use. The letter E heads the list; consequently, if any particular symbol predominates in the message it must correspond to that hard-worked vowel. Again, as _the_ is the commonest word group in the language we are quickly able to identify what stands for T and H. But this is quite too transparent a code for serious use." "Then don't waste time over it," said my practical-minded wife. "Old Mr. Thaneford was not a foolish person." I took a long look at the incomprehensible jumble of letters. "There are any number of formulae," I went on, "by means of which we may effect a transposition of letters, the substitution being variable or irregular. For instance, the 'Checkerboard,' invented by the Russian nihilists, and similar devices, most of which depend for secrecy upon single or double key-words. Perhaps the cleverest system in this group is the cypher called by the French, 'Le Chiffre Indéchiffrable.'" "'The Undecypherable Cypher,'" commented Betty. "Sounds rather hopeless." "Well, you can decide for yourself if there is any reasonable possibility of unravelling it, unless you are lucky enough to stumble on the key-word." "Try me," she challenged. "To begin with, you write down the twenty-six letters of the English alphabet in a horizontal line, indenting it the space of a single letter." "Indenting?" "You'll understand when you see the diagram I'm preparing." "Oh, you're making a magic square!" "Yes. Now you repeat the process twenty-five times, the only difference being that all these other lines begin at the left-hand margin, each with a different letter in their strict alphabetical order. Your diagram will then look like this. For the present I am putting it in skeleton form:" A B C D E F G.............W X Y A B C D E F G H.............X Y Z B C D E F G H I.............Y Z A C D E F G H I J.............Z A B D E F G H I J K.............A B C E F G H I J K L.............B C D F G H I J K L M.............C D E ................................. ................................. W X Y Z A B C D.............T U V X Y Z A B C D E.............U V W Y Z A B C D E F.............V W X "Now choose a key-word, or preferably, a key-sentence. For simplicity's sake, we'll take the short word: BEAD, and suppose we wish to send in cypher the message: CAB FEED." "Which is pure nonsense." "Granted. I merely select two words at random which can be coded on my incomplete square. If I had the whole diagram drawn out the message could be anything you like." "Go on," commanded Betty, her eyes snapping. "First you write down your message; then above it you put the key-word, repeated in whole or in part as many times as may be necessary, thus:" B E A D B E A C A B F E E D "Turning to the diagram you find B, the first letter of the key-word, in the top horizontal line; and C, the first letter of the word to be put into code, in the left-hand vertical line. Now look for the letter at the intersection of the vertical column headed by B and the horizontal line which C begins. You will find it to be E. Set this down as the first symbol of your cypher message, and obtain the other letters in a similar manner. Your despatch will then read: E F C J G J E. As an object lesson, place these letters under your original arrangement of key-word and message, thus:" B E A D B E A C A B F E E D E F C J G J E "You see at a glance that the substitution is irregular and variant. For example, the symbol E stands for both C and D. Again, the letter E in the word F E E D is at one time represented by G and secondly by J." "How do you translate the cypher?" asked Betty. "Merely reverse the process. You write down the cypher message, and above it as many letters of your key-word as may be needed, thus:" B E A D B E A E F C J G J E "Now follow down the vertical column headed by B until you reach the symbol letter E; then move your pointer over left to the end of that horizontal line which will give you C, the first letter of the original message. Understand?" Betty tried her hand, and quickly caught the trick; really it was very easy. "One more point; it is better not to divide the cypher message into word groups as the continuous string of letters looks more mystifying. There is no difficulty in picking out the sense when decoding." "Finally, you notice that the upper left-hand space in the diagram is vacant; consequently you must not use the letter Z in either the key-word or in the message to be coded. But this restriction is not of any practical disadvantage, Z being a letter that is seldom used. It will often appear, of course, in the cypher itself." "Certainly it is all very simple," remarked Betty. "But without the key-word where would you get off?" "I don't see how anybody could possibly work it out; why the complications are absolutely overwhelming." "And you can make them still more intricate by merely using a longer key-word, or indeed a whole sentence. For example: 'I love Betty Hildebrand.'" "Everybody knows that," retorted Betty. "Still I don't mind an occasional restatement of the established fact. Please, Hugh! I spent any amount of time in getting those ruffles starched just so." Betty took the diagram and carefully tucked it away in a drawer of her secretary. "Of course we can't be sure that old Mr. Thaneford really used 'Le Chiffre Indéchiffrable,'" she said thoughtfully. "Only a possibility," I agreed. "And without the key-word or key-sentence we shall never be any wiser than we are." "Granted again." "So there you are. Just the same, Hugh, I wish you would make me a complete diagram; I'd like to experiment with it." "I'll do it for you to-night. Here's your precious diary." Betty kissed me and went upstairs. It took me the best part of an hour to draw out the diagram in full; then I had to mount it on cardboard so as to keep it in good condition for constant handling. For the benefit of the curious-minded I reproduce it below: LE CHIFFRE INDÉCHIFFRABLE ----------------------------------------------------- | |A|B|C|D|E|F|G|H|I|J|K|L|M|N|O|P|Q|R|S|T|U|V|W|X|Y| ----------------------------------------------------- |A|B|C|D|E|F|G|H|I|J|K|L|M|N|O|P|Q|R|S|T|U|V|W|X|Y|Z| ----------------------------------------------------- |B|C|D|E|F|G|H|I|J|K|L|M|N|O|P|Q|R|S|T|U|V|W|X|Y|Z|A| ----------------------------------------------------- |C|D|E|F|G|H|I|J|K|L|M|N|O|P|Q|R|S|T|U|V|W|X|Y|Z|A|B| ----------------------------------------------------- |D|E|F|G|H|I|J|K|L|M|N|O|P|Q|R|S|T|U|V|W|X|Y|Z|A|B|C| ----------------------------------------------------- |E|F|G|H|I|J|K|L|M|N|O|P|Q|R|S|T|U|V|W|X|Y|Z|A|B|C|D| ----------------------------------------------------- |F|G|H|I|J|K|L|M|N|O|P|Q|R|S|T|U|V|W|X|Y|Z|A|B|C|D|E| ----------------------------------------------------- |G|H|I|J|K|L|M|N|O|P|Q|R|S|T|U|V|W|X|Y|Z|A|B|C|D|E|F| ----------------------------------------------------- |H|I|J|K|L|M|N|O|P|Q|R|S|T|U|V|W|X|Y|Z|A|B|C|D|E|F|G| ----------------------------------------------------- |I|J|K|L|M|N|O|P|Q|R|S|T|U|V|W|X|Y|Z|A|B|C|D|E|F|G|H| ----------------------------------------------------- |J|K|L|M|N|O|P|Q|R|S|T|U|V|W|X|Y|Z|A|B|C|D|E|F|G|H|I| ----------------------------------------------------- |K|L|M|N|O|P|Q|R|S|T|U|V|W|X|Y|Z|A|B|C|D|E|F|G|H|I|J| ----------------------------------------------------- |L|M|N|O|P|Q|R|S|T|U|V|W|X|Y|Z|A|B|C|D|E|F|G|H|I|J|K| ----------------------------------------------------- |M|N|O|P|Q|R|S|T|U|V|W|X|Y|Z|A|B|C|D|E|F|G|H|I|J|K|L| ----------------------------------------------------- |N|O|P|Q|R|S|T|U|V|W|X|Y|Z|A|B|C|D|E|F|G|H|I|J|K|L|M| ----------------------------------------------------- |O|P|Q|R|S|T|U|V|W|X|Y|Z|A|B|C|D|E|F|G|H|I|J|K|L|M|N| ----------------------------------------------------- |P|Q|R|S|T|U|V|W|X|Y|Z|A|B|C|D|E|F|G|H|I|J|K|L|M|N|O| ----------------------------------------------------- |Q|R|S|T|U|V|W|X|Y|Z|A|B|C|D|E|F|G|H|I|J|K|L|M|N|O|P| ----------------------------------------------------- |R|S|T|U|V|W|X|Y|Z|A|B|C|D|E|F|G|H|I|J|K|L|M|N|O|P|Q| ----------------------------------------------------- |S|T|U|V|W|X|Y|Z|A|B|C|D|E|F|G|H|I|J|K|L|M|N|O|P|Q|R| ----------------------------------------------------- |T|U|V|W|X|Y|Z|A|B|C|D|E|F|G|H|I|J|K|L|M|N|O|P|Q|R|S| ----------------------------------------------------- |U|V|W|X|Y|Z|A|B|C|D|E|F|G|H|I|J|K|L|M|N|O|P|Q|R|S|T| ----------------------------------------------------- |V|W|X|Y|Z|A|B|C|D|E|F|G|H|I|J|K|L|M|N|O|P|Q|R|S|T|U| ----------------------------------------------------- |W|X|Y|Z|A|B|C|D|E|F|G|H|I|J|K|L|M|N|O|P|Q|R|S|T|U|V| ----------------------------------------------------- |X|Y|Z|A|B|C|D|E|F|G|H|I|J|K|L|M|N|O|P|Q|R|S|T|U|V|W| ----------------------------------------------------- |Y|Z|A|B|C|D|E|F|G|H|I|J|K|L|M|N|O|P|Q|R|S|T|U|V|W|X| ----------------------------------------------------- Note that while the diagram is a necessary piece of machinery in using this particular cypher system, it has no value in itself; the whole secret depends upon the possession of the key-word or key-sentence. As this may easily be memorized by the two correspondents there is no risk of discovery through the accident of loss or theft. Chapter XIV _Another Break in the Circle_ It was the first of June and the loveliest time of the year at the "Hundred." Why had I never realized before that, in spite of my urban upbringing, I was a born countryman? Can there be a greater pleasure in life than living on one's own land, and honestly plying the oldest and most important of human industries--the tilling of the soil! Provided, of course, that one possesses a reasonable amount of capital; the hand-to-mouth struggle of the poor farmer is deadening to both soul and body; as one of my less fortunate neighbors once put it: "It isn't living; it's just staying on." Certainly I had no cause for complaint. The "Hundred" was easily the best farm anywhere about. I could command sufficient ready money to be independent of the banks, and I was beginning to learn my trade. What more could the heart of man desire? And finally, there was Betty--but how could one inventory that immeasurable asset! Enough that our happiness was as complete as anything mundane could be, and I had only to bear in mind the old Greek admonition: "Tread softly lest the high gods overhear and be moved to celestial ire against a mortal so felicitous!" Eunice Trevor was still living at the "Hundred," and the question of that other arrangement had been suffered to remain in abeyance. I did not fancy the ungracious task of turning her out of the house, and by temperament I am something of an opportunist; time is the great resolver of our difficulties; moreover, to do the woman justice, she seemed desirous of effacing herself in every possible way; for days on end I would hardly see her except at dinner, our one formal function. And then one day something occurred to set me thinking, an incident small in itself and yet curiously disquieting. Miss Trevor was in the habit of driving over alone to Calverton two or three times a week. Still she was never absent more than a couple of hours, and it was none of my business how she employed her leisure. Betty commented upon these journeys once or twice, but neither of us cared to press the direct inquiry; there were plenty of horses available, and the girl's time was her own; what did it matter. On this particular morning I chanced to be in the house at the moment of her return from town. She passed me in the hall, nodded briefly, and went up to her room. As I walked through the front door I noticed a letter lying on the threshold. I picked it up and saw that it was addressed to Miss Eunice Trevor, Lockbox 31, Calverton, Maryland. The handwriting was that of John Thaneford, a square, bold script with which I was perfectly familiar. The post-mark was that of a small town in Florida. So Eunice and Thaneford were engaged in correspondence, and a secret one at that. It didn't look well, and I felt the blood reddening my temples. After all she was my house guest and eating my bread and salt. Spy is an ugly word, but Thaneford was an enemy, a quiescent one for the time being, yet none the less to be guarded against. "Hildebrand Hundred" was a goodly heritage, and it would have been his had it not been for my fortuitous meeting with Francis Graeme. There were no immediate prospects that Betty would present me with an heir to the property, and I realized guiltily that I had put off the duty of making a will. Suppose that I died intestate and without issue. Betty would have her dower rights, but Thaneford could put in a plausible claim for recognition as next of kin. I made instant resolve that I would see Mr. Eldon on the morrow and erect every possible legal safeguard to conserve Betty's interests. I could rest assured that if Thaneford were able to get enough ready money he would fight for his alleged rights. In the meantime, I could do nothing but let the letter lie where it had fallen. I whistled to Gyp and strode off to the stables. At the corner of the hedge I ventured to look back, and caught just a glimpse of feminine drapery disappearing into the cavernous gloom of the great hall door. So my lady had discovered her loss, and had been prompt in retrieving her property. Very well, but I should certainly call on Mr. Eldon in the morning. But, as it so often happens, my fine resolutions came to naught, and six hours later I was on my way North, summoned by wire to the bedside of my only living relative, my good Aunt Livy Marston, who had been more than a mother to me for the best part of my life. Dear old lady! She finally won her battle with death, but it was not until nearly three weeks later that the doctors pronounced her to be out of danger, and I was free to return home; to be precise, it was on Monday night, June the twenty-second, that I left for Maryland, arriving at our little station of Crown Ferry late in the afternoon of the following day. To my surprise Doctor Marcy, with his gig, was waiting for me. One glance at his face was enough. I tried to speak, but a great fear clutched at my throat. "Betty is perfectly well," said Marcy hastily. "She sends her love, and is expecting you at the 'Hundred.'" I threw my traveling bag in behind, and climbed to my place at his side; the doctor's whiplash flickered along the blue-roan's broad back, and we were quickly out of earshot, so far as the station loungers were concerned. "Who is it then?" I asked. "Eunice Trevor." "Yes." "She died day before yesterday--suddenly." "An accident?" "She was found dead, sitting in the library at the big, flat-topped desk," and Doctor Marcy shot me a sharp glance from the remote corner of his eye. "You mean that her death recalls the mystery of Francis Graeme's taking off?" "Just that." "Go on and tell me the whole story, doctor. There's no need for us to beat about the bush." "But it's so little I have to tell," protested Marcy. "The bare facts are these:" "I was coming back from Lynn Saturday, and, on passing your gate, I thought I would drive in and ask Betty for a cup of tea. Lucky I did so, for I found her in a great state of mind. It seems that early in the morning Eunice had shut herself up in the library on the plea of doing some writing. She did not appear in the dining room at one o'clock, the luncheon hour, and Effingham reported that the door was locked on the inside. He had knocked repeatedly without getting any reply. "Well, you can understand how all this recalled to Betty the peculiar circumstances surrounding Graeme's death. And the servants were scared out of their very wits; you know by this time the psychological vagaries of the African mind. "There was only one thing to do. I had Effingham produce his master-key, and the door was opened. The room seemed to be in perfect order--absolutely no signs of a struggle of any kind. When I passed the screen--that same leather screen--I saw the girl. She was sitting in the swivel-chair, but her head had fallen forward on the table. The body was still warm, but she was stone dead." "Any marks of violence?" I asked, thinking of the wound on Francis Graeme's forehead. "None whatever." "When did all this happen?" "To-day is Monday the twenty-second. As I told you, the day was Saturday the twentieth. By the way, you never received Betty's telegram?" "No, it must have reached Bangor just after I left. Probably, it never occurred to Aunt Livy to have it relayed to me on the train." "No great matter. There was nothing to be done but to put the poor girl decently away." "You mean that you've had the funeral?" "Yes, this morning. We could get no word of you, and I rather pushed it on Betty's account." "Was there an autopsy?" "I couldn't see any reason for it. The general indications were those of cerebral hemorrhage, and I had no hesitation in giving apoplexy as the cause of death. Yes, I know I changed my mind about Graeme, but in this case there could be no doubt about it." "She seemed to be in excellent general health," I remarked. "Had you ever noticed any premonitory signs--you know what I am trying to say?" "I never had Miss Trevor as a patient," said Marcy, "and so I can't give any definite opinion." "But you wouldn't put her down--I mean on the strength of your general observation--as predisposed to that sort of thing?" "No, I shouldn't." "You said virtually the same thing about my Cousin Francis." "I admit it. Still in that case the presence of an external wound gave ample justification for going further." "Just one or two more questions. Was the postern-door closed?" "Tight as a safety vault. You and Betty have the only keys in existence that unlock it." "How about the pridellas in the windows--the little ventilating apertures?" "They were all shut, too. Afterwards I spoke to Warriner about that very point, and he confirmed my impression." "Warriner!" "He arrived at the 'Hundred' very soon after I did. I believe they were going horseback riding." An unworthy thought crossed my mind, but I did my best to stamp it out of existence. Perhaps Betty had been feeling lonely during my long absence from home--perhaps. "There's one thing more," continued the doctor. "Eunice had been writing, and there were a number of sheets of MS. lying on the desk. Betty had them sealed up, pending your return." "Nothing has been heard of John Thaneford, I suppose?" "Not that I know of." I relapsed into silence, and presently we were at the house. Betty was waiting for me on the portico, and behind her loomed up the tall figure of Chalmers Warriner. I took my dear girl in my arms, and the tears came speedily to her relief; after all, Eunice Trevor had been her cousin and childhood playmate. Betty went to her room, and Doctor Marcy had to keep a professional engagement. Warriner and I had a whiskey-and-soda apiece, and over it discussed the meager details of the distressing occurrence. "Darker than ever," I remarked, when he had finished with his version of the affair. "It does look that way," he admitted. "Understand, there is no evidence of suicide." "So Marcy said." "Her written statement may shed some light." "You had better stay to dinner," I suggested, "and go over it with us." Warriner assented with such friendly frankness that I felt a little ashamed of my somewhat perfunctory invitation. But perhaps he had not noticed the lack of cordiality in my voice. At any rate, he stayed, and the dinner passed off tolerably enough. After dessert I proposed an adjournment to the library for coffee, but Betty objected. "I couldn't sit in that room," she protested earnestly. So we compromised on the big living room on the left of the hall as one enters. I took the packet Betty handed me, and broke the seal. A dozen or more sheets of note-paper, written in pencil, fell out. "It's a rather difficult handwriting," said Betty, "and I suppose I'm more familiar with it than either of you men." So Warriner and I lit our cigars and prepared to listen. Chapter XV _One Corner of the Veil_ The MS. began abruptly, without either preamble or address: I am sitting here in the library of "Hildebrand Hundred"--the room in which five men have met their death--and while I am waiting I shall set down certain data and figures which should prove of more than ordinary interest to anyone who has the wit to discern their underlying meaning. But judge for yourselves. The Hildebrands have been at the "Hundred" since the settlement of the province by the Calverts. All of the earlier generations were decent, God-fearing, hard-drinking country squires who died respectably with their boots off, and are now sleeping quietly in S. Saviour's churchyard; honest gentlemen no doubt, but a little dull after their bucolic kind. Then we come to something different. But first let us set down the roster of the five who did not pass away comfortably in their beds. Here it is: Yardley Hildebrand, elder son of Oliver Hildebrand; succeeded his father, 1860; died, 1861; aged fifty-five; no issue. Randall Hildebrand, younger son of Oliver; succeeded his brother, 1861; died, 1862; aged fifty-three; left issue. Horace Hildebrand, elder son of Randall; succeeded his father, 1862; died, 1865; aged thirty-five; no issue. Richard Hildebrand, younger son of Randall; succeeded his brother, 1865; died, 1918; aged eighty-three; no issue. Francis Hildebrand Graeme, great-nephew to Richard; succeeded his great-uncle, 1918; died, 1919; aged forty-five; no issue. Now as we analyze these dates and periods we come upon some curious coincidences; and also, upon some marked discrepancies. For example, Yardley Hildebrand reigned for one brief year, and the same is true of Randall Hildebrand and of Francis Graeme. But Horace enjoyed three full years of sovereignty, while Richard was Hildebrand of the "Hundred" for no less a period than fifty and three years. Yet all five went to their death along an unfrequented road, and no man can say of a certainty what was the essential damnation of their taking-off. They died, and they died alone--here in this very room where I sit waiting, waiting. I dare say that you, Hugh Hildebrand, will read what I have written here, and I have now a word for your ear alone. Not long ago John Thaneford gave you your choice--Betty or the "Hundred." You could not have both. Well, you possess your wife; take her and go in peace; stay, and you do so at your unending peril. I leave you this warning merely to clear the ground for the assertion of John Thaneford's rights in the estate; they will be defended, and all the odds are against you. So I warn you, but it would be idle for me to pretend to any philanthropic motive, and there is but small show of friendship between us. You have treated me with courtesy, even with kindness, and I am not unmindful of the obligation imposed upon me. But I must be perfectly frank: you are in the way; either you go of your own volition, or you will be removed--at the appointed time. It may be in one year, or in three years, or in three and fifty years; upon that point I cannot speak definitely. But there was only one man out of the five who drew a long straw--remember that. Neither have I any cause of quarrel with you, Cousin Betty Graeme. You have been very good to a poor and proud relation; and what little measure of human affections I had left over--after John Thaneford had turned me inside out, like an old glove, and flung me on the dust heap--was truly given to you. Believe me, then, when I tell you that if your happiness is bound up with the life of your husband, there is but one way of preserving it; you must persuade him to relinquish "Hildebrand Hundred," and be content with the ready money and the personal property specifically bequeathed in Francis Graeme's will. I dare say you will have difficulty in bringing this about; men are so ridiculously stubborn and unwilling to take a woman's advice that I do not expect to see my counsel followed. But when the blow does fall do me the favor to remember that I gave you fair and honorable warning. This is not a confession. It is true that Cousin Francis Graeme came to his death through violence, but I had no share in it, direct or indirect. Seeing that I am waiting to follow him over the same dark and unfrequented road that he has already traveled, I can speak no more and no less than the truth. At the same time I have no hesitation in admitting the essential correctness of the deductions offered by Chalmers Warriner as to my share in what happened posterior to the event. I was on the library terrace that Tuesday noon, and I did receive a message from Sugar Loaf that the way was clear for me to enter the library and secure the will which disinherited John Thaneford. I don't like dead men, but I am not afraid of them, and I should have examined the despatch-box on the spot had I not been disturbed by the knocking at the door--I mean the effort of the negro peddler, Dave Campion, to gain access to Mr. Graeme. Then it occurred to me that as I should have to leave by the postern-door, as I had entered, it might prove useful in the future to cover my trail. Accordingly, I snatched, at random, a cocoon from the case, dabbed it with library gum, and stuck it in place over the crack, just as Mr. Warriner was clever enough to figure out. But I had run the risk to no purpose; the new will was not in the despatch-box, and John Thaneford would be disinherited after all. Then I reflected that it was a bare possibility that Cousin Francis had postponed the making of the new will; in this case the earlier testament would remain in force. Obviously, I must get the despatch-box containing it back in the library before any formal examination should be made of the surroundings. My chance came unexpectedly when Effingham was left on guard at the library door. As you already know, I sent him upstairs on an errand, having first secured from him the master-key. I re-entered the library, put the box back in its original position, and was standing quietly at the door when Betty and Doctor Marcy arrived. While it is true that the signal came to me from John Thaneford it is not necessary to jump to the conclusion that he had a hand in bringing about Francis Graeme's death, either as principal or accessory. He did know that it was about to happen, but nothing more; I say this upon my own responsibility, and to the best of my knowledge and belief. You will give me credence in this matter, realizing that I owe little of love to the Thaneford name. Yet I will try and be just to John Thaneford, for, brute though he be, I do believe that he loved me after his fashion; yes, and would have made me his wife had not his heart been turned against me by his father--may the soul of Fielding Thaneford dwell in darkness for evermore! Let us premise that the elder Thaneford was jealous of me and of my influence over John. The old man was determined that some day his son should be lord of "Hildebrand Hundred," and if John should marry Betty Graeme his object would be automatically attained. And so Fielding Thaneford did the devil's work, and I was cast out; the very fact that I had given to John Thaneford all that a woman has to give was subtly twisted against me; my very sacrifice was plain proof of my unworthiness to be an honorable man's wife. Do you wonder now that I had no love for Fielding Thaneford. You, Hugh Hildebrand, surprised me one day while I was taking the afternoon relief for Miss Davenport. Before that particular occasion I had been content with inventing purely material means for disturbing the sick man's repose. I used to throw his medicine out of the window, under his very eyes, and then force him to go through the solemn mockery of swallowing doses of plain water. Or, on a warm, damp day, when the flies were particularly troublesome, I would put a saucer containing treacle close by his pillow, and then sit, comfortably fanning myself, on the opposite side of the room. Horrible! you say, but I tell you that Fielding Thaneford was a devil; I was only anticipating by a little space his doom of eternal torment. And then, on the particular day of which we were speaking, I discovered how cruelly mere eyes could sting and burn. And so I sat and looked at Fielding Thaneford, and laughed to see him writhe like a beetle impaled upon a pin. But you came in and spoiled my amusement. There isn't much more for me to say or tell, nor am I very sure how much time is left me in which to make my final warning clear. Whatever was the nature of Fielding Thaneford's secret he has taken it with him to the grave. So far as I know, he said nothing more definite to his son John than that he should possess his soul in patience, and then all things should come to him. But he also intimated plainly that he had foreseen how Yardley, and Randall, and Horace, and Richard Hildebrand should die; and it was at his suggestion that John Thaneford sat that day at the observation point on Sugar Loaf, and waited for death to come to Francis Graeme. Hypothetically, that death was due to natural causes--hypothetically! Or possibly there was someone who entered that postern-door before I did, and struck a foul blow--possibly! Or perhaps, John Thaneford, from his safe retreat on Sugar Loaf, may have been able to direct some hitherto unknown form of lethal attack--a tiny shell charged with a poison gas of instantaneous deadliness, or a devouring blast from a flame-thrower of unexampled precision--perhaps! But, frankly, none of these hypotheses appear to me to be tenable; the mystery does not lie so plainly on the surface. Moreover, I believe that the heart of the Terror continues to beat in this very place, the library of "Hildebrand Hundred," where I am sitting. Something is in this room, something that is eternally menacing and eternally patient. It may be in one year and it may be in three and fifty years that it chooses to strike, but strike it surely will and no art or cunning will avail to avert the blow. Yes, there is _something_ here, the _something_ for which I myself am waiting. But search as you will, you shall not find the Terror; you must await its coming as I am doing. Fielding Thaneford has gone to his own place, but his works of darkness remain behind him. There is just one more thing that I might tell you, but I shall not do it--you would then seek to compromise the situation, and that I will not have. I put my own wits to work and so was able to lift one corner of the veil; that is why I wait so confidently to-day for that which will surely come. And so I leave you but the one door to safety--the abandonment of the "Hundred" to John Thaneford, the same "Black Jack" Thaneford who once loved me and who finally cast me off. This is the last thing I can do for him--for him whom I both hate and love to the death. Why? Ask any woman---- The MS. had ended as abruptly as it had begun. I took the sheets from Betty's hand, arranged them in order, and put the bundle in my pocket. "I don't think we had better discuss this any further to-night," I said decisively. "Quite right," assented Warriner. "Betty looks pretty white, and you have been traveling for two days. Let me know, at any time, if I can be of service." We both of us accompanied Warriner to the porch, and saw him drive away. As we re-entered the hall the closed door of the library shone white and ghostly at the end of the passage. "That horrible room!" panted Betty, her hand tight clutched on my arm. "I can never, never enter it again." I tried to soothe her as best I could, but the poor girl's nerves had been badly overstrained, and it was a long time before I could get the upper hand of her hysterical mood. I positively refused to say one more word on the general subject of the tragedy, or the particular contents of Eunice Trevor's _ante mortem_ statement; and, after a while, Betty gave in and was reasonable again. But both of us knew that the question had not been settled, that it was only postponed. And to-morrow it would return again to plague us. Chapter XVI _Ad Interim_ I never sent for Warriner to come and discuss Eunice Trevor's astonishing communication. Why? Well, what would have been the use? After all, the woman had told us little or nothing which we had not known already; certainly, there was no definite information in her statement upon which to base a working hypothesis. Granted that there was a guilty secret, it lay hidden for all time in S. Saviour's churchyard. Both Eunice Trevor and John Thaneford may have been innocent of any actual participation in the tragedy of Francis Graeme's death, but it was by no means clear that they could not have taken steps to prevent it. The coroner's jury had given their verdict, the magistrate had found no case against the one suspected person, Dave Campion, and there was really no valid warrant for reopening the inquiry. Besides, this was a purely family affair, and Chalmers Warriner was an outsider. I dare say it was despicably small-minded of me, but Betty was now my wife, and both she and Warriner ought to realize that the intimacy between them could not be continued on the old free footing. Jealous. Well perhaps, I was uneasily conscious of an unworthy feeling in the matter. But I was master of "Hildebrand Hundred," and surely I had the right to determine what friendships were desirable and what were not. Warriner was a man of mature age, Betty was young and impulsive; it was my bounden duty to guard her from every sidelong look, from every whispered word. Not that I ever discussed the question with her; I merely took my stand and it was her wifely obligation to yield to my judgment. So far as I could tell, she never even noticed that Warriner no longer came to the "Hundred" in the old informal way. And that was as it should be. But the issues raised by Eunice Trevor's statement were not to be set aside so easily. It was annoying, but Betty persisted in taking the dead woman's warning both literally and seriously; she actually begged me to formally abandon the "Hundred" to John Thaneford, as the legal next-of-kin, and perhaps leave Maryland altogether. This I could not consent to do; I was too proud, or perhaps too stubborn, to be frightened by the vaporings of a highly wrought and undoubtedly neurotic imagination. There was not the shadow of a proof that Francis Graeme's death had been due to premeditated violence, and as for the alleged tragedies in the dim past, I neither knew nor cared anything about them. What if five men had died, under unexplained circumstances, in that particular room? All this was ancient history running back over a period of sixty odd years, and there are many coincidences in life. There is no greater tyranny than that of superstition, and once in bondage to its shadowy overlordship orderly existence becomes impossible. But my decision had been finally influenced by a still stronger consideration. As I have said a little further back, I had unconsciously become attached to the "Hundred" by ties that I now found it impossible to break. This was my home and the home of my fathers before me; I now found myself an integral part of the ancestral homestead, my life had rooted deeply into the very soil, with its sacred dust my own corporeal remains must finally be mingled; no, I could not suffer "Hildebrand Hundred" to pass out of my hands, and I would hold it against every enemy visible and invisible. Even granting that something deadly and menacing did lurk in the dim corners of that great room with its painted windows and booklined walls, was I not man enough to grapple with the Terror on its own chosen ground? Better to die even as my Hildebrand forebears had died, alone and unafraid, than to drag out a coward's existence in some wretched backwater of life. Yes, I had decided; I would stay on at the "Hundred," _coute qui coute_. It was not so easy to maintain my resolve in the face of Betty's quiet but determined opposition. I could make every allowance for the successive shocks to her delicately organized nervous system, and mere prayers and tears I was ready to cope with. But there was an invincible spirit in her attitude that I could not shake. "It is a part of my inner sense," she would reiterate with gentle obstinacy, and how can one argue rationally with feminine intuitions! In the end we compromised--as always. It was agreed that we should continue to live on at the "Hundred," but the library should be permanently and effectually closed. Betty even proposed that a brick wall should be built at the end of the passage entirely blocking the entrance, but to this heroic measure I steadfastly refused to assent; it was enough of a nuisance to lose the use of the best room in the house, and to be obliged to transfer the working part of the library to the new living room. So we compromised again by locking the door and keeping all the keys in my immediate possession. In addition, I had to promise that I would not enter the room unless my wife was told of my intention and invited to accompany me. "At least we'll die together," said Betty, trying to smile through her tears. What could I do but kiss them away, and give the required assurance. In October of that same year our son was born. Of course Betty insisted that he should be christened Hugh, and while I have always thought the name an ugly one and should have preferred Lawrence, after the first American Hildebrand, it would have been most ungracious to have entered any demurrer. But when Betty furthermore suggested that Chalmers Warriner be invited to stand as godfather I made plausible objections in favor of Doctor Marcy. I fancied that she seemed unaccountably disappointed, but she yielded when she realized that my preference was a decided one. However, Warriner was present at the ceremony in S. Saviour's, and endowed the baby with a magnificent silver mug. That particular gift should have been the prerogative of the titular godfather, but Doctor Marcy did not seem inclined to stand upon his rights, and I could not act the churl in so small a matter. And so this epochal phase of my life had come to a triumphant close; possessed of "Hildebrand Hundred," a son to inherit my name, and the best wife in the world. What more could heart of man desire! Chapter XVII _The Midsummer Night's Ball_ And now I come to a certain chapter of my book of life which I would fain leave unwritten. But I am bound to set down the full truth, no matter how unpleasant the bare, ugly facts may be. No one can blame me more hardly than I did myself, and assuredly I was well punished for my misdoings. So here goes. I had become jealous of Chalmers Warriner, bitterly, almost insanely jealous; and this in spite of my sober judgment, my real inner conviction of Betty's unswerving loyalty and wholehearted love. It is a humiliating confession for a man to make, but since I did play the fool to the top of my bent I ought to be willing to endure my penance; as it turned out, I came within an ace of paying the ultimate price of my folly. So much by way of _apologia pro mea culpa_. The winter, spring and early summer had passed without incident. In June it occurred to me that it would be well if Betty were away from the "Hundred" for the period covered by the double tragedy of Francis Graeme's death and Eunice Trevor's mysterious taking-off. Accordingly, we went to the "Old White" for three weeks, returning to our home the first day of July. Betty had certainly been benefited by the change, and I hoped that the current of our family life was now to flow smoothly on for an indefinite length of time. The immediate rock upon which our matrimonial barque proceeded to wreck itself was the Midsummer Night's ball at "Powersthorp" on August the fourth. As Hilda Powers was Betty's most intimate friend we had motored over early to assist in receiving the guests; half of King William county seemed to have been invited, and the crush was tremendous. I was standing near the receiving line of ladies when Chalmers Warriner came up; and, in spite of my secret dislike and suspicion, I could not help thinking how distinguished looking he was--just the sort of man that a woman invariably favors with a second glance. And now he was lingering for that maddening hundredth part of a second over Betty's hand; I heard him whisper: "The supper waltz then?" and I saw Betty start and flush and finally nod a smiling assent. Ignoble of me to be standing there, actually spying on my own wife! I admit the justice of your censure, dear reader, but have you ever endured even the smallest pang of the jealous man's agony? One ought to be competent to testify in this particular court. I suppose I went through the ordinary motions of a man attending a ball; I have a vague recollection of dancing at least half a dozen times; I comforted innumerable elderly dowagers and flagons of near-claret cup, and encouraged several flappers to venture on their first cigarette in the friendly dusk of the pleached lime alley; I even played one rubber of auction with the colonel, the commodore, and the judge, while they were awaiting the arrival of the rector to make up their accustomed coterie. But my eyes were always fixed on the big clock at the end of the hall; according to our simple country fashion supper was invariably scheduled for midnight, and was preceded by the principal waltz number of the dance program. There it came at last! the opening bars of Strauss's "On the Beautiful Blue Danube." Why is it that smiles and tears lie so close together in the lilt and swing of a fine waltz tune? And, by that same token, the saddest music in all the world to-day is that same "Blue Danube," the last, faint exhalation of an old regime that, however rotten at its core, continued to present a lovely and gracious exterior. At least there were no war-brides and greasy Israelitish profiteers on the polished boards of the ancient Hofberg when Maestro Johann raised his baton, and his incomparable band, in their gay Hussar uniforms, breathed out the intoxicating melody which the great Brahms himself would not have been ashamed to have composed, the veritable apotheosis of the dance. Gone, all gone! and this old, gray world, albeit made safe for democracy, has yet lost something of perennial beauty and enchantment that can never be renewed--a broken spell, a vanished vision. The wax candles have guttered to their sockets, the shimmering waves of color are graying under the merciless white light of a proletarian dawn, the haunting violins have sobbed themselves to sleep; and of all that brilliant, bewildering, phantasmagoric past there remains but one poignant and exquisite echo--the "Blue Danube." I watched Betty as she circled past me held close in the hollow of Warriner's arm; she was looking up at him, her eyes intent and her cheeks glowing. I pushed through the throng and caught them temporarily halted in a re-entrant swirl of dancers. "I'll take the rest of this turn," I announced, with small pretense of civility. Warriner would have been fully justified in resenting my rudeness, for this was no ordinary case of give-and-take cutting in; but he instantly relinquished his claim, and I whirled Betty away to the farther end of the great hall. "We won't wait for supper," I said curtly. "You know Hilda well enough for that, and she won't mind. Or I don't care if she does." Betty's lower lip went out and her eyes flashed. But a woman, in an emergency, can summon a control over her nerves that mere man may only wonder at. "As you like, Hugh," she said with quiet composure. "I'll just slip up to the dressing room, and you can have the motor brought around to the side door, where it won't be noticed." We exchanged only a few, indifferent words on the way home, since Zack was acting as chauffeur and sat within easy earshot. Betty confronted me under the swinging hall lantern of "Hildebrand Hundred," her small figure straight and tense as a grenadier on parade. "Well?" she said briefly. "You know what I mean," I evaded weakly enough. But she only continued to look at me, and I had to come out in the open. "I object to your dancing with that man," I growled. "What man?" "Chalmers Warriner, of course." "Chalmers Warriner! Why----" Betty bit her lip and choked back the coming words. "Go on!" I demanded, instantly alert to the possible significance of that suddenly checked utterance. But Betty only shook her head--mutinously so as I chose to think in my green-eyed madness. "You won't tell me?" I persisted hotly. "I can't." "Then I've nothing more to say except just this: You are my wife, and so long as you continue to bear my name you are to have no communication of any kind with Mr. Warriner." Betty made no reply, and we parted without another word. I had to be in Calverton all the following day on some law business; and I had left the "Hundred" before Betty appeared at the breakfast table. When I returned, late in the afternoon, the house was fairly upside down with hurried preparations for a departure; everywhere trunks and handbags were being packed for the journey, and the station car was already in waiting at the front door. Betty met me as usual in the lower hall. I lifted my eyebrows interrogatively. "You know little Hugh has been feeling the hot weather of late," she answered steadily, "and Doctor Marcy strongly advised a change to a Northern climate." "Where are you going?" "To my Aunt Alice Crew's in Stockbridge. We can stay there through August and September." "And then?" "Probably to the Davidsons at Irvington-on-Hudson." "For how long?" "That depends on you, Hugh." Betty was actually smiling as she looked up at me, and that made me angrier than ever. "You mean until I am ready to trust you," I blurted out. "If you like to put it that way." The discussion had let us into an _impasse_; there was nothing more to be said. I accompanied Betty to the Crown Ferry station, and saw my little family party of wife, baby, and nurse safely aboard the sleeper. Even at that last moment I should have dropped everything and gone along had Betty given me the smallest opening. But she said no further word, and I could not conquer at once my masculine pride and my jealous fear. I watched the red tail lights of the train disappear around a curve, and told myself that I was the unhappiest man and the biggest fool on God's green earth. Chapter XVIII _I Break a Promise_ Needless to say that the summer dragged heavily with me. Betty wrote regularly, but her letters were of a strictly impersonal nature, and I took especial care to answer in the same vein. Luckily, there was little Hugh as a point of common interest, and we made the most of it. But neither of us offered the least allusion to the real crisis in our relations. I was frankly and wretchedly unhappy, and I could only hope that Betty was no better satisfied with the situation. I kept busy, of course, with the care of the estate. There was a new drainage system to be installed, and the long neglected acres of "Thane Court" to look after. Of Warriner I heard little and saw less. He was busy with his laboratory work at Calverton, and there was really small opportunity for us to meet. Indeed for months we lived as rigidly apart as though at opposite poles; once I ran across him at a granger meeting in Lynn, and again on a cold, rainy afternoon in October when I chanced to drop in at "Powersthorp" for a cup of tea. I fancied that there was marked restraint in his manner as I walked into Hilda Powers' drawing room, but in the presence of an hostess the amenities must be preserved, and we managed to rub along for the half hour of my stay. I was annoyed, nevertheless, for I had been hoping for a confidential chat with Hilda about Betty, knowing that the two corresponded regularly. Illogically enough, I charged up my disappointment to Warriner, and disliked him more hotly than ever. I dare say he divined my veiled antagonism, and I could see that it made him uncomfortable. As to that I did not care a button, but I had wanted to hear about Betty, and now her name was barely mentioned. I reflected that people were probably wondering over her protracted visit in the North, but no one had ventured to broach the subject to me, and I would have suffered it least of all from him. So the months went on. Actually it was now Christmas time, and I was still a grass widower. Betty and Little Hugh had come down to the Davidsons at Irvington, and it was evident that she was thoroughly fixed in her resolve not to return to the "Hundred" until I was ready to adopt a more "reasonable" attitude. You note that I quote the adjective; at the time I was stubbornly convinced that I was right in my contention and was not inclined to alter my determination by one jot or tittle. Pride and anger are delicious morsels under the tongue so long as they come fresh and hot from the griddle. But how tasteless and unappetizing when served cold; how devoid of vital sustenance in the making up of the bill-of-fare day after day, week, after week, month after month! Yet I chewed savagely upon the tough, stringy gristle of my wrath, and refused to admit that I was starving for one touch of Betty's hand, one faintest inflection of her beloved voice. But I could stick it if she could and I did, letting myself go only in the despatching of an extravagant Christmas box; the one item of Betty's sables made Carolina perfectos an unthinkable luxury for months. And all I got in return was a pleasant note of thanks, little Hugh's photograph, and a handsome set of English-made razors. I wondered grimly if Betty expected me to cut my throat, and was not averse to supplying the means for the operation. Incredible as it seems to me now, Betty's absence continued through the winter and spring. In May she wrote me that she was again going to Stockbridge for the summer. Little Hugh's health could not be the excuse this time, for he had thriven famously during the winter, and was as fine a boy as any father could wish to see. I reflected dourly that I would have to take Betty's word for this assertion, there being no opportunity for using my own eyes in the appraisement. However, Betty did not trouble about explanations or apologies; she took it calmly for granted that the situation was to be continued indefinitely; she even had the exquisite effrontery to refer to the terms of my promise about entering the ill-omened library of "Hildebrand Hundred"; she intimated plainly that I was to be held to the exact letter and bond of that ridiculous agreement. What irony, seeing that she seemed bent upon breaking every other tie that united us! Of course I ignored the subject entirely in my reply (I wonder if I have made it plain that I wrote and received a letter every single day), and I comforted myself with the reflection that my silence might make her a bit uneasy. It did, but I persisted in my standoffish attitude on that particular point of contention. What indeed did that matter when compared to the actual gulf that continued to separate us! And now I come to the swift-moving, final act of the drama; the center of the stage is still mine up to a certain point; thereafter, as you will see, it will be Betty's turn to figure in the limelight, and take the principal speaking part. May had come and gone; now it was June again and past the middle of the month; to be precise it was the morning of Tuesday the nineteenth. I had been a _sub rosa_ subscriber to the local Stockbridge paper, probably from the secret hope of finding an occasional paragraph about Betty and her doings, even if it were but the bare mention of her name. The paper habitually reached me on Monday, but this was Tuesday and it had but just arrived; some delay in the mails, I dare say. Upon unfolding it I turned at once to the column of personalities, and saw that among the recent arrivals at the Red Lion Inn was the name of Mr. Chalmers Warriner, of Calverton, Maryland. Have you ever suffered the unutterable pangs of jealousy, you who read these words? If so there is no need for me to picture them; if not, there is no possible medium through which I could make them even dimly comprehensible. But that day I died a thousand deaths. Manifestly Warriner had come to Stockbridge for a purpose, and it was unthinkable that he should have done so without a direct invitation from my wife. So Betty had made up her mind; she had taken an irrevocable step, and the die had been finally cast. What was I to do? Twice I ordered out the motor, intent upon taking the first train to the North, and as often I sent it back. I had just sense enough left to realize that I must wait for something more definite; that much I owed to the woman who was the mother of my child; perhaps the post would bring me a letter of enlightenment. But when the ten o'clock delivery came over from Calverton I found myself as completely in the dark as ever. Betty's letter was full of Hilda Powers, who had arrived on Saturday for a stay of ten days. What did I care about Hilda Powers! And then in a postcript: "Chalmers Warriner is registered at the Red Lion, and I suppose that we shall see him by this afternoon at the latest." Now all the authorities agree that the significant part of a woman's letter is the postscript. Fortunately, a matter of pressing importance had been brought to my attention. Zack reported that he had noticed, from the terrace, an inward bulge of one of the stained glass windows of the library. He thought that the leading might have become weakened, and if so, an immediate repair would be necessary. To determine the question he proposed that we should make an examination from the inside of the room. I give you my word of honor that, for the time being, my promise to Betty had gone clean out of my head. All I could think of was that something of the dignity and beauty of the house--my house--was in jeopardy; and I, the Master of the "Hundred," must look to it ere irremediable damage were done. I got the key from my writing desk and, together with Zack, hurried along the corridor, unlocked the door, and entered the well-remembered room. The apartment had the dreary aspect of long untenancy. The books, most of the furniture, and even the tapestries had been removed, and the air was dead and musty; there were cobwebs in the corners, and the dust lay thick on the oaken floor. But this was no time for sentimentalities, and I incontinently dismissed the crowded recollections that flooded my mind. "Where is it?" I demanded impatiently. Zack pointed to the third (running from left to right) of the long windows that flanked the great fireplace. If you recall my earlier description of the library, the window in question represented the flight of the Israelitish spies from the land of Canaan, bearing with them the gigantic cluster of grapes. "Dere it am," answered Zack, pointing to the upper part of the painted scene, the depiction of an arbor from which depended bunches of the glorious fruit as yet unplucked. True enough, there was a significant inward bend at this particular place, and it was evident that the leading of the tracery had partially given way. It was imperative to make repairs at once, and, fortunately, there was a stained glass manufactory in Calverton, and skilled workmen could be obtained there on short notice. I telephoned my request, and, an hour later, a couple of men were on hand to do the work. Apparently the weakness was comparatively trifling, and it was only necessary to remove a small portion of the upper half of the window. The men were experienced and intelligent; they knew their job, and after the temporary scaffolding had been erected they took out the injured sections, carefully numbering the separate pieces of glass so as to ensure their correct replacement. Among the smaller bits were a dozen or more bullseyes of purple glass simulating a cluster of grapes. They seemed to be all of the same size, each enclosed in a diminutive leaden ring. "How about it, Jem?" asked the assistant workman. "They be alike as peas in a pod." "No call to number 'em," decided Jem promptly. "It's all the same in the picter, so don't bother about marking the bullseyes." I, listening to the colloquy, commended Jem's dictum as being eminently sensible, particularly in view of the fact that the weather was threatening and time was of value in getting the window in proper shape to resist a blow. The purple bullseyes were tumbled into a basket, and the work went on. It was rapid and clever craftsmanship, for by six o'clock the damage had been repaired and the glass had been replaced; to my way of thinking, as strong as ever. I said as much, but Jem, to my surprise, shook his head. "All that tracery work ought to be gone over," he said, "to make the job a good one. You can see for yourself," he went on, "that a lot of the main leading is none too solid--look here; and there!" and he pointed out several places where indeed the glass seemed very insecure in its setting. "I don't want to run any risk," I said, "How about coming back to-morrow to make a thorough job of it?" "Sorry, Mr. Hildebrand, but me and my mate are due at Baltimore in the morning, setting a chancel window at S. Paul's. I don't think your work can be managed before the first of next week." "Then I'll have to take the risk?" "I'm afraid so. But we've put the really bad place in decent order, and I don't see why the glass shouldn't stand any ordinary wind. Just got to chance it, sir." Of course there was nothing further to say, so I thanked the men and dismissed them. Yes, there was no alternative; I should have to chance it. When I wrote my usual nightly letter to Betty I told her of the circumstances which had caused me to break the letter of my promise about entering the library. I dare say I nourished a secret hope that the news would upset her; that it might even have the effect of inducing her to make a hasty return to the "Hundred." But that would imply that she still cared for me, and the cold fact remained that, at this very moment, the name of Chalmers Warriner stood inscribed upon the register of the Red Lion Inn at Stockbridge. Chapter XIX _The Seat Perilous_ Wednesday, the twentieth of June, was the blackest of all black days. When Betty's letter came I found it very unsatisfactory reading. Warriner had been making the most of his opportunities; that was certain. He had been over twice for five-o'clock-tea, and a number of pleasant affairs were in prospect--a water party on the Bowl, a day's golf at Pittsfield, a masked ball at Lenox; so it went. Apparently Betty was in for a royal good time, and she had no compunction in making me aware of the fact. My intrusion upon the forbidden ground of the library was, it seemed, a matter of no importance; not even mentioned. Later on, I realized that she could not have received my communication on the subject--but never mind; I felt aggrieved, and the black dog of jealousy heeled me wherever I went that long, beautiful June day. Surely, I was the most miserable man alive, and it is not surprising that I diligently continued the digging of the pit into which I was so soon to fall. Thursday, the twenty-first, brought a number of business matters to my attention, and under the pressure of these imperative duties I half forgot about my troubles. Again Betty's letter was non-committal and made no references to my doings or delinquencies. I should have enjoyed calling it evasive, but that was hardly possible seeing that Warriner's name was mentioned three or four times; the fellow was assuredly making hay. After my solitary evening dinner I thought it wise to keep my mind at work, and, accordingly, I started in on a big batch of farm accounts. I had heard the trampling of a horse's hoofs on the gravel drive, but had paid no attention; now a heavy step echoed along the black-and-white chequers of the great hall, and I became conscious that Marcus, the house-boy, stood at the door in the act of announcing a visitor. I looked up and saw John Thaneford. Amazement held me speechless for a moment; then I found my feet and blurted out some form of greeting; I can't be sure that we actually shook hands, but this was my house and he had come as a guest; I must observe the decencies. "Black Jack" had changed but little in the two years since I had seen him. Perhaps a trifle broader in girth, while the cleft between his sable eyebrows was deeper than ever. Apparently, he was quite at his ease, and I fancied that he took a furtive and malicious pleasure in my embarrassment. Now we were seated; I pushed the box of cigars to his hand, and waited, tongued-tied and flushing, for the conversational ice to be broken. "So we meet again, Cousin Hugh!" he began, with perfect aplomb. "You don't appear to be overjoyed." "Why should I be?" I retorted. "But I don't forget that you are under my roof. Naturally, I am somewhat surprised." "At my return, or because I am seeking you out at the 'Hundred?' Possibly, you have forgotten that I no longer possess even the apology of a shelter that was once 'Thane Court.'" "You can hardly hold me responsible for the fire," I said, feeling somewhat nettled at his tone. "Oh, surely not," he assented, flicking the ash from his cigar with an airy wave of his hand--that well remembered, big hand with its black-tufted knuckles. "As for the property, I bought it in at public sale to protect myself. You can have it back at any time for the price I paid. And no interest charges." "Very good of you, Cousin Hugh, and later on I may hold you to your offer. I may say that I am in quite the position to do so," he added with a boastful flourish. "Glad to hear it," I said shortly. And in my heart of hearts I did rejoice, for I had an acute realization of what this man's heritage in life might have been had Francis Graeme and I never met. Somehow the whole atmosphere of our foregathering had suddenly lightened, and I experienced a feeling of hospitality toward Thaneford which was certainly cordial and almost friendly. "By the way, have you dined?" I asked. "The cook has gone home, but I dare say Effingham could find some cold meat and a salad." "I had supper at the hotel in Calverton, but a drop or two of whiskey wouldn't go amiss. The prohibition lid is clamped down pretty tight around here." I rang for Effingham. "Bring a bottle of 'King William,'" I ordered. "Or perhaps you would prefer rye or bourbon?" "Scotch suits me right enough," he answered carelessly. He rose and began pacing the room. "I heard something in Calverton about your closing up the library," he said abruptly. "It was Mrs. Hildebrand's wish. You can understand that Miss Trevor's death was a great shock to her." Not a muscle in his face moved, but he stopped short in his tracks. "Eunice dead!" he ejaculated. "When and where?" "In June two years ago. She was found dead, sitting in the library." John Thaneford drew a long breath. "I wondered that her letters ceased so suddenly," he said coolly. "But Eunice was always doing something out of the common, and I laid it to some queer slant in her mind. You never can tell what a woman will do or won't do." The callous selfishness of the man was still rampant, and it disgusted me. Doubtless, he had no idea that I was well aware of the relations that had existed between him and the unfortunate girl. And then, to my astonishment, a new note of softness, of regret even, stole into his voice. "Do you mind opening up the room?" he asked. "So much for remembrance," he added in an undertone that I barely caught. This time my promise to Betty did occur to my mind, but already the covenant had been broken, and further infraction could not greatly signify. We walked down the corridor, and I unlocked the door and pushed it open, calling to the house-boy to bring in a lamp. "So you've cleaned everything out," remarked Thaneford, as he glanced around. "That is, about everything but the big teak desk, the leather screen, and the swivel-chair." "The desk was too cumbersome for use in the other room," I answered. "As for the chair you see it is riveted down into the floor--not even screwed in the ordinary way. I fancy it would be a job to get it free." "And no object either. Poor Eunice, you say, died here?" "Sitting in that very chair." "Like Francis Graeme before her," mused Thaneford. "Yes, and before him four other men, all masters of 'Hildebrand Hundred'--Yardley, and Randall, and Horace, and Richard. But perhaps you know these things even better than I do." "Evidently a seat perilous," he said sardonically. "No wonder you do not choose to occupy it." I don't know what mad, foolish impulse moved me to go and sit down in the big, swivel-chair, but there I presently found myself, my face reddening a trifle under the quizzical stare of John Thaneford's dull, black eyes. Effingham entered with the whiskey and glasses, and I bade him put the tray on the desk and fetch a chair for Mr. Thaneford. "Good medicine!" approved my guest as he tossed off his glass. There was a plate of biscuit at his elbow; he took one of the little round crackers and bit into it; then, with a smothered ejaculation, he spewed forth the half masticated fragments. I looked my natural surprise. "I never could abide those damned saltines," he explained, with a touch of his old glowering sulkiness. "I'll drink with you, Cousin Hugh, till the swallows homeward fly, but I'll not taste your salt; I reserve the right to withdraw the flag of truce without notice." Well, I should have had warning a-plenty by this time, but it was all to no purpose; I had the full realization that I was treading a dangerous path, and yet it was not in my conscious power to take one single step toward safety. Call it fatalism if you will, or the pure recklessness engendered by the growing conviction that Betty was lost to me for good and all; whatever the secret springs of my present course of action, the outcome inevitably must have been the same; a Scotchman would have said that I was fey. And perhaps I was. I never had been what you call a drinking man, but to-night I was matching glass for glass with "Black Jack" Thaneford, who could put any man, yes any three men in King William County, under the table. The night came on apace, and twice Effingham had been ordered to bring in another supply of spirits. Suddenly John Thaneford broke away from the trivial subjects which we had been discussing. "Some two years ago, Cousin Hugh," he began, "I gave you a choice--Betty Graeme or the 'Hundred.' Do you remember?" "I remember," I answered steadily. "But you would not make it; you took them both." "What right had you to force such an issue?" I demanded hotly. "That is beside the point. I did force it." "Well?" "I'll give you the final opportunity." "Possibly, you have forgotten that Betty is now my wife?" "I have not forgotten it." "And as for the 'Hundred'----" "The 'Hundred,'" he repeated, a dull, red flush dyeing his high forehead. "There is another interest now besides my own that I am bound to protect; I have a son." "Ah, I had not heard. Of course that does make a difference." "All the difference. See here, Thaneford," I went on impulsively, "I don't want to play an ungenerous part, and I can see something of your side of the case. I am prepared to make some provision, indeed an ample one; but the 'Hundred' must remain where it is." "And that is your last word?" he queried almost indifferently. "My last word," I answered, looking him straight in the eye. "Then we know where we are," he responded. "The bottle stands with you, Cousin Hugh." We renewed our potations, but thenceforth in silence; for the space of an hour and more not another word passed between us. And the silence was an hostile one, the quiet of watchful and eternal enmity. I know that I hated John Thaneford and that he hated me; moreover, this condition could never change or alter until the end of time itself. Well, anything was better than the false cordiality of conventional speech; at least we knew where we stood. And still our grim wassail went on. * * * * * I can't recall falling to sleep in the great chair, but now, with a sudden, painful start, I awoke to realize that it was broad daylight--Friday, the twenty-second of June. My head was aching frightfully, and my arms and legs seemed singularly cramped and constricted. Then I came face to face with the ugly fact that I was bound fast in my chair by stout cords that secured my shoulders, wrists, and ankles; I could move my head a trifle to one side or the other and that was all. John Thaneford sat opposite me, smoking a cigarette and looking as though he had remained entirely unaffected by the amount of liquor he had consumed. Seeing that I was awake he rose, came over to where I sat, and examined carefully the various ligatures that constrained my movements. Not a word was uttered on either side, and indeed there was no need for any speech between us. Doubtless I should be informed in due time of whatever fate might be in store for me; and, for the present, I could only wait with what show of patience it were possible to muster. A discreet knock sounded on the closed door leading to the corridor. Thaneford snapped back the locking-bolt and stepped across the threshold; I realized that Effingham was standing there, but the leather screen prevented my seeing him, and of course it hid, in turn, my mortifying predicament. Now I might have called out, shouted for help, raised the very roof in indignant protest at the humiliation to which I had been subjected. And yet I did none of these obvious things, and I think John Thaneford was shrewd enough to know that my tongue would be held out of very shame; otherwise, he would have taken the precaution to slip a gag into my mouth. I heard Thaneford tell Effingham, speaking of course in my name, to bring a large pot of black coffee and a plate of crackers. "The unsalted kind," he added, as though actuated by an afterthought whose significance became instantly clear to my own mind. "Or better yet," he continued, "some of those big, round biscuits that they call 'pilot bread.' No, Mr. Hildebrand doesn't care for any tea this morning--what's that! a telegram? Then why the devil didn't you say so! Give it here, and mind you hurry up that coffee--hot and black, and strong as sheol." The door swung to, and I could hear Effingham's carpet slippers padding softly away. Too late now, I regretted that I had not given the alarm. Even if Thaneford had used violent means to silence Effingham my voice would have rung all through the lower part of the house, prompting some sort of inquiry and a probable rescue. But that chance was gone. Thaneford returned to my immediate vicinity, the buff telegram envelope in his hand. I could see that it was addressed to me, but he broke the seal without even the pretense of hesitation, and glanced over the message. His lips curled into a genial sneer (if one can imagine such a combination); then he deliberately held up the sheet for me to read. _If indeed you still care for me, don't enter library again under any consideration or for any purpose. Coming._ The message was signed with my dear girl's initials, and it was plain that it had been written under stress of emotion. In spite of my equivocal position (for really I could not bring myself to believe that John Thaneford intended actual personal violence), and the extreme discomfort of being trussed up like a hog going to the slaughter pen, I was conscious that, after all these months of alienation, some mysterious barrier had fallen and the long misunderstanding was in a fair way of being cleared up. And so, although my temples were thumping like a steam engine and the pain in my arms and legs was deadening to a terrifying numbness, my spirits rebounded to an extravagant height; my heart sang again. "If you still care for me!" And then that wonderful word: "Coming." I was wildly, deliriously happy, for now everything must come right. What a fool I had been through all these doleful months! how wholeheartedly would I make my confession; how tender and generous would be my absolution--but a sudden realization of things as they really were checked, like a cold douche, my satisfying glow of well-being. If danger actually existed for me within the library walls I was ill prepared to meet it, sitting fast bound in my chair with "Black Jack" Thaneford opposite me, an evil smile upon his lips and the glint of a spark in the dead blackness of his half-closed eyes. And then, of a sudden, I became horribly afraid. Not of John Thaneford, for all that he hated me and had me in his power, but of the Terror, unknown, unseen, and unheard, that lurked within the circle of these walls; whose coming none could foresee and none prevent; for whose appearance the ultimate stage had been set and the final watch posted. Remember, I had nothing tangible upon which to base even a fragment of theory, and all of our original clues had proved worthless. Here were neither dim, midnight spaces, nor hollow walls, nor underlying abysses. Just a big, almost empty room, devoid of alcoves and odd corners, and withal flooded with the sunshine of a perfect June day. The only feature out of the common was the secret outlet behind the chimney-breast, and some time ago I had replaced the original lock by one of the latest, burglar proof pattern. There were only two keys, one on my own bunch and the other in Betty's possession; certainly the peril was not likely to appear in that quarter; that would have been too obvious, even amateurish. The morning dragged on. When Marcus knocked at the door, seeking admission to carry in the breakfast tray, he was roughly ordered to set it down on the threshold and take himself off. Thaneford, waiting until the house-boy was well out of hearing, unlocked the door and carried in the tray for himself; evidently, he did not intend to give me a second opportunity to send out any S. O. S. calls. With the massive door once more _in situ_ I might halloo and shout until I burst my bellows, without anyone being the wiser. Thaneford, in quick succession, drank two big cups of the coffee. He did not go through the form of offering me a taste of the beverage, and much as I longed for its comforting ministrations, I was hardly ready to ask the boon of my jailor. Effingham must have been unable to find any of the unsalted pilot bread, for he had provided, in its stead, several rounds of buttered toast and a dish of scrambled eggs. But Thaneford would have none of these forbidden viands. Strange! that he should balk upon the purely academic question of a few grains of salt. But we all enjoy our pet inconsistencies. So he finished the pot of coffee and fell to smoking again, while I continued to speculate, a little grimly, upon the chances of ever getting clear of this infernal coil. Apparently, there was nothing for either of us to do but to go on waiting, waiting. The hours dragged along and now it was hard upon high noon, as I could see by Thaneford's gold repeater that lay on the desk between us; with an indescribable thrill I realized that he, too, was watching the minute hand as it slowly traveled upward to the sign of the Roman numerals, XII. Unquestionably, some fateful moment was approaching, and yet there was nothing in the physical surroundings to give rise to uneasiness even, let alone apprehension; nothing unless it were the occasional rumble of distant thunder, a sullen drone underneath the pleasant song of the birds and the cheerful humming of bees among the rose bushes. Through the painted window, depicting the flight of the Hebrew spies, the sunshine poured in full volume, the white light transformed to gorgeous color by the medium through which it passed. One broad bar lay close at hand upon the oaken floor, a riotous splash of red from Rahab's scarlet cord intermingled with purple blotches from the circular bosses that simulated the huge grapes of the Promised Land: I watched the variegated band of color as it crept slowly toward my chair; at present, it lay to the right, but as the sun approached the zenith it swung around, little by little, so as to finally bring my person into the sphere of its influence; now a piercing purple beam struck me directly in the face and I blinked; an instant later and the dazzle had passed beyond; again I saw clearly. Thaneford had risen, his teeth clenched upon his lower lip, a half cry choking in his throat. Together our eyes fastened on the dial of his watch, where the hands now pointed to eight minutes after twelve o'clock. With one convulsive movement he snatched up the time-piece, and dashed it in golden ruin to the floor; then he sprang toward me, and I knew in another moment those strong hands, with their black-tufted knuckles, would be gripping at my throat. But that moment never came. On he leaped, lunging straight through the colored stream of sunlight. And then a purple flash seemed to strike fair on his black-shocked head; he reeled and fell. Down at my feet he rolled, his limbs twitching in the death throe; simultaneously came a tremendous crash of thunder, echoing and re-echoing from the straining and cracking walls, while the blazing band of gold and purple and scarlet went out like the flame of a wind-blown candle. I looked up to see Betty's pale face framed in the archway of the secret passage behind the chimney-breast; back of her stood Chalmers Warriner. Betty had an automatic pistol in her hand, and she kept it trained on the motionless, sprawling figure at my feet. She must have realized that the precaution was unnecessary, but it was all part of the preconceived plan, and she could not have borne to have stood idly by. Warriner now entered the room, but he did not come directly toward me; on the contrary, he kept close to the wall until he had arrived at a point diagonally behind my chair; then he made his dash, and I could feel my bonds falling apart under the keen edge of the hunting knife that he carried. "Can you walk?" he asked. "Wait and I'll help you." He dragged me to my feet, and I stumbled back to the wall, holding onto his arm; now the room was in almost complete darkness save for the recurrent flashes of steel-blue radiance from the incessant electrical discharges; the rolling thunder drowned out any further exchange of speech. Together we crept toward the secret entrance, still hugging the line and angles of the wall. Betty's arms drew me into the sheltering warmth of her breast; now the floor rocked beneath our feet as the lightning bolt sheared through the doomed roof, and the great painted window of the Israelitish spies, bending inward under the pressure of the on-rushing wind, crashed into multitudinous, iridescent ruin, obliterating in its fall the white, twisted face of the man who had been John Thaneford. * * * * * At last we were in the open, shaken and trembling, drenched to the skin by the descending floods, but safe; we pulled up short and looked back. The library wing was in flames which seemed to blaze the more fiercely under the lash of the down-slanting rain. But it might still be possible to save the main house, and I ran to the fire alarm, the familiar rustic apparatus of a great, iron ring suspended from a stout framework; and made it give furious tongue, swinging the heavy hammer until my arms seemed ready to pull away from their sockets. But help was at hand, Zack and Zeb at the head of a body of field hands; and with them the old-fashioned hand-pumping fire engine which had been preparing itself for just such an emergency through a full century of watchful waiting. Our domestic fire brigade had been well drilled, and the immediate danger was soon past; finally we succeeded in getting the blaze in the library wing under control. The interior had been entirely gutted, and the roof had fallen in. But the walls remained standing, and, apparently, they had suffered but little damage. The storm was over and once again the sun was shining. Innumerable brilliants flashed on the smooth emerald of the lawns, the leaves of the lindens were rustling softly, and a Baltimore oriole, gorgeous in his orange and black livery, returned scornful challenge to a blue jay's chattering abuse. I might have deemed it but the awakening from a horrid nightmare, were it not for the incredible fact that Betty's hand lay close in mine and Chalmers Warriner was asking me for a cigarette. Whereupon I distinguished myself by crumpling down at Betty's feet; somebody drew the cap of darkness over my eyes. Chapter XX _The Blind Terror_ For three days I wandered in a phantasmagoric wilderness, my principal obsession making me identify myself with that pair of Hebrew spies staggering under the weight of those enormous grapes; would we never lose sight of Rahab's scarlet cord, and be again in safety and quiet! Then the confusion in my head cleared away, and I saw that it was really Betty who sat by my bed and not "Black Jack" Thaneford. * * * * * Yes, John Thaneford lies quiet and still in S. Saviour's churchyard--with his forefathers and mine--and enmity should end at the edge of the grave. God knows that each one of us needs forgiveness, both human and divine, for the deeds done in the flesh. * * * * * This morning I am allowed to sit up. Betty is busy at her household accounts, and Little Hugh is playing on the floor with blocks and tin soldiers. What a tremendous big chap he is! Perhaps a trifle shy of me at present, but time will soon put that to rights. * * * * * A beautiful day, and I am feeling almost if not quite myself. To-morrow I am to get up, and Chalmers Warriner is coming to dinner. * * * * * It is a long and well nigh incredible story to which I have been listening this evening. But it explains everything and clears up everything, and the shadow that has hung over "Hildebrand Hundred" for so long has finally fled away; never, thank God! to return. * * * * * _Imprimis_, let me register full and frank confession of my unutterable folly in ever doubting Betty; or, for that matter, my dear friend Chalmers Warriner. And the explanation was so absurdly simple--the secret engagement between Warriner and Hilda Powers. Of course, Betty had been Hilda's confidante and could not betray her even to re-establish a foolish husband's peace of mind. The ridiculous side of the affair lay in the fact that there had been no particular reason for keeping the engagement under cover, outside of Hilda's whim to have the announcement delayed until after the marriage of her elder sister Eva. Anyhow it _had_ been a secret and Betty had kept it loyally, even to her own hurt. Moreover, she may have detected other traces of the green-eyed monster in my make-up, and had decided that I needed a salutary lesson. Let it go at that. Of course, the mere statement of fact was enough to untangle the whole coil; explained at once was the confidential understanding which certainly had existed between my wife and my friend; also Warriner's appearance at Stockbridge (where Hilda was already Betty's guest), and all the other straws that seemed to show which way the wind blew, and yet were nothing but straws, hopelessly light-minded and wholly irresponsible. I made my amends humbly enough, and they were generously accepted; we will say no more about it. Dinner was over, and we were taking our coffee on the front portico. It was a perfect June night, the heavens a sable pall studded with innumerable star-clusters, the little vagrant breezes redolent of new mown hay, a nightingale singing in a nearby boscage. An atmosphere of heavenly peace and quiet that I must needs disturb with the blunt question: "And now what was it that killed John Thaneford?" Chalmers Warriner threw away the butt of his cigar. "What was it that killed all the Hildebrands throughout two generations?" he retorted. "Yardley and Randall and Horace and Richard, and Francis Graeme? The answer to the one question is the answer to them all. And, finally, there was Eunice Trevor, who went voluntarily to meet the invisible angel of death--a brave woman if there ever was one! Of course you remember the unfinished letter which she left behind her. There was a particular paragraph in it that impressed me, and I copied it down in my note-book." He pulled out the little volume and began to read: ... moreover, I believe that the heart of the Terror beats in this very place--the library of "Hildebrand Hundred." Something is in this room, something eternally menacing and eternally patient. It may be in one year or it may be in three and fifty years, but in the end it will surely claim its own. Yes, something is here, the something for which I myself am waiting; but, search as you will, you shall not find the Terror; you must await its coming. At least you may be certain that it will not fail to keep tryst. "It must be evident," continued Chalmers, "that Eunice Trevor was aware of the very real danger attendant upon the occupation of the room we call the library at 'Hildebrand Hundred.' But she did not know what was the nature of that danger; in the same breath she speaks of the peril as being eternally menacing and eternally patient--a contradiction in terms. How could the Terror be always ready to strike, and yet, in one case at least, wait half a century for the opportunity? This discrepancy bothered me from the very first; but let me explain myself more exactly; I made some other notes at the time." Warriner ruffled the leaves of his note-book, and began again: "Eunice Trevor gives a list of the owners of the 'Hundred,' together with the dates of their succession and death, running back to 1860, when Yardley Hildebrand succeeded his father, Oliver; Yardley himself dying a year later under mysterious circumstances. At least I assume that they were mysterious, for Effingham has assured me that he died alone and while engaged in looking over some papers in the then newly completed library. The list continues with Randall and Horace and Richard Hildebrand, and ends with Francis Graeme. Now for Miss Trevor's comments: "As we analyze these dates and periods we come upon some curious coincidences, and also upon some marked discrepancies. Yardley Hildebrand reigned for one brief year, and the same is true of Randall Hildebrand and of Francis Graeme. But Horace Hildebrand enjoyed three full years of sovereignty, while Richard was Hildebrand of the "Hundred" for no less a period than fifty-three years. Yet all five went to their death along an unfrequented road, and no man can say of a certainty what was the essential damnation of their taking-off. They died, and they died alone--here in this very room where I sit waiting, waiting." Warriner lit a fresh cigar. "Making due allowance for feminine hyperbole," he said judicially, "and for the writer's excited state of mind, we arrive at certain definite facts. Here are six deaths--seven if we include that of John Thaneford--and all of them happening under apparently natural but really abnormal conditions. The constant factors in the series of equations are the _locale_ and the general circumstances--an unattended death and no visible cause for dissolution. The period is a variable quantity--from one to over fifty years. We therefore may conclude justifiably that Miss Trevor was wrong in her assertion about something deadly and menacing being always in the room, ready to spring upon its prey. Under that hypothesis the apartment would quickly have become impossible for human occupancy. The alternative theory is that, granting certain conditions, the lethal agent might enter the room and accomplish its deadly purpose, and then immediately withdraw. Finally, this agency might be human or purely mechanical in character. You see what I'm driving at. From the first, I believed that the attack was delivered from without, while Betty and Eunice held that it was what the police call an inside job." "And neither theory was wholly right nor wholly wrong," observed Betty. "Perfectly," rejoined Warriner. "As usual, the truth lay in the middle distance. Now you go on, Betty; this is your part of the story." "My part of the story!" echoed Betty deprecatingly. "I'm not an author; I'm merely the amanuensis, the typist, if you please." "Mock modesty," proclaimed Warriner. "Even now we would still be standing before a closed door were it not for Betty and her master-key." "Yes, my master-key," scoffed Betty. "Only it doesn't seem very clever of me to have carried it all these months without ever thinking to use it." "Perhaps you couldn't find your pocket," suggested Chalmers. "Enough of this bush-beating and persiflage," I commanded severely. "Will you go on and tell me, Betty?" "Well," began my wife obediently, "we had been warned away from the 'Hundred,' but you were obstinate and wouldn't budge; you had to be saved in spite of yourself. "Of course I was right in going North immediately after the Midsummer Night's ball at 'Powersthorp.' Little Hugh really needed the change, and I wanted to be able to call at will on Chalmers for assistance in working out my problem. I couldn't do so if I stayed on at the 'Hundred,' even by means of correspondence. I don't suppose, Hugh, that I need to particularize any further in this direction?" I mumbled something unintelligible, and, to add to my discomfiture, Warriner actually laughed. Never mind; I deserved it all. "I could feel reasonably easy in my mind," went on Betty, "since I knew that the library had been dismantled and locked up. Besides, I had your solemn promise that you would not attempt to enter it for any purpose." "I forgot," I murmured. "That sounds like honest penitence, and I can forgive you--now. But I shall never be able to forget the afternoon your letter came with its calm announcement that you had been in the room to see about the damaged window; yes, and would probably have to go again. "That letter reached Stockbridge at ten o'clock in the morning of Thursday, the twenty-first. Fifteen minutes later an express train left for New York, and Chalmers and I were the passengers on it, leaving Hilda to follow with the nurse and the baby. At the first opportunity I sent you a telegram. Did you receive it?" My thoughts went back to the yellow telegraphic sheet clutched in John Thaneford's black-knuckled hands, and held up before my helpless eyes. "Yes, it came," I answered slowly, "but too late to be of any use." "I was afraid of that," said Betty, "but we were leaving no stone unturned. We were missing connections all the way down, and I knew that the trap was ready for springing. And someone else knew it, too--John Thaneford." "But," I objected, "Eunice expressly says that John Thaneford did not know the secret; except perhaps in part." "What did he mean then by stupefying you with whiskey, and placing you, bound and helpless, in the big swivel-chair?" put in Warriner. I was silent. "Finally," continued Warriner, "it seemed certain that something had gone wrong with the working of the machinery, whatever it was. Whereupon he started for you--you remember--with bare hands." Ah, yes, I remembered. "Unquestionably, Thaneford was carrying out a perfectly definite plan of procedure. He knew what ought to have happened." "But it didn't happen," I protested. "I'm here and very much alive." "It did, and it didn't," retorted Warriner. "John Thaneford is dead." "You mean--you mean----" I boggled. "Yes, the Terror had entered the room; don't you recall how close I kept to the wall when I was trying to reach you? But it had become a blind Terror, and John Thaneford got in its way." "But how and why?" I asked helplessly. "Betty, it's your turn again," said Warriner, settling back in his chair. Chapter XXI _A Lost Clue_ "Suppose we admit, for the sake of argument," began Betty "that John Thaneford was in possession of the secret. Then everything points back to his father, old Fielding, who certainly had all the brains of the family. Last and most important, it was a secret which Mr. Thaneford, senior, desired to impart to me; he did tell me all he could." "The series of numbers, you mean? I recall them perfectly: 1-4-2-4-8. And what then?" "Do you remember the story of Christian and his fellow pilgrim, Hopeful, imprisoned in Giant Despair's stronghold of Doubting Castle? After languishing for a week or more in darkness and misery, Hopeful suddenly bethinks him of a key which he has in his bosom, a key that will unlock any door in the castle. The rest is easy. "So, too, I had my key, but I had only used it once--to unlock the first and most obvious door----" "The combination of the safe," I interrupted. "Precisely. It never occurred to either of us that it might be a master-key to which all locks must yield. But so it was. "Not that I learned to use it without a lot of trouble and discouragement. It took months and months, and I only got it fully working on the train trip down from Stockbridge. "Of course, you have guessed that the whole story lay buried in that leather-bound book belonging to Fielding Thaneford which we found in the safe. I remembered all that you had told me about 'Le Chiffre Indéchiffrable,' but even granting that that particular cypher had been employed, how was I ever to stumble upon the indispensable key-word, or more likely, key-sentence? "One day I had an inspiration. There was the series of numbers: 1-4-2-4-8. Considered as numbers merely they could be of no use, since most cypher codes are built up on letters. But I might put the numbers into their written word equivalents, thus: One-four-two-four-eight It was certainly conceivable that these letters might form the key-sentence; it would be all the more easily memorized since, in its numerical form, it served as a combination to the safe. "I had with me the magic square which you had made for me, and I began very carefully to work out the problem according to your directions. "The initial procedure was to put down my theoretical key-sentences, thus:" O N E F O U R T W O F O U R E I G H T "Underneath I must write the cypher message, and half a dozen letters would be enough to show if I were on the right track. I opened Mr. Fielding Thaneford's old book, and copied down the first seven letters, ranging them vertically under the key-letters. That gave me this arrangement:" O N E F O U R Q W O T T U I "Now the rule goes on to say that you must find the letter O in the top horizontal column, and follow that column vertically downward until you come to the first cypher letter, in this case Q. The letter at the outside, left end of this second horizontal column, will be the first letter of the original message. "Well, I tried it, and got the letter B. The next pair yielded an I, which was encouraging, as one would expect a vowel in this position. But the third try gave me a J, and that was not so promising; then I got an N and an E. So far my decoded message read: BIJNE; not very enlightening. The next pair showed the letter U in both key-sentence and cypher. Such a combination is impossible on our magic square, and I had to put down a blank space. The final letter obtained was a Q, and the complete result read: BIJNE-Q. Pure gibberish of course. I tried out a few more pairs, and then gave up in disgust; my beautiful theory had fallen to pieces. "Just the same, I wasn't ready to give it up. I knew, right in my bones, that old Mr. Thaneford had wanted to tell me something of supreme importance at that last moment on his deathbed, when my hand lay in his and I could feel the intermittent pressure of his fingers. It was impossible that I should be mistaken about any of the figures, for he went over the series three or four times; besides, they did open the safe. "I was still sure that the numbers meant something more than the mere combination to an old strong-box that held nothing of any pecuniary value. The real secret lay between the covers of that leather-bound book, and I was certain that the old man had been desirous that I should discover it. The Thanefords and the Hildebrands had not been friends for a long while, although nobody knew just why. Probably, it was some ancient grudge Or unforgiven wrong, and old Mr. Thaneford had done his part in keeping it up. But now that he was sick and paralyzed and dying, and especially since he and I had become friends of a sort, he was willing to bury the hatchet. So he told all he could--you remember that he couldn't speak--and he seemed to feel satisfied that I would find the hint sufficient, that I would be clever enough to solve the puzzle. "And surely it was a puzzle. My best guess had come a flivver, and I didn't see how I could go a step further. Perhaps it was silly to attach so much importance to what the old man had tried to tell me, but I had an intuition that our future happiness and safety were bound up in those crumbling leather covers. "Time went on, and the solution was as far off as ever; at least apparently. Little Hugh and I had come to Irvington for the winter; it was close to Christmas, and I had the blues terribly. Just to think of Christmas and that abyss lying between us! For I knew that you would not come unless I called, and I could not send for you quite yet. Suppose that the discovery of the secret should be close at hand; I might need Chalmers to help out on some difficult scientific point. "It is always the little things that show the way out. Hilda's weekly letter had come, and I was reading it eagerly hoping to find some mention of you. Now Hilda, poor dear! is an awful speller; she never could learn to visualize words. As I read along I came on a word which looked odd; then I saw that she had committed the careless stenographer's error of spelling 'forty' with an u, thus: 'fourty.' Of course, the pronunciation is the same in either case--and then it was that I got my _big_ idea. Was it possible that the phonetic sounds in my series of numbers might fit words of entirely different meaning than their ordinary equivalents in letters? Let me try. "1-4-2-4-8. Why, yes, 1 is 'one' and also 'won'; 4 is 'four' and also 'for'; 2 is 'two' and also 'too'--quick! let me get them all down. And here was the result: Won--for--too--for--ate. You see that, in every instance, the phonetic sound of the number can be represented exactly by a word of entirely different meaning. But this peculiar quality in the series, 1-4-2-4-8, would not be apparent at a casual glance, and the figures could even be written down for future reference, or sent to a distant correspondent, without any probability of that inner significance becoming revealed. Very clever of Fielding Thaneford--that is if my deductions were really correct! "The first step was to set down the new key-sentence with the cypher writing underneath. Here it is; this time using fifteen letters." W O N F O R T O O F O R A T E Q W O T T U I J X I S V A Z P "Applying the decoding rule I got the following in my first six tries:" T H A N E C "You can imagine how excited I was. If my theory were correct the next four letters should be OURT, completing the word 'Thane Court,' Eureka! it is coming! It is coming! I got both the O and the U. "From the height of exultation to the depths of despair. For instead of R in the ninth place, I had to set down an I; and then, in succession: CDD-FKL. Perfectly impossible! Look at it: THANECOUICDD-FKL, etc. "And yet the cypher had certainly started to uncode; what could have thrown me off the track? For I had succeeded in getting 'Thanecou,' and that unusual combination was significant in the highest degree. What word could it be but 'Thane Court,' the ancestral home of the Thanefords? Why the chances were a million to one against my reaching such a series for--for----" "Fortuitously," I prompted. "Yes, that's it; something like the 'fortuitous concourse of atoms' that the philosophers talk about. I remember the phrase from my school days. "And yet the mix-up came to spoil everything. For what could any sensible person make of THANECOUICDD-FKL? "I tried carrying on the series until my brain was positively dizzy, but I got nothing except incomprehensible rubbish. And yet I knew that I had found a real clue; how in the world had I lost it again? I used to work until I actually went fast to sleep at my desk, but nothing came of it. It was enough to drive one mad. "The middle of May I went up to Stockbridge, and of course I carried my troubles with me. Wherever I looked I seemed to see that tantalizing key-sentence: Won--for--too--for--ate; it was as bad as the squaring of the circle. Just some little, insignificant error was keeping me from the solving of the puzzle, but for the life of me I couldn't put my finger on it. Honestly now, Hugh, do you think you would have been clever enough to have figured it out?" I checked up Betty's "layout" and went over the decoding process with meticulous care. I got precisely the same result: THANECOU--and then chaos. "It beats me," I confessed. "It's enough to make one dotty." "I dare say that is what Aunt Alice Crew thought of me in her heart of hearts," laughed Betty, "although she was too polite to say so. And, really, it was getting on my nerves. I couldn't eat, and a _nuit blanche_ was no uncommon thing with me. I couldn't get it out of my head, you understand, that the solving of the problem must be of immense importance. There _was_ a mystery at the 'Hundred,' and so long as it remained a mystery there could be no enduring peace or happiness for us. If you had been willing to sell the 'Hundred' there might have been some chance of escaping the curse; hadn't poor Eunice said as much in that weird statement which she left behind her. But you would not consider the suggestion even." "I suppose I was pig-headed and altogether in the wrong," I admitted humbly. "But it all seemed so fantastic and incredible--here in the twentieth century." "Granting that the mystery had continued unsolved," said Betty, looking me straight in the eye. "What then?" "But you have given me to understand----" I began. "Never mind that," interrupted my wife. "Even now you don't know the secret, and I might find it inadvisable to tell you. Admitting the possibility that the ghost has not been truly laid, would you still insist upon remaining master of 'Hildebrand Hundred'?" A vision of those strong, cruel hands, with their black-tufted knuckles, rose before me, and I shuddered. "Or would you be willing that Little Hugh should enter upon his inheritance with this cloud hanging over it?" "No, I wouldn't," I said soberly. "To be honest, I hadn't thought of it in that light." "You see a woman has to consider all these things," rejoined Betty. "But you have been very patient, Hugh, and the winding up of my yarn won't take long. The crisis begins with Chalmers' coming to Stockbridge." "For me, that was the denouement, the end of all things," I said shamefacedly, and Warriner roared. "You see, I never suspected even that I was cast for the role of breaker up of homes," he remarked meditatively. "Betty and I were good friends, of course, but once you appeared on the sky line I was reduced to playing gooseberry. Besides, there never had been anyone else than Hilda for me." "I'm only trying to explain my conduct," I retorted. "I'm well aware that nothing can excuse it. Shoot, Betty." "Of course, Chalmers was coming to Stockbridge," went on Betty, "for the simple reason that Hilda was visiting me. Nevertheless, I was looking forward to his arrival, because he had promised to dig up certain data for me. "You remember the list of Hildebrand tragedies as given by Eunice; how Yardley Hildebrand had succeeded his father, Oliver, in 1860, and had died the following year; then how his younger brother, Randall, had become master of the 'Hundred,' and had only lived a twelvemonth; and so on. "Well, I thought it might be useful to ascertain all these dates exactly, and, in order to do that, it would be necessary to take transcripts from the parish register at S. Saviour's. I wrote to Chalmers, and asked him to look up this information and bring it with him when he came to Stockbridge. Not only did he do this, but he took the trouble to type out the complete record, so that all the facts in the case might lie under the eye. I'll read it." Betty pulled out a folded sheet of paper from the portfolio lying in her lap and began: Yardley Hildebrand, b. March 5, 1806; succeeded his father, Oliver, 1860; d. June 20, 1861. Randall Hildebrand, b. May 11, 1809; succeeded his brother, Yardley, 1861; d. June 22, 1862. Horace Hildebrand, elder son of Randall, b. December 4, 1830; succeeded his father, 1862; d. June 22, 1865. Richard Hildebrand, younger son of Randall, b. June 1, 1835; succeeded his elder brother, 1865; d. June 20, 1918. Francis Hildebrand Graeme, great-nephew to Richard, b. April 13, 1874; succeeded his great-uncle, 1918; d. June 21, 1919. Eunice Trevor, b. September 2, 1892; d. June 20, 1920. "And now we may add a final entry," continued Betty: "John Thaneford, nephew to Richard, b. July 16, 1892; d. June 22, 1922." Betty handed me over the list. "Do you notice anything peculiar about those dates?" she asked. I read the paper through, and then again. "You have already pointed out," I began hesitatingly, "that the tenure of 'Hildebrand Hundred' was for the comparatively brief period of one to three years. Except for Richard, who held the property for over fifty." "I don't mean that. Examine the actual dates." I scanned the record with still greater attention. "Ah!" I exclaimed, "here _is_ something strange. Everyone of these men, and Eunice, too, died in June; yes, and on a day of the month that varied between the twentieth and the twenty-second. Is that what you had in mind?" "Yes, and it seemed to indicate clearly that those particular three days, the twentieth, twenty-first, and twenty-second of June----" "In astronomical parlance, the summer solstice," interrupted Warriner. "----was the danger period." "Yes, and then?" "Your letter came, saying that you had been obliged to enter the library to look after the window repairs; you added that you would probably have to go again to finish up the job. As I have already told you, that letter reached me on Thursday morning, June the twenty-first; Chalmers and I left at once for New York. On the way down I succeeded in reading the cypher, and so got Fielding Thaneford's message in full." "But how in the world----" I began. "You'll know in good time," cut in Betty. "First, I want you to consider another of my sources of information. Here it is," and she held up a small book bound in tattered leather. "This," continued my wife, "is a diary kept by Horace Hildebrand, who succeeded to the 'Hundred' in 1862, and died June 22, 1865. The notes refer chiefly to the weather, a record that many country gentlemen are fond of keeping for their own amusement. The only period which interests us is that covering those fatal June days in 1863, 1864, and 1865." Betty thumbed over the leaves, and stopped at the latter part of June, 1863. "You see that the twentieth, twenty-first, and twenty-second are described as overcast and rainy. Now for 1864: "'June 20, cloudy; June 21, clear. (Note: A total eclipse of the sun took place to-day, the period of partial and complete darkness lasting from 10.45 A. M. to 2.10 P. M.); June 22, cloudy.' Finally, we take 1865: "'June 20, rainy; June twenty-first, heavy rains; June 22, fine and clear.' This is the last entry in the book as Horace Hildebrand was found dead later on in that same day. "Just one more point. What possible hypothesis can we establish to account for Richard Hildebrand's half century of immunity? Now it happened that I had questioned Effingham on this very subject before I left the 'Hundred.' Effingham had lived, as boy and man, on the Hildebrand estate for over sixty years. Consequently, he knew Marse Richard, as he called him, very well, and was familiar with his habits of life. "According to Effingham, Richard Hildebrand disliked the warm weather, and always left the 'Hundred' the first of June; he would spend the summer at the 'Old White,' returning to Maryland toward the end of September. But in 1918, the last year of his life, he was too feeble to go away from home. His favorite room was the library, and there he was found dead the evening of the twentieth of June, 1918. He was supposed to have died of heart disease; certainly there was no suspicion of foul play. "So that was the sum total of my investigations to date," concluded Betty. "Do you make anything of it?" "It's beyond me," I confessed frankly. "What is the answer?" "Only Fielding Thaneford himself can give it," replied Betty. "Here is his fully decoded statement, and I'll ask Chalmers to read it aloud. As I said a moment ago, we worked it out together that long day on the train. When we reached town we had the whole story, and knew what to expect. Except one thing: Would it be a cloudy day? But it turned out fair and hot, with only a faint suggestion of thunder in the air. There was a bad wreck on the Cape Charles route, and anyhow we had missed the connection for the morning train. So we hired a car, threw away the speedometer, and made to strike the 'Hundred' by midday. We couldn't quite do it, but the tide of chance had turned at last, and it didn't matter. Now go on, Chalmers." Warriner ruffled the dozen or more sheets of paper between his fingers and began: Chapter XXII _The Grapes of Wrath_ Thane Court, August third, eighteen-ninety-two. Now that a son is born to me, Fielding Thaneford of King William county, Maryland, it is fitting that I set down in order the form and measure of my vengeance upon the traitor Yardley Hildebrand; also upon those who may come after him until the end of time. Back in 1854 I was a young man of nine-and-twenty. Yardley Hildebrand was some twenty years my senior, yet we were close friends owing to our common interest in scientific studies, he as a chemist and I as a physicist, specializing in optics. Then Evelyn Mansfield came and stood between us. It was his wealth which turned the scale. Not that Evelyn was mercenary, but financial disaster had overtaken the Mansfields, and Yardley Hildebrand had promised to play the part of a ministering angel in rehabilitating the family fortunes, the inexorable condition being that Evelyn should favor his suit. And I was a comparatively poor man. They were married in 1855, she a slip of a girl of barely nineteen years, and he a mature man of fifty. It is hardly necessary to say that he kept none of his lavish promises. I cared nothing about that, but when he began to mistreat his wife, to the extent of using personal violence, my half-formed plans started to take definite shape. Evelyn died suddenly in the late summer of 1860, the same year that Yardley Hildebrand succeeded his father in the ownership of the "Hundred." As S. Saviour's was then undergoing repairs, the funeral had to take place from the house. I stood by her coffin, set up in state in the long ballroom; and, snatching a favorable opportunity, I pushed back the loose sleeve of her gown, and saw with my own eyes the blue and purple marks of his hands on her delicate flesh. Whereupon, I made oath that both Yardley himself and his heirs forever should pay in their own bodies for all that Evelyn had suffered and endured. Perhaps I was a little mad then; it may be that I am still of a disordered brain, and so not fully responsible for the things which I have done in making up the tale of my revenge. Whatever the legal aspects of the case, be sure of this: I am neither sorry nor ashamed. My opportunity quickly came. Yardley determined to go abroad; the pretense was that he needed a change to divert his mind and blunt the keen edge of his grief. But I managed to keep a straight face when he mumbled out his excuses and explanations. Yardley Hildebrand had it in mind to build an adequate library at the "Hundred"; the villain had his cultivated tastes, and he wanted something which should be unique of its kind. Since my regular profession was that of an architect he naturally consulted me. I sketched out my ideas, and they met with his approval; he offered me the commission, and I accepted with alacrity. Then he sailed away, leaving me to carry out the plans--those in my sketchbook and some others that I had not taken the trouble to show him. Modern physicists are just now beginning to talk about the invisible heat and light rays composed of high frequency vibrations. But long before Crooks gave the X-ray to the world I had discovered and had succeeded in isolating what I choose to call the Sigma ray. Some fine day it will be rediscovered, and the lucky man will get a new lot of capital letters to tack onto his name; and perhaps a ribbon for his buttonhole, and a pension from his grateful government. I shall not care; the Sigma ray has repaid me a thousandfold for the trouble I took to establish its existence; as a lethal agent it stands without a peer, instantaneously destructive to all forms of organic life. Naturally, I do not propose to state the formula by means of which I was enabled to construct a filter capable of segregating my beloved Sigma ray _from ordinary sunlight_. Ah, that statement is illuminating, is it not! Suffice it to say that my filter looks like common glass. It may be moulded so as to resemble the familiar bullseye lens; and, if desirable, it can be colored. Now do you begin to appreciate the significance of the stained glass window on the right of the great fireplace in the library of "Hildebrand Hundred," the one depicting the Israelitish spies carrying their clusters of purple grapes? If you choose to make an interesting experiment, arrange for the erection of a staging or an extension ladder outside the "Spy" window, so as to bring your eye on a level with the third grape in the upper row of the largest bunch. You will find that the line of your view, through this particular bullseye, impinges upon the head of any person who may chance to be sitting in the swivel-chair before the big, teakwood desk. As the chair is immovably secured to the floor by steel bolts passing through its mushroom base, it is evident that the relationship of the chair and of that particular bullseye will remain fixed; at any rate, one would have to go to some trouble to disturb it. But the mere haphazard introduction of the Sigma ray into the room would not suit my purpose; my revenge would not be complete unless I could see it in operation. And so it was necessary to arrange some sort of clockwork mechanism to spring the trap. I confess to being somewhat grandiose in my conceptions, and accordingly I decided to press into my service no less an agency than the solar system itself. If you will go into the library of "Hildebrand Hundred" on any month of the year outside of June you will see that the direct rays of the sun never reach the upper part of the "Spy" window; consequently, the Sigma ray is not brought into being. But, as the summer solstice approaches, the sun continues to rise higher and higher in the heavens until, in the three or four days around the twenty-first of June, it has reached its ultimate altitude with reference to the zenith. For the few minutes immediately before or after high noon on any of the aforesaid days the sun is in such a position that its beams will pass through the purple bullseye lens that forms the third grape in the upper row of the largest cluster. And in passing through it will become decomposed into the Sigma ray, and will fall on the head of him who sits at the great desk, exercising the authority of his lordship over "Hildebrand Hundred." This is all plain and straightforward, I think. It is unfortunately true that any innocent person who chances to be occupying the seat perilous at the fateful moment will have to bear the weight of the vengeance intended for the guilty. But that risk is really remote, since the great desk and chair are the natural appanage of the Master of the "Hundred"; it will not be usual for anyone else to trespass upon that prerogative. And what more natural procedure than that the Master of the "Hundred," after a tour of his hay fields on a hot June day, should go to the cool of his library and finish up his office business at his desk? True, there are other contingencies. The Master may come to the room and yet choose to sit elsewhere. Or he may forestall the hammer stroke of doom through the chance of rising from his chair to select a book from a distant shelf; or, finding his match-safe empty, he may go over to the chimney-breast on the hunt for a vesta. Or again, he may be away from home during the three or four days of fate, or lying ill in an upstairs room. Finally, should the period of danger be cloudy and overcast the sun may not shine at all, and the whole business must go over for another year. But my patience is very long; I have learned how to wait. I need not go into the intricate calculations necessary to provide for all the conditions of the problem. Fortunately for my purpose the walls of the projected addition lay at a favorable angle for the carrying out of my designs, and I had only to work out the correct position for the windows and make the proper allowance for the overhang of the roof cornice. The stained glass was made from my own drawings, and I personally set the bullseye lens in its appointed place. The work was finished in May, 1861, and I should have liked to have made a test of my apparatus before Yardley's return from abroad; if there had been any error in my calculations and measurements it would be difficult, later on, to trump up an excuse for making the necessary structural alteration. But, as it turned out, I had made no mistakes. However, Yardley forestalled my intentions by appearing at the "Hundred" early in May. I bade him welcome, and showed him my completed work. He was pleased and said so, frequently and warmly. I could only smile in acknowledgment of his plaudits and fulsome thanks. June the twentieth of that same year I sat in my observation post on Sugar Loaf. Through my high-powered telephoto lens I saw Yardley come into the room and sit down at his desk. It was then ten minutes of twelve o'clock. Five minutes later, what looked like a streak of purple flame leaped through the semi-darkness of the room, and Yardley Hildebrand toppled to the floor. The apparatus had worked with meticulous exactness, and Evelyn Mansfield was avenged--at least in part. Since then I have watched two others of that black line of Hildebrands go to their doom--Randall and Horace. Poor spirited creatures, both of them, and hardly worthy to receive the accolade of my splendid Sigma ray. Randall held his sovereignty for just a year, but Horace had the devil's own luck. Cloudy days saved him, together with one quite unforeseen contingency, an eclipse of the sun on June 21, 1864. On June 20 and 21, 1865, there were heavy rains, and I was furious. But the twenty-second was clear and fine, and lo! he, too, was gathered to his fathers. Finally, my dearly beloved brother-in-law, Richard, succeeded to the family honors, and perils. That was in 1865 and for seven-and-twenty years he has managed to evade the stroke through the annoying accident that he prefers the summer climate of "Old White." I intend to give him still further leeway now that my son John, born July 16, 1892, to me and Richard's sister, Jocelyn, is in the field. For Richard is a bachelor, and John Thaneford is the natural heir to the estate. If Richard will listen to reason and make due provision in his will, I am agreeable to allow him full usufruct of the "Hundred" until my son arrives at his majority. Otherwise he, in his turn, shall die like the dog he is, even as the Hildebrands before him have died, alone and in silence, with none to pity and none to save. The instrument of my vengeance is very sure and very patient, and the passage of the years is as nothing to me, sitting perdu in my secret seat on the cliff of Sugar Loaf. * * * * * October 1, 1892. Richard is not inclined to listen to my proposal to recognize John as his rightful heir; he even talks of leaving the "Hundred" to his great-nephew on the distaff side, one Francis Graeme. Be it so; let him eat of the grapes of wrath, and let his teeth be set on edge, even to the third and fourth generation of that accursed race upon which my hate is poured out, now and for evermore. FIELDING THANEFORD. June 20, 1918. Richard Hildebrand died to-day, and Francis Graeme became Master of the "Hundred." July 10, 1918. I have offered Francis Graeme his chance on the same terms. He has accepted, and John Thaneford is to be nominated the heir in his will of the residuary estate. But the Sigma ray stands on guard until I am convinced that he intends to keep his plighted word. F. T. Chapter XXIII _The End of the Coil_ Warriner laid the book on the table, and pulled out his pipe. I think it was a full five minutes before any of us said a word. But Betty kept her hand close-locked in mine. "Any particular questions?" said Warriner at length. "If I've got the hang of it," I began, "the Sigma ray was bound to get the man or woman who happened to be sitting in that big chair on the specified dates in June when the sun was in position to shine through the bullseye lens." "Yes." "Then I escaped through the accident that, when the window was repaired, the lens got mixed up with the ordinary glass bullseyes." "Precisely. It had been replaced in a new position, an entirely unknown one. As it happened--pure chance, you understand--the ray of sunshine that fell upon your face at noon that day had passed through a bullseye of common purple glass, and therefore it was harmless. But the Terror was in the room; somewhere it was lying in wait, ready to strike. Do you recall how I kept close to the wall, so as to avoid getting in the path of the direct sunlight? You understand now that I realized the danger, and took the obvious precaution. But John Thaneford was unaware that any change had been made in the position of the death-dealing lens. And so he walked straight into the line of destructive force; and the Sigma ray, being no respecter of persons, proceeded to strike him down." "I wonder how much he really knew about the whole affair?" queried Betty. "You remember that Eunice expressly acquitted John Thaneford of any actual part in my father's death." "But he certainly must have been cognizant of the nature of the trap," answered Warriner. "He was the observer at the time of Mr. Graeme's death, the elder Thaneford being physically unable to take his accustomed post on Sugar Loaf. Again, his putting Hugh, bound and helpless, into the fatal chair is unanswerable evidence that he did possess a guilty knowledge of his father's secret. It makes no moral difference that he had no hand in inventing or setting up the instrument of vengeance. He knew of its existence undoubtedly, and hoped to profit by it. That's enough." "Have you any theory about the Sigma ray itself?" I asked. "Or rather its effect upon the physical organism?" "Do you happen to recall the medical testimony given at the coroner's inquest by Doctor Williams of John Hopkins? Well, he testified, in brief, that the autopsy had revealed a most peculiar lesion of the brain; in unprofessional language, the injury might be characterized as a case of greatly intensified sunstroke." "Yes, I do remember." "Now there are unexplained anomalies about even ordinary sunstroke," continued Warriner. "Just what are the conditions under which exposures to the rays of the sun may be dangerous? "In the first place, we may affirm confidently that the peril is not dependent upon the amount of humidity that may be present in the atmosphere. Down in New Orleans, where the air is full of moisture and the thermometer stands high in the scale for weeks at a time, sunstroke is virtually unknown; men and beasts seem equally immune. But let a ten-day heat wave submerge New York City and the emergency hospitals will be full up, while the horses will be wearing plaited straw-bonnets as a protection against the deadly sun. "Again, there is Fort Yuma in Arizona, the hottest place in the United States, with the possible exception of Death Valley. Yes, it is abnormally hot at Yuma and the air is furnace-dried; the old-timers will tell you that, on really bad days, a man can't drink water fast enough to keep from dying of thirst. Of course, men do die from the effects of the heat, but it isn't our ordinary form of sunstroke. To sum up, then: "No sunstroke at New Orleans, where it is abnormally humid and hot; and none at Fort Yuma, where it is abnormally dry and hot. But plenty of cases in Paris, Chicago, and New York, where the climate is supposed to be temperate. "The inference is logical: under certain conditions, one of the invisible, high frequency rays, always present in sunlight, is enabled to get in its deadly work. Unfortunately, we don't know what those conditions are. Perhaps the proportion of static electricity in the atmosphere may have something to do with it. Anyway, the fact remains that men do die of heat stroke in New York and Paris, while Louisiana and Florida are comparatively free from that particular peril to life." "Then, according to your theory, it is the Sigma ray which is the active lethal agent in sunlight?" "Yes, and Fielding Thaneford's invention enabled him to isolate the ray in question, at the same time enormously intensifying its action. Both Graeme and John Thaneford died the instant that it touched them." "And that was Fielding Thaneford's secret," said Betty, just returned from a flying visit to the nursery, where Little Hugh lay sleeping. "Such a horrible secret!" She shuddered. "Just as well that it died with him," assented Warriner soberly. "Still, in the end, he sought to stop the evil thing that he had set in motion," persisted Betty. "He told me all he could; all indeed that it was necessary to know, once I really began to use my wits." "Which reminds me," I put in, "that you have yet to explain how you finally managed to read the cypher. What put you back on the track?" "So simple a thing it was, too," laughed Betty. "And so easy to overlook." "I remember years ago," remarked Warriner, "that, on account of certain rare astronomical conditions, it was possible to see the planet Venus at midday. It took me the longest time to find the star, although I thought I knew just where to look; also all my friends were admiring the spectacle. At last I saw it, and then it was an easy matter to locate it again. I suppose the reason is that I didn't know what to expect; some sort of junior sun, I reckon. In reality, it was only a pin-point of light, but brilliant as a diamond." "And there's the game of challenging an opponent to find a word in a geographical map," said Betty. "It isn't the one printed in fine type and tucked away in a corner that is so hard to discover. The really invisible word is the one stretching in big, widely separated letters clear across the page." "Will you _tell_ me?" I asked impatiently. "Here goes then. You remember that I set down my theoretical key-sentence, thus:" W O N F O R T O O F O R A T E "The uncoding went along splendidly for eight places, thus:" W O N F O R T O T H A N E C O U "The rest was gibberish. It follows then that the running off the track must have happened at the ninth substitution and nowhere else." "Obviously." "The very morning that your letter about the library window arrived--that is, on June the twenty-first--I was sitting at my desk; for the ten thousand time, more or less, I printed out those distracting capitals:" W O N F O R T O O F O R A T E "As I looked at the line of letters I suddenly discovered something entirely new: the five end ones formed the perfectly good English word, _Orate_. "There is a game, you know, in which you mix up the letters of a long word, such as _Plenipotentiary_, and then try to recombine them into subsidiary words, the biggest list winning the prize. Perhaps there were other esoteric or inside words in my key-sentence, a still deeper meaning and significance to this apparently haphazard collection of alphabetical symbols. I started experimenting, and almost immediately I did get another word, _Fort_. Now I'll write out the series again, using vertical lines to divide off the word-groups. Here it is:" W O N | F O R T | O O F | O R A T E "The only perplexity was in the third section, for although _OOF_ is a Yiddish slang word for money or cash it isn't much in use in our rural locality; in all probability, old Mr. Thaneford had never even heard of it. All the other words were good English. "What was the ninth letter, the alphabetical rock upon which my fine theory had gone to pieces? Why it was none other than the second O in that very word, _OOF_. Then I saw the solution in a flash. Do you?" I shook my head. "There is another English work which corresponds phonetically to the number 2 or two. Of course it is _TO_. Let us make the substitution, thus:" W O N | F O R T | O F | O R A T E "A complete English sentence, you see. It doesn't make very good sense, but that is of no consequence, since it is merely what Chalmers calls er--er--well, what _do_ you call it, Chalmers?" "Mnemonic guide," smiled Warriner. "An artificial aid to one's memory. It would be somewhat easier to write down the key-letters correctly if this absurd sentence were kept in mind. You have to be absolutely accurate in the coding of a cypher message." "Now then, Hugh, do you see?" demanded my wife. "Of course I do," I answered eagerly. "The extra O in your original key-sentence is not only wrong in itself, but its inclusion in the series throws everything which follows it into hopeless confusion. Let's try it out." Rapidly I wrote down the correct key-letters, and underneath them a score of the cypher symbols, thus: W O N F O R T O F O R A T E W O N F O R T Q W O T T U I J X I S V A Z P I H N X J X Taking up the magic square I asked Betty to repeat the formula for uncoding. "Find where the first key-letter occurs in the top row," said Betty glibly. "For example: W. Then follow that vertical column down until you reach the first letter of the cypher message; in this case: Q. Follow that horizontal line to the extreme left, and you will recover the initial letter of the original message, namely: T. _Da capo ad infinitum. Q. E. D._" Together we worked out the first line of the cypher in the leather-bound book. The complete layout ran as follows: W O N F O R T O F O R A T E W O N F O R T Q W O T T U I J X I S V A Z P I H N X J X T H A N E C O U R T A U G U S T T H I R D "And so on, world without end," commented Betty. "You can imagine how like mad I worked once we were on the train and rushing Southward. For now I knew _why_ it was necessary to avoid entering that room, especially at this particular time of year." * * * * * The clocks were striking nine, and Chalmers wanted to drop in at "Powersthorp" on his way home. So he bade us good night, climbed into his car, and was off, the red star of his tail-light twinkling through the linden trees bordering upon the driveway. And I remained alone with Betty; only, for a long time, we did not speak; it was not necessary. * * * * * There is but a word to add. The walls of the library wing had sustained but little damage in the fire; consequently, the process of rebuilding and refitting was made so much the easier. The stained glass, of course, had been entirely destroyed, but for that there could be few regrets; all those Old Testament pictures had been scenes of hatred and violence and divine wrath. It were better that Little Hugh should never see them and so have his childish imagination darkened. They have been replaced by windows of a softer nature--green pastures and still water, the lilies and poppies of the Parsifal meadows on Good Friday morning, and the peace of the everlasting hills. No chance here for even the unwitting insertion of that terrible purple boss; indeed the grapes of wrath were no longer in existence, for Chalmers Warriner had taken pains to have every bit of the _disjecta membra_ of the old windows gathered up and buried in some inaccesible pit, its very location to remain forever hidden from human eyes. * * * * * To-day the library at "Hildebrand Hundred," exorcised of its dark spirit, is again our favorite living-room. The teakwood desk and the great swivel-chair were destroyed in the fire, and indeed all the old fittings and hangings have given way to bright and cheerful modern furnishings. As I sit at my desk, writing the final page of these memoirs, the sun lies warm and glowing upon the oaken floor, but there is no hidden menace in its beauty. The scent of roses floats through the open windows, and I can hear the clip of Betty's garden shears as she cuts off the perfumed coupons of her floral treasures; one by one the gorgeous blooms fall into the waiting basket; our dinner table must be resplendent to-night for Chalmers and Hilda, just back from their honeymoon journey, are coming to us for an intimate _partie carrée_. And in the middle distance stands Little Hugh, the breeze roughing up his sleek, black poll, his legs planted confidently wide apart, and his gaze traveling outward upon the fair, broad acres that some day will be all his own; my lawful son and heir, a true Hildebrand of "Hildebrand Hundred." Truly, God is good and life is sweet. THE END 
37369	----	ROB OF THE BOWL: A LEGEND OF ST. INIGOE'S. BY THE AUTHOR OF "SWALLOW BARN," "HORSE-SHOE ROBINSON," &c. _Daniel._ Quot homines tot sententiæ. _Martin._ And what is that? _Daniel._ 'Tis Greek, and argues difference of opinion. _John Woodvil._ IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. I. PHILADELPHIA: LEA & BLANCHARD. SUCCESSORS TO CAREY & CO. 1838. Entered according to the act of Congress, in the year 1838, by LEA & BLANCHARD, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, in and for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. I. ASHMEAD AND CO., PRINTERS. PREFACE. The tale related in the following pages refers to a period in the history of Maryland, which has heretofore been involved in great obscurity,--many of the most important records connected with it having been lost to public inspection in forgotten repositories, where they have crumbled away under the touch of time. To the persevering research of the accomplished Librarian of the State--a gentleman whose dauntless, antiquarian zeal and liberal scholarship are only surpassed by the enlightened judgment with which he discharges the functions of his office--we are indebted for the rescue of the remnant of these memorials of by-gone days, from the oblivion to which the carelessness of former generations had consigned them. Many were irrecoverable; and it was the fate of the gentleman referred to, to see them fall into dust at the moment that the long estranged light first glanced upon them. To some of those which have been saved from this wreck, the author is indebted for no small portion of the materials of his story. In his endeavour to illustrate these passages in the annals of the state, it is proper for him to say that he has aimed to perform his task with historical fidelity. If he has set in harsher lights than may be deemed charitable some of the actors in these scenes, or portrayed in lineaments of disparagement or extenuation, beyond their deserts, the partisans on either side in that war of intolerance which disfigured the epoch of this tale, it was apart from his purpose. As a native of the state he feels a prompt sensibility to the fame of her Catholic founders, and, though differing from them in his faith, cherishes the remembrance of their noble endeavours to establish religious freedom, with the affection due to what he believes the most wisely planned and honestly executed scheme of society which at that era, at least, was to be found in the annals of mankind. In the temper inspired by this sentiment, these volumes have been given to the public, and are now respectfully inscribed to THE STATE OF MARYLAND, by one who takes the deepest interest in whatever concerns her present happiness or ancient renown. THE AUTHOR. BALTIMORE, Dec. 1, 1838. ROB OF THE BOWL. A LEGEND OF ST. INIGOES. CHAPTER I. No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, But choked with sedges, works its weedy way; Along thy glades a solitary guest, The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest; Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, And tires their echoes with unvaried cries. Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, And the long grass o'ertops the mould'ring wall. THE DESERTED VILLAGE. It is now more than one hundred and forty-four years since the ancient capital of Maryland was shorn of its honours, by the removal of the public offices, and, along with them, the public functionaries, to Annapolis. The date of this removal, I think, is recorded as of the year of grace sixteen hundred and ninety-four. The port of St. Mary's, up to that epoch, from the first settlement of the province, comprehending rather more than three score years, had been the seat of the Lord Proprietary's government. This little city had grown up in hard-favoured times, which had their due effect in leaving upon it the visible tokens of a stunted vegetation: it waxed gnarled and crooked, as it perked itself upward through the thorny troubles of its existence, and might be likened to the black jack, which yet retains a foothold in this region,--a scrubby, tough and hardy mignon of the forest, whose elder day of crabbed luxuriance affords a sour comment upon the nurture of its youth. Geographers are aware that the city of St. Mary's stood on the left bank of the river which now bears the same name (though of old it was called St. George's,) and which flows into the Potomac at the southern extremity of the state of Maryland, on the western side of the Chesapeake Bay, at a short distance westward from Point Lookout: but the very spot where the old city stood is known only to a few,--for the traces of the early residence of the Proprietary government have nearly faded away from the knowledge of this generation. An astute antiquarian eye, however, may define the site of the town by the few scattered bricks which the ploughshare has mingled with the ordinary tillage of the fields. It may be determined, still more visibly, by the mouldering and shapeless ruin of the ancient State House, whose venerable remains,--I relate it with a blush--have been pillaged, to furnish building materials for an unsightly church, which now obtrusively presents its mottled, mortar-stained and shabby front to the view of the visiter, immediately beside the wreck of this early monument of the founders of Maryland. Over these ruins a storm-shaken and magnificent mulberry, aboriginal, and cotemporary with the settlement of the province, yet rears its shattered and topless trunk, and daily distils upon the sacred relics at its foot, the dews of heaven,--an august and brave old mourner to the departed companions of its prime. There is yet another memorial in the family tomb of the Proprietary, whose long-respected and holy repose, beneath the scant shade of the mulberry, has, within twenty years past, been desecrated by a worse than Vandal outrage, and whose lineaments may now with difficulty be followed amidst the rubbish produced by this violation. These faded memorials tell their story like honest chroniclers. And a brave story it is of hardy adventure, and manly love of freedom! The scattered bricks, all moulded in the mother-land, remind us of the launching of the bark, the struggle with the unfamiliar wave, the array of the wonder-stricken savage, and the rude fellowship of the first meeting. They recall the hearths whose early fires gleamed upon the visage of the bold cavalier, while the deep, unconquerable faith of religion, and the impassioned instincts of the Anglo-Saxon devotion to liberty, were breathed by household groups, in customary household terms. They speak of sudden alarms, and quick arming for battle;--of stout resolve, and still stouter achievement. They tell of the victory won, and quiet gradually confirmed,--and of the increasing rapture as, day by day, the settler's hopes were converted into realities, when he saw the wilderness put forth the blossoms of security and comfort. The river penetrates from the Potomac some twelve miles inland, where it terminates in little forked bays which wash the base of the woody hills. St. George's Island stretches half across its mouth, forming a screen by which the course of the Potomac is partly concealed from view. From this island, looking northward, up St. Mary's river, the eye rests upon a glittering sheet of water about a league in breadth, bounded on either shore by low meadow-grounds and cultivated fields girt with borders of forest; whilst in the distance, some two leagues upward, interlocking promontories, with highlands in their rear, and cedar-crowned cliffs and abrupt acclivities which shut in the channel, give to the river the features of a lake. St. Inigoe's creek, flowing into the river upon the right hand, along the base of these cliffs, forms by its southern shore a flat, narrow and grass-clad point, upon which the ancient Jesuit House of the patron saint whose name distinguishes the creek, throws up, in sharp relief, its chateau-like profile, together with its windmill, its old trees, barns and cottages,--the whole suggesting a resemblance to a strip of pasteboard scenery on a prolonged and slender base line of green. When the voyager from the island has trimmed his sail and reached the promontories which formed his first perspective, the river, now reduced to a gun-shot in width, again opens to his view a succession of little bays, intercepted by more frequent headlands and branching off into sinuous creeks that lose themselves in the hills. Here and there, amongst these creeks, a slender beach of white sand separates from its parent flood a pool, which reposes like a mirror in the deep forest; and all around, high hills sweep down upon these placid lakes, and disclose half-embowered cottages, whose hoary roofs and antique forms turn the musings of the spectator to the palmy days of the Lord Proprietary. A more enchanting landscape than St. Mary's river,--a lovelier assemblage of grassy bank and hoary grove, upland slope, cliff, cot and strand, of tangled brake and narrow bay, broad, seaward road-stead and air-suspended cape, may not be found beneath the yearly travel of the sun! The ancient city was situated nearly two miles beyond the confluence of St. Inigoe's creek, upon a spacious level plain which maintained an elevation of some fifty feet above the river. The low-browed, double-roofed and cumbrous habitations of the towns-people were scattered at random over this plain, forming snug and pleasant groups for a painter's eye, and deriving an air of competence and comfort from the gardens and bowers in which they were sheltered. The State House stood at the upper extremity of the town, upon a cedar-clad headland which, by an abrupt descent, terminated in a long, flat, sandy point, that reached almost half across the river. In regard to this building, tradition--which I find to be somewhat inclined to brag of its glory--affirms it to have been constructed in the shape of a cross, looking towards the river, with walls thick enough to resist cannon, and perilous steep roofs, from the top of the chief of which shot up a spire, whereon was impaled a dolphin with a crooked, bifurcated tail. A wooden quay and warehouse on the point showed this to be the seat of trade, and a crescent-shaped bay or indentation between this and a similar headland at the lower extremity of the town, constituted the anchorage or harbour for the scant shipping of the port. The State House looked rearward over the town common,--a large space of open ground, at the farther end of which, upon the border of a marshy inlet, covered with bulrushes and cat-tails, stood a squat, sturdy and tight little gaol, supported,--to use the military phrase,--on one flank by a pillory and stocks, and on the other by an implement of government which has gone out of fashion in our day, but which found favour with our ancestors as an approved antidote to the prevalent distemper of an unnecessary or too clamorous loquacity in their dames--a ducking stool, that hung suspended over a pool of sufficient depth for the most obstinate case that might occur. Without wearying my reader with too much description, I shall content myself with referring to but two or three additional particulars as necessary to my future purpose: a Catholic chapel devoted to St. Ignatius, the patron of the province, in humble and unostentatious guise, occupied, with its appurtenances, a few acres in the centre of the plain, a short distance from that confine of the city which lay nearest to St. Inigoe's; and in the opposite quarter, not far from the State House, a building of much more pretension, though by no means so neat, had been erected for the service of the Church of England, which was then fast growing into the ascendant. On one of the streets leading to the beach was the market house, surrounded by its ordinaries and ale-houses: and lastly, in the year 1681, to which this description refers, a little hostelry of famous report, known by the sign of "The Crow and Archer," and kept by Master Garret Weasel, stood on the water's edge, at the foot of the bank below the State House, on a piece of level ground looking out upon the harbour, where the traveller may still find a luxuriant wilderness of pear trees, the scions of a notable ancestor which, tradition says, the aforesaid Garret planted with his own hand. The country around St. Mary's bore, at the period I have designated, the same broad traces of settlement and cultivation which belong to it at the present day. For many miles the scene was one of varied field and forest, studded over with dwellings and farm yards. The settlements had extended across the neck of land to the Chesapeake, and along both shores of St. Mary's river to the Potomac. This open country was diversified by woodland, and enlivened every where by the expanse of navigable water which reflected sun and sky, grove and field and lowly cottage in a thousand beautiful lights. Indeed, all the maritime border of the province, comprehending Calvert, St. Mary's and Charles, as well as the counties on the opposite shore of the Chesapeake, might be said, at this date, to be in a condition of secure and prosperous habitation. The great ocean forest had receded some hundred miles westward from St. Mary's. The region of country comprising the present county of Anne Arundel, as well as Cecil and the Isle of Kent, was a frontier already settled with numerous tenants of the Lord Proprietary. All westward from this was the birthright of the stern Sasquesahannoch, the fierce Shenandoah, and their kindred men of the woods. They are gone! Like shadows have these men of might sunk on the earth. They, their game, their wigwams, their monuments, their primeval forests,--yea, even their graves, have flitted away in this spectral flight. Saxon and Norman, bluff Briton and heavy Suabian inherit the land. And in its turn, well-a-day! our pragmatical little city hath departed. Not all its infant glory, nor its manhood's bustle, its walls, gardens and bowers,--its warm housekeeping, its gossiping burghers, its politics and its factions,--not even its prolific dames and gamesome urchins could keep it in the upper air until this our day. Alas, for the vaulting pride of the village, the vain glory of the city, and the metropolitan boast! St. Mary's hath sunk to the level of Tyre and Sidon, Balbec and Palmyra! She hath become trackless, tokenless. I have wandered over the blank field where she sank down to rest. It was a book whose characters I could scarce decipher. I asked for relics of the departed. The winter evening tale told by father to son, and the written legend, more durable than monument of marble, have survived to answer my question, when brick and tile, hearth and tomb have all vanished from the quest of the traveller. What I have gathered from these researches will occupy my reader through the following pages. CHAPTER II. A train-band captain eke was he. JOHN GILPIN. At the extremity of the cape or headland which formed the lower or more seaward point of the crescent-shaped harbour, was erected the Fort of St. Mary's, where it threatened equal defiance to such as might meditate disturbance either by sea or land. A few hundred paces in the rear of the fort, stood the ample dwelling-house of the Lord Proprietary with its gables, roofs, chimneys and spires, sharply defined against the eastern sky. A massive building of dark brick, two stories in height, and penetrated by narrow windows, looking forth, beyond the fort, upon the river, constituted the chief member or main body of the mansion. This was capped by a wooden, balustraded parapet, terminating, at each extremity, in a scroll like the head of a violin, and, in the middle, sustaining an entablature that rose to a summit on which was mounted a weathercock. From this central structure, right and left, a series of arcades, corridors, and vestibules served to bring into line a range of auxiliary or subordinate buildings of grotesque shapes, of which several were bonneted like haycocks--the array terminating, on one flank, in a private chapel surmounted by a cross, and, on the other, in a building of similar size but of different figure, which was designed and sometimes used for a banqueting room. The impression produced on the observer, by this orderly though not uniform mass of building, with its various offices for household comfort, was not displeasing to his sense of rural beauty, nor, from its ample range and capacious accommodation, did it fail to enhance his opinion of the stateliness and feudal importance, as well as of the hospitality of the Lord Proprietary. The armorial bearings of the Baltimore family, emblazoned on a shield of free-stone, were built into the pediment of an arched brick porch which shaded the great hall door. In the rear of the buildings, a circular sweep of wall and paling reached as far as a group of stables, kennels and sheds. Vanward the same kind of enclosures, more ornate in their fashion, shut in a grassy court, to which admission was gained through a heavy iron gate swung between square, stuccoed pillars, each of which was surmounted by a couchant lion carved in stone. Ancient trees shaded the whole mass of dwelling-house, court and stable, and gave to the place both a lordly and comfortable aspect. It was a pleasant group of roof and bower, of spire and tree to look upon from the city, towards sunset, when every window-pane flung back the lustre of a conflagration; and magnificently did it strike upon the eye of the liegemen as they sat at their doors, at that hour, gazing upon the glorious river and its tranquil banks. Nor less pleasant was it to the inmates of the baronial mansion to look back upon the fair village-city, studding the level plain with its scattered dwellings which seemed to sleep upon the grassy and shaded sward. A garden occupied the space between the proprietary residence and the fort, and through it a pathway led to a dry moat which formed one of the defences of the stronghold, into which admission was obtained from this quarter by a narrow bridge and postern gate. A palisade of sharp pickets fringed the outer and inner slopes of the ditch,--or, to speak more technically, guarded the scarp and counter-scarp. The fort itself sat like a square bonnet on the brow of the headland. Its ramparts of earth were faced outwardly by heavy frame-work of hewn logs, which, on the side looking askant towards the town, were penetrated by an arched gateway and secured by heavy doors studded thick with nails. This portal opened upon a road which lay along the beach beneath the cliff, all the way to the upper extremity of the town. Several low buildings within, appropriated to barracks and magazines, just peered above the ramparts. A few pieces of brass cannon showed like watch-dogs against the horizon, and, high above all, fluttered the provincial banner bearing the cross of England, and holding the relation of a feather to the squat bonnet which the outline of the work might suggest to one curious to trace resemblances. The province, it may be surmised, was belligerent at this day. For although the Lords Barons of Baltimore, absolute Proprietaries of Maryland and Avalon, would fain have encouraged a pacific temper, and desired ever to treat with the Indians upon terms of friendly bargain and sale, and in all points of policy manifested an equitable disposition towards the native men of the forest, the province, nevertheless, had its full share of hard blows. There was seldom a period, in this early time, when some Indian quarrel was not coming to a head; and, young as the province was, it had already tasted of rebellion at the hands of Clayborne, and Ingle,--to say nothing of that Fendall who was fain to play Cromwell in the plantation, by turning the burgesses out of their hall, and whose sedition hath still something to do with my story.--However peaceable, therefore, the Lord Proprietary might incline to be, he could not but choose stand by his weapons. In the view of these and kindred troubles, the freemen of the province had no light service in their obligations of military duty. One of the forms in which this service was exacted, in addition to the occasional requisition, on emergency, of the whole population fit to bear arms, and in addition also to a force of mounted rangers who were constantly engaged in scouring the frontier, was in the maintenance of a regularly paid and trained body of musqueteers who supplied the necessary garrisons for the principal forts. That of St. Mary's, which was the oldest and most redoubtable strong-hold in the province, was furnished with a company of forty men of this class who were, at the date of this tale, under the command of a personage of some note, Captain Jasper Dauntrees, to whom I propose to introduce my reader with something more than the slight commendation of a casual acquaintance. This worthy had been bred up to the science of arms from early youth, and had seen many varieties of service,--first, in the civil wars in which he took the field with the royal army, a staunch cavalier,--and afterwards, with a more doubtful complexion of loyalty, when he enlisted with Monk in Scotland, and followed his banner to London in the notable exploit of the Restoration. Yielding to the bent of that humour which the times engendered, and in imitation of many a hungry and peace-despising gallant of his day, he repaired to the continent, where, after various fortunes, he found himself in the train of Turenne and hard at loggerheads with the Prince of Orange, in which passage of his life he enjoyed the soldierly gratification of lending a hand to the famous ravage of the Palatinate. Some few years before I have presented him in these pages he had come over to Maryland, with a party of Flemings, to gather for his old age that harvest of wealth and ease which the common report promised to all who set foot upon the golden shores of the Indies--Maryland, in vulgar belief, being a part of this land of wonders. The captain neither stumbled upon a gold mine, nor picked up an Indian princess with a dowry of diamonds; but he fared scarce worse, in his own estimation, when he found himself, in a pleasant sunny clime, invested with the rank of captain of musqueteers, with a snug shelter in the fort, a reasonably fair and punctual allowance of pay--much better, than had been his lot under former masters,--and a frank welcome at all times into the mansion of the Lord Proprietary. Add to these the delights more congenial to the training of his past life, a few wet companions, namely, to help him through an evening potation, and no despicable choice of wines and other comforts at the Crow and Archer, where the Captain with due alacrity became a domesticated and privileged guest, and it may still better be comprehended how little he was likely to repine at his fortune. His figure had, in youth, been evidently remarked for strength and symmetry--but age and varied service, combined with habits of irregular indulgence, had communicated to it a bluff and corpulent dimension. His port nevertheless was erect, and his step as firm as in his days of lustihood. His eye still sparkled with rays but little quenched by time, although unseasonable vigils sometimes rendered it bloodshotten. A thick neck and rosy complexion betokened a hale constitution; and the ripple of a deep and constantly welling humour, that played upon his strongly marked features, expressed in characters that could not be misread, that love of companionship which had been, perhaps, the most frequent shoal upon which his hopes in life had been stranded. His crown was bald and encircled by a fair supply of crisp, curly and silvery hair, whilst a thick grey moustache gave a martial and veteran air to his visnomy. His dress served to set off his figure to the best advantage. It consisted of the doublet and ruff, short cloak and trunk hose, the parti-coloured stocking and capacious boot proper to the old English costume which, about the period of the Restoration, began to give way to the cumbrous foppery of the last century. This costume was still retained by many in the province, and belonged to the military equipment of the garrison of St. Mary's, where it was fashioned of light green cloth garnished with yellow lace. Arrayed in this guise, Captain Dauntrees had some excuse for a small share of vanity on the score of having worn well up to a green old age; and it was manifest that he sought to improve this impression by the debonair freedom with which he wore a drab beaver, with its broad flap looped up on one side, leaving his ample brow bared to wind and weather. This combination of the martinet and free companion exhibited in the dress of the Captain, was a pretty intelligible index to his character, which disclosed a compound, not unfrequent in the civil wars of that period, of the precisian and ruffler,--the cavalier and economist. In the affairs of life,--a phrase which, in regard to him, meant such matters principally and before all others, as related to his own comfort--he was worldly-wise, sagaciously provident, as an old soldier, of whatever advantages his condition might casually supply; in words, he was, indifferently, according to the occasion, a moralist or hot-brained reveller--sometimes affecting the courtier along with the martialist, and mixing up the saws of peaceful thrift with the patter of the campaigns. As the occasions of my story may enable me to illustrate some of these points in the character of the worthy Captain, I will not forestall the opinion of my readers, regarding him, by further remark,--preferring that he should speak for himself, rather than leave his merits to be certified by so unpractised an adept, as I confess myself to be, in unriddling the secret properties of a person so deserving to be known. CHAPTER III. "In every creed, 'Tis on all hands agreed, And plainly confest, When the weather is hot, That we stick to the pot And drink of the best." OLD SONG. "Of all seasons of the year, autumn is the most voluptuous, and October the loveliest of months. Then may a man sit at his door--in the sun if he choose, for he will not find it too hot--or in the shade, if it liketh him, for neither will he find this too cool, and there hold converse with his own meditations: or he may ride or walk, dance or sing, for in this October time a man hath heart for any pastime, so rich is the air, and such pleasant imaginations doth it engender. And if he be poetical, therein will he be greatly favoured; for surely never nature puts on such gaudy attire, on earth or sky, as she wears in our October. The morning haze, which the hoarfrost flings up to meet the sun, hangs across the landscape as if made on purpose to enchant the painter; and the evening sunset lights up the heavens with a glory that shall put that painter--even Claude or Salvator--to shame at the inadequacy of his art. And then the woods!--what pallet hath colours for the forest? Of all the months of the year, commend me to October!" Some such rhapsody as this was running through the thoughts, and breaking forth in slight mutterings from the lips of the Captain of Musqueteers, on an afternoon in this much lauded month of October, in the year I have alluded to in a former chapter, as he sate in front of his quarters in the fort. A small table was displayed upon the pavement, supplied with a flagon, pipes, and drinking cups. The Captain's solid bulk was deposited in a broad arm-chair, close by the table. His sword and cloak lay upon a bench at the door, and a light breeze flickered amongst his short and hoary locks, where they escaped from the cover of a cloth bonnet which he had now substituted for his beaver. A sentinel stood on post at the gate, towards which the Captain, as he slowly quaffed a cup, ever and anon turned an expectant eye. Once or twice he rose from his seat and strode backward and forward across the parade, then visited the rampart, which afforded him a view of the road leading from the town, and finally resumed his seat and renewed his solitary and slow potation. When the sun had sunk halfway down the flag-staff, the Captain's wishes were crowned by the arrival of a brace of visiters. The first of these was Garret Weasel, the publican, a thin, small man, in a suit of gray; of a timid carriage and slender voice. He might have been observed for a restless, undefinable eye which seemed to possess the habitual circumspection of a tapster to see the need of a customer; and this expression was sustained by a rabbit-like celerity of motion which raised the opinion of his timidity. There was an air of assentation and reverence in his demeanour, which, perhaps, grew out of the domestic discipline of his spouse, a buxom dame with the heart of a lioness. She had trained Master Garret to her hand, where he might have worn out his days in implicit obedience, had it not luckily fallen out for him, that Captain Dauntrees had settled himself down in this corner of the New World. The Captain being a regular trafficker in the commodities of the Crow and Archer, and no whit over-awed by the supremacy of mine hostess, soon set himself about seducing her worse-half from his allegiance, so far as was necessary, at least, to satisfy his own cravings for company at the fort. He therefore freely made himself the scapegoat of Garret's delinquencies, confiding in the wheedling power of his tongue, to pacify the dame. With all the tapster's humility and meekness, he still followed the Captain through his irregularities with the adhesiveness and submission of a dog--carousing on occasion like a man of stouter mould, and imitating the reveller-tone of his companion with an ambitious though not always successful zeal. He did not naturally lack merriment; but it was not of the boisterous stamp: there was, at his worst outbreak, a glimmering of deference and respect, rising up to a rickety laugh, and a song sometimes, yet without violent clamour; and the salt tears were often wrung from his eyes by the pent-up laughter which his vocation and his subordinate temper had taught him it was unseemly to discharge in a volley. His companion was a tall, sinewy, and grave person, habited in the guise of a forester--a cap, namely, of undressed deer skin, a buff jerkin, guarded by a broad belt and buckle at the waist, and leggings of brown leather. This was a Fleming, named Arnold de la Grange, who belonged to the corps of wood rangers in the service of the Lord Proprietary. He had arrived in the province in the time of Lord Cecilius, many years before, and had shared much of the toil of the early settlement. His weather-beaten and gaunt form, tawny cheek, and grizzled hair, bespoke a man inured to the hard service of a frontier life, whilst his erect port and firm step, evinced that natural gracefulness which belongs to men trained to the self-dependence necessary to breast the ever-surrounding perils of such a service. He was a man of few words, and these were delivered in a Low Dutch accent, which his long intercourse with the English had failed to correct. When his service on his range was intermitted, Arnold found quarters amongst the retainers of the Proprietary mansion, and the Proprietary himself manifested towards the forester that degree of trust, and even affection, which resulted from a high sense of his fidelity and conduct, and which gave him a position of more privilege than was enjoyed by the other dependents of the establishment. Being, at these intervals, an idler, he was looked upon with favour by the Captain of the fort, who was not slow to profit by the society of such a veteran in the long watches of a dull afternoon. By a customary consequence, Arnold was no less esteemed by the publican. A bluff greeting and short ceremony placed the visiters at the table, and each, upon a mute signal from the host, appropriated his cup and pipe. "You are never a true man, Garret Weasel," said the Captain, "to dally so long behind your appointment; and such an appointment, too! state matters would be trifles to it. The round dozen which you lost to me on Dame Dorothy's head gear--a blessing on it!--you did yourself so order it, was to be broached at three of the clock; and now, by my troth, it is something past four. There is culpable laches in it. Idleness is the canker of the spirit, but occupation is the lard of the body, as I may affirm in my own person. Mistress Dorothy, I suspect, has this tardy coming to answer for. I doubt the brow of our brave dame hath been cloudy this afternoon. How is it, Arnold? bachelor, and Dutchman to boot, you will speak without fear." "The woman," replied Arnold, in a broken English accent, which I do not attempt to convey in syllables, "had her suspicions." "Hold ye, Captain Dauntrees," eagerly interrupted the innkeeper, drawing up his chair to the table--for he had seated himself a full arms-length off, in awkward deference to his host; "and hold ye, Master Arnold! my wife rules not me, as some evil-minded jesters report: no, in faith! We were much beset to-day. In sooth I could not come sooner. Customers, you know, Captain, better than most men, customers must be answered, and will be answered, when we poor servants go athirst. We were thronged to-day; was it not so, Arnold?" "That is true," replied the forester; "the wife had her hands full as well as Garret himself. There were traders in the port, to-day, from the Bay Shore and the Isle of Kent, and some from the country back, to hear whether the brigantine had arrived. They had got some story that Cocklescraft should be here." "I see it," said Dauntrees; "that fellow, Cocklescraft, hath a trick of warning his friends. He never comes into port but there be strange rumours of him ahead; it seems to be told by the pricking of thumbs. St. Mary's is not the first harbour where he drops his anchor, nor Anthony Warden the first to docket his cargo. You understand me." "You have a bold mind, Captain," said the publican; "you men of the wars speak your thoughts." "You are none the losers by Master Cocklescraft," interposed Arnold, drily. "My wife pays honestly for the liquors," said Weasel, as his eye glanced timorously from one to the other of his comrades; "I take no heed of the accounts." "But the head gear, Garret," rejoined Dauntrees, laughing; "you pay for that, though the mercer saw my coin for it. Twelve bottles of Canary were a good return on that venture. The bauble sits lightly on the head of the dame, and it is but fair that the winnings should rise as lightly into ours. But for Cocklescraft, we should lack these means to be merry. The customs are at a discount on a dark night. Well, be it so. What point of duty calls on us to baulk the skipper in his trade? We are of the land, not of the water; consumers, on the disbursing side of the account, not of the gathering in. The revenue hath its proper friends, and we should neither meddle nor make. Worthy Garret Weasel has good report in the province for the reasonableness of his wines--and long may he deserve that commendation!" "I thank heaven that I strive to merit the good will of the freemen," interrupted the innkeeper. "And he is something given to brag of his wines. Faith, and with reason! Spain and Portugal, the Garonne and the Rhine, are his tributaries. Garret, we know the meridian of your El Dorado." "Nay, nay, Master Captain--your worship is merry; I beseech you----" "Never mind your beseeching, my modest friend. You scarce do yourself justice. You have his Lordship's license paid for in good round ducatoons--and that's the fee of a clear conscience. So let the trade thrive! The exchequer is not a baby to be in swaddling bands, unable to feed itself. No, it has the eagle's claw, and wants no help from thee, thou forlorn tapster! Make thine honest penny, Garret; all thirsty fellows will stand by thee." "I would be thought orderly, Master Dauntrees." "Thou art so computed--to a fault. You would have been so reckoned in Lord Cecil's time; and matters are less straitened now-a-days. Lord Charles gives more play to good living than his father allowed of. You remember his Lordship's father set his face against wines and strong waters." "He did, gentlemen," said Weasel, squaring himself in his seat with animation. "Heaven forbid I should speak but as becomes me of the honourable Lord Cecil's memory, or of his honourable son! but to my cost, I know that his Lordship's father was no friend to evil courses, or sottish behaviour, or drinking, unless it was in moderation, mark you. But, with humility, I protest the law is something hard on us poor ordinary keepers: for you shall understand, Arnold Grange, that at a sale by outcry, if there should lack wherewithal to pay the debts of the debtor, the publican and vintner are shut out, seeing that the score for wines and strong waters is the last to be paid." "And good law it is, let me tell you Garret Weasel! Good and wholesome: wisely laid down by the burgesses, and wisely maintained by his Lordship. You rail without cause. Sober habits must be engendered:--your health, comrades! Then it behooves you publicans to be nice in your custom. We will none of your lurdans that can not pay scot and lot--your runagates that fall under the statute of outcry. Let them drink of the clear brook! There is wisdom and virtue in the law. Is it not so, Arnold?" "It preaches well," replied the forester, as he sent forth a volume of smoke from his lips. "Another flask, and we will drink to his Lordship," said Dauntrees, who now left the table and returned with the fourth bottle. "Fill up, friends; the evening wears apace. Here's to his Lordship, and his Lordship's ancestors of ever noble and happy memory!" As Dauntrees smacked his lip upon emptying his cup, he flung himself back in his chair, and in a thoughtful tone ejaculated: "The good Lord Charles has had a heavy time of it since his return from England; these church brawlers would lay gunpowder under our hearth-stones. And then the death of young Lord Cecil, whilst his father was abroad, too; it was a heavy blow. My lady hath never held up her head since." A pause succeeded to this grave reflection, during which the trio smoked their pipes in silence, which was at length broken by an attenuated sigh from the publican, as he exclaimed, "Well-a-day! the great have their troubles as well as the rest of us. It is my opinion that Heaven will have its will, Captain; that's my poor judgment." And having thus disburdened himself of this weighty sentiment--the weight of it being increased, perhaps, by the pressure of his previous potations--he drained the heel tap, which stood in his glass, and half whispered, when he had done, "That's as good a drop of Canary as ever grew within the horizon of the Peak of Teneriffe." "Through the good will of friend Cocklescraft," interrupted Dauntrees, suddenly resuming his former gaiety. "Pray you, Captain Dauntrees," said the publican, with a hurried concern, "think what hurt thy jest may bring upon me. Arnold knows not your merry humour, and may believe, from your speech, that I am not reputable." "Pish, man; bridle thy foolish tongue! Did I not see the very cask on't at Trencher Rob's? Did I not mark how your sallow cheek took on an ashen complexion, when his Lordship's Secretary, a fortnight since, suddenly showed himself amongst the cedars upon the bank that overlooks your door, when your ill luck would have you to be rolling the cask in open day into thy cellar. The secretary was in a bookish mood, and saw thee not--or, peradventure, was kind, and would not heed." To this direct testimony, Weasel could only reply by a faint-hearted and involuntary smile which surrendered the point, and left him in a state of silly confusion. "Never droop in thy courage, worthy Weasel," exclaimed the Captain; "thou art as honest as thy betters; and, to my mind, the wine hath a better smack from its overland journey from St. Jerome's when there was no sun to heat it." "The secretary," said the innkeeper, anxious to give the conversation another direction, "is a worshipful youth, and a modest, and grows in favour with the townspeople." "Ay, and is much beloved by his Lordship," added the Captain. "And comes, I warrant me, of gentle kind, though I have not heard aught of his country or friends. Dorothy, my wife, says that the women almost swear by him, for his quiet behaviour and pretty words--and they have eyes, Captain Dauntrees, for excellence which we have not." "There is a cloud upon his birth," said Dauntrees, "and a sorrowful tale touching his nurture. I had it from Burton, the master of the ship who brought him with my Lord to the province." "Indeed, Captain Dauntrees! you were ever quick to pick up knowledge. You have a full ear and a good memory." "Drink, drink, comrades!" said the Captain. "We should not go dry because the secretary hath had mishaps. If it please you, I will tell the story, though I will not vouch for the truth of what I have only at second hand." After the listeners had adjusted themselves in their chairs, Dauntrees proceeded. "There was, in Yorkshire, a Major William Weatherby, who fought against the Parliament--I did not know him, for I was but a stripling at the time--who, when King Charles was beheaded, went over and took service with the States General, and at Arnheim married a lady of the name of Verheyden. Getting tired of the wars, he came back to England with his wife, where they lived together five or six years without children. The story goes that he was a man of fierce and crooked temper; choleric, and unreasonable in his quarrel; and for jealousy, no devil ever equalled him in that amiable virtue. It was said, too, that his living was riotous and unthrifty, which is, in part, the customary sin of soldiership.--I am frank with you, masters." "You are a good judge, Captain; you have had experience," said the publican. "There was a man of some mark in the country where this Weatherby lived, a Sir George Alwin, who, taking pity on the unhappy lady, did her sundry acts of kindness--harmless acts, people say; such as you or I, neighbours, would be moved to do for a distressed female; but the lady was of rare beauty, and the husband full of foul fancies. "About this time, it was unlucky that nature wrought a change, and the lady grew lusty for the first time in six years marriage. To make the story short, Weatherby was free with his dagger, and in the street, at Doncaster, in the midst of a public show, he stabbed Alwin to the heart." The wood ranger silently shook his head, and the publican opened his watery eyes in astonishment. "By the aid of a fleet horse and private enemies of the murdered man, Weatherby escaped out of the kingdom, and was never afterwards heard of." "And died like a dog, I s'pose," said Arnold de la Grange. "Likely enough," replied Dauntrees. "The poor lady was struck down with the horror of the deed, and had nearly gone to her grave. But Heaven was kind, and she survived it, and was relieved of her burden in the birth of a son. For some years afterwards, by the bounty of friends, but with many a struggle--for her means were scanty--she made shift to dwell in England. At last she returned to Holland, where she found a resting place in her native earth, having lived long enough to see her son, a well grown lad, safely taken in charge by her brother, a merchant of Antwerp. The parents were both attached to our Church of Rome, and the son was sent by his uncle to the Jesuit school of his own city. Misfortune overtook the merchant, and he died before the nephew had reached his fourteenth year. But the good priests of Antwerp tended the lad with the care of parents, and would have reared him as a servant of the altar. When our Lord Baltimore was in the Netherlands, three years ago, he found Albert Verheyden, (the youth has ever borne his mother's name,) in the Seminary. His Lordship took a liking to him and brought him into his own service. Master Albert was then but eighteen. There is the whole story. It is as dry as a muscat raisin. It sticks in the throat, masters,--so moisten, moisten!" "It is a marvellous touching story," said the innkeeper, as he swallowed at a draught a full goblet. "The hot hand and the cold steel," said Arnold, thoughtfully, "hold too much acquaintance in these times. Master Albert is an honest youth, and a good youth, and a brave follower too, of hawk or hound, Captain Dauntrees." "Then there is good reason for a cup to the secretary," said the Captain, filling again. "The world hath many arguments for a thirsty man. The blight of the year fall upon this sadness! Let us change our discourse--I would carouse a little, friends: It is salutary to laugh. Thanks to my patron, I am a bachelor! So drink, Master Arnold, mein sauff bruder, as we used to say on the Rhine." "Ich trinck, euch zu," was the reply of the forester, as he answered the challenge with a sparkling eye, and a face lit up with smiles; "a good lad, an excellent lad, though he come of a hot-brained father!" The wine began to show itself upon the revellers; for by this time they had nearly got through half of the complement of the wager. The effect of this potation upon the Captain was to give him a more flushed brow, and a moister eye, and to administer somewhat to the volubility of his tongue. It had wrought no further harm, for Dauntrees was bottle-proof. Upon the forester it was equally harmless, rather enhancing than dissipating his saturnine steadfastness of demeanour. He was, perchance, somewhat more precise and thoughtful. Garret Weasel, of the three, was the only weak vessel. With every cup of the last half hour he grew more supple. "Ads heartlikens!" he exclaimed, "but this wine doth tingle, Captain Dauntrees. Here is a fig for my wife Dorothy! Come and go as you list--none of your fetch and carry! that's what the world is coming to, amongst us married cattle!" "Thou art a valorous tapster," said the Captain. "I am the man to stand by his friend, Captain mine; and I am thy friend, Captain--Papist or Roman though they call thee!" "A man for need, Garret!" said Dauntrees, patting him on the head; "a dozen flasks or so, when a friend wants them, come without the asking." "And I pay my wagers, I warrant, Captain, like a true comrade." "Like a prince, Garret, who does not stop to count the score, but makes sure of the total by throwing in a handful over." "I am no puritan, Master Dauntrees, I tell thee." "Thou hast the port of a cavalier, good Weasel. Thou wouldst have done deadly havoc amongst the round-heads, if they but took thee in the fact of discharging a wager. Thou wert scarce in debt, after this fashion, at Worcester, my valiant drawer. Thy evil destiny kept thee empty on that day." "Ha, ha, ha! a shrewd memory for a stale jest, Captain Dauntrees. The world is slanderous, though I care little for it. You said you would be merry; shall we not have a song? Come, troll us a catch, Captain." "I am of thy humour, old madcap; I'll wag it with thee bravely," replied Dauntrees, as he struck up a brisk drinking-bout glee of that day, in which he was followed by the treble voice of the publican, who at the same time rose from his seat and accompanied the music with some unsteady gyrations in the manner of a dance upon the gravel. "From too much keeping an evil decorum, From the manifold treason parliamentorum, From Oliver Cromwell, dux omnium malorum, Libera nos, Libera nos." Whilst Dauntrees and his gossips were thus occupied in their carouse, they were interrupted by the unexpected arrival of two well known persons, who had approached by the path of the postern gate. The elder of the two was a youth just on the verge of manhood. His person was slender, well proportioned, and rather over the common height. His face, distinguished by a decided outline of beauty, wore a thoughtful expression, which was scarcely overcome by the flash of a black and brilliant eye. A complexion pale and even feminine, betokened studious habits. His dress, remarkable for its neatness, denoted a becoming pride of appearance in the wearer. It told of the Low Countries. A well-fitted doublet and hose, of a grave colour, were partially concealed by a short camlet cloak of Vandyke brown. A black cap and feather, a profusion of dark hair hanging in curls towards the shoulders, and a falling band or collar of lace, left it unquestionable that the individual I have sketched was of gentle nurture, and associated with persons of rank. This was further manifested in the gay and somewhat gaudy apparel of his companion,--a lad of fourteen, who walked beside him in the profusely decorated costume of a young noble of that ambitious era, when the thoughtless and merry monarch of England, instead of giving himself to the cares of government, was busy to invent extravagancies of dress. The lad was handsome, though his features wore the impress of feeble health. He now bore in his hand a bow and sheaf of arrows. The visiters had taken our revellers at unawares, and had advanced within a few feet before they were observed. The back of the publican was turned to them, and he was now in mid career of his dance, throwing up his elbows, tossing his head, and treading daintily upon the earth, as he sang the burden, "Libera nos, libera nos." "You give care a holiday, Captain Dauntrees," said the elder youth, with a slightly perceptible foreign accent. Dauntrees started abruptly from his seat, at this accost, smiled with a reddened brow, and made a low obeisance. The cessation of the song left Garret Weasel what a mariner would term "high and dry," for like a bark floated upon a beach and suddenly bereft of its element, he remained fixed in the attitude at which the music deserted him,--one foot raised, an arm extended, and his face turned inquiringly over his shoulder. His amazement upon discovering the cause of this interruption, brought about a sudden and ludicrous affectation of sobriety; in an instant his port was changed into one of deference, although somewhat awkwardly overcharged with what was intended to represent gravity and decorum. Arnold de la Grange rose from his chair and stood erect, firm and silent. "Hail, Master Albert Verheyden, and Master Benedict Leonard: God save you both!" said Dauntrees. "I say amen to that, and God save his lordship, besides!" ejaculated the publican with a drunken formality of utterance. "I would not disturb your merriment, friends," said the secretary, "but his lordship bade me summon Captain Dauntrees to the hall. You, Arnold de la Grange, will be pleased to accompany the Captain." Arnold bowed his head, and the visiters retired by the great gate of the fort. In a moment young Benedict Leonard came running back, and addressed the forester-- "Master Arnold, I would have a new bow-string--this is worn; and my bird-bolts want feathering: shall I leave them with you, good Arnold?" And without waiting an answer, he thrust the bow and arrows into the smiling wood-ranger's hand, and bounded away again through the gate. Dauntrees flung his sword-belt across his shoulder, put on his cloak, delayed a moment to secure the remaining flasks of wine, and then beckoned to the ranger to follow him. "Stop," cried Weasel, with an officious zeal to make himself useful; "your belt is awry: it is not comely to be seen by his lordship in this slovenly array." The belt was set right, and the two directed their steps towards the postern, and thence to the mansion. The publican tarried only until his companions were out of sight, when, curious to know the object of the errand, and careful to avoid the appearance of intrusion, he followed upon the same path, at a respectful distance,--stepping wisely, as a drunken man is wont, and full of the opinion that his sobriety was above all suspicion. CHAPTER IV. Oft as the peasant wight impelled To these untrodden paths had been, As oft he, horror struck, beheld Things of unearthly shape and mien. GLENGONAR'S WASSAIL. The day was drawing near to a close, and the Proprietary thoughtfully paced the hall. The wainscoted walls around him were hung with costly paintings, mingled, not untastefully, with Indian war clubs, shields, bows and arrows, and other trophies won from the savage. There were also the ponderous antlers of the elk and the horns of the buck sustaining draperies of the skins of beasts of prey. Musquets, cutlasses and partisans were bestowed on brackets ready for use in case of sudden invasion from that race of wild men whose stealthy incursions in times past had taught this policy of preparation. The level rays of the setting sun, striking through the broad open door, flung a mellow radiance over the hall, giving a rich picture-like tone to its sylvan furniture. Lord Baltimore, at the period when I have introduced him, might have been verging upon fifty. He was of a delicate and slender stature, with a grave and dignified countenance. His manners were sedate and graceful, and distinguished by that gentleness which is characteristic of an educated mind when chastened by affliction. He had been schooled to this gentleness both by domestic and public griefs. The loss of a favourite son, about two years before, had thrown a shadow upon his spirit, and a succession of unruly political irritations in the province served to prevent the return of that buoyancy of heart which is indifferently slow to come back at middle age, even when solicited by health, fortune, friends, and all the other incitements which, in younger men, are wont to lift up a wounded spirit out of the depths of a casual sorrow. Charles Calvert had come to the province in 1662, and from that date, until the death of his father, thirteen years afterwards, administered the government in the capacity of Lieutenant-General. Upon his accession to the proprietary rights, he found himself compelled by the intrigues of a faction to visit London, where he was detained nearly four years,--having left Lady Baltimore, with a young family of children, behind him, under the care of his uncle Philip Calvert, the chancellor of the province. He had now, within little more than a twelvemonth, returned to his domestic roof, to mingle his sorrows with those of his wife for the death of his eldest son, Cecilius, who had sunk into the tomb during his absence. The public cares of his government left him scant leisure to dwell upon his personal afflictions. The province was surrounded by powerful tribes of Indians who watched the white settlers with an eager hostility, and seized every occasion to molest them by secret inroad, and often by open assault. A perpetual war of petty reprisals, prevailed upon the frontier, and even sometimes invaded the heart of the province. A still more vexatious annoyance existed in the party divisions of the inhabitants--divisions unluckily resting on religious distinctions--the most fierce of all dissensions. Ever since the Restoration, the jealousy of the Protestant subjects of the crown against the adherents of the church of Rome had been growing into a sentiment that finally broke forth into the most flagrant persecution. In the province, the Protestants during the last twenty years had greatly increased in number, and at the date of this narrative constituted already the larger mass of the population. They murmured against the dominion of the Proprietary as one adverse to the welfare of the English church; and intrigues were set on foot to obtain the establishment of that church in the province through the interest of the ministry in England. Letters were written by some of the more ambitious clergy of Maryland to the Archbishop of Canterbury to invoke his aid in the enterprise. The government of Lord Baltimore was traduced in these representations, and every disorder attributed to the ascendancy of the Papists. It was even affirmed that the Proprietary and his uncle the Chancellor, had instigated the Indians to ravage the plantations of the Protestant settlers, and to murder their families. Chiefly, to counteract these intrigues, Lord Baltimore had visited the court at London. Cecilius Calvert, the founder of the province, with a liberality as wise as it was unprecedented, had erected his government upon a basis of perfect religious freedom. He did this at a time when he might have incorporated his own faith with the political character of the colony, and maintained it, by a course of legislation, which would, perhaps, even up to the present day, have rendered Maryland the chosen abode of those who now acknowledge the founder's creed. His views, however, were more expansive. It was his design to furnish in Maryland a refuge not only to the weary and persecuted votaries of his own sect, but an asylum to all who might wish for shelter in a land where opinion should be free and conscience undisturbed. Whilst this plant of toleration was yet young, it grew with a healthful luxuriance; but the popular leaders, who are not always as truly and consistently attached to enlightened freedom as we might be led to believe from their boasting, and who incessantly aim to obtain power and make it felt, had no sooner acquired strength to battle with the Proprietary than they rooted up the beautiful exotic and gave it to the winds. Amongst the agitators in this cause was a man of some note in the former history of the province--the famous Josias Fendall, the governor in the time of the Protectorate--now in a green old age, whose turbulent temper, and wily propensity to mischief had lost none of their edge with the approach of grey hairs. This individual had stimulated some of the hot spirits of the province into open rebellion against the life of the Proprietary and his uncle. His chief associate was John Coode, a coarse but shrewd leader of a faction, who, with the worst inclinations against the Proprietary had the wit to avoid the penalties of the law, and to maintain himself in a popular position as a member of the house of Burgesses. Fendall, a few months before this era, had been arrested with several followers, upon strong proofs of conspiracy, and was now a close prisoner in the gaol. Such is a brief but necessary view of the state of affairs on the date, at which I have presented the Lord Proprietary to my reader. The matter now in hand with the captain of the fort had reference to troubles of inferior note to those which I have just recounted. When Lord Baltimore descried Captain Dauntrees and the ranger approaching the mansion from the direction of the fort, he advanced beyond the threshold to meet them. In a moment they stood unbonneted before him. "God save you, good friends!" was his salutation--"Captain Dauntrees and worthy Arnold, welcome!--Cover,"--he added in a tone of familiar kindness,--"put on your hats; these evening airs sometimes distill an ague upon a bare head." A rugged smile played upon the features of the old forester as he resumed his shaggy cap, and said, "Lord Charles is good; but he does not remember that the head of an old ranger gets his blossoms like the dog-wood,--in the wind and the rain:--the dew sprinkles upon it the same as upon a stone." "Old friend," replied the Proprietary,--"that grizzly head has taken many a sprinkling in the service of my father and myself: it is worthy of a better bonnet, and thou shalt have one, Arnold--the best thou canst find in the town. Choose for yourself, and Master Verheyden shall look to the cost of it." The Fleming modestly bowed, as he replied with that peculiar foreign gesture and accent, neither of which may be described,--"Lord Charles is good.--He is the son of his father, Lord Cecil,--Heaven bless his memory!" "Master Verheyden, bade me attend your lordship," said Dauntrees; "and to bring Arnold de la Grange with me." "I have matter for your vigilance, Captain," replied the Proprietary. "Walk with me in the garden--we will talk over our business in the open air." When they had strolled some distance, Lord Baltimore proceeded--"There are strange tales afloat touching certain mysterious doings in a house at St. Jerome's: the old wives will have it that it is inhabited by goblins and mischievous spirits--and, in truth, wiser people than old women are foolish enough to hold it in dread. Father Pierre tells me he can scarcely check this terror." "Your Lordship means the fisherman's house on the beach at St. Jerome's," said the Captain. "The country is full of stories concerning it, and it has long had an ill fame. I know the house: the gossips call it The Wizard's Chapel. It stands hard by the hut of The Cripple. By my faith,--he who wanders there at nightfall had need of a clear shrift." "You give credence to these idle tales?" "No idle tales, an please your Lordship. Some of these marvels have I witnessed with my own eyes. There is a curse of blood upon that roof." "I pray you speak on," said the Proprietary, earnestly; "there is more in this than I dreamed of." "Paul Kelpy the fisherman," continued Dauntrees,--"it was before my coming into the province--but the story goes----" "It was in the Lord Cecil's time--I knowed the fisherman," interrupted Arnold. "He was a man," said the Captain, "who, as your Lordship may have heard, had a name which caused him to be shunned in his time,--and they are alive now who can tell enough of his wickedness to make one's hair rise on end. He dwelt in this house at St. Jerome's in Clayborne's day, and took part with that freebooter;--went with him, as I have heard, to the Island, and was outlawed." "Ay, and met the death he deserved--I remember the story," said the Proprietary. "He was foiled in his attempt to get out of the province, and barred himself up in his own house." "And there he fought like a tiger,--or more like a devil as he was," added the ranger. "They were more than two days, before they could get into his house." "When his door was forced at last," continued the Captain; "they found him, his wife and child lying in their own blood upon the hearth stone. They were all murdered, people say, by his own hand." "And that was true!" added Arnold; "I remember how he was buried at the cross road, below the Mattapany Fort, with a stake drove through his body." "Ever since that time," continued Dauntrees, "they say the house has been without lodgers--of flesh and blood, I mean, my Lord,--for it has become a devil's den, and a busy one." "What hast thou seen, Captain? You speak as a witness." "It is not yet six months gone by, my Lord, when I was returning with Clayton, the master of the collector's pinnace, from the Isle of Kent; we stood in, after night, towards the headland of St. Jerome's bay;--it was very dark--and the four windows of the Wizard's Chapel, that looked across the beach, were lighted up with such a light as I have never seen from candle or fagot. And there were antic figures passing the blaze that seemed deep in some hellish carouse. We kept our course, until we got almost close aboard,--when suddenly all grew dark. There came, at that moment, a gust of wind such as the master said he never knew to sweep in daylight across the Chesapeake. It struck us in our teeth, and we were glad to get out again upon the broad water. It would seem to infer that the Evil One had service rendered there, which it would be sinful to look upon. In my poor judgment it is matter for the church, rather than for the hand of the law." "You are not a man, Captain Dauntrees, to be lightly moved by fantasies," said the Proprietary, gravely; "you have good repute for sense and courage. I would have you weigh well what you report." "Surely, my Lord, Clayton is as stout a man in heart as any in the province: and yet he could scarcely hold his helm for fear." "Why was I not told of this?" "Your Lordship's favour," replied Dauntrees, shaking his head; "neither the master, the seamen nor myself would hazard ill will by moving in the matter. There is malice in these spirits, my Lord, which will not brook meddling in their doings: we waited until we might be questioned by those who had right to our answer. The blessed martyrs shield me! I am pledged to fight your Lordship's bodily foes:--the good priests of our holy patron St. Ignatius were better soldiers for this warfare." The Proprietary remained for some moments silent: at last, turning to the ranger, he inquired--"What dost thou know of this house, Arnold?" "Well, Lord Charles," replied the veteran, "I was not born to be much afeard of goblins or witches.--In my rangings I have more than once come in the way of these wicked spirits; and then I have found that a clean breast and a stout heart, with the help of an Ave Mary and a Paternoster was more than a match for all their howlings. But the fisherman's house--oh, my good Lord Charles," he added with a portentous shrug, "has dwellers in it that it is best not to trouble. When Sergeant Travers and myself were ranging across by St. Jerome's, at that time when Tiquassino's men were thought to be a thieving,--last Hallowmass, if I remember,--we shot a doe towards night, and set down in the woods, waiting to dress our meat for a supper, which kept us late, before we mounted our horses again. But we had some aqua vitæ, and didn't much care for hours. So it was midnight, with no light but the stars to show us our way. It happened that we rode not far from the Wizard's Chapel, which put us to telling stories to each other about Paul Kelpy and the ghosts that people said haunted his house." "The aqua vitæ made you talkative as well as valiant, Arnold," interrupted the Proprietary. "I will not say that," replied the ranger; "but something put it into our heads to go down the bank and ride round the chapel. At first all was as quiet as if it had been our church here of St. Mary's--except that our horses snorted and reared with fright at something we could not see. The wind was blowing, and the waves were beating on the shore,--and suddenly we began to grow cold; and then, all at once, there came a rumbling noise inside of the house like the rolling of a hogshead full of pebbles, and afterwards little flashes of light through the windows, and the sergeant said he heard clanking chains and groans:--it isn't worth while to hide it from your lordship, but the sergeant ran away like a coward, and I followed him like another, Lord Charles.--Since that night I have not been near the Black house.--We have an old saying in my country--'een gebrande kat vreest het koude water'--the scalded cat keeps clear of cold water--ha, I mind the proverb." "It is not long ago," said Dauntrees, "perhaps not above two years,--when, they say, the old sun-dried timber of the building turned suddenly black. It was the work of a single night--your Lordship shall find it so now." "I can witness the truth of it," said Arnold--"the house was never black until that night, and now it looks as if it was scorched with lightning from roof to ground sill. And yet, lightning could never leave it so black without burning it to the ground." "There is some trickery in this," said the Proprietary. "It may scarce be accounted for on any pretence of witchcraft, or sorcery, although I know there are malignant influences at work in the province which find motive enough to do all the harm they can. Has Fendall, or any of his confederates had commerce with this house, Captain Dauntrees? Can you suspect such intercourse?" "Assuredly not, my Lord," replied the Captain, "for Marshall, who is the most insolent of that faction, hath, to my personal knowledge, the greatest dread of the chapel of all other men I have seen. Besides, these terrors have flourished in the winter-night tales of the neighbourhood, ever since the death of Kelpy, and long before the Fendalls grew so pestilent in the province." "It is the blood of the fisherman, my good Lord, and of his wife and children that stains the floor," said Arnold; "it is that blood which brings the evil spirits together about the old hearth. Twice every day the blood-spots upon the floor freshen and grow strong, as the tide comes to flood;--at the ebb they may be hardly seen." "You have witnessed this yourself, Arnold?" "At the ebb, Lord Charles. I did not stay for the change of tide. When I saw the spots it was as much as we could do to make them out.--But at the flood every body says they are plain." "It is a weighty matter, a very weighty matter, an it like your Lordship's honour," muttered forth the slim voice of Garret Weasel, who had insinuated himself, by slow approach, into the rear of the company, near enough to hear a part of this conversation, and who now fancied that his interest in the subject would ensure him an unrebuked access to the Proprietary--"and your Lordship hath a worthy care for the fears of the poor people touching the abominations of the Wizard's Chapel." "What brought thee here, Garret Weasel?" inquired the Proprietary, as he turned suddenly upon the publican and looked him steadfastly in the face--"What wonder hast thou to tell to excuse thy lurking at our heels?" "Much and manifold, our most noble Lord, touching the rumours," replied the confused innkeeper, with a thick utterance. "And it is the most notable thing about it that Robert Swale--Rob o' the Trencher, as he is commonly called--your Lordship apprehends I mean the Cripple--that Rob lives so near the Wizard's Chapel. There's matter of consideration in that--if your Lordship will weigh it." "Fie, Master Garret Weasel! Fie on thee! Thou art in thy cups. I grieve to see thee making a beast of thyself. You had a name for sobriety. Look that you lose it not again. Captain Dauntrees if the publican has been your guest this evening, you are scarce free of blame for this." "He has a shallow head, my Lord, and it is more easily sounded than I guessed. Arnold," said Dauntrees apart--"persuade the innkeeper home." The ranger took Garret's arm, and expostulating with him as he led him away, dismissed him at the gate with an admonition to bear himself discreetly in the presence of his wife,--a hint which seemed to have a salutary effect, as the landlord was seen shaping his course with an improved carriage towards the town. "Have you reason to believe, Captain Dauntrees," said the Proprietary, after Weasel had departed; "that the Cripple gives credit to these tales. He lives near this troubled house?" "Not above a gunshot off, my Lord. He cannot but be witness to these marvels. But he is a man of harsh words, and lives to himself. There is matter in his own life, I should guess, which leaves but little will to censure these doings. To a certainty he has no fear of what may dwell in the Black building.--I have seldom spoken with him." "Your report and Arnold's," said the Proprietary, "confirm the common rumour. I have heard to-day, that two nights past some such phantoms as you speak of have been seen, and deemed it at first a mere gossip's wonder;--but what you tell gives a graver complexion of truth to these whisperings. Be there demons or jugglers amongst us--and I have reason to suspect both--this matter must be sifted. I would have the inquiry made by men who are not moved by the vulgar love of marvel. This duty shall be yours, friends. Make suitable preparation, Captain, to discharge it at your earliest leisure. I would have you and Arnold, with such discreet friends as you may select, visit this spot at night and observe the doings there. Look that you keep your own counsel:--we have enemies of flesh and blood that may be more dreaded than these phantoms. So, God speed you friends!" "The man who purges the Black House of the fiend, so please you, my Lord," said Dauntrees, "should possess more odour of sanctity than I doubt will be found under our soldier's jerkins. I shall nevertheless execute your Lordship's orders to the letter." "Hark you, Captain," said the Proprietary, as his visiters were about to take their leave--"if you have a scruple in this matter and are so inclined, I would have you confer with Father Pierre. Whether this adventure require prayer, or weapon of steel, you shall judge for yourself." "I shall take it, my Lord, as a point of soldiership," said Dauntrees, "to be dealt with, in soldierly fashion--that is, with round blows if occasion serves. I ask no aid from our good priest. He hath a trick--if I may be so bold as to speak it before your Lordship--which doth not so well sort with my age and bodily health,--a trick, my Lord, of putting one to a fasting penance by way of purification. Our purpose of visiting the Black House would be unseasonably delayed by such a purgation." "As thou wilt--as thou wilt!" said the Proprietary, laughing; "Father Pierre would have but an idle sinecure, if he had no other calling but to bring thee to thy penitentiary.--Good even, friends,--may the kind saints be with you!" The Captain and his comrade now turned their steps toward the fort, and the Proprietary retired into the mansion. Here he found the secretary and Benedict Leonard waiting his arrival. They had just returned from the town, whither they had gone after doing their errand to the fort. Albert Verheyden bore a packet secured with silken strings and sealed, which he delivered to the Proprietary. "Dick Pagan, the courier," he said, "has just come in from James Town in Virginia, whence he set forth but four days ago--he has had a hard ride of it--and brought this pacquet to the sheriff for my Lord. The courier reports that a ship had just arrived from England, and that Sir Henry Chichely the governor gave him this for your Lordship to be delivered without delay." The Proprietary took the pacquet: "Albert," he said, as he was about to withdraw, "I have promised the old ranger, Arnold de la Grange, a new cap. Look to it:--get him the best that you may find in the town--or, perhaps, it would better content him to have one made express by Cony the leather dresser. Let it be as it may best please the veteran himself, good Albert." With this considerate remembrance of the ranger, Lord Baltimore withdrew into his study. CHAPTER V. ---deep on his front engraven, Deliberation sat, and public care. MILTON. Lend me thy lantern quoth a? Marry I'll see thee hanged first. SHAKSPEARE. A small fire blazed on the hearth of the study and mingled its light with that of a silver cresset, which hung from the ceiling above a table furnished with writing materials and strewed over with papers. Here the Proprietary sat intent upon the perusal of the pacquet. Its contents disquieted him; and with increasing solicitude he again and again read over the letters. At length the secretary was summoned into his presence. "Albert," he said, "the council must be called together to-morrow at noon. The messengers should be despatched to-night; they have a dark road and far to ride. Let them be ready with the least delay." The secretary bowed and went forth to execute his order. The letters brought the Proprietary a fresh importation of troubles. That which most disturbed him was from the Board of Trade and Plantations, and spoke authoritatively of the growing displeasure of the ministry at the exclusiveness, as it was termed, of the Proprietary's favours, in the administration of his government, to the Catholic inhabitants of the province; it hinted at the popular and probably well-founded discontent--to use its own phrase--of his Majesty's Protestant subjects against the too liberal indulgence shown to the Papists; repeated stale charges and exploded calumnies against the Proprietary, with an earnestness that showed how sedulously his enemies had taken advantage of the disfavour into which the Church of Rome and its advocates had fallen since the Restoration; and concluded with a peremptory intimation of the royal pleasure that all the offices of the province should be immediately transferred into the hands of the Church of England party. This was a blow at Lord Baltimore which scarcely took him by surprise. His late visit to England had convinced him that not all the personal partiality of the monarch for his family--and this was rendered conspicuous in more than one act of favour at a time when the Catholic lords were brought under the ban of popular odium--would be able finally to shelter the province from that religious proscription which already was rife in the mother land. He was not, therefore, altogether unprepared to expect this assault. The mandate was especially harsh in reference to the Proprietary, first because it was untrue that he had ever recognised the difference of religious opinion in his appointments, but on the contrary had conferred office indiscriminately in strict and faithful accordance with the fundamental principle of toleration upon which his government was founded; and secondly, because it would bear with pointed injustice upon some of his nearest and most devoted friends--his uncle the chancellor, the whole of his council, and, above all others in whose welfare he took an interest, upon the collector of the port of St. Mary's, Anthony Warden, an old inhabitant of the province, endeared to the Proprietary--and indeed to all his fellow-burgesses--by long friendship and tried fidelity. What rendered it the more grating to the feelings of the Proprietary in this instance, was that the collectorship had already been singled out as a prize to be played for by that faction which had created the late disturbances in the province. It was known that Coode had set his eyes upon this lure, and gloated upon it with the gaze of a serpent. The emoluments of the post were something considerable, and its importance was increased by the influence it was supposed to confer on the incumbent, as a person of weight and consequence in the town. The first expression of irritation which the perusal of the pacquet brought to the lips of the Proprietary had a reference to the collector. "They would have me," he said, as he rose and strode through the apartment, "discard from my service, the very approved friends with whom in my severest toils, in this wilderness, I have for so many years buffeted side by side, and to whom I am most indebted for support and encouragement amidst the thousand disasters of my enterprise. They would have me turn adrift, without a moment's warning, and even with circumstances of disgrace, that tried pattern of honesty, old Anthony Warden. Virtue, in her best estate, hath but a step-daughter's portion in the division of this world's goods, and often goes begging, when varnished knavery carries a high head and proud heart, and lords it like a very king. By the blessed light! old Anthony shall not budge on my motion. Am I to be schooled in my duty by rapacious malcontents, and to be driven to put away my trustiest friends, to make room for such thirsty leeches and coarse rufflers as John Coode? The argument is, that here, in what my father would have made a peaceful, contented land, planted by him and the brothers of his faith,--with the kindest, best and most endeared supporters of that faith by my side--worthy men, earnest and zealous to do their duty--they and their children true to every christian precept--men who have won a home by valour and patient, wise endurance--they must all be disfranchised, as not trustworthy even for the meanest office, and give their places to brawlers, vapouring bullies and factious stirrers-up of discord--and that too in the name of religion! Oh, this viper of intolerance, how hath it crept in and defiled the garden! One would have thought this world were wide enough to give the baser passions elbow room, without rendering our little secluded nook a theatre for the struggle. Come what may, Anthony Warden shall not lack the collectorship whilst a shred of my prerogative remains untorn!" In this strain of feeling the Proprietary continued to chafe his spirit, until the necessity of preparing the letters which were to urge the attendance of his council, drew him from his fretful reverie into a calmer tone of mind. In the servants' hall there was an unusual stir occasioned by the preparations which were in train for the outriding of the messengers whom the secretary had put in requisition for the service of the night. The first of these was Derrick Brown, a man of stout mould though somewhat advanced in years. He held in the establishment what might be termed the double post of master of the mews and keeper of the fox hounds, being principal falconer and huntsman of the household. The second was a short, plump little fellow, bearing the name of John Alward, who was one of the grooms of the stable. These two, now ready booted, belted and spurred, were seated on a bench, discussing a luncheon, with the supplement of a large jack or tankard of brown bastard. Several of the other domestics loitered in the hall, throwing in occasionally a word of advice to the riders, or giving them unsolicited aid in the carnal occupation of bodily reinforcement to which they were devoting themselves with the lusty vigour of practised trenchermen. Leaning against the jamb of the ample fireplace, immediately below a lamp which tipped the prominent points of his grave visage with a sharp light, stood an old Indian, of massive figure and swarthy hue, named Pamesack, or, as he was called in the English translation of the Indian word, The Knife. This personage had been, for some years past, at intervals, a privileged inmate of the Proprietary's family, and was now, though consigned to a portion of the duties of the evening, apparently an unconcerned spectator of the scene around him. He smoked his pipe in silence, or if he spoke, it was seldom more than in the short monosyllable, characteristic of the incommunicative habits of his tribe. "When I saw Dick Pagan, the James Town courier, coming into town this evening with his leather pouch slung across his shoulder," said the elder of the riders, "I guessed as much as that there would be matter for the council. News from that quarter now-a-days is apt to bring business for their worships. I warrant you the brother of Master Fendall hath been contriving an outcome in Virginia. I heard John Rye, the miller of St. Clements, say last Sunday afternoon, that Samuel Fendall had forty mounted men ready in the forest to do his bidding with broad-sword and carbine. And he would have done it too, if my Lord had not laid him by the heels at unawares. He hath a savage spite against my Lord and the chancellor both." "But knew ye ever the like before," said John Alward, "that his lordship should be in such haste to see their worships, he must needs have us tramping over the country at midnight? By the virtue of my belt, there must be a hot flavour in the news! It was a post haste letter." "Tush, copperface! What have you to do with the flavour of the news? The virtue of thy belt, indeed! Precious little virtue is there within its compass, ha, ha! You have little to complain of, John Alward, for a midnight tramp. It is scant twelve miles from this to Mattapany, and thine errand is done. Thou mayst be snoozing on a good truss of hay in Master Sewall's stable before midnight, if you make speed. Think of my ride all the way to Notley Hall,--and round about by the head of the river too--for I doubt if I have any chance to get a cast over the ferry to-night. Simon the boat-keeper is not often sober at this hour: and if he was, a crustier churl--the devil warm his pillow!--doesn't live 'twixt this and the old world. He gets out of his sleep for no man." "But it is a dark road mine," replied the groom. "A plague upon it! I have no stomach for this bush and brier work, when a man can see the limb of a tree no more than a cobweb." "A dark road!" exclaimed the master of the kennels, laughing. "A dark road, John! It is a long time, I trow, since there has been a dark road for thy night rides, with that nose shining like a lighted link a half score paces around thee. It was somewhat deadened last September, I allow, when you had the marsh ague, and the doctor fed you for a week on gruel--but it hath waxed lately as bright as ever. I wish I could buckle it to my head-strap until to-morrow morning." A burst of laughter, at this sally, which rang through the hall, testified the effect of the falconer's wit and brought the groom to his feet. "'S blood, you grinning fools!" he ejaculated, "haven't you heard Derrick's joke a thousand times before, that you must toss up your scurvy ha-haws at it, as if it was new! He stole it--as the whole hundred knows--from the fat captain, old Dauntrees in the fort there; who would have got it back upon hue and cry, if it had been his own;--but the truth is, the Captain filched it from a play-book, as the surveyor told him in my hearing at Garret Weasel's, where the Captain must needs have it for a laughing matter." "It is a joke that burns fresh every night," replied Derrick; "a thing to make light of. So, up with the bottom of the pot, boy, and feed it with mother's milk: it will stand thee in stead to-night. Well done, John Alward! I can commend thee for taking a jest as well as another." "Master Derrick," said the other, "this is not the way to do his Lordship's bidding: if we must go, we should be jogging now. I would I had thy ride to take, instead of my own,--short as you think it." "Ha, say you that! By the rochet, John, you shall have it, an it please Master Secretary! But upon one condition." "Upon what condition?" "That you tell me honestly why you would choose to ride twenty miles to Notley rather than twelve to Mattapany." "Good Derrick," answered the groom, "it is but as a matter of horsemanship. You have a broader road, and mine is a path much beset with brush-wood. I like not the peril of being unhorsed." "There is a lie in thy face, John Alward;--the Mattapany road is the broadest and best of the two--is it not so, Pamesack?" "It is the first that was opened by the white man," replied the Indian; "and more people pass upon it than the other." "John," said the falconer, "you are a coward. I will not put you to the inventing another lie, but will wager I can tell you at one guess why you would change with me." "Out with it, Master Derrick!" exclaimed the bystanders. "Oh, out with it!" repeated John Alward; "I heed not thy gibes." "You fear the cross road," said the falconer; "you will not pass the fisherman's grave." "In troth, masters--I must needs own," replied the groom, "that I have qualms. I never was ashamed to tell the truth, and confess that I am so much of a sinner as to feel an honest fear of the devil and his doings. I have known a horse to start and a rider to be flung at the cross road before now:--there are times in the night when both horse and rider may see what it turns one's blood into ice to look at. Nay, I am in earnest, masters:--I jest not." "Thou hast honestly confessed, like a brave man, that thou art a coward, John Alward; and so it shall be a bargain between us. I will take your message. I fear not Paul Kelpy--he has been down with that stake through his body, ever too fast to walk abroad." "There's my hand to it," said the groom, "and thanks to boot. I am no coward, Derrick,--but have an infirmity which will not endure to look by night in the lonesome woods, upon a spirit which walks with a great shaft through it. Willy of the Flats saw it, in that fashion, as he went home from the Viewer's feast on the eve of St. Agnes." "Willy had seen too much of the Viewer's hollands that night," said Derrick; "and they are spirits worth a dozen Paul Kelpys, even if the whole dozen were trussed upon the same stake, like herrings hung up to smoke. In spite of the fisherman and his bolt, I warrant you I pass unchallenged betwixt this and Mattapany." The secretary, soon after this, entered the hall and confirmed the arrangements which had just been made. He accordingly delivered the letters intended for Colonel Talbot and Nicholas Sewall to the falconer, and that for Mr. Notley, the late lieutenant general of the province, to John Alward. To the Indian was committed the duty of bearing the missions to such members of the council as resided either in the town or within a few miles of it. Holding it matter of indifference whether he despatched this duty by night or by day, the Knife took it in hand at once, and set forth, on foot, with a letter for Colonel Digges, who lived about five miles off, at the same time that the other two couriers mounted their horses for their lonesome journeys through the forest. CHAPTER VI. If we should wait till you, in solemn council With due deliberation had selected The smallest out of four and twenty evils, 'I faith we should wait long. Dash and through with it--that's the better watchword, Then after, come what may come. PICCOLOMINI. On the following day, the council, consisting of some four or five gentlemen, were assembled at the Proprietary Mansion. About noon their number was rendered complete, by the arrival of Colonel George Talbot, who, mounted on a spirited, milk-white steed that smoked with the hot vigour of his motion, dashed through the gate and alighted at the door. A pair of pistols across his saddle-bow, and a poniard, partially disclosed under his vest, demonstrated the precautions of the possessor to defend himself against sudden assault, and no less denoted the quarrelsome aspect of the times. His frame was tall, athletic, and graceful; his eye hawk-like, and his features prominent and handsome, at the same time indicative of quick temper and rash resolve. There was in his dress a manifestation of the consciousness of a good figure--it was the costume of a gallant of the times; and his bearing was characteristic of a person accustomed to bold action and gay companionship. Talbot was a near kinsman of the Baltimore family, and besides being a member of the Proprietary's council, he held the post of Surveyor General, and commanded, also, the provincial militia on the northern frontier, including the settlements on the Elk River, where he owned a large manor, upon which he usually resided. At the present time he was in the temporary occupation of a favourite seat of the Proprietary, at Mattapany on the Patuxent, whither the late summons had been despatched to call him to the council. This gentleman was a zealous Catholic, and an ardent personal friend of his kinsman, the Proprietary, whose cause he advocated with that peremptory and, most usually, impolitic determination which his imperious nature prompted, and which served to draw upon him the peculiar hatred of Fendall and Coode, and their partisans. He was thus, although a sincere, it may be imagined, an indiscreet adviser in state affairs, little qualified to subdue or allay that jealous spirit of proscription which, from the epoch of the Protectorate down to this date, had been growing more intractable in the province. Such was the individual who now with the firm stride and dauntless carriage of a belted and booted knight of chivalry, to which his picturesque costume heightened the resemblance, entered the apartment where his seniors were already convened. "Well met!" he exclaimed, as he flung his hat and gloves upon a table and extended his hand to those who were nearest him. "How fares it, gentlemen? What devil of mutiny is abroad now? Has that pimpled fellow of fustian, that swiller of the leavings of a tap room, the worshipful king of the Burgesses, master Jack Coode, got drunk again and begun to bully in his cups? The falconer who hammered at my door last night, as if he would have beaten your Lordship's house about my ears, could tell me nothing of the cause of this sudden convocation, save that Driving Dick had come in hot haste from James Town with letters that had set the mansion here all agog, from his Lordship's closet down to the scullery." "With proper abatement for the falconer's love of gossip," said the Proprietary, "he told you true. The letters are there on the table. When you have read them, you will see that with good reason I might make some commotion in my house." Talbot ran his eye over the papers. "Well, and well--an old story!" he said, as he threw one letter aside and took up another. "Antichrist--the Red Lady of Babylon--the Jesuits--and the devil: we have had it so often that the lecture is somewhat stale. The truculent Papists are the authors of all evil! We had the Geneva band in fashion for a time; but that wore out with old Noll. And then comes another flight of kestrels, and we must have the thirty-nine articles served up for a daily dish. That spider, Master Yeo, has grown to be a crony of his grace the Archbishop of Canterbury, and is busy to knit his web around every poor catholic fly of the province." "This must be managed without temper," said Darnall, the oldest member present, except the Chancellor. "Our adversaries will find their advantage in our resolves, if made in the heat of passion." "You say true," replied Talbot. "I am a fool in my humour; but it doth move me to the last extremity of endurance to be ever goaded with this shallow and hypocritical pretence of sanctity. They prate of the wickedness of the province, forsooth! our evil deportment, and loose living, and notorious scandal! all will be cured, in the opinion of these solemn Pharisees, by turning that good man, Lord Charles and his friends out of his own province, and by setting up parson Yeo in a fat benefice under the wing of an established church." "Read on," said Lord Baltimore, "and you shall see the sum of all, in the argument that it is not fit Papists should bear rule over the free-born subjects of the English crown; and, as a conclusion to that, a summary order to discharge every friend of our holy church from my employ." Talbot read the letter to the end. "So be it!" he ejaculated, as he threw the letter from him, and flung himself back into his chair. "You will obey this high behest? With all humbleness, we will thank these knaves for their many condescensions, and their good favours. Your uncle, the Chancellor here, our old frosted comrade, is the first that your Lordship will give bare-headed to the sky. As for myself, I have been voted an incarnate devil in a half dozen conclaves--and so Fendall shall be the surveyor. I hope your Lordship will remember that I have a military command--a sturdy stronghold in the fort of Christina--and some stout fellows with me on the border. It might be hard to persuade them to part company with me." "Peace, I pray you, peace!" interrupted the Proprietary; "you are nettled, Talbot, and that is not the mood for counsel." "These pious cut-throats here," said Talbot, "who talk of our degeneracy, slander us to the whole world: and, faith, I am not of the mind to bear it! I speak plainly what I have thought long since--and would rather do than speak. I would arrest the ring-leaders upon a smaller scruple of proof than I would set a vagrant in the stocks. You have Fendall now, my Lord--I would have his fellows before long: and the space between taking and trying should not add much to the length of their beards:--between trying and hanging, still less." "As to that," said the Proprietary, "every day brings us fresh testimony of the sedition afoot, and we shall not be slow to do justice on the parties. We have good information of the extent of the plot against us, and but wait until an open act shall make their guilt unquestionable. Master Coode is now upon bail only because we were somewhat too hasty in his arrest. There are associates of Fendall's at work who little dream of our acquaintance with their designs." "When does your provincial court hold its sessions?" inquired the Surveyor. "In less than a month." "It should make sure work and speedy," said Talbot. "Master Fendall should find himself at the end of his tether at the first sitting." "Ay, and Coode too," said one of the council: "notwithstanding that the burgesses have stepped forward to protect him. The House guessed well of the temper against your Lordship in England, when they stood up so hardily, last month, in favour of Captain Coode, after your Lordship had commanded his expulsion. It was an unnatural contumacy." "In truth, we have never had peace in the province," said another, "since Fendall was allowed to return from his banishment. That man hath set on hotter, but not subtler spirits than his own. He has a quiet craftiness which never sleeps nor loses sight of his purpose of disturbance." "Alas!" said the Proprietary, "he has not lacked material to work with. The burgesses have been disaffected ever since my father's death. I know not in what point of kindness I have erred towards them. God knows I would cherish affection, not ill-will. My aim has ever been to do justice to all men." "Justice is not their aim, my Lord," exclaimed Talbot. "Oh, this zeal for church is a pretty weapon! and honest Captain Coode, a dainty champion to handle it! I would cut the spurs from that fowl, if I did it with a cleaver!" "He is but the fool in the hands of his betters," interposed Darnall. "This discontent has a broad base. There are many in the province who, if they will not take an open part against us, will be slow to rebuke an outbreak--many who will counsel in secret who dare not show their faces to the sun." "These men have power to do us much harm," said Lord Baltimore, "and I would entreat you, gentlemen, consider, how, by concession to a moderate point, which may comport with our honour, we may allay these irritations. Leaving that question for your future advisement, I ask your attention to the letters. The King has commanded--for it is scarce less than a royal mandate." "Your Lordship," said Talbot, sarcastically, "has fallen under his Majesty's disfavour. You have, doubtless, failed somewhat in your courtesies to Nell Gwynn, or the gay Duchess; or have been wanting in some observance of respect to old Tom Killigrew, the King's fool. His Majesty is not wont to look so narrowly into state affairs." "Hold, Talbot!" interrupted the Proprietary. "I would not hear you speak slightingly of the King. He hath been friendly to me, and I will not forget it. Though this mandate come in his name, King Charles, I apprehend, knows but little of the matter. He has an easy conscience for an importunate suitor. Oh, it grieves me to the heart, after all my father's care for the province--and surely mine has been no less--it grieves me to see this wayward fortune coming over our hopes like a chill winter, when we looked for springtide, with its happy and cheerful promises. I am not to be envied for my prerogative. Here, in this new world, I have made my bed, where I had no wish but to lie in it quietly: it has become a bed of thorns, and cannot bring rest to me, until I am mingled with its dust. Well, since rebellion is the order of the times, I must e'en myself turn rebel now against this order." "Wherein might it be obeyed, my Lord?" asked Darnall. "You have already given all the rights of conscience which the freemen could ask, and the demand now is that you surrender your own. What servant would your Lordship displace? Look around you: is Anthony Warden so incapable, or so hurtful to your service that you might find plea to dismiss him?" "There is no better man in the province than Anthony Warden," replied the Proprietary, with warmth; "a just man; a good man in whatever duty you scan him; an upright, faithful servant to his post. My Lords of the Ministry would not and could not, if they knew him, ask me to remove that man. I will write letters back to remonstrate against this injustice." "And say you will not displace a man, my Lord, come what may!" exclaimed Talbot. "This battle must be fought--and the sooner the better! Your Lordship will find your justification in the unanimous resolve of your council." This sentiment was echoed by all present, and by some of the more discreet an admonition was added, advising the Proprietary to handle the subject mildly with the ministry, in a tone of kind expostulation, which, as it accorded with Lord Baltimore's own feeling, met his ready acquiescence. After despatching some business of less concern, the members of the council dispersed. CHAPTER VII. An old worshipful gentleman who had a great estate, That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate. THE OLD AND YOUNG COURTIER. But who the countless charms can draw That grac'd his mistress true? Such charms the old world seldom saw, Nor oft, I ween, the new. Her raven hair plays round her neck Like tendrils of the vine; Her cheeks, red, dewy rose-buds deck, Her eyes like diamonds shine. BRYAN AND PEREENE. Anthony Warden had resided in Maryland for forty years before the period of this story. During the greater portion of this time he performed the duties of the Collector of the Proprietary's revenues in the port. By the persuasion of Cecilius Calvert he had become a settler in the New World, where he had received from his patron the grant of a large tract of land, which, in progress of time, under a careful course of husbandry, rendered him a man of easy fortune. One portion of this tract lay adjacent to the town, and stretched along the creek of St. Inigoe's, constituting an excellent farm of several hundred acres. Upon this land the Collector had dwelt from an early period of his settlement. A certain sturdiness of character that matched the perils of that adventurous colonial life, and a vigorous intellect, gave Mr. Warden great authority over the inhabitants of the province, which was increased by the predominant honesty of purpose and plain, unpretending directness of his nature. A bountiful purse and jocund temper enabled and prompted him to indulge, almost without stint, that hospitality which furnishes the most natural and appropriate enjoyment of those who dwell remote from the busy marts of the world. His companionable habits had left their tokens upon his exterior. His frame was corpulent, his features strongly defined, his eye dark blue, with a mastiff kindness in its glance. The flush of generous living had slightly overmastered the wind-and-weather hue of his complexion, and given it the tints of a ripe pear. Seventy years had beaten upon his poll without other badge of conquest than that of a change of his brown locks to white;--their volume was scarcely diminished, and they still fell in curls upon his shoulders. Two marriages had brought him a large family of children, of whom the eldest (the only offspring of his first nuptials) was Alice Warden, a maiden lady who now, well advanced in life, occupied the highest post of authority in the household, which had, for several years past, been transferred to her by the demise of the second wife. His sons had all abandoned the paternal roof in the various pursuits of fortune, leaving behind them, besides Mistress Alice, a sister, the youngest of the flock, who, at the epoch at which I am about to present her, was just verging towards womanhood. The dwelling of the Collector stood upon the high bank formed by the union of St. Inigoe's creek and St. Mary's river. It was, according to the most approved fashion of that day, built of imported brick, with a double roof penetrated by narrow and triangular-capped windows. The rooms were large and embellished with carved wainscots and a profusion of chiseled woodwork, giving them an elaborate and expensive aspect. This main building overlooked, with a magisterial and protecting air, a group of single-storied offices and out-houses which were clustered around, one of which was appropriated by the Collector as his place of business, and may still be seen with its decayed book-shelves, a deserted ruin hard by the mansion which yet survives in tolerable repair. This spacious domicil, with its broad porch, cottage-like appendages and latticed sheds, was embosomed in the shade of elms and mulberries, whose brown foliage, fanned by the autumnal breeze, murmured in unison with the plashing tide that beat against the pebbles immediately below. A garden in the rear, with trellised and vine-clad gateways, and walks lined with box, which the traveller may yet behold in venerable luxuriance, furnished good store of culinary dainties; whilst a lawn, in front, occupying some two or three acres and bounded by the cliff which formed the headland on the river, lay open to the sun, and gave from the water an unobstructed view of the mansion. The taste displayed in these embellishments, the neatness of the grounds, the low, flower-spangled hedge of thorn that guarded the cliff, the clumps of rose trees and other ornamental shrubs, disposed to gratify the eye in the shifting seasons of their bloom, the various accessories of rustic seats, bowers and parterres--all united to present an agreeable and infallible index of that purity of mind which brought into assemblage such simple and attractive elements of beauty. All around the immediate domain of the dwelling-house were orchards, woodlands and cultivated fields, with the usual barns and other structures necessary in the process of agriculture;--the whole region presenting a level plain, some fifty or sixty feet above the tide, of singular richness as a landscape, and no less agreeable to be looked upon for its associations with the idea of comfortable independence in the proprietor. This homestead had obtained the local designation of the Rose Croft,--a name, in some degree, descriptive of the predominant embellishment of the spot. In his attire, Master Anthony Warden, the worshipful Collector (to give him his usual style of address in the province) exhibited some tendency towards the coxcombry of his day. It was marked by that scrupulous observance of the prerogative of rank and age which characterised the costume of the olden time,--smacking no little of the flavour of the official martinet. Authority, amongst our ancestors, was wont to borrow consequence from show. The broad line which separated gentle from simple was recognised, in those days, not less strongly in the habiliments of the person than in his nurture and manners. The divisions between the classes of society were not more authentically distinguished in any outward sign than in the embroidered velvet or cloth of the man of wealth, and the plain serge, worsted, or leather of the craftsman. The Collector of St. Mary's, on festive occasions, went forth arrayed much after the manner in which Leslie has represented Sir Roger de Coverly, in his admirable painting of that knight; and although he was too vain of his natural locks to adopt the periwig of that period, yet he had trained his luxuriant tresses into a studied imitation of this artificial adornment. His embroidered coat of drab velvet, with wadded skirts and huge open cuffs, his lace wristbands, his ample vest, and white lamb's-wool hose rolled above his knees, his buckled shoe and three-cornered hat--all adjusted with a particularity that would put our modern foppery to shame--gave to the worthy burgess of St. Mary's a substantial ascendancy and an unquestioned regard, that rendered him, next to the Proprietary, the most worshipful personage in the province. This pedantry of costume and the circumspect carriage which it exacted, were pleasantly contrasted with the flowing vivacity of the wearer, engendering by their concourse an amusing compound, which I might call a fettered and pinioned alacrity of demeanour, the rigid stateliness of exterior seeming rather ineffectually to encase, as a half-bursting chrysalis, the wings of a gay nature. Mr. Warden was reputed to be stubborn in opinion. The good people of the town, aware of his pertinacity in this particular, had no mind to make points with him, but, on the contrary, rather corroborated him in his dogmatism by an amiable assentation; so that, it is said, he grew daily more peremptory. This had become so much his prerogative, that the Lord Proprietary himself gave way to it with as good a grace as the rest of the inhabitants. It may be imagined that so general a submission to this temper would have the tendency to render him a little passionate. They say it was a rich sight to see him in one of his flashes, which always took the bystanders by surprise, like thunder in the midst of sunshine; but these explosions were always short-lived, and rather left a more wholesome and genial clearness in the atmosphere of his affections. The household at the Rose Croft, I have hinted, was regulated by Mistress Alice, who had, some time before our acquaintance with her, reached that period of life at which the female ambition for display is prone to subside into a love of domestic pursuits. It was now her chief worldly care and delight to promote the comfort of those who congregated around the family hearth. In the administration of this office, it may be told to her praise, that she manifested that unpretending good sense which is a much more rare and estimable quality than many others of better acceptation with the world. As was natural to her tranquil position and kindly temper, her feelings had taken a ply towards devotion, which father Pierre did not omit to encourage and confirm by all the persuasions enjoined by the discipline of the Romish church. The gentle solicitude with which the ministers of that ancient faith watch and assist the growing zeal of its votaries; the captivation of its venerable ceremonies, and the familiar and endearing tone in which it addresses itself to the regard of its children, sufficiently account for its sway over so large a portion of mankind, and especially for its hold upon the affections of the female breast. Upon the thoughtful character of Alice Warden this influence shed a mellow and attractive light, and gave to the performance of her daily duties that orderly and uninterrupted cheerfulness which showed the content of her spirit. She found an engrossing labour of love in superintending the education of her sister. Blanche Warden had now arrived within a span of her eighteenth year. Alice had guarded her path from infancy with a mother's tenderness, ministering to her enjoyments and instilling into her mind all that her own attainments, circumscribed, it is true, within a narrow circle, enabled her to teach. The young favourite had grown up under this domestic nurture, aided by the valuable instructions of father Pierre, who had the guidance of her studies, a warm-hearted girl, accomplished much beyond the scant acquisitions ordinarily, at that day, within the reach of women, and distinguished for that confiding gentleness of heart and purity of thought and word which the caresses of friends, the perception of the domestic affections, and seclusion from the busy world are likely to engender in an ardent and artless nature. Of the beauty of the Rose of St. Mary's (for so contemporaries were wont to designate her) tradition speaks with a poetical fervour. I have heard it said that Maryland, far-famed for lovely women, hath not since had a fairer daughter. The beauty which lives in expression was eminently hers; that beauty which is scarcely to be caught by the painter,--which, changeful as the surface of the welling fountain where all the fresh images of nature are for ever shifting and sparkling with the glories of the mirror, defies the limner's skill. In stature she was neither short nor tall, but distinguished by a form of admirable symmetry both for grace and activity. Her features, it is scarce necessary to say, were regular,--but not absolutely so, for, I know not why, perfect regularity is a hinderance to expression. Eyes of dark hazel, with long lashes that gave, by turns, a pensive and playful light to her face, serving, at will, to curtain from the world the thoughts which otherwise would have been read by friend and foe; hair of a rich brown, glossy and, in some lights, even like the raven's wing,--ample in volume and turning her brow and shoulders almost into marble by the contrast; a complexion of spotless, healthful white and red; a light, elastic step, responding to the gaiety of her heart; a voice melodious and clear, gentle in its tones and various in its modulation, according to the feeling it uttered;--these constituted no inconsiderable items in the inventory of her perfections. Her spirit was blithe, affectionate and quick in its sympathies; her ear credulous to believe what was good, and slow to take an evil report. The innocence of her thoughts kindled an habitual light upon her countenance, which was only dimmed when the rough handling by fortune of friend or kinsman was recounted to her, and brought forth the ready tear--for that was ever as ready as her smile. I might tell more of Blanche Warden, but that my task compels me to hasten to the matter of my story. CHAPTER VIII. The silk well could she twist and twine, And make the fine march-pine, And with the needle work: And she could help the priest to say His matins on a holiday And sing a psalm in kirk. DOWSABEL. With such attractions for old and young it will readily be believed that the Rose Croft was a favourite resort of the inhabitants of St. Mary's. The maidens gathered around Blanche as a May-day queen; the matrons possessed in Mistress Alice a discreet and kind friend, and the more sedate part of the population found an agreeable host in the worthy official himself. The family of the Lord Proprietary sustained the most intimate relations with this household. It is true that Lady Baltimore, being feeble in health and stricken with grief at the loss of her son, which yet hung with scarcely abated poignancy upon her mind, was seldom seen beyond her own threshold; but his Lordship's sister, the Lady Maria--as she was entitled in the province--was a frequent and ever most welcome guest. Whether this good lady had the advantage of the Proprietary in years, would be an impertinent as well as an unprofitable inquiry, since no chronicler within my reach has thought fit to instruct the world on this point; and, if it were determined, the fact could neither heighten nor diminish the sober lustre of her virtues. Suffice it that she was a stirring, tidy little woman, who moved about with indefatigable zeal in the acquittal of the manifold duties which her large participation in the affairs of the town exacted of her--the Lady Bountiful of the province who visited the sick, fed the hungry, clothed the naked and chid the idle. She especially befriended such nursing-mothers as those whose scanty livelihood withheld from them the necessary comforts of their condition, and, in an equal degree, extended her bounty to such of the colonists as had been disabled in the military service of the province,--holding these two concerns of population and defence to be high state matters which her family connexion with the government most cogently recommended to her care. Though it is reported of her, that a constitutional tendency towards a too profuse distribution of nick-nacks and sweet-meats amongst her invalids, gave great concern and embarrassment to the physician of the town, and bred up between him and the lady a somewhat stubborn, but altogether good-natured warfare. She was wont to look in upon the provincial school-house, where, on stated occasions, she gave the young train-bands rewards for good conduct, and where she was also diligent to rebuke all vicious tendencies. In the early morning she tripped through the dew, with scrupulous regularity, to mass; often superintended the decorations of the chapel; gossiped with the neighbours after service, and, in short, kept her hands full of business. Her interest in the comfort and welfare of the towns-people grew partly out of her temperament, and partly out of a feudal pride that regarded them as the liegemen of her brother the chief,--a relation which she considered as creating an obligation to extend to them her countenance upon all proper occasions: and, sooth to say, that countenance was not perhaps the most comely in the province, being somewhat sallow, but it was as full of benevolence as became so exemplary a spirit. She watched peculiarly what might be called the under-growth, and was very successful in worming herself into the schemes and plans of the young people. Her entertainments at the mansion were frequent, and no less acceptable to the gayer portion of the inhabitants than they were to her brother. On these occasions she held a little court, over which she presided with an amiable despotism, and fully maintained the state of the Lord Proprietary. By these means the Lady Maria had attained to an over-shadowing popularity in the town. Blanche Warden had, from infancy, engaged her deepest solicitude; and as she took to herself no small share of the merit of that nurture by which her favourite had grown in accomplishment, she felt, in the maiden's praises which every where rang through the province, an almost maternal delight. Scarcely a day passed over without some manifestation of this concern. New patterns of embroidery, music brought by the last ship from _home_, some invitation of friendship or letter of counsel, furnished occasions of daily intercourse between the patroness and the maiden of the Rose Croft; and not unfrequently the venerable spinster herself,--attended by a familiar in the shape of a little Indian girl, Natta, the daughter of Pamesack, arrayed in the trinketry of her tribe--alighted from an ambling pony at the Collector's door, with a face full of the importance of business. Perchance, there might be an occasion of merry-making in contemplation, and then the lady Maria united in consultation with sister Alice concerning the details of the matter, and it was debated, with the deliberation due to so interesting a subject, whether Blanche should wear her black or her crimson velvet boddice, her sarsnet or her satin, and such other weighty matters as have not yet lost their claims to thoughtful consideration on similar emergencies. In the frequent interchange of the offices of good neighbourhood between the families of the Proprietary and of the Collector, it could scarce fall out that the Secretary should not be a large participator. The shyness of the student and the habitual self-restraint taught him in the seminary of Antwerp, in some degree, screened from common observation the ardent character of Albert Verheyden. The deferential relation which he held to his patron threw into his demeanour a reserve expressive of humility rather than of diffidence; but under this there breathed a temperament deeply poetical and a longing for enterprise, that all the discipline of his school and the constraint of his position could scarce suppress. He was now at that time of life when the imagination is prone to dally with illusions; when youth, not yet yoked to the harness of the world's business, turns its spirit forth to seek adventure in the domain of fancy. He was thus far a dreamer, and dreamed of gorgeous scenes and bold exploits and rare fortune. He had the poet's instinct to perceive the beautiful, and his fancy hung it with richer garlands and charmed him into a worshipper. A mute worshipper he was, of the Rose of St. Mary's, from the first moment that he gazed upon her. That outward form of Blanche Warden, and the motion and impulses of that spirit, might not often haunt the Secretary's dream without leaving behind an image that should live for ever in his heart. To him the thought was enchantment, that in this remote wild, far away from the world's knowledge, a flower of such surpassing loveliness should drink the glorious light in solitude,--for so he, schooled in populous cities, deemed of this sequestered province,--and with this thought came breathings of poetry which wrought a transfiguration of the young votary and lifted him out of the sphere of this "working-day world." Day after day, week after week, and month after month, the Secretary watched the footsteps of the beautiful girl; but still it was silent, unpresuming adoration. It entered not into his mind to call it love: it was the very humbleness of devotion. Meantime the maiden, unconscious of her own rare perfections and innocent of all thought of this secret homage, found Master Albert much the most accomplished and gentle youth she had ever seen. He had, without her observing how it became so, grown to be, in some relation or other, part and parcel of her most familiar meditations. His occasions of business with the Collector brought him so often to the Rose Croft that if they happened not every day, they were, at least, incidents of such common occurrence as to be noted by no ceremony--indeed rather to be counted on in the domestic routine. The Collector was apt to grow restless if, by any chance, they were suspended, as it was through the Secretary's mission he received the tidings of the time as well as the official commands of the Proprietary; whilst Albert's unobtrusive manners, his soft step and pretensionless familiarity with the household put no one out of the way to give him welcome. His early roaming in summer sometimes brought him, at sunrise, beneath the bank of the Rose Croft, where he looked, with the admiration of an artist, upon the calm waters of St. Inigoe's Creek, and upon the forest that flung its solemn shades over its farther shores. Not unfrequently, the fresh and blooming maiden had left her couch as early as himself, and tended her plants before the dew had left the leaves, and thus it chanced that she would find him in his vocation; and, like him, she took pleasure in gazing on that bright scene, when it was the delight of both to tell each other how beautiful it was. And when, in winter, the rain pattered from the eaves and the skies were dark, the Secretary, muffled in his cloak, would find his road to the Collector's mansion and help the maiden to while away the tedious time. Even "when lay the snow upon a level with the hedge," the two long miles of unbeaten track did not stop his visit, for the Secretary loved the adventure of such a journey; and Blanche often smiled to see how manfully he endured it, and how light he made of the snow-drift which the wind had sometimes heaped up into billows, behind which the feather of his bonnet might not be discovered while he sat upon his horse. In this course of schooling Blanche and Albert grew into a near intimacy, and the maiden became dependent, for some share of her happiness, upon the Secretary without being aware. Master Albert had an exquisite touch of the lute and a rich voice to grace it, and Blanche found many occasions to tax his skill: he had a gallant carriage on horseback, and she needed the service of a cavalier: he was expert in the provincial sport of hawking, and had made such acquaintance with Blanche's merlin that scarce any one else could assist the maiden in casting off Ariel to a flight. In short, Blanche followed the bent of her own ingenuous and truthful nature, and did full justice to the Secretary's various capacity to please her, by putting his talents in requisition with an unchidden freedom, and without once pausing to explore the cause why Master Albert always came so opportunely to her thoughts. Doubtless, if she had had the wit to make this inquiry the charm of her liberty would have been broken, and a sentinel would, ever after, have checked the wandering of her free footstep. The Collector, in regard to this intercourse, was sound asleep. His wise head was taken up with the concerns of the province, his estate, and the discussion of opinions that had little affinity to the topics likely to interest the meditations of a young maiden. He was not apt to see a love-affair, even if it lay, like a fallen tree, across his path, much less to hunt it out when it lurked like a bird amongst the flowers that grew in the shady coverts by the wayside. The astuteness of the lady Maria, however, was not so much at fault, and she soon discovered, what neither Blanche nor Albert had sufficiently studied to make them aware of their own category. But the Secretary was in favour with the lady Maria, and so, she kept her own counsel, as well as a good-natured watch upon the progress of events. CHAPTER IX. Towards noon of the day on which the council held their session, a troop of maidens was seen issuing from the chapel. Their number might have been eight or ten. The orderly step with which they departed from the door was exchanged for a playful haste in grouping together when they got beyond the immediate precincts of the place of worship. Their buoyant carriage and lively gesticulations betokened the elasticity of health which was still more unequivocally shown in their ruddy complexions and well rounded forms. Their path lay across the grassy plain towards the town, and passed immediately within the space embowered by an ancient, spreading poplar, scarce a hundred paces in front of the chapel. When the bevy reached this spot, they made a halt and gathered around one of their number, who seemed to be the object of a mirthful and rather tumultuary importunity. The individual thus beset was Blanche Warden. Together with a few elderly dames, who were at this moment standing at the door of the chapel in parley with father Pierre, this troop had constituted the whole congregation who had that morning attended the service of the festival of St. Bridget. "Holy mother, how I am set upon!" exclaimed Blanche, as, half smiling and half earnest, she turned her back against the trunk of the tree. "Have I not said I could not? Why should my birth-day be so remembered that all the town must be talking about it?" "You did promise," said one of the party, "or at least, Mistress Alice promised for you, full six months ago, that when you came to eighteen we should have a merry-making at the Rose Croft." "It would not be seemly--I should be thought bold," replied the maiden, "to be turning my birth-day into a feast. Indeed, I must not and cannot, playmates." "There is no must not nor cannot in our books, Blanche Warden," exclaimed another, "but simply we will. There is troth plighted for it, and that's enough for us. So we hold to that, good Blanche." "Yes, good Blanche! gentle Blanche! sweetheart, we hold to that!" cried the whole party, in a clamorous onset. "Truly, Grace Blackiston, you will have father Pierre checking us for noisy behaviour," said the maiden. "You see that he is now looking towards us. It is a pretty matter to make such a coil about! I marvel, has no one ever been eighteen before!" "This day se'nnight," replied the arch girl to whom this reprimand was addressed, "will be the first day, Blanche Warden, the Rose of St. Mary's has ever seen eighteen; and it will be the last I trow: and what comes and goes but once in the wide world should be accounted a rare thing, and rarities should be noticed, sweetheart." "If I was coming eighteen," said a damsel who scarce reached as high as Blanche's shoulder, "and had as pretty a house for a dance as the Rose Croft, there should be no lack of sport amongst the towns-people." "It is easy to talk on a two year's venture, little Madge," replied Blanche; "for that is far enough off to allow space for boasting. But gently, dear playmates! do not clamour so loud. I would do your bidding with good heart if I thought it would not be called something froward in me to be noising my age abroad, as if it was my lady herself." "We will advise with father Pierre and Lady Maria," responded Grace Blackiston; "they are coming this way." At this moment the reverend priest, and the ladies with whom he had been in conversation, approached. The sister of the Proprietary was distinguished as well by her short stature and neat attire, as by her little Indian attendant, who followed bearing the lady's missal. The tall figure of father Pierre, arrayed in his black tunic and belt, towered above his female companions. He bore his square bonnet of black cloth in his hand, disclosing a small silk cap closely fitted to his crown, fringed around with the silver locks which, separating on his brow, gave the grace of age to a countenance full of benignity. The presence of the churchman subdued the eager gaiety of the crowd, and two or three of the maidens ran up to him with an affectionate familiarity to make him acquainted with the subject of their contention. "Father," said Grace Blackiston, "we have a complaint to lodge against Mistress Blanche for a promise-breaker. You must counsel her, father, to her duty." "Ah, my child! pretty Blanche!" exclaimed the priest, with the alacrity of his native French temper, as he took the assailed damsel by the hand, "what have they to say against you? I will be your friend as well as your judge." "The maidens, father," replied Blanche, "have taken leave of their wits, and have beset me like mad-caps to give them a dance at the Rose Croft on my birth-day. And I have stood on my refusal, father Pierre, as for a matter that would bring me into censure for pertness--as I am sure you will say it would--with worshipful people, that a damsel who should be modest in her behaviour, should so thrust herself forward to be observed." "And we do not heed that, father Pierre," interrupted Grace Blackiston, who assumed to be the spokeswoman of the party, "holding it a scruple more nice than wise. Blanche has a trick of standing back more than a maiden needs. And, besides, we say that Mistress Alice is bound by pledge of word, and partly Blanche, too--for she stood by and said never a syllable against it--that we should have good cheer and dancing on that day at the Rose Croft. It is the feast of the blessed virgin, Terese, and we would fain persuade Blanche that the festival should be kept for the sake of her birth-day saint." "My children," said the priest, who during this debate stood in the midst of the blooming troop, casting his glances from one to another with the pleased expression of an interested partaker of their mirth, and at the same time endeavouring to assume a countenance of mock gravity, "we will consider this matter with impartial justice. And, first, we will hear all that Mistress Blanche has to say. It is a profound subject. Do you admit the promise, my child?" "I do not deny, father Pierre, that last Easter, when we met and danced at Grace Blackiston's, my sister Alice did make some promise, and I said nothing against it. But it was an idle speech of sister Alice, which I thought no more of till now; and now should not have remembered it if these wild mates of mine had not sung it in my ear with such clamour as must have made you think we had all gone mad." "It is honestly confessed," said father Pierre; "and though I heard the outcry all the way to the church door, yet I did not deem the damsels absolutely mad, as you supposed. I am an old man, my child, and I have been taught by my experience, in what key seven, eight, or nine young girls will make known their desires when they are together: and, truly, it is their nature to speak all at the same time. They speak more than they listen--ha, ha! But we shall be mistaken if we conclude they are mad." "Blanche, love," interposed the Lady Maria, "you have scarce given a good reason for gainsaying the wish of the damsels. Have a care, or you may find me a mutineer on this question." "That's a rare lady--a kind lady!" shouted several. "Now, Blanche, you have no word of denial left." "I am at mercy," said the maiden, "if my good mistress, the Lady Maria, is not content. Whatever my sister Alice and my father shall approve, and you, dear lady, shall say befits my state, that will I undertake right cheerfully. I would pleasure the whole town in the way of merry-making, if I may do so without seeming to set too much account upon so small a matter as my birth-day. I but feared it would not be well taken in one so young as I am." "I will answer it to the town," said the Lady Maria. "It shall be done as upon my motion; and Mistress Alice shall take order in the matter as a thing wherein you had no part. Will that content you, Blanche?" "I will be ruled in all things by my dear lady," replied the maiden. "You will speak to my father?" "It shall be my special duty to look after it forthwith," responded the lady. "Luckily," said father Pierre, laughing, "this great business is settled without the aid of the church. Well, I have lost some of my consequence in the winding up, and the Lady Maria is in the ascendant. I will have my revenge by being as merry as any of you at the feast. So, good day, mes enfants!" With this sally, the priest left the company and retired to his dwelling hard by the chapel. The Lady Maria and her elderly companions moved towards the town, whilst the troop of damsels with increased volubility pursued their noisy triumph, and with rapid steps hastened to their several homes. CHAPTER X. The Crow and Archer presented a busy scene on the evening of the day referred to in the last chapter. A report had been lately spread through the country that the brig Olive Branch,--an occasional trader between the province and the coasts of Holland and England--had arrived at St. Mary's. In consequence of this report there had been, during the last two days, a considerable accession to the usual guests of the inn, consisting of travellers both by land and water. Several small sloops and other craft had come into the harbour, and a half score inland proprietors had journeyed from their farms on horse-back, and taken up their quarters under the snug roof of Garret Weasel. The swarthy and gaunt watermen, arrayed in the close jackets and wide kilt-like breeches and in the parti-coloured, woollen caps peculiar to their vocation, were seen mingling in the tap-room with the more substantial cultivators of the soil. A few of the burghers of St. Mary's were found in the same groups, drawn thither by the love of company, the occasions, perchance, of business, or the mere attraction of an evening pot and pipe. The greater portion of this assemblage were loitering between the latticed bar of the common room, and the quay in front of the house, which had somewhat of the occupation and bustle of a little exchange. On a bench, in one corner of the tap-room, sat, in a ragged, patched coat resembling a pea-jacket, a saucy, vagrant-looking fiddler, conspicuous for a red face and a playful light blue eye; he wore a dingy, pliant white hat, fretted at the rim, set daintily on one side of his head, from beneath which his yellow locks depended over either cheek, completely covering his ears; and all the while scraped his begrimed and greasy instrument to a brisk tune, beating time upon the floor with a huge hob-nailed shoe. This personage had a vagabond popularity in the province under the name of Will of the Flats--a designation no less suited to his musical commodity than to the locality of his ostensible habitation, which was seated on the flats of Patuxent, not above fifteen miles from St. Mary's, where he was tenant of a few acres of barren marsh and a lodge or cabin not much larger than a good dog kennel. Will's chief compeer and brother in taste and inclination, though of more affluent fortune, was Dick Pagan, or Driving Dick, according to his more familiar appellation, the courier who had lately brought the missives from James Town; a hard-favoured, weather-beaten, sturdy, little bow-legged fellow, in russet boots and long spurs, and wrapt in a coarse drab doublet secured by a leathern belt, with an immense brass buckle in front. Old Pamesack, likewise, formed a part of the group, and might have been observed seated on a settle at the door, quietly smoking his pipe, as unmoved by the current of idlers which ebbed and flowed past him, as the old barnacled pier of the quay by the daily flux and reflux of the river. Such were the guests who now patronised the thriving establishment of Master Weasel. These good people were not only under the care, but also under the command of our hostess the dame Dorothy, who was a woman by no means apt to overlook her prerogative. The dame having been on a visit to a neighbour did not show herself in the tap-room until near the close of the day; in the mean time leaving her customers to the unchidden enjoyment of their entertainment which was administered by Matty Scamper,--a broad-chested, red-haired and indefatigable damsel, who in her capacity of adjutant to the hostess, had attained to great favour with the patrons of the tavern by her imperturbable good nature and ready answer to all calls of business. As for Master Weasel, never did pleasure-loving monarch more cheerfully surrender his kingdom to the rule of his minister than he to whatever power for the time was uppermost,--whether the dame herself, or her occasional vicegerent Matty of the Saucepan. Matty's rule, however, was now terminated by the arrival of Mistress Weasel herself. It is fit I should give my reader some perception of the exterior of the hostess, as a woman of undoubted impression and consideration with the towns-people. Being now in her best attire which was evidently put on with a careful eye to effect, I may take occasion to say that one might suspect her of a consciousness of some deficiency of height, as well as of an undue breadth of figure, both which imperfections she had studied to conceal. She wore a high conical hat of green silk garnished with a band of pink ribbon which was set on by indentation or teethwise, and gathered in front into a spirited cluster of knots. Her jacket, with long tight sleeves, was also of green silk, adapted closely to her shape, now brought into its smallest compass by the aid of stays, and was trimmed in the same manner as the hat. A full scarlet petticoat reached within a span of her ankles and disclosed a buxom, well-formed leg in brown stocking with flashy clocks of thickly embossed crimson, and a foot, of which the owner had reason to be proud, neatly pinched into a green shoe with a tottering high heel. Her black hair hung in plaits down her back; and her countenance,--distinguished by a dark waggish eye, a clear complexion, and a turned-up nose, to which might be added a neck both fat and fair, half concealed by a loose kerchief,--radiated with an expression partly wicked and partly charitable, but in every lineament denoting determination and constancy of purpose. This air of careless boldness was not a little heightened by the absence of all defence to her brow from the narrow rim of the hat and the height at which it was elevated above her features. The din of the tap-room was hushed into momentary silence as soon as this notable figure appeared on the threshold. "Heaven help these thirsty, roystering men!" she exclaimed, as she paused an instant at the door and surveyed the group within--"On my conscience, they are still at it as greedily as if they had just come out of a dry lent! From sunrise till noon, and from noon till night it is all the same--drink, drink, drink. Have ye news of Master Cocklescraft?--I would that the Olive Branch were come and gone, that I might sit under a quiet roof again!--there is nothing but riot and reeling from the time the skipper is expected in the port until he leaves it." "True enough, jolly queen!" said Ralph Haywood, a young inland planter, taking the hand of the merry landlady as she struggled by him on her way to the bar--"what the devil, in good earnest, has become of Cocklescraft? This is the second day we have waited for him. I half suspect you, mistress, of a trick to gather good fellows about you, by setting up a false report of the Olive Branch." "Thou art a lying varlet, Ralph," quickly responded the dame: "you yourself came jogging hither with the story that Cocklescraft was seen two days ago, beating off the Rappahannock.--I play a trick on you, truly! You must think I have need of custom, to bring in a troop of swilling bumpkins from the country who would eat and drink out the character of any reputable house in the hundred, without so much as one doit of profit. You have my free leave to tramp it back again to Providence, Ralph Haywood, whenever you have a mind." "Nay, now you quarrel with an old friend, Mistress Dorothy." "Take thy hand off my shoulder, Ralph, thou coaxing villain!--Ha, ha, I warrant you get naught but vinegar from me, for your treacle.--But come--thou art a good child, and shalt have of the best in this house:--I would only warn you to call for it mannerly, Master Ralph." "Our dame is a woman of mettle," said another of the company, as the landlady escaped from the planter and took her station behind the bar. "What has become of that man Weasel?" she inquired somewhat petulantly. "The man I am sure has been abroad ever since I left the house! He is of no more value than a cracked pot;--he would see me work myself as thin as a broom handle before he would think of turning himself round." "Garret is now upon the quay," replied one of the customers;--"I saw him but a moment since with Arnold the Ranger." "With some idle stroller,--you may be sure of that!" interrupted the hostess:--"never at his place, if the whole house should go dry as Cuthbert's spring at midsummer. Call him to me, if you please, Master Shortgrass.--Michael Curtis, that wench Matty Scamper has something to do besides listen to your claverings! Matty, begone to the kitchen; these country cattle will want their suppers presently.--Oh, Willy, Willy o' the Flats!--for the sake of one's ears, in mercy, stop that everlasting twangling of your old crowd!--It would disgrace the patience of any Christian woman in the world to abide in the midst of all this uproar!--Nay then, come forward, old crony--I would not offend thee," she said in a milder tone to the fiddler. "Here is a cup of ale for thee, and Matty will give you your supper to-night. I have danced too often to thy music to deny thee a comfort;--so, drink as you will! but pray you rest your elbow for a while." "And there is a shilling down on the nail," said Driving Dick, as he and the crowder came together to the bar at the summons of the landlady: "when that is drunk out, dame, give me a space of warning, that I may resolve whether we shall go another shot." "Master Shortgrass told me you had need of me," said Garret Weasel, as he now entered the door;--"what wouldst with me, wife Dorothy?" "Get you gone!" replied the wife--"thou art ever in the way. I warrant your head is always thrust in place when it is not wanted! If you had been at your duty an hour ago, your service might have been useful." "I can but return to the quay," said Garret, at the same time beginning to retrace his steps. "Bide thee!" exclaimed the dame in a shrill voice--"I have occasion for you. Go to the cellar and bring up another stoop of hollands; these salt water fish have no relish for ale--they must deal in the strong:--nothing but hollands or brandy for them." The obedient husband took the key of the cellar and went on the duty assigned him. At this moment a door communicating with an adjoining apartment was thrown ajar and the head of Captain Dauntrees protruded into the tap-room. "Mistress Dorothy," he said--"at your leisure, pray step this way." The dame tarried no longer than was necessary to complete a measure she was filling for a customer, and then went into the room to which she had been summoned. This was a little parlour, where the Captain of musqueteers had been regaling himself for the last hour over a jorum of ale, in solitary rumination. An open window gave to his view the full expanse of the river, now glowing with the rich reflexions of sunset; and a balmy October breeze played through the apartment and refreshed without chilling the frame of the comfortable Captain. He was seated near the window in a large easy chair when the hostess entered. "Welcome dame," he said, without rising from his seat, at the same time offering his hand, which was readily accepted by the landlady.--"By St. Gregory and St. Michael both, a more buxom and tidy piece of flesh and blood hath never sailed between the two headlands of Potomac, than thou art! You are for a junketing, Mistress Dorothy; you are tricked out like a queen this evening! I have never seen thee in thy new suit before. Thou art as gay as a marygold: and I wear thy colours, thou laughing mother of mischief! Green is the livery of thy true knight. Has your goodman, honest Garret, come home yet, dame?" "What would you with my husband, Master Baldpate? There is no good in the wind when you throw yourself into the big chair of this parlour." "In truth, dame, I only came to make a short night of it with you and your worthy spouse. Do not show your white teeth at me, hussy,--you are too old to bite. Tell Matty to spread supper for me in this parlour. Arnold and Pamesack will partake with me; and if the veritable and most authentic head of this house--I mean yourself, mistress--have no need of Garret, I would entreat to have him in company. By the hand of thy soldier, Mistress Dorothy! I am glad to see you thrive so in your calling. You will spare me Garret, dame? Come, I know you have not learnt how to refuse me a boon." "You are a saucy Jack, Master Captain," replied the dame. "I know you of old: you would have a rouse with that thriftless babe my husband. You sent him reeling home only last night. How can you look me in the face, knowing him, as you do, for a most shallow vessel, Captain Dauntrees?" "Fie on thee, dame! You disgrace your own flesh and blood by such speech. Did you not choose him for his qualities?--ay, and with all circumspection, as a woman of experience. You had two husbands before Garret, and when you took him for a third, it was not in ignorance of the sex. Look thee in the face! I dare,--yea, and at thy whole configuration. Faith, you wear most bravely, Mistress Weasel! Stand apart, and let me survey: turn thy shoulders round," he added, as by a sleight he twirled the dame upon her heel so as to bring her back to his view--"thou art a woman of ten thousand, and I envy Garret such store of womanly wealth." "If Garret were the man I took him for, Master Captain," said the dame with a saucy smile, "you would have borne a broken head long since. But he has his virtues, such as they are,--though they may lie in an egg-shell: and Garret has his frailties too, like other men: alack, there is no denying it!" "Frailties, forsooth! Which of us has not, dame? Garret is an honest man;--somewhat old--a shade or so: yet it is but a shade. For my sake, pretty hostess, you will allow him to sup with us? Speak it kindly, sweetheart--good, old Garret's jolly, young wife!" "Thou wheedling devil!" said the landlady; "Garret is no older than thou art. But, truly, I may say he is of little account in the tap-room; so, he shall come to you, Captain. But, look you, he is weak, and must not be over-charged." "He shall not, mistress--you have a soldier's word for that. I could have sworn you would not deny me. Hark you, dame,--bring thine ear to my lips;--a word in secret." The hostess bent her head down, as the Captain desired, when he said in a half whisper, "Send me a flask of the best,--you understand? And there's for thy pains!" he added, as he saluted her cheek with a kiss. "And there's for thy impudence, saucy Captain!" retorted the spirited landlady as she bestowed the palm of her hand on the side of his head and fled out of the apartment. Dauntrees sprang from his chair and chased the retreating dame into the midst of the crowd of the tap-room, by whose aid she was enabled to make her escape. Here he encountered Garret Weasel, with whom he went forth in quest of Arnold and the Indian, who were to be his guests at supper. In the course of the next half hour the Captain and his three comrades were assembled in the little parlour around the table, discussing their evening meal. When this was over, Matty was ordered to clear the board and to place a bottle of wine and glasses before the party, and then to leave the room. "You must know, Garret," said Dauntrees when the serving-maid had retired, "that we go to-night to visit the Wizard's Chapel by his Lordship's order; and as I would have stout fellows with me, I have come down here on purpose to take you along." "Heaven bless us, Master Jasper Dauntrees!" exclaimed Garret, somewhat confounded with this sudden appeal to his valour, which was not of that prompt complexion to stand so instant a demand, and yet which the publican was never willing to have doubted--"truly there be three of you, and it might mar the matter to have too many on so secret an outgoing"---- "Tush, man,--that has been considered. His Lordship especially looks to your going: you cannot choose but go." "But my wife, Captain Dauntrees"---- "Leave that to me," said the Captain; "I will manage it as handsomely as the taking of Troy. Worthy Garret, say naught against it--you must go, and take with you a few bottles of Canary and a good luncheon of provender in the basket. You shall be our commissary. I came on set purpose to procure the assistance of your experience, and store of comfortable sustenance. Get the bottles, Garret,--his Lordship pays the scot to-night." "I should have my nag," said Garret, "and the dame keeps the key of the stable, and will in no wise consent to let me have it. She would suspect us for a rouse if I but asked the key." "I will engage for that, good Weasel," said Dauntrees: "I will cozen the dame with some special invention which shall put her to giving the key of her own motion: she shall be coaxed with a device that shall make all sure--only say you will obey his Lordship's earnest desire." "It is a notable piece of service," said the innkeeper, meditating over the subject, and tickled with the importance which was ascribed to his cooperation--"and will win thanks from the whole province. His Lordship did wisely to give it in charge to valiant men." "In faith did he," replied the Captain; "and it will be the finishing stroke of thy fortunes. You will be a man of mark for ever after." "I am a man to be looked to in a strait, Captain," said Weasel, growing valorous with the thought. "I saw by his Lordship's eye yesternight that he was much moved by what I told him. I have had a wrestle with devils before now." Arnold smiled and cast his eye towards the Indian, who, immediately after supper, had quitted the table and taken a seat in the window. "There be hot devils and cold devils," said he, "and he that wrestles with them must have a hand that will hold fire as well as ice: that is true, Pamesack?" "Pamesack has no dealing with the white man's devil," replied the Indian; "he has enough to do with his own." "Drink some wine, old blade," said Dauntrees as he presented a cup to Pamesack; "the Knife must be sharp to-night--this will whet his edge. We shall have need of your woodcraft." The Indian merely sipped the wine, as he replied, "Pamesack knows the broad path and the narrow both. He can lead you to the Black House day or night." "Brandy is more natural to his throat than this thin drink," said Weasel, who forthwith left the room and returned with a measure of the stronger liquor. When this was presented Pamesack swallowed it at a draught, and with something approaching a laugh, he said, "It is the white man's devil--but the Indian does not fear him." "Now, Garret," said Dauntrees, "we have no time to lose. Make ready your basket and bottles, and lay them at the foot of the cedar below the bank, near the Town House steps; then hasten back to the parlour. I will put the dame to sending you on an errand which may be done only on horseback;--you will mount with the basket and make speedy way to the Fort. Tell Nicholas Verbrack, the lieutenant, that I shall be there in reasonable time. We must set forth by ten; it may take us three hours to reach St. Jerome's." "My heart is big enough," said Weasel, once more beginning to waver, "for any venture; but, in truth, I fear the dame. It will be a livelong night carouse, and she is mortal against that. What will she say in the morning?" "What can she say, when all is come and gone, but, perchance, that thou wert rash and hot-headed? That will do you no harm: but an hour ago she swore to me that you were getting old--and sighed too, as if she believed her words." "Old, did she say? Ho, mistress, I will show you my infirmities! A fig for her scruples! the hey-day blood yerks yet, Master Captain. I will go with thee, comrades: I will follow you to any goblin's chapel twixt St. Mary's and Christina." "Well said, brave vintner!" exclaimed the Captain; "now stir thee! And when you come back to the parlour, Master Weasel, you shall find the dame here. Watch my eye and take my hint, so that you play into my hand when need shall be. I will get the nag out of the stable if he were covered with bells. Away for the provender!" The publican went about his preparations, and had no sooner left the room than the Captain called the landlady, who at his invitation showed herself at the door. "Come in, sweetheart. Good Mistress Daffodil," he said, "I called you that you may lend us your help to laugh: since your rufflers are dispersed, your smokers obnubilated in their own clouds, your tipplers strewed upon the benches, and nothing more left for you to do in the tap-room, we would have your worshipful and witty company here in the parlour. So, come in, my princess of pleasant thoughts, and make us merry with thy fancies." "There is nothing but clinking of cans and swaggering speeches where you are, Captain Dauntrees," said the hostess. "An honest woman had best be little seen in your company. It is a wonder you ever got out of the Low Countries, where, what with drinking with boors and quarrelling with belted bullies, your three years' service was enough to put an end to a thousand fellows of your humour." "There's destiny in it, dame. I was born to be the delight of your eyes. It was found in my horoscope, when my nativity was cast, that a certain jolly mistress of a most-especially-to-be-commended inn, situate upon a delectable point of land in the New World, was to be greatly indebted to me, first, for the good fame of her wines amongst worshipful people; and, secondly, for the sufficient and decent praise of her beauty. So was it read to my mother by the wise astrologer. And then, dame, you slander the virtue of the Low Countries. Look at Arnold there: is there a more temperate, orderly, well-behaved liegeman in the world than the ranger? And did he not bring his sobriety with him from the very bosom of the land you rail against?" "If Arnold de la Grange is not all that you say of him," replied the hostess, "it is because he has lost some share of his good quality by consorting with you, Captain. Besides, Arnold has never been hackneyed in the wars." "A Dutch head," said Arnold, laughing, "is not easily made to spin. In the Old World men can drink more than in the New: a Friesland fog is an excellent shaving horn, mistress!" "Heaven help the men of the Old World, if they drink more than they do in our province!" exclaimed Mistress Weasel. "Look in the tap-room, and you may see the end of a day's work in at least ten great loons. One half are sound asleep, and the other of so dim sight that neither can see his neighbour." "The better reason then, Mistress Dorothy," replied Dauntrees, "why you, a reputable woman, should leave such topers, and keep company with sober, waking, discreet friends. That cap becomes thee, mistress. I never saw you in so dainty a head-gear. I honour it as a covering altogether worthy of thy comeliness. Faith, it has been a rich piece of merchandise to me! Upon an outlay of fourteen shillings which I paid for it, as a Michaelmas present to my excellent hostess, I have got in return, by way of profit, full thirteen bottles of Garret's choicest Canary, on my wager. Garret was obstinate, and would face me out with it that you wore it to church last Sunday, when I knew that you went only in your hood that day:--he has never an eye to look on thee, dame, as he ought,--so he must needs put it to a wager. Well, as this is the first day thou hast ever gone abroad in it, here I drink to thee and thy cap, upon my knees--Success to its travels, and joy to the merry eye that sparkles below it! Come, Arnold, drink to that, and get Pamesack another glass of aqua vitæ:--top off to the hostess, comrades!" The toast was drunk, and at this moment Garret Weasel returned to the room. A sign from him informed the Captain that the preparation he had been despatched to make was accomplished. "How looks the night, Garret?" inquired Dauntrees; "when have we the moon?" "It is a clear starlight and calm," replied the publican; "the moon will not show herself till near morning." "Have you heard the news, mistress?" inquired the Captain, with an expression of some eagerness; "there is pleasant matter current, concerning the mercer's wife at the Blue Triangle. But you must have heard it before this?" "No, truly, not I," replied the hostess. "Indeed!" said Dauntrees, "then there's a month's amusement for you. You owe the sly jade a grudge, mistress." "In faith I do," said the dame, smiling, "and would gladly pay it." "You may pay it off with usury now," added the Captain, "with no more trouble than telling the story. It is a rare jest, and will not die quickly." "I pray you tell it to me, good Captain--give me all of it," exclaimed the dame, eagerly. "Peregrine Cadger, the mercer, you know," said the Captain--"but it is a long story, and will take time to rehearse it. Garret, how comes it that you did not tell this matter to your wife, as I charged you to do?" he inquired, with a wink at the publican. "I resolved to tell it to her," said Weasel, "but, I know not how, it ran out of my mind--the day being a busy one----" "A busy day to thee!" exclaimed the spouse. "Thou, who hast no more to do than a stray in the pound, what are you fit for, if it be not to do as you are commanded? But go on, Captain; the story would only be marred by Garret's telling--go on yourself--I am impatient to hear it." "I pray you, what o'clock is it, mistress?" asked the Captain. "It is only near nine. It matters not for the hour--go on." "Nine!" exclaimed Dauntrees; "truly, dame, I must leave the story for Master Garret. Nine, said you? By my sword, I have overstaid my time! I have business with the Lord Proprietary before he goes to his bed. There are papers at the Fort which should have been delivered to his Lordship before this." "Nay, Captain," said the hostess, "if it be but the delivery of a pacquet, it may be done by some other hand. There is Driving Dick in the tap-room: he shall do your bidding in the matter. Do not let so light a business as that take you away." "To-morrow, dame, and I will tell you the tale." "To-night, Captain--to-night." "Truly, I must go; the papers should be delivered by a trusty hand--I may not leave it to an ordinary messenger. Now if Garret--but I will ask no such service from the good man at this time of night; it is a long way. No, no, I must do my own errand." "There is no reason upon earth," said the landlady, "why Garret should not do it: it is but a step to the Fort and back." "I can take my nag and ride there in twenty minutes," said Garret. "I warrant you his Lordship will think the message wisely entrusted to me." "Then get you gone, without parley," exclaimed the dame. "The key of the stable, wife," said Garret. "If you will go, Master Garret," said Dauntrees--"and it is very obliging of you--do it quickly. Tell Nicholas Verbrack to look in my scritoire; he will find the pacquet addressed to his Lordship. Take it, and see it safely put into his Lordship's hands. Say to Nicholas, moreover, that I will be at the Fort before ten to-night. You comprehend?" "I comprehend," replied Garret, as his wife gave him the key of the stable, and he departed from the room. "Now, Captain." "Well, mistress: you must know that Peregrine Cadger, the mercer, who in the main is a discreet man----" "Yes." "A discreet man--I mean, bating some follies which you wot of; for this trading and trafficking naturally begets foresight. A man has so much to do with the world in that vocation, and the world, Mistress Dorothy, is inclined by temper to be somewhat knavish, so that they who have much to do with it learn cautions which other folks do not. Now, in our calling of soldiership, caution is a sneaking virtue which we soon send to the devil; and thereby you may see how it is that we are more honest than other people. Caution and honesty do not much consort together." "But of the mercer's wife, Captain." "Ay, the mercer's wife--I shall come to her presently. Well, Peregrine, as you have often seen, is a shade or so jealous of that fussock, his wife, who looks, when she is tricked out in her new russet grogram cloak, more like a brown haycock in motion than a living woman." "Yes," interrupted the dame, laughing, "and with a sunburnt top. Her red hair on her shoulders is no better, I trow." "Her husband, who at best is but a cotquean--one of those fellows who has a dastardly fear of his wife, which, you know, Mistress Dorothy, truly makes both man and wife to be laughed at. A husband should have his own way, and follow his humour, no matter whether the dame rails or not. You agree with me in this, Mistress Weasel?" "In part, Captain. I am not for stinting a husband in his lawful walks; but the wife should have an eye to his ways: she may counsel him." "Oh, in reason, I grant; but she should not chide him, I mean, nor look too narrowly into his hours, that's all. Now Peregrine's dame hath a free foot, and the mercer himself somewhat of a sulky brow. Well, Halfpenny, the chapman, who is a mad wag for mischief, and who is withal a sure customer of the mercer's in small wares, comes yesternight to Peregrine Cadger's house, bringing with him worshipful Master Lawrence Hay, the Viewer." At this moment the sound of horse's feet from the court-yard showed that Garret Weasel had set forth on his ride. "Arnold, I am keeping you waiting," said Dauntrees. "Fill up another cup for yourself and Pamesack, and go your ways. Stay not for me, friends; or if it pleases you, wait for me in the tap-room. I will be ready in a brief space." The ranger and the Indian, after swallowing another glass, withdrew. "The Viewer," continued Dauntrees, "is a handsome man,--and a merry man on occasion, too. I had heard it whispered before--but not liking to raise a scandal upon a neighbour, I kept my thoughts to myself--that the mercer's wife had rather a warm side for the Viewer. But be that as it may: there was the most laughable prank played on the mercer by Halfpenny and the Viewer together, last night, that ever was heard of. It was thus: they had a game at Hoodman-blind, and when it fell to Lawrence to be the seeker, somehow the fat termagant was caught in his arms, and so the hood next came to her. Well, she was blindfolded; and there was an agreement all round that no one should speak a word." "Ay, I understand--I see it," said the hostess, eagerly drawing her chair nearer to the Captain. "No, you would never guess," replied Dauntrees, "if you cudgelled your brains from now till Christmas. But I can show you, Mistress Dorothy, better by the acting of the scene. Here, get down on your knees, and let me put your kerchief over your eyes." "What can that signify?" inquired the dame. "Do it, mistress--you will laugh at the explosion. Give me the handkerchief. Down, dame, upon your marrow bones:--it is an excellent jest and worth the learning." The landlady dropped upon her knees, and the Captain secured the bandage round her eyes. "How many fingers, dame?" he asked, holding his hand before her face. "Never a finger can I see, Captain." "It is well. Now stand up--forth and away! That was the word given by the Viewer. Turn, Mistress Dorothy, and grope through the room. Oh, you shall laugh at this roundly. Grope, grope, dame." The obedient and marvelling landlady began to grope through the apartment, and Dauntrees, quietly opening the door, stole off to the tap-room, where being joined by his comrades, they hied with all speed towards the Fort, leaving the credulous dame floundering after a jest, at least until they got beyond the hail of her voice. CHAPTER XI. Pale lights on Cadez' rocks were seen, And midnight voices heard to moan, 'Twas even said the blasted oak, Convulsive heaved a hollow groan. And to this day the peasant still, With cautious fear avoids the ground, In each wild branch a spectre sees And trembles at each rising ground. THE SPIRIT'S BLASTED TREE. Dauntrees, after his unmannerly escape from the credulous landlady, hastened with his two companions, at a swinging gate, along the beach to the fort, where they found Garret Weasel waiting for them in a state of eager expectation. "Is the dame likely to be angry, Captain?" were the publican's first words.--"Does she suspect us for a frisk to-night? Adsheartlikens, it is a perilous adventure for the morrow! You shall bear the burden of that reckoning, Master Captain." "I left Mistress Dorothy groping for a secret at Hoodman-blind," replied the Captain, laughing. "She has found it before now, and by my computation is in the prettiest hurricane that ever brought a frown upon a woman's brow. She would bless the four quarters of thee, Garret, if thou shouldst return home to-night, with a blessing that would leave a scorch-mark on thee for the rest of thy days. I shouldn't wonder presently to hear her feet pattering on the gravel of the beach in full pursuit of us--dark as it is: I have left her in a mood to tempt any unheard of danger for revenge. So, let us be away upon our errand. You have the eatables safe and the wine sound, worthy Weasel?--Nicholas," he said, speaking to the Lieutenant--"are our horses saddled?" "They are at the post on the other side of the parade," replied the Lieutenant. "Alack!" exclaimed Weasel--"Alack for these pranks! Here will be a week's repentance. But a fig for conclusions!--in for a penny, in for a pound, masters. I have the basket well stored and in good keeping. It will be discreet to mount quickly--I will not answer against the dame's rapping at the gate to-night: she is a woman of spirit and valiant in her anger." "Then let us be up and away," said the Captain, who was busily bestowing a pair of pistols in his belt and suspending his sword across his body. "A cutlass and pistols for me," said the publican, as he selected his weapons from several at hand. Arnold and Pamesack were each provided with a carbine, when Dauntrees, throwing his cloak across his shoulders, led the way to the horses, where the party having mounted, sallied through the gate of the fort at a gallop. Their road lay around the head of St. Inigoe's creek, and soon became entangled in dark, woody ravines and steep acclivities which presented, at this hour, no small interruption to their progress. Pamesack, on a slouching pony, his legs dangling within a foot of the ground, led the way with an almost instinctive knowledge of his intricate path, which might have defied a darker night. The stars shining through a crisp and cloudless atmosphere, enabled the party to discern the profile of the tree tops, and disclosed to them, at intervals, the track of this solitary road with sufficient distinctness to prevent their entirely losing it. They had journeyed for more than two hours in the depths of the forest before they approached the inlet of St. Jerome's. Dauntrees had beguiled the time by tales of former adventures, and now and then by sallies of humour provoked by the dubious valour of the innkeeper,--for Weasel, although addicted to the vanity of exhibiting himself in the light of a swashing, cut-and-thrust comrade in an emprise of peril, was nevertheless unable, this night, to suppress the involuntary confession of a lurking faint-heartedness at the result of the present venture. This inward misgiving showed itself in his increased garrulity and in the exaggerated tone of his vauntings of what he had done in sundry emergencies of hazard, as well as of what he had made up his mind to do on the present occasion if they should be so fortunate as to encounter any peculiarly severe stress of fortune. Upon such topics the party grew jovial and Dauntrees laughed at the top of his voice. "The vintner's old roystering courses would make us lose our road in downright blindness from laughing," he said, as checking himself in one of these out-breaks, he reined up his horse. "Where are we, Pamesack? I surely hear the stroke of the tide upon the beach;--are we so near St. Jerome's, or have we missed the track and struck the bay shore short of our aim?" "The she-fox does not run to her den where she has left her young, by a track more sure than mine to-night," replied the guide:--"it is the wave striking upon the sand at the head of the inlet: you may see the stars on the water through yonder wood." "Pamesack says true," added Arnold. "He has found his way better than a hound." A piece of cleared land, or old field, a few acres in width, lay between the travellers and the water which began now to glimmer on their sight through a fringe of wood that grew upon the margin of the creek or inlet, and the fresh breeze showed that the broad expanse of the Chesapeake was at no great distance. "The Wizard's Chapel," said Dauntrees, "by my reckoning then, should be within a mile of this spot. It were a good point of soldiership to push forward a vanguard. That duty, Garret, will best comport with your mad-cap humour--there may be pith in it: so, onward, man, until you are challenged by some out-post of the Foul One--we will tarry here for your report. In the mean time, leave us your hamper of provender. Come, man of cold iron, be alert--thy stomach is growing restive for a deed of valour." "You are a man trained to pike and musquetoon," replied the publican; "and have the skill to set a company, as men commonly fight with men. But I humbly opine, Captain, that our venture to-night stands in no need of vanguard, patrol or picquet. We have unearthly things to wrestle with, and do not strive according to the usages of the wars. I would not be slow to do your bidding, but that I know good may not come of it: in my poor judgment we should creep towards the Chapel together, not parting company. I will stand by thee, Captain, with a sharp eye and ready hand." "Thy teeth will betray us, Master Vintner, even at a score rods from the enemy," said Dauntrees: "they chatter so rudely that thy nether jaw is in danger. If thou art cold, man, button up thy coat." "Of a verity it is a cold night, and my coat is none of the thickest," replied Weasel with an increasing shudder. "I understand you, Garret," responded the Captain with a laugh; "we must drink. So, friends, to the green grass, and fasten your horses to the trees whilst we warm up the liver of our forlorn vintner with a cup. We can all take that physic." This command was obeyed by the immediate dismounting of the party and their attack upon one of the flasks in the basket. "It has a rare smack for a frosty night," said Dauntrees as he quaffed a third and fourth cup. "When I was in Tours I visited the abbey of Marmoustier, and there drank a veritable potation from the huge tun which the blessed St. Martin himself filled, by squeezing a single cluster of grapes. It has the repute of being the kindliest wine in all Christendom for the invigorating of those who are called to do battle with the devil. The monks of the abbey have ever found it a most deadly weapon against Satan. And truly, Master Weasel, if I did not know that this wine was of the breed of the islands, I should take it to be a dripping from the holy tun I spoke of:--it hath the like virtue of defiance of Beelzebub. So, drink--drink again, worthy purveyor and valiant adjutant!" "What is that?" exclaimed Weasel, taking the cup from his lips before he had finished the contents. "There is something far off like the howl of a dog and yet more devilish I should say--did ye not hear it, masters? I pray heaven there be no evil warning in this:--I am cold--still cold, Captain Dauntrees." "Tush, it is the ringing of your own ears, Garret, or it may be, like enough, some devil's cur that scents our footsteps. Make yourself a fire, and whilst you grow warm by that grosser element we will take a range, for a brief space, round the Chapel. You shall guard the forage till we return." "That is well thought of," replied the innkeeper quickly. "Light and heat will both be useful in our onslaught:--while you three advance towards the shore I will keep a look out here; for there is no knowing what devices the enemy may have a-foot to take us by surprise." Some little time was spent in kindling a fire, which had no sooner begun to blaze than Dauntrees, with the Ranger and the Indian, set forth on their reconnoissance of the Chapel, leaving Weasel assured that he was rendering important service in guarding the provender and comforting himself by the blazing fagots. They walked briskly across the open ground towards the water, and as they now approached the spot which common rumour had invested with so many terrors, even these bold adventurers themselves were not without some misgivings. The universal belief in supernatural agencies in the concerns of mankind, which distinguished the era of this narrative, was sufficient to infuse a certain share of apprehension into the minds of the stoutest men, and it was hardly reckoned to derogate from the courage of a tried soldier that he should quail in spirit before the dreadful presence of the Powers of Darkness. Dauntrees had an undoubting faith in the malignant influences which were said to hover about the Wizard's Chapel, and nothing but the pride and subordination of his profession could have impelled him to visit this spot at an hour when its mysterious and mischievous inhabitants were supposed to be endued with their fullest power to harm. The Ranger was not less keenly impressed with the same feelings, whilst Pamesack, credulous and superstitious as all of his tribe, was, like them, endowed with that deeply-imprinted fatalism, which taught him to suppress his emotions, and which rendered him seemingly indifferent to whatever issue awaited his enterprise. "By my troth, Arnold," said Dauntrees, as they strode forward, "although we jest at yonder white-livered vintner, this matter we have in hand might excuse an ague in a stouter man. I care not to confess that the love I bear his Lordship, together with some punctilio of duty, is the only argument that might bring me here to-night. I would rather stand a score pikes in an onset with my single hand, where the business is with flesh and blood, than buffet with a single imp of the Wizard. I have heard of over-bold men being smote by the evil eye of a beldam hag; and I once knew a man of unquenchable gaiety suddenly made mute and melancholy by the weight of a blow dealt by a hand which was not to be seen: the remainder of his life was spent in sorrowful penance. They say these spirits are quick to punish rashness." "As Lord Charles commands we must do his bidding," replied the forester. "When the business in hand must be done, I never stop to think of the danger of it. If we should not get back, Lord Charles has as good men to fill our places. I have been scared more than once by these night devils, till my hair lifted my cap with the fright, but I never lost my wits so far as not to strike or to run at the good season." "_Laet lopen die lopen luste_, as we used to say in Holland," returned the Captain. "I am an old rover and have had my share of goblins, and never flinched to sulphur or brimstone, whether projected by the breath of a devil or a culverin. I am not to be scared now from my duty by any of Paul Kelpy's brood, though I say again I like not this strife with shadows. His Lordship shall not say we failed in our outlook. I did purpose, before we set out, to talk with Father Pierre concerning this matter, but Garret's wine and his wife together put it out of my head." "The holy father would only have told you," replied Arnold, "to keep a Latin prayer in your head and Master Weasel's wine and wife both out of it." "So he would, Arnold, and it would have gone more against the grain than a hair-shirt penance. I have scarce a tag of a prayer in my memory, not even a line of the Fac Salve; and I have moreover a most special need for a flask of that vintage of Teneriffe on a chilly night;--and then, as you yourself was a witness, I had most pressing occasion to practise a deceit upon Mistress Dorothy. The Priest's counsel would have been wasted words--that's true: so we were fain to do our errand to-night without the aid of the church.--Why do you halt, Pamesack?" "I hear the tread of a foot," replied the Indian. "A deer stalking on the shore of the creek," said Dauntrees. "More like the foot of a man," returned Pamesack, in a lowered voice; "we should talk less to make our way safe.--There is the growl of a dog." Arnold now called the attention of his companions to the outlines of a low hut which was barely discernible through the wood where an open space brought the angle of the roof into relief against the water of the creek, and as they approached near enough to examine the little structure more minutely, they were saluted by the surly bark of a deep throated dog, fiercely redoubled. At the same time the sound of receding footsteps was distinctly audible. "Who dwells here?" inquired Dauntrees, striking the door with the hilt of his sword. There was no answer, and the door gave way to the thrust and flew wide open. The apartment was tenantless. A few coals of fire gleaming from the embers, and a low bench furnished with a blanket, rendered it obvious that this solitary abode had been but recently deserted by its possessor. A hasty survey of the hut, which was at first fiercely disputed by the dog--a cross-grained and sturdy mastiff--until a sharp blow from a staff which the forester bestowed sent him growling from the premises, satisfied the explorers that so far, at least, they had encountered nothing supernatural; and without further delay or comment upon this incident they took their course along the margin of St. Jerome's Creek. After a short interval, the beating of the waves upon the beach informed them that they had reached the neighbourhood of the shore of the Chesapeake. Here a halt and an attentive examination of the locality made them aware that they stoodu upon a bank, which descended somewhat abruptly to the level of the beach that lay some fifty yards or more beyond them. In the dim starlight they were able to trace the profile of a low but capacious tenement which stood almost on the tide mark. "It is the Chapel!" said Dauntrees, in an involuntary whisper as he touched the Ranger's arm. "It is Paul Kelpy's house, all the same as I have known it these twenty years:--a silent and wicked house," whispered Arnold, in reply. "And a pretty spot for the Devil to lurk in," said Dauntrees, resuming his ordinary tone. "Hold, Captain," interrupted the Ranger, "no foul words so near the Haunted House. The good saints be above us!" he added, crossing himself and muttering a short prayer. "Follow me down the bank," said Dauntrees, in a low but resolute voice; "but first look to your carbines that they be charged and primed. I will break in the door of this ungodly den and ransack its corners before I leave it. Holy St. Michael, the Archfiend is in the Chapel, and warns us away!" he exclaimed, as suddenly a flash of crimson light illuminated every window of the building. "It is the same warning given to Burton and myself once before. Stand your ground, comrades; we shall be beset by these ministers of sin!" As the flashes of this lurid light were thrice repeated, Pamesack was seen on the edge of the bank fixed like a statue, with foot and arm extended, looking with a stern gaze towards this appalling spectacle. Arnold recoiled a pace and brought his hand across his eyes, and was revealed in this posture as he exclaimed in his marked Dutch accent, "The fisherman's blood is turned to fire: we had best go no further, masters." Dauntrees had advanced half-way down the bank, and the glare disclosed him as suddenly arrested in his career; his sword gleamed above his head whilst his short cloak was drawn by the motion of his left arm under his chin; and his broad beaver, pistolled belt, and wide boots, now tinged with the preternatural light, gave to his figure that rich effect which painters are pleased to copy. "I saw Satan's imps within the chamber," exclaimed the Captain. "As I would the blessed Martyrs be with us, I saw the very servitors of the Fiend! They are many and mischievous, and shall be defied though we battle with the Prince of the Air. What ho, bastards of Beelzebub, I defy thee! in the name of our patron, the holy and blessed St. Ignatius, I defy thee!" There was a deeper darkness as Dauntrees rushed almost to the door of the house with his sword in his hand. Again the same deep flashes of fire illumed the windows, and two or three figures in grotesque costume, with strange unearthly faces, were seen, for the instant, within. Dauntrees retreated a few steps nearer to his companions, and drawing a pistol, held it ready for instant use. It was discharged at the windows with the next flash of the light, and the report was followed by a hoarse and yelling laugh from the tenants of the house. "Once more I defy thee!" shouted the Captain, with a loud voice; "and in the name of our holy church, and by the order of the Lord Proprietary, I demand what do you here with these hellish rites?" The answer was returned in a still louder laugh, and in a shot fired at the challenger, the momentary light of the explosion revealing, as Dauntrees imagined, a cloaked figure presenting a harquebuss through the window. "Protect yourselves, friends!" he exclaimed, "with such shelter as you may find," at the same time retreating to the cover of an oak which stood upon the bank. "These demons show weapons like our own. I will e'en ply the trade with thee, accursed spirits!" he added, as he discharged a second pistol. The Ranger and Pamesack had already taken shelter, and their carbines were also levelled and fired. Some two or three shots were returned from the house accompanied with the same rude laugh which attended the first onset, and the scene, for a moment, would have been thought rather to resemble the assault and defence of mortal foes, than the strife of men with intangible goblins, but that there were mixed with it other accompaniments altogether unlike the circumstance of mortal battle; a loud heavy sound as of rolling thunder, echoed from the interior of the chapel, and in the glimpses of light the antic figures within were discerned as dancing with strange and preposterous motions. "It avails us not to contend against these fiends," said Dauntrees. "They are enough to maintain their post against us, even if they fought with human implements. Our task is accomplished by gaining sight of the chapel and its inmates. We may certify what we have seen to his Lordship; so, masters, move warily and quickly rearward. Ay, laugh again, you juggling minions of the devil!" he said, as a hoarse shout of exultation resounded from the house, when the assailants commenced their retreat. "Put on the shape of men and we may deal with you! Forward, Arnold; if we tarry, our retreat may be vexed with dangers against which we are not provided." "I hope this is the last time we shall visit this devil's den," said Arnold, as he obeyed the Captain's injunction, and moved, as rapidly as his long stride would enable him to walk, from the scene of their late assault. Whilst these events were passing, I turn back to the publican, who was left a full mile in the rear to guard the baggage and keep up the fire,--a post, as he described it, of no small danger. It was with a mistrusting conscience, as to the propriety of his separation from his companions, that Garret, when he had leisure for reflection, set himself to scanning his deportment at this juncture. His chief scruple had reference to the point of view in which Dauntrees and Arnold de la Grange would hereafter represent this incident: would they set it down, as Weasel hoped they might, to the account of a proper and soldier-like disposition of the forces, which required a detachment to defend a weak point? or would they not attribute his hanging back to a want of courage, which his conscience whispered was not altogether so wide of the truth, but which he had hoped to conceal by his martial tone of bravado? There are many brave men, he reflected, who have a constitutional objection to fighting in the dark, and he was rather inclined to rank himself in that class. "In the dark," said he, as he sat down by the fire, with his hands locked across his knees, which were drawn up before him in grasshopper angles, and looked steadily at the blazing brushwood; "in the dark a man cannot see--that stands to reason. And it makes a great difference, let me tell you, masters, when you can't see your enemy. A brave man, by nature, requires light. And, besides, what sort of an enemy do we fight? Hobgoblins--not mortal men--for I would stand up to any mortal man in Christendom; ay, and with odds against me. I have done it before now. But these whirring and whizzing ghosts and their cronies, that fly about one's ears like cats, and purr and mew like bats--what am I saying? no, fly like bats and mew like cats--one may cut and carve at them with his blade with no more wound than a boy's wooden truncheon makes upon a south wind. Besides, the Captain, who is all in all in his command, hath set me here to watch, which, as it were, was a forbidding of me to go onward. He must be obeyed: a good soldier disputes no order, although it go against his stomach. It was the Captain's wish that I should keep strict watch and ward here on the skirt of the wood; otherwise, I should have followed him--and with stout heart and step, I warrant you! But the Captain hath a soldierly sagacity in his cautions; holding this spot, as he wisely hath done, to be an open point of danger, an inlet, as it were, to circumvent his march, and therefore straightly to be looked to. Well, let the world wag, and the upshot be what it may, here are comforts at hand, and I will not stint to use them." Saying this the self-satisfied martialist opened the basket and solaced his appetite with a slice of pasty and a draught of wine. "I will now perform a turn of duty," he continued, after his refreshment; and accordingly drawing his hanger, he set forth to make a short circuit into the open field. He proceeded with becoming caution on this perilous venture, looking slyly at every weed or bush which lay in his route, shuddering with a chilly fear at the sound of his own footsteps, and especially scanning, with a disturbed glance, the vibrations of his long and lean shadow which was sharply cast by the fire across the level ground. He had wandered some fifty paces into the field, on this valorous outlook, when he bethought him that he had ventured far enough, and might now return, deeming it more safe to be near the fire and the horses than out upon a lonesome plain, which he believed to be infested by witches and their kindred broods. He had scarcely set his face towards his original post when an apparition came upon his sight that filled him with horror, and caused his hair to rise like bristles. This was the real bodily form and proportions of such a spectre as might be supposed to prefer such a spot--an old woman in a loose and ragged robe, who was seen gliding up to the burning fagots with a billet of pine in her hand, which she lighted at the fire and then waved above her head as she advanced into the field towards the innkeeper. Weasel's tongue clave to the roof of his mouth, and his teeth chattered audibly against each other, his knees smote together, and his eyes glanced steadfastly upon the phantom. For a moment he lost the power of utterance or motion, and when these began to return, as the hag drew nearer, his impulse was to fly; but his bewildered reflection came to his aid and suggested greater perils in advance: he therefore stood stock-still. "Heaven have mercy upon me!--the Lord have mercy upon me, a sinner!" he ejaculated; "I am alone, and the enemy has come upon me." "Watcher of the night," said a voice, in a shrill note, "draw nigh. What do you seek on the wold?" "Tetra grammaton, Ahaseel--in the name of the Holy Evangels, spare me!" muttered the innkeeper, fruitlessly ransacking his memory for some charm against witches, and stammering out an incoherent jargon. "Abracadabra--spare me, excellent and worthy dame! I seek no hurt to thee. I am old, mother, too old and with too many sins of my own to account for, to wish harm to any one, much less to the good woman of this wold. Oh Lord, oh Lord! why was I seduced upon this fool's errand?" "Come nigh, old man, when I speak to you. Why do you loiter there?" shouted the witch, as she stood erect some twenty paces in front of the publican and beckoned him with her blazing fagot. "What dost thou mutter?" "I but sported with my shadow, mother," replied Weasel, with a tremulous attempt at a laugh, as he approached the questioner, in an ill assumed effort at composure and cheerfulness. "I was fain to divert myself with an antic, till some friends of mine, who left me but a moment since, returned. How goes the night with you dame?" "Merrily," replied the hag, as she set up a shrill laugh which more resembled a scream, "merrily; I cannot but laugh to find the henpecked vintner of St. Mary's at this time of night within the sound of the tide at the Black Chapel. I know your errand, old chapman of cheap liquors, and why you have brought your cronies. You pretend to be a liegeman of his Lordship, and you travel all night to cheat him of five shillings. You will lie on the morrow with as sad a face as there is in the hundred. I know you." "You know all things, worthy dame, and I were a fool to keep a secret from you. What new commodity, honest mistress, shall I find with Rob? The port is alive with a rumour of the Olive Branch; I would be early with the Cripple. Ha, ha!" he added, with a fearful laugh, "thou seest I am stirring in my trade." "Garret Weasel," said the beldam, "you may take it for a favour, past your deservings, that Rob will see thee alone at his hut even in day time: but it is as much as your life is worth to bring your huff-cap brawlers to St. Jerome's at midnight. It is not lawful ground for thee, much less for the hot-brained fools who bear you company. Who showed them the path to my cabin, that I must be driven out at this hour?" "Worthy mistress, indeed I know not. I am ignorant of what you say!" "They will call themselves friends to the Chapel: but we have no friends to the Chapel amongst living men. The Chapel belongs to the dead and the tormentors of the dead. So follow your cronies and command them back. I warn you to follow, and bring them back, as you would save them from harm. Ha! look you, it is come already!" she exclaimed, raising her torch in the air, as the flashes from the Haunted House illumined the horizon; "the seekers have roused our sentries, and there shall be angry buffets to the back of it!" At this moment the first shot was heard. "Friends, forsooth!" she shouted at the top of her voice: "friends, are ye? there is the token that ye are known to be false liars. Wo to the fool that plants his foot before the Chapel! Stand there, Garret Weasel: I must away; follow me but a step--raise thy head to look after my path, and I will strike thee blind and turn thee into a drivelling idiot for the rest of thy days. Remember----" In uttering this threat the figure disappeared; Garret knew not how, as he strictly obeyed the parting injunction, and his horrors were greatly increased by the report of the several shots which now reached his ear from the direction of the Black House. He had hardly recovered himself sufficiently to wander back to the fire, before Dauntrees, Arnold, and Pamesack arrived, evidently flurried by the scene through which they had passed, as well as by the rapidity of their retreat. "Some wine, Garret! some wine, old master of the tap!" was Dauntrees' salutation; "and whilst we regale as briefly as we may, have thou our horses loose from the trees; we must mount and away. To the horses, Garret! We will help ourselves." "I pray you, Master Captain," inquired the publican, having now regained his self-possession, "what speed at the Chapel? Oh, an we have all had a night of it! Sharp encounters all round, masters! I can tell you a tale, I warrant you." "Stop not to prate now," interrupted Dauntrees, in a voice choked by the huge mouthful of the pasty he was devouring; "we shall discourse as we ride. That flask, Arnold, I must have another draught e'er we mount, and then, friends, to horse as quickly as you may; we may be followed; we may have ghost, devil, and man of flesh, all three, at our heels." "I have had store of them, I can tell you--ghosts and devils without number," said Weasel, as he brought the horses forward. "You shall be tried by an inquest of both, for your life, if you tarry another instant," interposed the Captain, as he sprang into his saddle. "What! are we set upon, comrades?" cried out the vintner, manfully, as he rose to his horse's back, and pricked forward until he got between Pamesack and Arnold. "Are we set upon? Let us halt and give them an accolado; we are enough for them, I warrant you! Oh, but it had well nigh been a bloody night," he continued, as the whole party trotted briskly from the ground. "We had work to do, masters, and may tell of it to-morrow. Good Pamesack, take this basket from me, it impedes my motion in these bushes. Master Arnold, as we must ride here in single files, let me get before thee: I would speak with the Captain. Who should I see, Captain Dauntrees," continued the publican, after these arrangements were made, and he had thrust himself into the middle of the line of march, and all now proceeded at a slackened pace, "but that most notorious and abominable hag, the woman of Warrington--Kate, who lives, as every body knows, on the Cliffs. She must needs come trundling down before me, astride a broomstick, with a black cat upon her shoulder, and sail up to the fire which I had left, for a space, to make a round on my watch--for you may be sworn a strict watch I made of it, going even out of my way to explore the more hidden and perilous lurking-places where one might suspect an enemy to lie. So, whilst I was gone on this quest, she whips in and seats herself by the fire, with a whole score of devils at their antics around her. Then up I come, naturally surprised at this audacity, and question them, partly in soldier-wise, showing my sword ready to make good my speech, and partly by adjuration, which soon puts me the whole bevy to flight, leaving Kate of Warrington at mercy: and there I constrained her to divulge the secrets of the Chapel. She said there had been devilish work under that roof, and would be again; when pop, and bang, and slash, and crash, I heard the outbreak, and saw the devil's lights that were flashed. I could hold no longer parley with the hag, but was just moving off at full speed to your relief, determined in this need to desert my post--which, in my impatience to lend you a hand, I could not help--when I heard your footfall coming back, and so I was fain to bide your coming." "A well conceived sally of soldiership," said Dauntrees, "and spoken with a cavalier spirit, Master Garret. It hath truth upon the face of it: I believe every word. It shall serve you a good turn with his Lordship. What does Kate of Warrington in this neighbourhood? She travels far on her broomstick--unless, indeed, what seems likely, she has taken her quarters in the cabin we disturbed to-night. These crows will be near their carrion." By degrees the party, as they pursued their homeward journey, grew drowsy. The publican had lost all his garrulity, and nodded upon his horse. Arnold and Pamesack rode in silence, until Dauntrees, as if waking up from a reverie, said-- "Well, friends, we return from no barren mission to-night. His Lordship may have some satisfaction in our story; particularly in the vintner's. We shall be ready to report to his Lordship by noon, and after that we shall hasten to quiet our Dame Dorothy. The night is far spent: I should take it, Arnold, to be past three o'clock, by the rising of the moon. At peep of day we shall be snug upon our pallets, with no loss of relish for a sleep which will have been well earned." As the Captain continued to urge his journey, which he did with the glee that waits upon a safe deliverance from an exploit of hazard, he turned his face upwards to the bright orb which threw a cheerful light over the scenery of the road-side, and in the distance flung a reflection, as of burnished silver, over the broad surface of St. Mary's river, as seen from the height which the travellers were now descending. Not more than two miles of their route remained to be achieved, when the Captain broke forth with an old song of that day, in a voice which would not have discredited a professor: "The moon, the moon, the jolly moon, And a jolly old queen is she! She hath stroll'd o' nights this thousand year, With ever the best of company. Sing, Hic and hoc sumus nocturno, Huzza for the jolly old moon!" "Why, Garret, vintner, art asleep, man?" inquired the Captain. "Why dost thou not join in the burden?" "To your hand, Captain," exclaimed Weasel, rousing himself and piping forth the chorus-- "Hic and hoc sumus nocturno, Huzza for the jolly old moon!" which he did not fail to repeat at the top of his voice at each return. Dauntrees proceeded: "She trails a royal following, And a merry mad court doth keep, With her chirping boys that walk i' the shade, And wake when the bailiff's asleep. Sing, Hic and hoc sumus nocturno, Huzza for the jolly old moon! "Master Owl he is her chancellor, And the bat is his serving-man; They tell no tales of what they see, But wink when we turn up the can. Sing, Hic and hoc sumus nocturno, Huzza for the jolly old moon! "Her chorister is Goodman Frog, With a glow-worm for his link; And all who would make court to her, Are fain, good faith! to drink. Sing, Hic and hoc sumus nocturno, Huzza for the jolly old moon!" This ditty was scarcely concluded--for it was spun out with several noisy repetitions of the chorus--before the troop reined up at the gate of the Fort. The drowsy sentinel undid the bolt at the Captain's summons, and, in a very short space, the wearied adventurers were stretched in the enjoyment of that most satisfactory of physical comforts, the deep sleep of tired men. CHAPTER XII. There remains A rugged trunk, dismember'd and unsightly, Waiting the bursting of the final bolt To splinter it to shivers. THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. The shore of the Chesapeake between Cape St. Michael--as the northern headland at the mouth of Potomac was denominated by the early settlers--and the Patuxent, is generally flat, and distinguished by a clear pebbly beach or strand. The shore, comprising about twenty miles, is intersected by a single creek, that of St. Jerome, which enters the bay some five or six miles north of the Potomac. The line of beach, which I have referred to, is here and there relieved by small elevations which in any other region would scarce deserve the name, but which are sufficiently prominent in this locality to attract remark. From the general level of the country they rise high enough to afford a clear prospect over the wide waters, and no less to distinguish the landward perspective to the mariner whose eye eagerly seeks the varieties of landscape as he holds his course up the bay. At a few points these small hills terminate immediately upon the tide in the abrupt form of a cliff, and, at others, take the shape of a knoll sinking away by a rapid, but grass-covered, declivity to the strand. This latter feature is observable in the vicinity of St. Jerome's, where the slope falls somewhat abruptly to the level of the tide, leaving something above fifty paces in width of low ground between its base and the ordinary water-mark. It was upon this flat that, in ancient times, stood the dwelling house of Paul Kelpy the fisherman--a long, low building of deal boards, constructed somewhat in the shape of a warehouse or magazine. Some quarter of a mile along the beach, so sheltered under the brow of the slope as scarcely to be seen amongst the natural shrubbery that shaded it, stood a cottage or hut of very humble pretensions. It was so low that a man of ordinary height, while standing at the door, might lay his hand upon the eaves of the roof, and correspondent to its elevation, it was so scanty in space as to afford but two apartments, of which the largest was not above ten feet square. It was strongly built of hewn logs, and the door, strengthened by nails thickly studded over its surface, was further fortified by a heavy padlock, which rendered it sufficiently impregnable against a sharper assault than might be counted on from such as ordinarily should find motive to molest the proprietor of such a dwelling. A small enclosure surrounded the hut and furnished ground for some common garden plants which were not neglected in their culture. A few acres, on the higher plain above the bank, exhibited signs of husbandry; and the small nets and other fishing tackle disposed about the curtilage, together with a skiff drawn up on the sand, gave evidence of the ostensible thrift by which the occupant of the hut obtained a livelihood. To this spot I propose to introduce my reader, the day preceding that at which my story has been opened. It was about an hour before sunset, and a light drizzling rain, with a steady wind from the north-east, infused a chilly gloom into the air, and heightened the tone of solitude which prevailed over the scene. A thin curl of smoke which rose from the clumsy chimney of the hut gave a sign of habitation to the premises, and this was further confirmed by the presence of a large and cross-visaged mastiff-bitch, whose heavy head might be discerned thrust forth from beneath the sill of the gable,--a sullen warder of this sullen place of strength. The waves, now propelled upon a flood tide, rolled in upon the shore, and broke almost at the door of the hut, with a hoarse and harsh and ceaseless plash. Far out over the bay, the white caps of the wind-driven surge floated like changing snow drifts upon the surface of the waters. The water fowl rose in squadrons above this murky waste and struggled to windward, in a flight so low as frequently to shield them from the sight in the spray. An old bald eagle perched on the loftiest branch of a lightning-riven tree, immediately upon the bank above the hut, kept anxious watch upon her nest which, built in the highest fork, rocked to and fro in the breeze, whilst her screams of warning to her young seemed to answer to the din of the waters. In the larger apartment of the hut a few fagots blazed upon the hearth, supplying heat to a pot that simmered above them, the care of which, together with other culinary operations, engaged the attention of a brown, haggard and weather-beaten woman, who plied this household duty with a silent and mechanical thrift. She was not the only tenant of the dwelling. Remote from the hearth, and immediately below a small window, sat, apparently upon the floor, a figure eminently calculated to challenge observation. His features were those of a man of seventy, sharp, shrewd and imprinted with a deep trace of care. His frame indicated the possession, at an earlier period of his life, of the highest degree of strength; it was broad in the shoulders, ample in chest, and still muscular, although deprived of its roundness by age. His dress, of coarse green serge, made into a doublet with skirts that fell both front and rear, secured by a leathern belt, was so contrived as to conceal, in his present posture, his lower extremities. A broad ruff received his locks of iron gray, which fell over his back in crisp wiry curls: a thick grizzly beard, of the same hue, gave an elongation to his countenance which imparted to the observer the unpleasant impression of a head disproportionally large for the body, at least as seen in its present aspect. His eyes dark and unusually clear, were sunk deep in their sockets, whilst a shaggy and matted brow, overhanging them like a porch, gave sometimes an almost preternatural brilliancy to their quick and changeful glances--like the sparkling of water when agitated in a well. It was observable from the dropping in of the upper jaw that he had lost his teeth, and this perhaps had given a tendency of the strong furrowed lines and seams, with which his features were marked, to converge towards the mouth. His girdle sustained a long knife or dagger, which apparently constituted a part of his daily equipment; and the oblique flash of his eye, and tremulous motion of his thin lip betrayed a temperament, from which one might infer that this weapon of offence was not worn merely as an ornament of the person. The individual described in this summary was familiar to report, throughout the province, as The Cripple. His true name was supposed to be Robert Swale,--but this was almost lost in the pervading popular designation of Rob of the Bowl, or Trencher Rob--an appellative which he had borne ever since his arrival in the province, now some fifteen years gone by. Of his history but little was known, and that little was duly mystified, in the public repute, by the common tendency in the vulgar mind to make the most of any circumstance of suspicion. The story went that he had been shipwrecked, on a winter voyage, upon this coast, and, after suffering incredible hardships, had saved his life only at the expense of the loss of both legs by frost. In this maimed condition he had reached the shore of the province, and some time afterwards built the hut in which he now dwelt, near the mouth of St. Jerome's. Here he had passed many years, without attracting other notice than such as the stinted charity of the world affords, when it is exercised upon the fate or fortunes of an obscure recluse. This observation began to find a broader scope as soon as it became obvious that the hermit was not altogether an object of almsgiving; and the little world of this part of the province discovering in process of time that he was not absolutely penniless, were fain to take offence at the mystery of his means of earning his frugal subsistence. Before many years, some few of the traders and country people round had found out that Rob was occasionally possessed of good merchantable commodities much in request by the inhabitants of the port, and dark whispers were sometimes circulated touching the manner in which he came by them. These surmises were not made topics of public discussion for two reasons;--first, because it was not inconvenient or unprofitable to the traders in the secret to deal with Rob;--and secondly, Rob was not a man to allow this indulgence of idle speculation; he was of an irascible temper, free to strike when crossed, and, what was still more to be feared, had friends who were not unwilling to take up his quarrel. The loss of his legs was supplied by a wooden bowl or trencher, of an elliptical shape, to which his thighs were attached by a strap, and this rude contrivance was swayed forward, when the owner chose, by the aid of two short crutches, which enabled him to lift himself from the ground and assume a progressive motion. It was to the exercise which this mode of locomotion imposed upon his upper limbs, that the unusual breadth and squareness of his figure about the shoulders, as well as the visible manifestations of strength of arm for which he was remarkable, were in part, perhaps, to be attributed. Use had made him expert in the management of his bowl, and he could keep pace pretty fairly with an ordinary walker. The Cripple was a man of unsocial habits and ascetic life, although there were times in which his severe temper relaxed into an approach to companionable enjoyment, and then his intercourse with the few who had access to him was marked by a sarcastic humour and keen ridicule of human action which showed some grudge against the world, and, at the same time, denoted conversancy with mankind, and by no means a deficiency of education. But, in general, his vein was peevish, and apt to vent itself in indiscriminate petulance or stern reproof. A small painting of St. Romuald at his devotions, by the hand of Salvator himself, hung over a dressing table, in the back room of the hut in which the bed of the Cripple was placed; and this exquisite gem of art, which the possessor seemed duly to appreciate, was surmounted by a crucifix, indicating the religious faith in which he worshipped. This might be gathered also from a curious, antique pix, of heavy gilded metal, a ponderous missal with silver clasps, a few old volumes of the lives of the saints, and other furniture of the like nature, all of which denoted that the ingredient of a religious devotee formed an element in his singular compound of character. The superiority of his mind and attainments over those of the mass of the inhabitants of the province had contributed to render the Cripple an object of some interest as well as of distrust amongst them, and this sentiment was heightened into one approaching to vulgar awe, by the reputation of the person who had always been somewhat in his confidence, and now attended him as his servitress and only domestic. This person was the ungainly and repulsive beldam whom I have already noticed as ministering in the household concerns of the hut. She was a woman who had long maintained a most unenviable fame as The Woman of Warrington, in the small hamlet of that name on the Cliffs of Patuxent, from whence she had been recently transplanted to perform the domestic drudgery in which we have found her. Her habitation was a rude hovel some few hundred paces distant from the hut of the Cripple, on the margin of St. Jerome's creek, and within gunshot of the rear of the Black Chapel. To this hovel, after her daily work was done, she retired to pass the night, leaving her master or patron to that solitude which he seemed to prefer to any society. The surly mastiff-bitch, we have noticed, alternately kept guard at the hut of the master and domestic,--roving between the two in nightly patrol, with a gruff and unsocial fidelity,--no unsuitable go-between to so strange a pair. It will not be wondered at, that, in a superstitious age, such an association as that of the Cripple and the crone, in the vicinity of such a spot, desecrated, as the Fisherman's lodge had been, by the acting of a horrible tragedy, should excite, far and wide amongst the people, a sentiment of terror sufficiently potent to turn the steps of the wayfarer, as the shades of evening fell around him, aside from the path that led to St. Jerome's. The Cripple, at the time when I have chosen to present him to my reader, was seated, as I have said, immediately beneath the window. A pair of spectacles assisted his vision as he perused a pacquet of papers, several of which lay scattered around him. The dim light for a while perplexed his labour, and he had directed the door to be thrown wide open that he might take advantage of the last moment before the approaching twilight should arrest his occupation. Whilst thus employed, the deadened sound of a shot boomed across the bay. "Ha!" he exclaimed as he threw aside the paper in his hand and directed his eyes towards the water; "there is a signal--by my body, a signal gun!--an ill bird is flying homeward. Did you not hear that shot, woman?" "I had my dream of the brigantine two nights ago," replied the servitress; "and of the greedy kite that calls himself her master;--the shot must be his." "Whose can it be else?" demanded the Cripple sharply, as he swung himself forward to the doorsill and shook his locks from his brow in the act of straining his sight across the dim surface of the bay. "Ay, ay; there it is. Hark--another shot!--that is the true pass word between us:--Dickon, sure enough!--The brigantine is in the offing. Cocklescraft is coming in with the speed of a gull. He comes full freighted--full freighted, as is his wont, with the world's plunder. What dole hath he done this flight?--what more wealthy knave than himself hath he robbed? Mischief, mischief, mischief--good store of it, I'll be sworn:--and a keener knave than himself he hath not found in his wide venture. He will be coming ashore to visit the Cripple, ha!--he shall be welcome--as he ever hath been. We are comrades,--we are cronies, and merry in our divisions--the Skipper and the Cripple!--there is concord in it--the Skipper and the Cripple--merry men both!" These uprisings of the inner thoughts of the man were uttered in various tones--one moment scarce audible, the next with an emphatic enunciation, as if addressed to his companion in the hut,--and sometimes with the semblance of a laugh, or rather chuckle, which was wormwood in its accent, and brought the rheum from his eye down his cheek. The beldam, accustomed to this habit of self-communion in the Cripple, apparently heeded not these mutterings, until he, at length, accosted her with a command.--"Mistress Kate, double the contents of your pot;--the skipper and some of his men will be here presently, as keen and trenchant as their own cutlasses. They will be hungry, woman,--as these saltwater monsters always are for earthy provender." "Such sharp-set cattle should bring their provender with them," replied the domestic, as she went about increasing her store of provision in compliance with her master's directions. "Or the good red gold, or the good red gold, old jade!" interrupted the Cripple. "The skipper doth not shrink in the girdle from the disease of a lean purse, and is therefore worthy of our worshipful entertainment. So goes the world, and we will be in the fashion! Though the world's malisons drive him hither as before a tempest, yet, comes he rich in its gear; he shall have princely reception. I am king of this castle, and ordain it. Is he taking in sail?--is he seeking an anchorage? Ha, he understands his craft, and will be with us anon," he continued, as he marked the movements of the approaching vessel. There might be dimly seen, nearly abreast of St. Jerome's, a close-reefed brig, holding her course before a fair wind directly across the bay towards the hut of the Cripple. She was, at intervals, lost to view behind the thickening haze, and as often re-appeared as she bent under the fresh north-east breeze and bounded rapidly with the waves towards the lee shore. It was after the hour of sunset when the tenants of the hut were just able to discern, in the murky gloom of the near nightfall, that she had lowered sail and swung round with her head seaward, at an anchorage some two miles out in the bay. "Quick, Mistress Kate, and kindle some brush-wood on the shore," said the master of the hut. "It grows suddenly dark, and the boat's crew will need a signal to steer by." The woman gathered a handful of fagots, and, kindling them into a blaze, transferred them to the beach in front of the hut, where, notwithstanding the rain, they burned with a steady light. This illumination had not subsided before the stroke of oars rose above the din of the waves; and the boat with her crew, sheeted with the broad glare of the signal-fire, suddenly appeared mounted on the surf, surrounded with foam and spray, and in the same instant was heard grating on the gravel of the beach. Cocklescraft, with two seamen, entered the hut. The skipper was now in the prime of youthful manhood; tall, active and strong, with the free step and erect bearing that no less denoted the fearlessness of his nature than pride in the consciousness of such a quality. His face, tinged with a deep brown hue, was not unhandsome, although an expression of sensuality, to some extent, deprived it of its claim to be admired. A brilliant eye suffered the same disparagement by its over-ready defiance, which told of a temper obtrusively prone to quarrel. The whole physiognomy wanted gentleness, although a fine set of teeth, a regular profile, and a complexion which, with proper allowance for exposure to the weather, was uncommonly good, would unquestionably have won from the majority of observers the repute of a high degree of masculine beauty. A scarlet jacket fitted close across the breast, wide breeches of ash-coloured stuff, hanging in the fashion of a kirtle or kilt to the knees, tight grey hose, accurately displaying the leg in all its fine proportions, and light shoes, furnished a costume well adapted to the lithe and sinewy figure of the wearer. A jet black and glossy moustache, and tuft below the nether lip, gave a martial aspect to his face, which had, nevertheless, the smoothness of skin of a boy. He wore in his embroidered belt, a pair of pistols richly mounted with chased silver and costly jewels, and his person was somewhat gorgeously and, in his present occupation, inappropriately ornamented with gems and chains of gold. His hair, in almost feminine luxuriance, descended in ringlets upon his neck. A large hat made of the palm leaf, broad enough to shade his face and shoulders, but ill sorted with the rest of his apparel, and was still less adapted to the season and the latitude he was in, though it threw into the general expression of his figure that trait of the swaggering companion which was, in fact, somewhat prominent in his character. "How dost, friend Rob?" was his salutation in crossing the threshold; "how dost, Rob o' the Bowl, or Rob o' the Trencher?--bowl or trencher,--either likes me; I am sworn friend to both," he continued as he stooped and took the Cripple's hand. "Ay, thy conscience has never stayed thee," was the Cripple's reply, as he received the skipper's grasp, "when thou wouldst put thy hand in another man's bowl or trencher,--and especially, Dickon, if they were made of gold. Thou hast an appetite for such dishes. How now! where do you come from?" "That shall be answered variously, friend of the wooden platter. If you speak to me as Meinherr Von Cogglescraft, I am from Antwerp, master of the Olive Branch, with a comfortable cargo of Hollands, and wines French and Rhenish, old greybeard, and some solid articles of Dutch bulk. But if it be to the Caballero Don Ricardo,--le beso las manos!--I am from Tortuga and the Keys, Senor Capitan del Escalfador (there is much virtue in a painted cloth) with a choice assortment of knicknackeries, which shall set every wench in the province agog. I have rare velvets of Genoa, piled and cut in the choicest fashions: I have grograms, and stuffs, and sarsnets, with a whole inventory of woman trumpery--the very pick of a Spanish bark, bound from Naples to the islands, which was so foolish as to read my flag by its seeming, and just to drop into the Chafing-Dish when he thought he was getting a convoy to help him out of the way of the too pressing and inquisitive courtesies of certain lurking friends of ours in the Keys. I have, besides, some trinkets, which are none the worse for having been blessed by the church. You shall have a choice, Rob, to deck out your chamber with some saintly gems." "Ha! I guessed thy deviltry, Dickon," said Rob, with a laugh which, as always happened when much moved, brought tears down his cheeks--"I guessed it when I saw thee step across the door-sill with that large and suspicious sombrero on thy head. It never came from Holland--though you would fain persuade the province folks that you trade no where else: it is of the breed of the tropics, and smells of Hispaniola and Santo Domingo." "It is a tell-tale," replied Cocklescraft, "and should have been thrown overboard before this. Old Kate of Warrington, thy hand--and here is a hand for thee! How does the world use thee? Fairly, I hope, as you deserve? You shall have the sombrero, Kate: you can truss it up into a new fashion for a bonnet, and I have store of ribands to give thee to set it off." "My share of this world's favour," said the crone, in acknowledgment of the skipper's bounty, "has never been more than the cast-off bravery of such as hold a high head over a wicked heart. I have ever served at the mess of the devil's bantlings. But, as the custom is, I must be civil and thankful for these blessings; and so, Master Cocklescraft, I give you thanks," she added with a courtesy, as she placed the hat upon her head and strutted fantastically in the room, "for your dainty head-gear that you are unwilling to wear, and durst not, master, before the Port Wardens of St. Mary's." "How, Kate!" exclaimed the skipper, "you have lost no whit of that railing tongue I left with you at my last venture? I marvel that the devil hath not shorn it, out of pure envy. But I know, Kate, you can do justice to the good will of a friend, after all: I would have thee to know that thou hast not been unconsidered, good mother of a thousand devilkins: I have brought thee stuff for a new gown, rich and ladylike, Kate, and becoming thy grave and matronly years, and sundry trickeries for it, by way of garniture; and, reverend dam of night-monsters, I have in store for thee some most choice distillations of the West Indies, both plain and spiced. Thou dost not spurn the strong waters, Kate of Warrington,--nor the giver of them?" "This is a make-peace fashion of thine," said the beldam, relaxing into a smile. "You thought not of the woman of Warrington--no, not so much as a dog's dream of her--until it chanced to come into your head that the foolish crone had a will which it might not be for your good to set against you. I knew your incoming, Richard Cocklescraft, before it was thought of in the province; and I know when your outgoing will be. You come with a surly sky and a gay brow;--you shall trip it hence with a bright heaven above you, and deftly, boy--but with a heavy heart and a new crime upon thy soul." "Peace, woman! I will hear none of thy croakings--it is an old trick of thine; the device is too stale," said Cocklescraft, half playfully and half vexed. "You are no conjuror, Kate, as you would make the world believe by these owl-hootings: if you had but a needle's-eyeful of the true witch in you, you would have foretold what bounty my luck has brought you.--Rob, we have packages to land to-night. Is the Chapel ready for our service?" "How should it be other than ready? Doth not the devil keep his quarters there?" said Rob with a low-toned chuckle that shook his figure for some moments, and almost closed his eyes; "hath he not his court in the Chapel? Go ask the whole country side: they will swear to it on their bible oaths. Sundries have seen the hoofs and horns, and heard the howlings,--ay, and smelt the brimstone--ha, ha, ha! They'll swear to it. Is the Chapel ready, in sooth! It is a precious Chapel! Paul Kelpy, thou wert an honest cut-throat, to bedevil so good a house: we turn it to account--ha, ha! It needs but to take the key, Dickon. I warrant you ne'er a man in the province, burgher or planter, gentle or simple, ventures near enough to molest you." "The surf runs high," said Cocklescraft, "and may give us trouble in the landing to-night; and as daylight must not find me in this latitude, I shall put what I may ashore before the dawn, and then take a flight to the opposite side of the bay. To-morrow night I shall finish my work; and you shall soon after hear, at St. Mary's, that the good and peaceful brigantine, the Olive Branch, has arrived from Holland. Meantime, I will leave you a half dozen men to garrison the Chapel, Rob." "It is so well garrisoned with my merry goblins already," said Rob, "that it requires but a light watch. The fires alone would frighten his Lordship's whole array of rangers. That was a pretty device of mine, Dickon--blue, green, and red--excellent devil-fires all! Then I have masks--faith, most special masks! the very noses of them would frighten the short-winded train-bands of the Port into catalepsy. And the Chapel had an ill name when the fisherman shed blood on the floor: but since we blackened it, Richard--oh, that was a subtle thought!--it is past all power of exorcism: there is an ague in the very name of the Black Chapel." And here the Cripple gave way to a burst of laughter, which had been struggling for vent during all this reference to the arts by which he had contrived to maintain the popular dread of the fisherman's lodge. Whilst this conference was held, the crone had prepared their evening meal, which being now ready, Rob was lifted upon a low platform that brought him to the proper level with the table, where he was able to help himself. Cocklescraft partook with him, and might almost have envied the keen gust and ravenous appetite with which his host despatched the coarse but savoury fare of the board--for the Cripple's power of stomach seemed to be no whit impaired by age. He continued to talk, during his meal, in the same strain which we have described, now indulging a peevish self-communion, now bursting forth with some sarcastic objurgation of the world, and again breaking a jest with his visiter. When the seamen, under the ministration of the aged domestic, had got their supper, Cocklescraft took his departure. All night long lights were gleaming in the Chapel; the rain continued in a steady misty drizzle, and not a star was seen to tempt a wanderer abroad. The morning, which broke upon an atmosphere purged of its vapours, showed no trace of the brig in the vicinity of St. Jerome's. Far down the bay, hugging the eastern shore, might have been discerned what a practised mariner would affirm to be a sail; but whether ship or brig--whether outward or homeward bound, might not be told without the aid of a glass. CHAPTER XIII. Up she rose, and forth she goes,-- I'll mote she speed therefor. ADAM BELL. Bell, my wife, she loves not strife, Yet she will lead me if she can; And oft, to live a quiet life, I'm forced to yield, though I'm goodman. It's not for a man a woman to threape, Unless he first give o'er his plea; As we began we now will leave And I'll take my old cloak about me. OLD SONG. It was nine o'clock of the morning before Dauntrees and his companions, Garret and Arnold, rose from their beds. Pamesack, whose taciturnity was not greater than his indifference to fatigue, had, at an earlier hour, gone his way. A breakfast was provided in the Captain's quarters, and the three heroes of the past night sat down to it with a relish which showed that, however unfit they might be to contend against spiritual foes, their talents for this encounter of material existences were highly respectable. "You have had a busy time of it in dreams, Master Weasel," said Dauntrees, since you laid yourself down on your truckle bed this morning. You have been re-acting your exploits at the Chapel. I heard you at daylight crying aloud for sword and dagger." "I warrant you, Captain Dauntrees," replied the publican, "my head has been full of fantasies since I laid me down to rest--for I was exceeding weary--and weariness doth set the brain to ramble in sleep. There was good argument, too, in our deeds at St. Jerome's for a world of dreaming." "Ah, the night has made a man of you, my gallant vintner. You should bless your stars that you fell into such worthy company. You knew not heretofore--even with your experience at Worcester--what elements of valour it pleased Heaven to mix up in the mould whereof thou wert made. A man never sufficiently values himself until he has had some such passage as this." "Ay, and look you, Captain Dauntrees," said Garret, his eye flashing with self-gratulation, "you will reflect that I had the brunt of it _alone_, whilst you three were banded together for common defence and support. There I was, by my single self, in the very centre of them. A man needs more comfort and companionship in a matter with witches and devils, than he does against your sword and buckler fellows. Tut! I wouldn't have cared a fig for a foe that could be struck at; but these pestilent things of the dark--hags on besoms, and flying bats as big as a man, great sword-fishes walking on legs, with their screechings, and mopings, and mewings--Lord, Lord, how it tries the reins of a solitary man! But you had flashing and firing, and charging, Captain, which is more in the way of what one expects in a fight, and one is prepared for: it has life in it." "That is most true, doughty Garret. A culverin is but the whiff of an oaten pipe, compared with a hag upon her broomstick. Thou wert ever the man to encounter these women. It needs thy mettle to face them. Now there is thy wife, Master Weasel--oh, but that is a perilous venture in store for thee! You shall go to her and have it over, whilst I make my report to his Lordship; when that is done I will straight for the Crow and Archer, to help you in the battle, which by that time will doubtless find you sore at need." "I must go to his Lordship with you," replied Garret, in a lowered key; "I must have my hand in the report; after that we will set out together for the inn." "Why, man!" exclaimed Dauntrees, with affected astonishment, "would you tarry to do your duty to Mistress Dorothy? Do you not know that she hath suffered agony of mind the live-long night in your behalf, and that she is now in the very tempest of her affection waiting for you?" "I know it, I know it, worthy Captain; but it doth not become my respect for Lord Charles's service to defer his business for mine own." "Thou shalt not budge an inch," said Dauntrees, "on any other path than that which takes thee quickly to thy loving wife." "Truly, Captain," replied Weasel, in a dolorous tone, "I would have thee to go with me; I beseech you heartily, allow me to bear you company to his Lordship. His Lordship will think it strange I did not come: and it will take more than me to pacify the dame." "Well, friend Weasel, in consideration that you contended single handed last night with a whole score of devils, and bore thee gallantly; and, moreover, as it is such heavy odds against thee in this matter of Dame Dorothy--for, of a verity, I know she is in a devil of a passion at thy contumacy, and not less at mine, I'll be sworn--why we will make a muster of it and breathe our defence in solid column. Arnold will go with us. And mark me, Vintner, at the fitting time, we shall regale." "On the best in cellar or larder at the Crow and Archer," replied Garret. "You have the word of a man and a soldier for it." "I wot of a woman and no soldier, whose word would go further to that bargain, Garret, than yours. Make ready, friends, we must move." Dauntrees now set his beaver jauntily over his brow, and throwing his short cloak across his arm, marched through the postern of the fort, followed by his trusty allies, to the mansion of the Lord Proprietor. Lord Baltimore received them in his library, and there heard from the Captain a circumstantial narrative of the events of the preceding night. "It is a strange tale," he said, "and may well perplex the faith of the simple rustics of the province. That evil spirits preside over that blood-stained house, from your testimony, Captain Dauntrees, may no longer be denied. Friends, you all saw these things?" "All," said Garret Weasel, with emphatic solemnity as he straitened his body even beyond the perpendicular line. "Pamesack and Arnold stood by the Captain and can vouch for him. I maintained a post of danger, an please your Lordship, alone; what I saw neither the Captain, Arnold, nor Pamesack, saw--it was a fearful sight." "What was it?" inquired the Proprietary, with some earnestness. "A woman," replied Garret, "_seemingly_ a woman, an your Lordship comprehends: but in truth a witch, as we all do know:--Kate of Warrington, of whom your Lordship has heard. She it was who came suddenly down upon the wold. How she came," here Garret shook his head, "and what came with her,--it was a sight to look upon!" "The vintner affirms to sundry fantastic shapes of imps and spectres in company with the woman of Warrington," said Dauntrees. "We saw nothing of the hag, having left Master Weasel, some distance in our rear when we visited the Chapel. He was cold, and required comfort. What he recounts, my Lord, you have his own avouch for." "And what say you, Arnold?" inquired his Lordship, smiling. "These ghosts and goblins keep a hot house, and the less we have to do with them the better," replied the forester, gravely. "They fired upon you, Captain?" said the Proprietary; "with what weapons?" "They had the sharp crack of the musket and pistol," replied Dauntrees, "or what seemed to be such: yet I would not swear I saw carnal weapons in the strife, though in the flash I thought I noted fire arms. This may tell better than guess of mine, my Lord," he added, as he held up his cloak and pointed to a rent in one of its folds; "this hole was made by some missive from the house: whether it be a bullet mark or an elf-shot, I will not say." "Body o' me!" exclaimed Garret Weasel, as the Captain pointed to the damage he had sustained, "I knew not this before. There was hot work, I warrant." "There is knavery in alliance with this sorcery," said the Proprietary, as he examined the cloak. "These wicked spirits ever find kindred amongst men. They have profligate companions of flesh to profit by their devilish arts. I thank you, friends, kindly, for this venture, and will turn it to wholesome account hereafter. Fare you well." The party left the room, and now shaping their course towards the Crow and Archer, soon descended below the bank and took the road along the beach. Whilst they trudged through the sand and gravel, midway between the fort and the town, Dauntrees, looking behind, saw a figure descending on horseback from the main gate of the fort down to the road upon which they now travelled. It was that of a woman, whose gestures, at the distance of half a mile, were sufficiently observable to show that she urged her horse forward with impatient earnestness. As soon as she arrived at the level of the beach, her speed was increased nearly to the utmost of the faculty of the animal which bore her, and she now came flying over the sand, with her garments and loose tresses floating in the wind. "In the devil's name, what have we here?" exclaimed Dauntrees. "As I live, it is our queen of the hostel! Oh, Garret, Garret, here is a volcano! Here is an out-come with a conclusion at hand! Stand, masters, firmly on your legs, and brace up for the onset!" "Alack, alack!" groaned the publican; "the woman is bereft. She hath my nag from the fort." "Ay, and rides upon your saddle, as if it were made for her," ejaculated the Captain. "Take post behind me, Garret: I will answer her speech." "It were no more than the luck she deserves," said Garret, pettishly, "if she should fall from the nag and break her little finger, or at the least sprain an ancle-joint." "Hold, runagates! varlets! out upon you for a filthy Captain!" shouted the dame, in a shrill voice, as she came within call of the party, and now galloped up to the spot at which they had halted. "Give me that idiot from your beastly company. Garret Weasel, Garret Weasel! you have been the death of me!" "Good lack, Mistress Dorothy, wife, why dost thou bear thyself in such a sort as this?" "I will bare thee to the buff, driveller, for this. Are you not steeped in wickedness and abomination by evil-consorting with this copper Captain, and this most horrid wood ranger? Hast no eye for thy family; no regard for good name, that you must be strolling o' nights with every pot-guzzler and foul-breathed and cankered cast-off of the wars? I am ashamed of thee. You have been in your cups, I warrant, the live-long night." "Dame, I must speak, now," said Dauntrees. "Thou, thou!" interrupted the hostess, with her face scarlet from anger. "Never in a Christian land should such as thou be permitted to lift thy head before honest people. His Lordship would do but justice to the province to chain thee up in a dark stable, as a bull which may not be trusted at large. Did you not beguile me last night with a base lie? Did you not practice upon me, you faithless, false-hearted coward?" here tears fell from the flashing eyes of the voluble landlady. "Did you not steal that lob, my husband, from me, thief?" "Appearances, dame," replied the Captain, with a grave composure, "if they might be trusted, were certainly to my disfavour last night. But then, I knew that when this matter was all over, I had a most sufficient and excellent reason, which a considerate, virtuous, and tender-hearted woman like yourself would fully approve, when she came to hear it. There was matter in hand of great import and urgency; no revelling, dame--no riot--but brave service, enjoined by his Lordship, and which it was his Lordship's most earnest desire should be committed in part to thy husband. It was an action of pith and bravery he had on hand; and his Lordship being well aware, dame, that Garret's wife was a woman of a loving heart, and gentle withal in her nature, and not fitted to endure the wringing of her affection by such a trial as the adventure imposed upon Garret, he charged me to make some light pretext for withdrawing thy husband from thine eye, which, by fraud, I confess, I did, and am now--since Garret hath worthily achieved his most perilous duty--here to avow my own treachery. There is promotion and great advantage at hand for this which will set up thy head, dame, the highest amongst them that wear hoods." "We have barely escaped with our lives, Mistress Dorothy," said Weasel, in a whining accent of deprecation; "we should be made much of and praised for our duty, not be set upon with taunts and foul rebukes; and when you know all, wife, you will be sorry for this wounding of our good name." "This is but another trick," said the landlady. "Nay, good mistress," interrupted the Captain, "I will agree to be gibbeted by thine own fair hand, if I do not satisfy thee that in this adventure we are deserving of all applause. The Lieutenant at the fort, doubtless, told thee that we were absent last night on special duty at his Lordship's command?" "The varlet did feign such a story, when I thought to catch this fool in thy company. And he would deny me, too, the nag; but I brought such coil about his ears that he was glad to give me the beast and set all gates open. Where do you say you have spent the night?" "At the Black Chapel, mistress," said Weasel, with a most portentous solemnity of speech: "at the Black Chapel, by his Lordship's order; and, oh, the sights we have seen! and the time we have had of it, wife! it would make thy blood freeze to hear it." "On the honour of a soldier, dame! by the faith of this right hand!" said Dauntrees, as he offered it to the hostess and took hers, "I swear this is true. We have had a night of wonders, which you shall hear in full when the time suits. We are on our way now to the Crow and Archer, for thine especial gratification." "Can this be true, Arnold?" inquired the mollified and bewildered landlady. "I will believe what you say." "You may trust in every word of it, as I am a Christian man. There be marvellous doings at the Black Chapel. We have seen spirits and devils in company." "It is graver matter, wife, than you wot of," said Weasel. "Ride forward, dame," added Dauntrees; "you shall see us soon at the hostel. And I promise you shall have the story, too, of the Mercer's Wife from beginning to end: you shall dame." "You are a wheedling, cogging cheat, Captain; thy roguery will have a melancholy end yet," replied the dame, as she now rode forward with a sunshiny smile playing upon features which but a few moments before were dark with storm. When they reached the Crow and Archer they found a group of traders assembled on the quay, gazing with a busy speculation towards the mouth of the river. By degrees the crowd increased, and the rumour soon spread abroad that the Olive Branch was in sight. A vessel was, indeed, discernible across the long flat of St. Inigoe's, just entering the river, and those who professed a knowledge of nautical affairs had no scruple in announcing her as the brigantine of Cocklescraft. She was apparently an active craft, belonging to the smaller class of sea-vessels, and manifestly a faster sailer than was ordinarily to be seen at that period. A fair and fresh breeze impelled her steadily towards her haven, and as she bounded over the glittering waters, the good folks of the little city were seen clustering in knots on every prominent cliff along the high bank, and counting the minutes which brought this messenger from the old world nearer to their salutation. Meantime the Olive Branch began to show the sparkling foam which broke upon her bow; then to give forth voices from her deck, audible to the crowd; presently to lower sail; and at last, being stripped to her bare poles and naked rigging, she glided with lessening speed, slower and slower, until her extended cable showed that her anchor was dropt and her voyage at an end. It was past noon when the brig came to her mooring, opposite the Town House wharf, and after a brief interval, Cocklescraft, arrayed as we have before seen him, except that he had changed his sombrero for a tasseled cap of cloth, landed on the quay, and soon became the lion of the Crow and Archer. CHAPTER XIV. Every white will have its black, And every sweet its sour. OLD BALLAD. The birth-day festival at the Rose Croft might be said appropriately to belong to the eminent dominion of the Lady Maria. It therefore lacked nothing of her zealous supervision. With the aid of father Pierre and some female auxiliaries she had persuaded the Collector--a task of no great difficulty--to sanction the proceeding, and she was now intent upon the due ordering and setting out of the preparations. The day was still a week off when, early after breakfast, on a pleasant morning the business-fraught lady was seen in the hall, arrayed in riding hood and mantle, ready to mount a quiet black-and-white pony that, in the charge of a groom, awaited her pleasure at the door. Natta, the little Indian girl, stood by entrusted with the care of a work-bag or wallet apparently well stuffed with the materials for future occupation,--the parcel-fragments which thrifty housewives and idleness-hating dames, down to this day, are accustomed to carry with them, for the sake of the appearance, at least, of industry. Just at this moment the Proprietary came into the hall, and seeing that his worthy sister was bound on some enterprise of more than usual earnestness, he added to his customary morning salutation a playful inquiry into the purport of her excursion. "Ah, Charles," she replied, "there are doings in the province which are above the rule of your burgesses and councils. I hold a convocation at the Rose Croft to-day, touching matters more earnest than your state affairs. We have a merry-making in the wind, and I am looked to both for countenance and advice. It is my prerogative, brother, to be mistress of all revels." "God bless thine age, Maria!" was the affectionate reply of the Proprietary--"it wears a pleasant verdure and betokens a life of innocent thoughts and kind actions. May the saints bear thee gently onward to thy rest! Come, I will serve as your cavalier, and help you to your horse, sister.--See now, my arm has pith in it. Hither, Natta--there is the wench on the pillion--who could serve thee with a better grace than that?" "Thanks--thanks, good brother!" ejaculated the lady as the Proprietary lifted her to her seat, and then swung the Indian girl upon the pillion behind her. "Your arm is a valiant arm, and is blessed by more than one in this province. It has ever been stretched forth in acts of charity and protection." "Nay, Maria, you are too old to flatter. Fie! I have no advancement to offer thee. In truth thou art sovereign here--though you go through your realm with but scant attendance for one so magnified. Why is not Albert in your train? I may well spare him--as he has a liking for such service." "Brother, I would not tax the Secretary. He hath a free foot for his own pleasure; and, methinks, he finds his way to the Rose Croft easily enough without my teaching. It is an ancient caution of mine, in such affairs, neither to mar nor make." "Heaven help thee for a considerate spinster!" said the Proprietary with a benignant smile as he raised his hands and shook them sportively towards his sister. "Go thy ways, with thy whimsies and thy scruples;--and a blessing on them! I wish yours were our only cares:--but go thy ways, girl!" he added, as the lady set forth on her journey, and he withdrew from the door. At the Rose Croft, the approaching merry-making had superseded all other family topics, both in parlour and kitchen. The larder was already beginning to exhibit the plentiful accumulations which, in a place of strength, might portend a siege: the stable boys were ever on the alert, with their cavalry, to do rapid errands to the town, and Michael Mossbank, the gardener, was seen in frequent and earnest consultation with John Pouch, a river-side cotter, touching supplies of fish and wild fowl. Whilst the elder sister Alice despatched the graver duties of the housekeeping, she had consigned to Blanche the not less important care of summoning the guests, and the maiden was now seated at the table with pen in hand registering the names of those who had been, or were to be invited to the feast,--or in other words making a census of pretty nearly the whole tithable population of St. Mary's and its dependencies. "A plague upon it for a weary labour!" she exclaimed as she threw down the pen and rested her chin upon the palm of her hand. "I know I shall forget somebody I ought not to forget--and shall be well rated for it. And then again I shall be chid for being too free with my fellowship.--What a world of names is here! I did not think the whole province had so many. There is Winnefred Hay, the Viewer's sister,--they have tales about her which, if they be true, it is not fit she should be a crony of mine--and yet I don't believe them, though many do.--Truly the Viewer will be in a grand passion if I slight her! Sister Alice, give me your advice." "Bid her to the feast, Blanche. We should be slow to believe these rumours to the injury of a neighbour. Winnefred Hay, is not over discreet--and gives more semblance to an evil opinion than, in truth, her faults deserve: but the townspeople are scarce better in this quickness to censure--especially such as look to the tobacco viewing. Lawrence Hay's place has something to do with that scandal." "I am glad, sister Alice, you give me an argument to indulge my own secret wish," replied Blanche; "for I like not to believe harsh reports against any of our province. And so, that is at an end. Alack!--here is another matter for counsel: Grace Blackiston says Helen Clements is too young to be at my gathering:--she has two years before her yet at school, and has only begun embroidering. Oh, but I would as soon do a barefoot penance for a month as disappoint her!--she is the wildest of all for a dance, and looks for it, I know,--though she says never a word, and has her eyes on the ground when we talk about it.--Ha, let Grace Blackiston prate as she will, Helen shall be here! Fairly, my gossip,--I will be mistress in my own house, I promise you!" "There is room for all thy friends, young and old," said Alice; "and you should not stint to ask them for the difference of a span or so in height. You are not quite a woman yourself, Blanche,--no, nor Grace neither--although you perk yourselves up so daintily." "Would you have the gauger's wife, sister?" inquired Blanche, with a face of renewed perplexity. "I think my dear Lady Maria would be pleased if I bid the dame--for the gauger is a good friend of his Lordship--hot-headed, they say, but that does not make him the worse--and his dame takes it kindly to be noticed." "Even as you will, Blanche,--it is a mark of gentle nurture not to be too scrupulous with thy questions of quality--a kind neighbour will never disgrace your courtesy. But one thing, child, your father will look to:--see that you avoid these Coodes and Fendalls and even the Chiseldines. There is a feud between them and the Proprietary,--and my Lord's friends are warm in the matter,--your father amongst the rest." "I warrant you they get no bid from me," said Blanche, as the colour mantled in her cheek. "I hate them stock and branch--yes, as my good lady hates them." Blanche had scarcely uttered these words before the good lady herself rode past the window. The maiden bounded forth to receive her, and Alice with less precipitation followed. "I come with pony and pillion," said the visiter as she was assisted to the ground, and bustled into the parlour. "I could not rest until I saw Blanche, to know if all her biddings were abroad. My pretty bird, pray look you to your task--you have no time to lose: there are the families beyond Patuxent--and our friends across the bay,--besides many at home that I know have not heard from you yet. And here, sweet, I have brought you some trinketry which you shall wear at the feast: a part is for Grace Blackiston, and a part for you. Thou shalt have the choice, Blanche:--but whisht!--not a word of it to Grace, because I think she hath a conceit to be jealous of thy favour." Whilst the two sisters welcomed the lady and responded to her voluble communications in a tone of affectionate intimacy, the contents of the work-bag were thrown open to view, and successively gave rise to sundry discussions relating not only to the objects presented, but also collaterally to the thousand matters of detail connected with the festival, thus engrossing the first hour of their interview, until the subject was changed by an exclamation from Blanche, as she looked through the window upon the river-- "Oh, but here is a gallant sight!--see yonder hawk following a heron. He will strike presently--the heron cannot get away. Poor bird! how he doubles and drops in his flight to escape the swift hawk;--but it is of no avail. I should almost say it was sinful,--if it was not approved and followed by those I love best--I should hold it sinful to frighten and torture a harmless heron by such pursuit. There, the hawk has struck, and down comes hawk and quarry to the water." "It is his Lordship's hawk," said the Lady Maria, as she looked out upon the river. "Derrick the falconer must be abroad to-day with his birds:--and now whilst I speak, there he is walking along the beach. And he is not alone neither:--by that short mantle and that feather, Blanche, you may know a friend." The colour rose on the maiden's cheek as she said, "it is Albert, his Lordship's secretary." "His eyes are turned this way," said the sister of the Proprietary. "A wager he comes to the house in the next ten minutes!--He would fain find some business with the Collector--I know Master Albert's occasions: nay, do not flurry thyself, my sweet Blanche." "I wish the Secretary _would_ come," returned the maiden; "we have need of him; he promised to show me how I were best to arrange my flower vases." "Then thou shouldst do well to despatch a messenger to him," interrupted the Lady Maria, playfully; "dost thou not think he might forget?" "Oh no, my dear lady," replied Blanche, "Master Albert never forgets a promise to me." "Indeed! Well, I should have thought that having occasion to make you so many promises--for he is here at the Rose Croft thrice a week at least--and every visit has its promise, or I mistake--he would forget full one half." "I deal but scantily in promises with the Secretary," replied Blanche. "Master Albert's errands here are for pastime mostly." "Ah, he doth not forget," exclaimed the Lady Maria; "for there I see the feather of his bonnet as he climbs up the bank,--and now we have his head and shoulders; we shall get the whole man anon,--and Master Benedict Leonard in the bargain, for I see _him_ trudging in the Secretary's footsteps, as he is wont to do; his young Lordship hath become the Secretary's shadow. And there is Derrick behind. They are all bound for this haven." As the lady spoke, the Secretary was seen from the window with the heir apparent and the falconer on the verge of the bank which they had just ascended. Benedict Leonard had a hooded hawk upon his fist; and Derrick, waving a light rod to which a small streamer or flag was attached, was busy in luring down the bird that had just flown at the heron. Whilst the falconer continued his occupation the Secretary and his young companion entered the mansion. Albert Verheyden's accost to the ladies was characterized by a familiarity not unmixed with diffidence, and a momentary flush passed, across his cheek as, after saluting Mistress Alice, and turning to Blanche, his eye fell upon the sister of the Proprietary. "I did not expect to find my honoured lady so early at the Rose Croft," he said with a profound reverence. "It should have been my duty, madam, to attend you, but I knew not of your purpose; and the falconer being bent to fly the cast of lanerets which Colonel Talbot lately sent to my Lord, would have me witness the trial, and so I came with Master Benedict to see this sport." "Nay, Albert," replied the lady, "you should not have been of my company even if you had sought permission. I come to-day on no idle errand which might allow your loitering paces and customary delays to gaze on headlands and meadows, whereby you are wont to interrupt the course of your journey. The matter of our present meeting has need of stirring feet, which go direct to their work,--yours are not such. Still, Master Albert, you shall not be useless to-day:--here is occupation to thy hand; Blanche is in much want of a penman, and as you are of the writing craft, she would gladly enlist thee in her service--that is, if thou hast not been already marshaled and sworn under her colours." "Master Albert, our dear lady does but jest," said Blanche. "She knows I had at first no need of better penman than myself, and now have need of none,--for, in truth, my work was finished ere she came. But your service I may command in a better task. You did promise to bring me some device for my flower-stands." "The joiner will have them here to-day," replied the Secretary. "I have not failed to spur his industry as well as my own poor invention to that endeavour." "Then all is done but the rendering of thanks," said Blanche, "which yet I am not in the humour to do, having matter of quarrel with you for that following of the poor heron which, but now, we saw the hawk strike down, whilst you were a looker-on, and, as we suspect, an encourager of the trespass. It was a cruel thing to assail the innocent fowl, which, being native here, has ever found friends in our house;--yes, and has daily fed upon the flat below the garden. These herons scarce fly when I walk by them on the beach. I wish the falconer had sought his quarry elsewhere than amongst my harmless birds. You should have controlled him." "I am deeply grieved," replied the Secretary. "Indeed, I knew not of the bird nor whence he came: nor thought of it, in truth. A feather of his wing should not have come to harm had I been aware that he had ever pleased your eye. I am all unskilled in these out-door sports, and have scarce worn out the complexion of my school at Antwerp, where worldly pastimes were a forbidden thought. A poor scholar of the cloister might go free of blame if, in this sunny and gallant world, the transport of a noble game should rob him of his circumspection. I thought of naught but the glorious circling of the hawk and his swift and imperious assault. I crave your pardon for my inconsiderate error." "You speak more like a practised cavalier than a scholar of the cloister," said the sister of the Proprietary; "thou hast a cavalier's love of the sport, Albert." "It doth not beseem me, madam," was the Secretary's reply, "to affect a pastime which belongs neither to my rank nor humble means; but, in sadness, dear lady, I do love hawk, and hound, and steed. And when in my sequestered study--where, being, as I thought, destined to the service of the altar, I read mostly of holy men and holy things, little dreaming that I should ever see the world--it sometimes chanced, in my stray reading, I fell upon a lay wherein deeds of chivalry were told; and then I was conscious of a wish, I am now almost ashamed to confess, that fortune might some day bring me better acquainted with that world to which such deeds belonged. Oh, blessed chance! it hath befallen now:----that is,--I mean to say," continued the Secretary, checking himself, as his flashing eye fell to the floor, and a blush flitted across his brow--"it hath pleased Heaven to give me a kind master in my good Lord, who doth not deny me to look on when these sports are afield." "And if we did strike down the heron, Blanche Warden," said Benedict Leonard, saucily accosting the maiden, and showing the hawk that was bound to his wrist--"what is a heron good for, but to be brought down? Herons were made for hawks--yes, and for the hawks of the Proprietary above all others; for I have heard say that every heron on the Chesapeake, within my father's boundary, is his own bird: so Derrick has said a hundred times. And there's my uncle Talbot, who flies a hawk better than any other in the province--I don't care if Derrick hears me--and has the best mews,--he says that these fire-arms have broken up hawking in the old country; and he told me I must not let it fall through when I come to the province; for my father, he thinks, doesn't care much for it. I promise you in my time we shall have hawking enough--chide as you like, Mistress Blanche. It was partly for me that my uncle Talbot sent us this cast of birds. Look at that laneret, Blanche,--look at her! Isn't that a bird? Talk to me of a goshawk after that!" "Benedict--nephew," interposed the Lady Maria, "why dost thou fling thy bird so rudely? She brushes Blanche's cheek with her wing. Pray, not so bold: Blanche will not like thee for it." "Blanche will never quarrel with me for loving my hawk, aunt," replied the boy playfully. "Will you, mistress? A laneret's wing and Blanche Warden's cheek are both accounted beautiful in this province, and will not grow angry with each other upon acquaintance." "I know not that, Benedict," replied the maiden; "my cheek may grow jealous of your praise of the wing, and mischief might follow. She is but a savage bird, and hath a vicious appetite." "I will away to the falconer," said the boy. "It is but wasting good things to talk with women about hawks. You will find me, Master Albert, along the bank with Derrick, if you have need of me." "That boy hath more of the Talbot in him than the Calvert," said the Lady Maria, after he had left the room. "His father was ever grave from youth upwards, and cared but little for these exercises. Benedict Leonard lives in the open air, and has a light heart.--Thou hast a book under thy mantle, Master Albert," continued the lady. "Is your breviary needful when you go forth to practise a laneret?" "It is a volume I have brought for Mistress Blanche," replied the Secretary, as, with some evident confusion, he produced a gilded quarto with clasps, from beneath his dress. "It is a delightful history of a brave cavalier, that I thought would please her." "Ah!" exclaimed the sister of the Proprietary, taking the book and reading the title-page--"'_La très joyeuse et plaisante Histoire, composéc par le Loyal Serviteur, des faits, gestes et prouesses du bon Chevalier sans peur et sans reproche._' Ay, and a right pleasant history it is, this of the good Knight Bayard, without fear and without reproach. But, Albert, thou knowest Blanche doth not read French." "I designed to render it myself to Mistress Blanche, in her native tongue," replied the Secretary. "Blanche," said the lady, shaking her head, "this comes of not taking my counsel to learn this language of chivalry long ago. See what peril you will suffer now in journeying through this huge book alone with Master Albert." "I see no peril," replied the maiden, unconscious of the raillery. "Master Albert will teach me, ere he be done, to read French for myself." "When thou hast such a master, and the Secretary such a pupil," said the lady, smiling, "Heaven speed us! I will eat all the French thou learnest in a month. But, Master Albert, if Blanche cannot understand your legend, in the tongue in which it is writ, she can fully comprehend your music--and so can we. It is parcel of your duty at the Rose Croft to do minstrel's service. You have so many songs--and I saw thee stealing a glance at yon lute, as if thou wouldst greet an old acquaintance." "If it were not for Master Albert," said Alice, "Blanche's lute would be unstrung. She scarce keeps it, one would think, but for the Secretary's occupation." "Ah, sister Alice, and my dear lady," said Blanche, "the Secretary hath such a touch of the lute, that I but shame my own ears to play upon it, after hearing his ditties. Sing, Master Albert, I pray you," she added, as she presented him the instrument. "I will sing to the best of my skill," replied Albert, "which has been magnified beyond my deservings. With your leave, I will try a canzonet I learned in London. It was much liked by the gallants there, and I confess a favour for it because it hath a stirring relish. It runs thus: 'Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind, That from the nunnery Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind To war and arms I fly. 'True, a new mistress, now I chase, The first foe in the field; And with a stronger faith embrace A sword, a horse, a shield. 'Yet this inconstancy is such As you too shall adore: I could not love thee, dear, so much, Lov'd I not honour more.'" "Well done! Well touched lute--well trolled ditty! Brave song for a bird of thy feather, Master Verheyden!" exclaimed the Collector, who, when the song was finished, entered the room with Cocklescraft. "That's as good a song, Master Cocklescraft----the Skipper, ladies--my friend of the Olive Branch, who has been with me this hour past docketing his cargo: I may call him especially your friend--he is no enemy to the vanities of this world. Ha, Master Cocklescraft, thou hast wherewith to win a world of grace with the petticoats!--thou hast an eye for the trickery of the sex! Sit down, sir--I pray you, without further reverence, sit down." The Skipper, during this introduction, stood near the door, bowing to the company, and then advanced into the room with a careless and somewhat over-bold step, such as denotes a man who, in the endeavour to appear at his ease in society, carries his acting to the point of familiarity. Still his freedom was not without grace, and his demeanour, very soon after the slight perturbation of his first accost, became natural and appropriate to his character. "Save you, madam," he said, addressing the sister of the Proprietary, and bowing low, "and you, Mistress Alice, and you, my young lady of the Rose Croft. It is a twelvemonth since I left the Port, and I am right glad to meet the worshipful ladies of the province once again, and to see that good friends thrive. The salt water whets a sailor's eye for friendly faces. Mistress Blanche, I would take upon me to say, without being thought too free, that you have grown some trifle taller than before I sailed. I did not then think you could be bettered in figure." The maiden bowed without answering the Skipper's compliment. "Richard Cocklescraft," said the Collector, "I know not if you ever saw Albert Verheyden. Had he come hither before you sailed? His Lordship's secretary." "I was not so lucky as to fall into his company," replied Cocklescraft, turning towards the Secretary, and eyeing him from head to foot. "I think I heard that his Lordship brought new comers with him. We shall not lack acquaintance. Your hand, Master Verdun--I think so you said?" he added, as he looked inquiringly at the Collector. The Collector again pronounced the name of the Secretary with more precision. "Nearly the same thing," continued the Skipper. "Master Verheyden, your hand: mine is something rougher, but it shall be the hand of a comrade, if thine be in the service of worshipful Master Anthony Warden, the good Collector of St. Mary's. I know how to value a friend, Master Secretary, and a friend's friend. You have a rare voice for a ballad--I pretend to have an opinion in such matters--an excellent voice and a free finger for the lute." "I am flattered by your liking sir," returned Albert Verheyden coldly, as he retired towards a window, somewhat repelled by the too freely proffered acquaintance of the Skipper, and the rather loud voice and obtrusive manner with which he addressed those around him. "Oh, this craft of singing is the touchstone of gentility now-a-days," said Cocklescraft, twirling his velvet bonnet by the gold tassel appended to the crown. "A man is accounted unfurnished who has no skill in that joyous art. Sea-bred as I am, Collector--worshipful Master Warden--you would scarce believe me, but I have touched lute and guitar myself, and passably well. I learned this trick in Milan, whither I have twice gone in my voyages, and dwelt there with these Italians, some good summer months. That is your climate for dark eyes and bright nights--balconies, and damsels behind the lattice, listening to thrummers and singers upon the pavements below. And upon occasion, we wear the short cloak and dagger. I have worn cloak and stiletto in my travels, Master Collector, and trolled a catch in the true tongue of Tuscany, when tuck and rapier rung in the burden. The hot blood there is a commodity which the breeze from the Alps hath no virtue to cool, as it doth in Switzerland." "We will try your singing craft ere it be long," replied the Collector. "We will put you to catch and glee, with a jig to the heel of it, Richard Cocklescraft. You must know, Blanche is eighteen on the festival of St. Therese, and we have a junketing forward which has set the whole province astir. You shall take part in the sport with the town's-people, Master Skipper; and I warrant you find no rest of limb until you show us some new antics of the fashion which you have picked up abroad. You shall dance and sing with witnesses--or a good leg and a topping voice shall have no virtue! I pray you do not forget to make one of our company on the festival of St. Therese. Your gewgaws, Richard, and woman's gear, could not be more in season: every wench in the port is like to be your debtor." "Thanks, Master Collector, I have a foot and voice, ay, and hand, ever at the service of your good company. I will be first to come and last to depart.--I have been mindful of the Rose of St. Mary's in my voyaging," he said in a respectful and lowered tone, as he approached the maiden. "Mistress Blanche is never so far out of my thoughts that I might come back to the Port without some token for her. I would crave your acceptance of a pretty mantle of crimson silk lined with minever. I found it in Dort, and being taken with its beauty, and thinking how well it would become the gay figure of my pretty mistress of the Rose Croft, I brought it away, and now make bold to ask--that is, if it be agreeable to Mistress Blanche, and if I do not venture too far--that I may be allowed to bring it hither." "You may find a worthier hand for such a favour," said Blanche, with a tone and look that somewhat eagerly repelled the proffered gift, and manifested dislike of the liberty which the Skipper had taken--a liberty which was in no degree lessened to her apprehension by the unaccustomed gentleness of his voice, and the humble and faltering manner in which he had asked her consent to the present. "I am unused to such gaudy trappings, and should not be content to wear the cloak;" then perceiving some reproof, as she fancied, in the countenance of her sister Alice and the Lady Maria, she added, in a kindlier voice, "I dare not accept it at your hand, Master Skipper." "Nay," replied Cocklescraft, presuming upon the mildness of the maiden's last speech, and pressing the matter with that obtrusiveness which marked his character and nurture, "I shall not take it kindly if thou dost not;" and as a flush overspread his cheek, he added, "I counted to a certainty that you would do me this courtesy." "Men sometimes count rashly, Master Cocklescraft," interposed the Lady Maria, "who presume upon a maiden's willingness to incur such debts." "Save you, madam," replied the Skipper; "I should be sorry Mistress Blanche should deem it to be incurring a debt." "I have not been trained," said Blanche, with perfect self-possession and firmness of manner, which she intended should put an end to the Skipper's importunity, "to receive such favours from the hand of a stranger; when I have need of a mantle, the mercer shall be my friend." "You will, perchance, think better of it when you see the mantle," said the Skipper, carelessly, and then added with a saucy smile, "women are changeful, Master Collector; I will bring the gewgaw for Mistress Blanche's inspection--a chapman may have that privilege." "You may spare yourself the trouble," said the maiden. "Nay, mistress, think it not a trouble, I beseech you; I count nothing a trouble which shall allow me to please thy fancy." As the Skipper uttered this he came still nearer to the chair on which Blanche was seated, and, almost in a whisper, said, "I pray you, mistress, think not so lightly of my wish to serve you. I have set my heart upon your taking the mantle." "Master Skipper, a word with you," interrupted the Secretary, who had watched the whole scene; and aware of the annoyance which Cocklescraft's rudeness inflicted upon the maiden, had quietly approached him and now beckoned him to a recess of the window, where they might converse without being heard by the company. "It is not civil to importune the lady in this fashion. You must be satisfied with her answer as she has given it to you. It vexes the daughter of Master Warden to be thus besought. I pray you, sir, no more of it." Cocklescraft eyed the Secretary for a moment with a glance of scornful resentment, and then replied in a voice inaudible to all but the person to whom it was addressed. "Right! perhaps you are right, sir; but when I would be tutored for my behaviour, he shall be a man, by my troth, who takes that duty on him, and shall wear a beard and sword both. I needed not thy schooling, master crotchet-monger!" Then leaving the Secretary, he strode towards the maiden, and assuming a laughing face, which but awkwardly concealed his vexation, he said, "well, Mistress Blanche, since you are resolved that you will not take my poor bauble off my hands, I must give it over as a venture lost, and so an end of it. I were a fool to be vexed because I could not read the riddle of a maiden's fancy: how should such fish of the sea be learned in so gentle a study? So, viaggio, it shall break no leg of mine! I will dance none the less merrily for it at the feast: and as for the mantle, why it may find other shoulders in the Port, though it shall never find them so fit to wear it withal, as the pretty shoulders of Mistress Blanche. Master Warden I must fain take my leave; my people wait me at the quay. Fair weather for the feast, and a merry time of it, ladies! A Dios, Master Collector!" The gaiety of this leaving-taking was dashed with a sternness of manner which all the Skipper's acting could not conceal, and as he walked towards the door, he paused a moment to touch Albert Verheyden's cloak and whispered in his ear, "We shall be better acquainted, sir;" then leaving the house he rapidly shaped his course towards the town. He had scarcely got out of sight before Blanche sprang from her chair and ran towards her father, pouring out upon him a volley of reproof for his unadvised and especially unauthorized invitation of the Skipper to the festival. The maiden was joined in this assault by her auxiliaries, the Proprietary's sister and Mistress Alice, who concurred in reading the simple-minded and unconsciously offending old gentleman a lecture upon his improvident interference in this delicate matter. They insisted that Cocklescraft's associations in the port gave him no claim to such a favour, and that, at all events, it was Blanche's prerogative to be consulted in regard to the admission of the younger and gayer portions of her company. "Have you not had your will, my dear father," was the summing up of Blanche's playful attack, "to your full content, in summoning all the old humdrum folks of the province, even to the Dominie and his wife, who have never been known to go to a merry-making any where, and who are both so deaf that they have not heard each other speak this many a day? and now you must needs be bringing the Skipper hither." "Lackaday, wench! what have I done to redden thy brow?" interrupted Mr. Warden, with a face of perplexed good humour, unable longer to bear the storm of rebuke, or to parry the arguments which were so eagerly thrust at him; "I warrant now I have made mischief without knowing how! The Skipper is a free blade, of good metal, and of a figure, too, which, methinks, might please a damsel in a dance, and spare us all this coil; his leg has not its fellow in the province. You take me to task roundly, when all the while I was so foolish as to believe I was doing you regardful service." "He hath a wicked look, father," was Blanche's reply; "and a saucy freedom which I like not. He is ever too bold in his greeting, and lacks gentle breeding. He must come to me, forsooth, with his mantle, as an especial token, and set upon me with so much constancy to take it! Take a mantle from him! I have never even seen him but twice before, and then it was in church, where he must needs claim to speak to me as if he were an old acquaintance! I will none of him nor his mantle, if he were fifty times a properer man than he is!" "Be it so, my daughter," replied the Collector. "But we must bear this mishap cheerily. I will not offend again. You women," he said, as he walked to and fro through the parlour, with his hands behind his back, and a good natured smile playing over his features, "you women are more shrewd to read the qualities of men, especially in matters touching behaviour, than such old pock-puddings as I am. I will be better counselled before I trespass in this sort again. But remember, Blanche, the Skipper has his summons, and our hospitality must not suffer reproach; so we will e'en make the best we can of this blundering misadventure of mine. For our own honour, we must be courteous, Blanche, to the Skipper; and, therefore, do thou take heed that he have no cause to say we slight him. As I get old I shall grow wise." Blanche threw her arms around her father's neck and imprinting a kiss upon his brow, said in a tone of affectionate playfulness, "for your sake, dear father, I will not chide: the Skipper shall not want due observance from me. I did but speak to give you a caution, by which you shall learn that the maidens of this province are so foolish as to stand to it, and I amongst the rest, that they are better able to choose their gallants than their fathers,--though their fathers be amongst his Lordship's most trusty advisers." "Now a thousand benisons upon thy head, my child!" said the Collector, as he laid his hand upon Blanche's glossy locks, and then left the apartment. CHAPTER XV. Friend to the sea, and foeman sworn To all that on her waves are borne, When falls a mate in battle broil His comrade heirs his portioned spoil-- Chalice and plate from churches borne, And gems from shrieking beauty torn, Each string of pearl, each silver bar, And all the wealth of western war. ROKEBY. As the Skipper strode towards the town, his dogged air and lowering brow evinced the disquiet of his spirit at what had just occurred. He was nettled by the maiden's rejection of his proffered gift, and a still deeper feeling of resentment agitated his mind against the Secretary. Far other man was he than he was deemed by the burghers of St. Mary's. In truth, they knew but little more of him than might be gained from his few occasional visits to the port in a calling which, as it brought him a fair harvest of profit, laid him under a necessity to cultivate, for the nonce, the good opinion of his customers by such address as he was master of. Cocklescraft belonged to that tribe of desperate men, until near this period in the full career of their bloody successes, known as "The Brethren of the Coast." His first breath was drawn upon the billows of the ocean, and his infancy was nursed in the haunts of the buccaneers, amongst the Keys of the Bahamas. When but a lad, attending upon these wild hordes in their expeditions against the commerce of the Gulf, he chanced to attract the notice of the famous Captain Morgan, whilst that most rapacious of all the pirate leaders was preparing, at Jamaica, for his incursion against Maracaibo. The freebooter was charmed with the precocious relish for rapine conspicuous in the character of the boy; and, with an affectionate interest, took him under his tutelage, assigning to him a post near his person, rather of pageantry than service--that of a page or armour-bearer, according to the yet lingering forms of chivalry. The incredible bravery of the buccaneers in this exploit, and their detestable cruelties were witnessed by this callow imp of the sea, with a delight and a shrewdness of apprehension which gave to his youthful nature the full benefit of the lesson. He was scarce two years older when, in the due succession of his hopeful experience, he again attended his patron upon that unmatched adventure of plunder and outrage, the leaguer of Panama; and it was remarked that amidst the perils of the cruise upon the Costa Rica, the toils of the inland march over moor and mountain, and the desperate hazards of the storming of the city, the page, graceful and active as the minion of a lady's bower, and fierce as a young sea-wolf, was seen every where, like an elvish sprite, tracking the footsteps of his ruthless master. The history of human wickedness has not a more appalling chapter than that which records the fate of the wretched inhabitants of Panama in this assault; and yet, in the midst of its shocking enormities, the gay and tasseled familiar of the ruffian pirate chief tripped daintily through the carnage, with the light step of a reveller, and pursued the flying virgins and affrighted matrons, from house to house, as the flames enveloped their roof trees, with the mockery and prankishness of an actor in a masquerade. This expedition terminated not without adding another item to the experience of the young free-booter--the only one, perhaps, yet wanting to his perfect accomplishment. The Welsh Captain, laden with spoils of untold value, played false to his comrades, by stealing off with the lion's share of the booty; thus, by a gainful act of perfidy, inculcating upon the eager susceptibility of the page an imposing moral, of which it may be supposed he would not be slow to profit. Such was the school in which Cocklescraft received the rudiments of his education. These harsher traits of his character, however, it is but justice to say, were, in some degree, mitigated by a tolerably fair amount of scholastic accomplishment, picked up in the intervals of his busy life amongst the scant teaching afforded by the islands, of which the protection and care of his patron enabled him to profit. To this was added no mean skill in music, dancing, and the use of his weapon; whilst a certain enthusiasm of temperament stimulated his courage and even whetted the fierceness of his nature. Morgan, having run his career, returned to England, a man of wealth, and was knighted by the monarch, in one of those profligate revels by which Charles disgraced his kingly state; the page was, in consequence, turned adrift upon the world, as it is usual to say of heroes, "with no fortune but his talents, and no friend but his sword." Riot soon exhausted his stock of plunder, and the prodigal licentiousness of "The Brethren of the Coast," forbade the gathering of a future hoard. About this date the European powers began to deal more resolutely with the banditti of the islands, and their trade consequently became more precarious. They were compelled, in pursuit of new fields for robbery, to cross the isthmus and try their fortunes on the coast of the Pacific--whither Cocklescraft followed and reaped his harvest in the ravage of Peru: but in turn, the Brethren found themselves tracked into these remoter seas, and our adventurer was fain, with many of his comrades, to find his way back to the coves and secret harbours of Tortuga and the Keys, whence he contrived to eke out a scant subsistence, by an occasional stoop upon such defenceless wanderers of the ocean as chance threw within his grasp. The Olive Branch was a beautiful light vessel, which, in one of his sea-forays, he had wrested from a luckless merchant; and this acquisition suggested to him the thought that, with such necessary alterations as should disguise her figure and equipment, he might drive a more secure, and, perchance, more profitable trade between the Atlantic colonies and the old countries; so, with a mongrel crew of trusty cutthroats, carefully selected from the companions of his former fortunes, and a secret armament well bestowed for sudden emergency, he set himself up for an occasional trader between the Chesapeake and the coast of Holland. A lucky acquaintance with the Cripple of St. Jerome's gave him a useful ally in his vocation as a smuggler; the fisherman's hut, long believed to be the haunt of evil spirits, admirably favoured his design, and under the management of Rob, soon became a spot of peculiar desecration in popular report; and thus, in no long space of time, the gay, swashing cavalier, master of the Olive Branch, began to find good account in his change of character from the Flibustier of the Keys into that of smuggler and trader of the Chesapeake. He had now made several voyages from St. Mary's to the various marts of Holland and England, taking out cargoes of tobacco and bringing back such merchandise as was likely to find a ready sale in the colonies. His absence from port was often mysteriously prolonged, and on his return it not unfrequently happened that there were found amongst his cargo commodities such as might scarce be conjectured to have been brought from the ports of Europe,--consisting some times of tropical fruits, ingots of gold and silver, and sundry rich furniture of Indian aspect, better fitted for the cabinet of the virtuoso than the trade of a new province. Then, also, there were occasionally costly stuffs, and tissues of exceeding richness, such as cloth of gold, velvets of Genoa, arras tapestry, and even pictures which might have hung in churches. These commodities were invariably landed at St. Jerome's Bay before the Olive Branch cast her anchor in the harbour of St. Mary's, and were reshipped on the outward voyage. The Cripple of St. Jerome's had a few customers who were privileged at certain periods to traffic with him in a species of merchandise of which he was seldom without a supply at his command--chiefly wines and strong waters, and coarser household goods, which were charily exhibited in small parcels at the hut, and when the bargain was made, supplied in greater bulk by unseen hands from secret magazines, concerning which the customer was not so rash as even to inquire--for Rob was a man who, the country people most devoutly believed, had immediate commerce with the Evil One, and who, it was known, would use his dagger before he gave warning by words. The open and lawful dealing of the Skipper, in the port of St. Mary's, had brought him into an acquaintance with most of the inhabitants, and as his arrival was always a subject of agreeable expectation, he was, by a natural consequence, looked upon with a friendly regard. His address, gaiety of demeanour, and fine figure--which last was studiously set off to great advantage by a rich and graceful costume--heightened this sentiment of personal favour, and gave him privileges in the society of the town which, in that age of scrupulous regard to rank, would have been denied him if he had been a constant sojourner. Emboldened by this reception he had essayed to offer some gallant civilities to the maiden of the Rose Croft, which were instantly repelled, however, by the most formal coldness. The Skipper was not so practised an observer as to perceive in this repugnance, the actual aversion which the maiden felt against his advances to acquaintance; and he was content to account it a merely girlish reserve which importunity and assiduous devotion might overcome. His vanity suggested the resolve to conquer the damsel's indifference; and as that thought grew upon his fancy, it, by degrees, ripened into a settled purpose, which in the end completely engrossed his mind. As he brooded over the subject, and permitted his imagination to linger around that form of beauty and loveliness,--cherished as it was, during the long weeks of his lonely tracking of the sea, and in the solitary musings and silent night-watches of his deck,--a romantic ardour was kindled in his breast, and he hastened back to the Port of St. Mary's, strangely wrought upon by new impulses, which seemed to have humanized and mellowed even his rude nature: the shrewder observers were aware of more gentleness in his bearing, though they found him more wayward in his temper;--he was prouder of heart, yet with humbler speech, and often more stern than before. The awakening of a new passion had overmastered both the ferocity and the levity of his character. He was, in truth, the undivulged, anxious, and almost worshipping lover of Blanche Warden. When such a nature as I have described chances to fall into the loving vein, it will be admitted to be a somewhat fearful category both for the lady and the lover's rival. Such men are not apt to mince matters in the course of their wooing. This was the person who now plied his way towards the port, in solitary rumination over two distinct topics of private grief, each of a nature to rouse the angry devil of his bosom. He could not but see that his first approach towards the favour of his mistress had been promptly repelled. That alone would have filled his mind with bitterness, and given a harsh complexion to his thoughts;--but this cause of complaint was almost stifled by the more engrossing sentiment of hostility against the Secretary. That he should have been rebuked for his behaviour, by a man,--and a man, too, who evidently stood well with the lady of his love; taken to task and chid in the very presence of his mistress,--was an offence that called immediately to his manhood and demanded redress. Such redress was more to his hand than the nicer subtleties of weighing the maiden's displeasure, and he turned to it with a natural alacrity, as to a comfort in his perplexity. It is the instinct of a rude nature to refer all cases of wounded sensibility to the relief of battle. A rejected lover, like a child who has lost a toy, finds consolation in his distress by fighting any one that he can persuade himself has stood in his way, and he is made happy when there chances to be some plausible ground for such a proceeding. The Skipper thought the subject over in every aspect which his offended pride could fancy. At one moment the idea of quarrel with the Secretary pleased him, and almost reconciled him to the maiden's coldness; at the next he doubted whether, after all, she had in fact designed to repel his friendship. He vibrated between these considerations for a space in silence: his pride quelled the expression of his anger. But by degrees his quickened pace and sturdier step, and, now and then, that slight shake of the head by which men sometimes express determination, made it plain that the fiery element in his bosom was rising in tumult. At length, unable to suppress his feeling, the inward commotion found utterance in words. "Who and what is this Master Secretary that hath set the maiden of the Rose Croft to look upon me with an evil spirit? I would fain know if he think himself a properer man than I. Doth he stand upon his fingering of a lute, and his skill to dance?--Why even in this chamber-craft I will put it to a wager he is no master of mine. Is he more personable in shape or figure?--goes he in better apparel? or is that broken English of his more natural to the province than my plain speech, that he should claim the right to chide me for my behaviour? Is it that he hath a place in the train of his Lordship? Have not I served as near to a belted knight--lord of a thousand stout hearts and master of a fleet of thirty sail?--ay, and in straits where you should as soon expect to meet a hare as that crotchet-monger. A bookish clerk with no manly calling that should soil his ruff in the space of a moon! By Saint Iago, but I will put him to his books to learn how he shall heal the stroke of a choleric hand, when the time shall serve to give him the taste of it!--Mistress Blanche would not be importuned--indeed! And he must be my tutor to teach me what pleaseth Mistress Blanche. He lied--the maiden did not mislike my question;--she but hung her head to have it so openly spoken. I know she doth not set at naught my favours, but as damsels from custom do a too public tender of a token. Old Anthony Warden counts his friends by their manhood, and he hath shown me grace:--his daughter in the end will follow his likings--and as the father's choice approves, so will hers incline. Am I less worthy in old Master Warden's eyes, than yonder parchment bearer--that pen-and-ink slave of his Lordship's occasions?--he that durst not raise his eye above his Lord's shoe, nor speak out of a whisper when his betters are in presence? What is he, to put me from the following of my own will when it pleases me to speak to any maiden of this province?--I am of the sea--the broad, deep sea! she hath nursed me in her bosom,--and hath given me my birth-right to be as proudly borne as the honours of any lord of the land. I have a brave deck for my foot, a good blade for my belt, the bountiful ocean before me and a score of merry men at my back. Are these conditions so mean that I must brook the Secretary's displeasure or fashion my speech to suit his liking?--We shall understand each other better, in good time, or I shall lack opportunity to speak my mind:--I shall, good Master Verheyden,--you have the word of a 'Brother of the Bloody Coast' for that!" Before the Skipper had ceased this petulant and resentful self-communion, he found himself in the neighbourhood of the Catholic Chapel, nearly in front of the dwelling of father Pierre, when the good priest, who was at this moment returning from noon-day service, took him at unawares with the salutation,-- "Peace be with you, son!--you reckon up the sum of your ventures with a careful brow, and speak loud enough to make the town acquainted with thy gains, if perchance some of the chapmen with whom thou hast dealing should be in thy path. How fares it with thee, Master Skipper?" "Ha, Mi Padre!" exclaimed Cocklescraft, instantly throwing aside his graver thoughts and assuming a jocular tone. "Well met;--I was on my way to visit you: that would I have done yesterday upon my arrival, but that the press of my business would not allow it. You grow old, father, so evenly that, although I see you but after long partings, I can count no fresh touch of time upon your head." "Men of your calling should not flatter," said the priest smiling. "What news do you bring us from the old world?" "Oh, much and merry, father Pierre. The old world plies her old trade and thrives by it. Knavery hath got somewhat of the upper hand since they have quit crossing swords in this new piece of Nimeguen. The Hogan Mogans are looking a little surly at the Frenchman for cocking his beaver so bravely; and our jobbernowl English, now that they can find no more reason to throttle each other, have gone back to their old sport of pricking the side of our poor church. You shall find as many plots in London, made out of hand and ready for use in one month, as would serve all the stage plays of the kingdom for the next hundred years--and every plot shall have a vile Papist at the bottom of it,--if you may believe Oates and Bedloe. I was there when my Lord Stafford was made a head shorter on Tower Hill. You heard of this,--father?" "Alack! in sorrow we heard of this violence," replied the priest, "and deeply did it grieve my Lord to lose so good a friend. Even as you have found it in England, so is it here. The discontents against the holy church are nursed by many who seek thereby to command the province. We have plotters here who do not scruple to contrive against the life of his Lordship and his Lordship's brother the Chancellor. Besides, the government at home is unfriendly to us." "You have late news from England?" inquired the Skipper. "We have,--and which, but that you are true in your creed, I might scarce mention to your ear--the royal order has come to my Lord to dismiss his Catholic servants from office--every one. His Lordship scruples to obey. This, Master Skipper, I confide to you in private, as not to be told again." "To remove all!" said Cocklescraft. "Why it will sweep off his nearest friends--Anthony Warden and all." "Even so." "There is fighting matter in that, upon the spot," exclaimed the Skipper. "By St. Sebastian, I hope it may come up while I am in port! The Collector, old as he is, will buckle on his toledo in that quarrel. He has mettle for it; and I could wish no better play than to stand by his side. Who is this Secretary of my Lord's private chamber? I met him at the Collector's to-day." "Master Albert Verheyden," replied the priest. "I know his name--they told it to me there--but his quality and condition, father?" "You may be proud of his fellowship," said father Pierre; "he was once a scholar of the Jesuit school at Antwerp, of the class inscribed 'Princeps Diligentiæ,' and brought thence by my Lord. A youth, Master Cocklescraft, of promise and discretion--a model to such as would learn good manners and cherish virtuous inclinations. You may scarcely fail to see him at the Collector's: the townspeople do say he has an eye somewhat dazzled there." "Craving pardon for my freedom, I say, father Pierre, a fig's end for such a model!" exclaimed the Skipper, pettishly: "you may have such by the score, wherever lazy, bookish men eat their bread. I like him not, with his laced band and feather, his book and lute: harquebuss and whinyard are the tools for these days. I hear the Fendalls have been at mischief again. We shall come to bilbo and buff before long. Your Secretary will do marvellous service in these straits, father." "Son, you are somewhat sinful in your scorn," said the priest, mildly; "the Secretary doth not deserve this taunt----" "By the holy hermits, father, I speak of the Secretary but as I think. He does not awe me with his greatness. I vail no topsail to him, I give you my word for it." "The saints preserve us from harm!" said the churchman. "We know not what may befall us from the might of our enemies, when this hot blood shall sunder our friends. In sober counsel, son, and not in rash divisions shall we find our safety. It doth not become thee, Master Cocklescraft, to let thy tetchy humour rouse thee against the Secretary. It might warrant my displeasure." "Mea culpa, holy father--I do confess my fault," said the seaman, in a tone of assumed self-constraint--"I will not again offend; and for my present atonement will offer a censer of pure silver, which in my travels I picked up, and in truth did then design to give, to the Chapel of St. Mary's. I will bring it to the chapel, father Pierre, as soon as my vessel is unladen." "You should offer up your anger too, to make this gift acceptable," returned the priest. "Let thy dedication be with a cleansed heart." "Ha, father Pierre," said the Skipper, jocularly; "my conscience does easily cast off a burden: so it shall be as you command. I did not tell you that whilst my brigantine lay in the Helder, I made a land flight to Louvaine, where a certain Abbot of Andoyne,--a pious, somewhat aged, and, thanks to a wholesome refectory! a good jolly priest,--hearing I came from the province, must needs send for me to ask if I knew father Pierre de la Maise, and upon my answer, that I did right well, he begs me to bring his remembrance back to you." "I knew father Gervase," replied the priest with a countenance full of benignity--"some forty years ago, when he was a reader in the Chair of St. Isidore at Rome. He remembers me?--a blessing on his head!--and he wears well, Master Skipper?" "Quite as well as yourself," replied Cocklescraft. "Father, a cup of your cool water, and I will depart," he said, as he helped himself to the draught. "I will take heed to what you have said touching the royal order--and by St. Iago, I will be a friend in need to the Collector. Master Verheyden shall not be a better one. Now fare thee well, father. Peregrine Cadger shall have order to cut you off a cassock from the best cloth I have brought him, and little Abbot the tailor shall put it in fashion for you." "You are lavish of your bounties, son," replied the priest, taking Cocklescraft by both hands as he was now about to withdraw. "You have a poor churchman's thanks. It gives me comfort to be so considered, and I prize your kindness more than the cassock. A blessing on thy ways, Master Cocklescraft!" The Skipper once more set forth on his way towards the port; and with a temper somewhat allayed by the acting of the scene I have just described, though with no abatement of the resentment which rankled at the bottom of his heart, even under the smiling face and gay outside which he could assume with the skill of a consummate dissembler, he soon reached the Crow and Archer. From thence he meditated, as soon as his occasions would permit, a visit to the Cripple of St. Jerome's. CHAPTER XVI. "Who be these, sir?" "Fellows to mount a bank. Did your instructer In the dear tongues never discourse to you Of the Italian mountebanks?" "Yes, sir." "Why here you shall see one." "They are quacksalvers, Fellows that live by venting oils and drugs." VOLPONE. The council had been summoned to meet on the morning following that of the incidents related in the last chapter, and the members were now accordingly assembling, soon after breakfast, at the Proprietary mansion. The arrival of one or two gentlemen on horseback with their servants, added somewhat to the bustle of the stable yard, which was already the scene of that kind of busy idleness and lounging occupation so agreeable to the menials of a large establishment. Here, in one quarter, a few noisy grooms were collected around the watering troughs, administering the discipline of the curry-comb or the wash bucket to some half score of horses. In a corner of the yard Dick Pagan the courier and Willy o' the Flats, with the zeal of amateur vagrants, were striving to cozen each other out of their coppers at the old game of Cross and Pile; whilst, in an opposite direction, Derrick was exhibiting to a group of spectators, amongst whom the young heir apparent was a prominent personage, a new set of hawk bells just brought by the Olive Branch from Dort, and lecturing, with a learned gravity, upon their qualities, to the infinite edification and delight of his youthful pupil. Slouching fox hounds, thick-lipped mastiffs and wire-haired terriers mingled indiscriminately amongst these groups, as if confident of that favouritism which is the universal privilege of the canine race amongst good tempered persons and contented idlers all the world over. Whilst the inhabitants of the yard were engrossed with these occupations, a trumpet was heard at a distance in the direction of the town. The blast came so feebly upon the ear as, at first, to pass unregarded, but being repeated at short intervals, and at every repetition growing louder, it soon arrested the general attention, and caused an inquiry from all quarters into the meaning of so unusual an incident. "Fore God, I think that there be an alarm of Indians in the town!" exclaimed the falconer as he spread his hand behind his ear and listened for some moments, with a solemn and portentous visage. "Look to it, lads--there may be harm afoot. Put up thy halfpence, Dick Pagan, and run forward to seek out the cause of this trumpeting. I will wager it means mischief, masters." "Indians!" said Willy; "Derrick's five wits have gone on a fool's errand ever since the murder of that family at the Zachaiah fort by the salvages. If the Indians were coming you should hear three guns from Master Randolph Brandt's look-out on the Notley road. It is more likely there may be trouble at the gaol with the townspeople, for there was a whisper afloat yesterday concerning a rescue of the prisoners. Troth, the fellow has a lusty breath who blows that trumpet!" "Ay, and the trumpet," said Derrick, "is not made to dance with, masters: there is war and throat-cutting in it, or I am no true man." During this short exchange of conjectures, Dick Pagan had hastened to the gate which opened towards the town, and mounting the post, for the sake of a more extensive view, soon discerned the object of alarm, when, turning towards his companions, he shouted, "Wounds,--but here's a sight! Pike and musket, belt and saddle, boys! To it quickly;--you shall have rare work anon. Wake up the ban dogs of the fort and get into your harness. Here comes the Dutch Doctor with his trumpeter as fierce as the Dragon of Wantley. Buckle to and stand your ground!" "Ho, ho!" roared the fiddler with an impudent, swaggering laugh. "Here's a pretty upshot to your valours! Much cry and little wool, like the Devil's hog-shearing at Christmas. You dullards, couldn't I have told you it was the Dutch Doctor,--if your fright had left you but a handful of sense to ask a question? Didn't I see both him and his trumpeter last night at the Crow and Archer, with all their jin-gumbobs in a pair of panniers? Oh, but he is a rare Doctor, and makes such cures, I warrant you, as have never been seen, known or heard of since the days of St. Byno, who built up his own serving man again, sound as a pipkin, after the wild beasts had him for supper." The trumpet now sent forth a blast which terminated in a long flourish, indicating the approach of the party to the verge within which it might not be allowable to continue such a clamour; and in a few moments afterwards the Doctor with his attendant entered the stable yard. He was a little, sharp-featured, portly man, of a brown, dry complexion, in white periwig, cream-coloured coat, and scarlet small clothes: of a brisk gait, and consequential air, which was heightened by the pompous gesture with which he swayed a gold-mounted cane full as tall as himself. His attendant, a bluff, burly, red-eyed man, with a singularly stolid countenance, tricked out in a grotesque costume, of which a short cloak, steeple-crowned hat and feather, and enormous nether garments, all of striking colours, were the most notable components, bore a brass trumpet suspended on one side, and a box of no inconsiderable dimensions in front of his person; and thus furnished, followed close at the heels of the important individual whose coming had been so authentically announced. No sooner had the Doctor got fairly within the gate than he was met by Derrick Brown, who, being the most authoritative personage in the yard, took upon himself the office of giving the stranger welcome. "Frents, how do you do?" was the Doctor's accost in a strong, Low Dutch method of pronouncing English. "I pelieve dis is not de gate I should have entered to see his Lordship de Lord Proprietary," he added, looking about him with some surprise to find where he was. "If it was my Lord you came to see," said the falconer, "you should have turned to your right, and gone by the road which leads to the front of the house. But the way you have come is no whit the longer: we can take you through, Master Doctor, by the back door." "Vell, vell, dere is noding lost by peing acquainted at once wid de people of de house," replied the man of medicine; "dere is luck to make your first entrance by de pack door, as de old saying is. I vas summoned dis morning to appear before de council, py my Lord's order; and so, I thought I might trive a little pusiness, at de same time, wid de family." "I told you all," said Willy, with an air of self-importance at his own penetration, "that this was a rare doctor. The council hath sent for him! my Lord hath made it a state matter to see him. It isn't every doctor that comes before the worshipful council, I trow. Give him welcome, boys, doff your beavers." At this command several of the domestics touched their hats, with a gesture partly in earnest and partly in sport, as if expecting some diversion to follow. "No capping to me, my frents!" exclaimed the Doctor, with a bow, greatly pleased at these tokens of respect; "no capping to me! Pusiness is pusiness, and ven I come to sell you tings dat shall do you goot, I tank you for your custom and your money, widout asking you to touch your cap." "There is sense in that," said John Alward; "and since you come to trade in the yard, Doctor, you can show us your wares. There is a penny to be picked up here." "Open your box, Doctor; bring out your pennyworths; show us the inside!" demanded several voices at once. "Ha, ha!" exclaimed the vender of drugs, "you are wise, goot frents; you know somewhat! You would have a peep at my aurum potabiles in dat little casket--my multum in parvo? Yes, you shall see, and you shall hear what you have never seen pefore, and shall not in your long lives again." "Have you e'er a good cleansing purge for a moulting hawk?" inquired Derrick Brown, whilst the doctor was unlocking the box. "Or a nostrum that shall be sure work on a horse with a farcy?" asked one of the grooms. "Hast thou an elixir that shall expel a lumbago?" demanded John Alward: all three speaking at the same instant. "Tib, the cook," said a fourth, "has been so sore beset with cramps, that only this morning she was saying, in her heart she believed she would not stop to give the paste buckle that Tom Oxcart gave her for a token at Whitsuntide, for a cordial that would touch a cold stomach. I will persuade her into a trade with the Doctor." "Oh, as for the women," replied a fifth, "there isn't a wench in my Lord's service that hasn't a bad tooth, or a cold stomach, or a tingling in the ears, or some such ailing: it is their nature--they would swallow the Doctor's pack in a week, if they had license." The man of nostrums was too much employed in opening out his commodities to heed the volley of questions which were poured upon him all round, but having now put himself in position for action, he addressed himself to his auditors: "I vill answer all your questions in goot time; but I must crave your leave, frents, to pegin in de order of my pusiness. Dobel," he said, turning to his attendant, who stood some paces in the rear, "come forward and pegin." The adjutant at this command stepped into the middle of the ring, and after making several strange grimaces, of which at first view his countenance would have been deemed altogether incapable, and bowing in three distinct quarters to the company, commenced the following speech: "Goot beoplish!"--this was accompanied with a comic leer that set the whole yard in a roar--"dish ish de drice renowned und ingomprbl Doctor Closh Tebor"--another grimace, and another volley of laughter--"what ish de grand pheseeshan of de greate gofernor of New York, Antony Prockolls, und lives in Alpany in de gofernor's own pallash, wid doo tousand guilders allowed him py de gofernor everich yeere, und a goach to rite, und a pody-cart to go pefore him in de sthreets ven he valks to take de air. All tish to keepe de gofernor und his vrouw de Laty Katerina Prockholls in goot healf--noding else--on mein onor." This was said with great emphasis, the speaker laying his hand on his heart and making a bow, accompanied with a still more ludicrous grimace than any he had yet exhibited, which brought forth a still louder peal from his auditory. He was about to proceed with his commendatory harangue, when he was interrupted by Benedict Leonard. It seems that upon the first announcement by the Doctor of the purport of his visit, the youth, fearful lest his mother, who was constitutionally subject to alarm, might have been disturbed by the trumpet, ran off to apprise her of what he had just witnessed; and giving her the full advantage of Willy's exaggerated estimate of the travelling healer of disease, returned, by the lady's command, to conduct this worthy into her presence. He accordingly now delivered his message, and forthwith master and man moved towards the mansion, with the whole troop of the stable yard at their heels. The itinerant was introduced into Lady Baltimore's presence in a small parlour, where she was attended by two little girls, her only children beside the boy we have noticed, and the sister of the Proprietary. Her pale and emaciated frame and care-worn visage disclosed to the practised glance of the visiter a facile subject for his delusive art,--a ready votary of that credulous experimentalism which has filled the world with victims to medical imposture. In the professor of medicine's reverence to the persons before him there was an overstrained obsequiousness, but, at the same time, an expression of imperturbable confidence fully according with the ostentatious pretension which marked his demeanour amongst the menials of the household. Notwithstanding his broad accent, he spoke with a ready fluency that showed him well skilled in that voluble art by which, at that day, the workers of wonderful cures and the possessors of infallible elixirs advertised the astonishing virtues of their compounds--an art which has in our time only changed its manner of utterance, and now announces its ridiculous pretensions in every newspaper of every part of our land, in whole columns of mountebank lies and quack puffery. "This is the great Doctor," said Benedict Leonard, who now acted as gentleman usher, "and he has come I can't tell how far, to see who was ailing in our parts. I just whispered to him, dear mother, what a famous good friend you were to all sorts of new cures. And oh, it would do you good to see what a box of crankums he has in the hall! Yes, and a man to carry it, with a trumpet! Blowing and physicking a plenty now, to them that like it! How the man bears such a load, I can't guess." "Dobel has a strong back and a steady mule for his occasions, my pretty poy," said the Doctor, patting the heir apparent on the head, with a fondness of manner that sensibly flattered the mother. "When we would do goot, master, we must not heed de trouble to seek dem dat stand in need of our ministrations over de world." The lady's feeble countenance lit up with a sickly smile as she remonstrated with the boy. "Bridle thy tongue, Benedict, nor suffer it to run so nimbly. We have heard, Doctor, something of your fame, and gladly give you welcome." "Noble lady," replied the pharmacopolist, "I am but a simple and poor Doctor, wid such little fame as it has pleased Got to pestow for mine enteavours to miticate de distemperatures and maladies and infirmities which de fall of man, in de days of Adam, de august progenitor of de human races, has prought upon all his children. And de great happiness I have had to make many most wonderful cures in de provinces of America, made me more pold to hope I might pring some assuagement and relief to your ladyship, who, I have peen told, has peen grievously tormented wid perturbations and melancholics; a very common affection wid honourable ladies." "Alack, Doctor, my affections come from causes which are beyond the reach of your art," said the lady with a sigh. "Still, it would please me to hear the cures you speak of. You have, doubtless, had great experience?" "You shall hear, my lady. I am not one of dat rabble of pretenders what travel apout de world to cry up and magnify dere own praises. De Hemel is mij getuige,--Heaven is my chudge, and your ladyship's far renowned excellent wisdom forbids dat you should be imposed upon by dese cheats and impostors denominated--and most justly, on my wort!--charlatans and empirical scaramouches. De veritable merit in dis world is humble, my lady. I creep rader in de dust, dan soar in de clouts:--it is in my nature. Oders shall speak for me--not myself." "But you have seen the world, Doctor, and studied, and served in good families?" "Your ladyship has great penetration. I have always lived in friendship wid worshipful peoples. De honourable Captain General Anthony Brockholls, de governor of de great province of New York,--hah! dere was nopody could please him but Doctor Debor. Night and day, my lady, for two years, have I peen physicking his excellency and all his family:--de governor is subject to de malady of a pad digestion and crudities which gives him troublesome dreams. I have studied in de school of Leyden--dree courses, until I could find no more to learn; and den I have travelled in France, Germany, and Italy, where I took a seat in de great University of Padua, for de penefit of de lectures of dat very famous doctor, Veslingius, de prefect, your ladyship shall understand, and professor of botany, a most rare herbalist. And dere also I much increased and enriched my learning under de wing of dat astonishing man, de grave and profound Doctor Athelsteinus Leonenas, de expounder of de great secrets of de veins and nerves. You shall chudge, honourable ladies, what was my merit, when I tell you de University would make me Syndicus Artistarum, only dat I refused so great honour, pecause I would not make de envy of my compeers. Did I not say true when I tell you it is not my nature to soar in de clouts?" "Truly the Doctor hath greatly slighted his fame," said the Lady Maria apart to her kinswoman. "I would fain know what you have in your pack." "Worshipful madam, you shall soon see," replied the Doctor, who now ordered Dobel, his man, into the room. "Here," he said, as he pointed to the different parcels, "are balsamums, panaceas, and elixirs. Dis is a most noted alexipharmacum against quartan agues, composed of many roots, herps and spices; dis I call de lampas vitæ, an astonishing exhilirator and promoter of de goot humours of de mind, and most valuable for de rare gift of clear sight to de old, wid many oder virtues I will not stop to mention. Dese are confections, electuaries, sirups, conserves, ointments, odoraments, cerates, and gargarisms, for de skin, for de stomach, for de pruises and wounds, for de troat, and every ting pesides. Ah! here, my lady, is de great lapour of my life, de felicity and royal reward--as I may say--of all my studies: it is de most renowned and admired and never-to-be-estimated Medicamentum Promethei, which has done more penefactions dan all de oder simples and compounds in de whole pharmacopeia of medicine. Your ladyship shall take but one half of dis little phial, when you will say more for its praise dan I could speak widout peing accounted a most windy, hyperbolical and monstrous poaster--ha, waarachtig! I will speak noting. Dat wise and sagacious and sapient man, de great governor and captain, Antony Brockholls, has given me in my hand so much as five ducatoons,--yes, my lady, five ducatoons for dat little glass, two hours after a dinner of cold endives--Ik spreek a waarachtiglik--I speak you truly, my lady: and now I give it away for de goot of de world and mine own glory, at no more dan one rix dollar,--five shillings. I do not soar in de clouts?" "Can you describe its virtues, Doctor?" inquired the lady. "Mine honoured madam, dey are apundant, and I shall not lie if I say countless and widout number. First, it is a great enemy to plack choler, and to all de affections of de spleen, giving sweet sleep to de eyelids dat have peen kept open py de cares and sufferings and anxieties of de world. It will dispel de charms of witchcraft, magic and sorcery, and turn away de stroke of de evil eye. It corroborates de stomach py driving off de sour humours of de pylorus, and cleansing de diaphram from de oppilations which fill up and torpefy de pipes of de nerves. And your ladyship shall observe dat, as nature has supplied and adapted particular plants and herps to de maladies of de several parts of de animal pody, as,--not to be tedious,--aniseeds and calamint for de head, hysop and liquorice for de lungs, borage for de heart, betony for de spleen, and so on wid de whole pody--dis wonderful medicament contains and possesses in itself someting of all, being de great remedy, antidote and expeller of all diseases, such as vertigine, falling sickness, cramps, catalepsies, lumbagos, rheums, inspissations, agitations, hypocondrics, and tremorcordies, whedder dey come of de head, de heart, de liver, de vena cava, de mesentery or de pericardium, making no difference if dey be hot or cold, dry or moist, or proceeding from terrestrial or genethliacal influences, evil genitures, or vicious aspects of de stars--it is no matter--dey all vanish pefore de great medicamentum. You must know, my lady, dis precious mixture was de great secret--de arcanum mirificabile--of dat wonderful Arabian physician Hamech, which Paracelsus went mad wid cudgelling his prains to find out; and Avicenna and Galen and Trismegistus and Moderatus Columella all proke down in deir search to discover de meaning of de learned worts in which Hamech wrote de signification. De great Swammerdam, hoch! what would he not give Doctor Debor for dat secret! I got it, my lady, from a learned Egyptian doctor, who took it from an eremite of Arabia Felix. It was not my merit, so much as my goot fortune. I am humble, my lady, and do not poast, but speak op't woord van een eerlyk man." "He discourses beyond our depth," said Lady Baltimore, greatly puzzled to keep pace with the learned pretensions of the quack; "and yet I dare say there is virtue in these medicines. What call you your great compound, Doctor? I have forgotten its name." "De Medicamentum Promethei," replied the owner of this wonderful treasure, pleased with the interest taken in his discourse. "Your ladyship will comprehend from your reading learned pooks, dat Prometheus was a great headen god, what stole de fire from Heaven, whereby he was able to vivicate and reluminate de decayed and worn-out podies of de human families, and in a manner even to give life to de images of clay; which is all, as your good ladyship discerns, a fabulous narration, or pregnant fable, as de scholars insinuate. And moreover, de poets and philosophers say dat same headen god was very learned in de knowledge of de virtues of plants and herps, which your ladyship will remark is de very consistence and identification of de noble art of pharmacy. Well den, dis Prometheus, my lady--ha, ha!--was some little bit of a juggler, and was very fond of playing his legerdemains wid de gods, till one day de great Jupiter, peing angry wid his jocularities and his tricks, caused him to be chained to a rock, wid a hungry vulture always gnawing his liver; and dere he was in dis great misery, till his pody pined away so small dat his chain would not hold him, and den, aha! he showed Jupiter a goot pair of heels, like an honest fellow, and set apout to find de medicines what should renovate and patch up his liver, which you may be sure he did, my lady, in a very little while. Dis again is anoder fable, to signify dat he was troubled wid a great sickness in dat part of his pody. Now, my lady, see how well de name significates de great virtues of my medicament, which, in de first place, is a miraculous restorer of health and vigour and life to de feeble spirits of de pody: dere's de fire. Second, it is composed of more dan one hundred plants, roots, and seeds, most delicately distilled, sublimed and suffumigated in a limbeck of pure virgin silver, and according to de most subtle projections of alchemy: and dere your ladyship shall see de knowledge of de virtues of plants and de most consummate art of de concoctions. And now for de last significance of de fable: dis medicament is a specific of de highest exaltation for de cure, which never fails, of all distemperatures of de liver; not to say dat it is less potent to overcome and destroy all de oder diseases I have mentioned, and many more. Dere you see de whole Medicamentum Promethei, which I sell to worshipful peoples for one rix dollar de phial. Is it not well named, my lady, and superlative cheap? I give it away: de projection alone costs me more dan I ask for de compound." "The name is curiously made out," said the lady, "and worthily, if the virtue of the compound answer the description. But your cures, you have not yet touched upon them. I long to hear what notable feats you have accomplished in that sort." "My man Dobel shall speak," replied the professor. "De great Heaven forpid I should pe a poaster to de ears of such honourable ladies! Dobel, rehearse de great penefaction of de medicament upon de excellent and discreet and virtuous vrouw of Governor Brockholls--Spreek op eene verstaanbare wijze!" "Hier ben ik," answered Dobel to this summons, stepping at the same time into the middle of the room and erecting his person as stiffly as a grenadier on parade: "Goot beoplish! dish ish de drice renowned und ingomprbl Doctor Closh Tebor----" "Stop, stop, hou stil! halt--volslagen gek!" exclaimed the Doctor, horrified at the nature of the harangue his stupid servitor had commenced, and which for a moment threatened to continue, in spite of the violent remonstrance of the master, Dobel persevering like a thing spoken from rather than a thing that speaks--"Fool, jack-pudding! you pelieve yourself on a bank, up on a stage, before de rabble rout? You would disgrace me before honourable and noble ladies, wid your tavern howlings, and your parkings and your pellowings! Out of de door, pegone!" The imperturbable and stolid trumpeter, having thus unfortunately incurred his patron's ire, slunk from the parlour, utterly at a loss to comprehend wherein he had offended. The Doctor in the mean while, overwhelmed with confusion and mortified vanity, bustled towards the door and there continued to vent imprecations upon the unconscious Dobel, which, as they were uttered in Low Dutch, were altogether incomprehensible to the company, but at the same time were sufficiently ludicrous to produce a hearty laugh from the Lady Maria, and even to excite a partial show of merriment in her companion. Fortunately for the Doctor, in the midst of his embarrassment, a messenger arrived to inform him that his presence was required before the council, in another part of the house, which order, although it deprived the ladies of the present opportunity of learning the great efficacy of the Medicamentum Promethei in the case of the wife of Governor Brockholls, gave the Doctor a chance of recovering his self-possession by a retreat from the apartment. So, after an earnest entreaty to be forgiven for the inexpert address of his man, and a promise to resume his discourse on a future occasion, he betook himself, under the guidance of the messenger, to the chamber in which the council were convened. Here sat the Proprietary, and Philip Calvert, the Chancellor, who were now, with five or six other gentlemen, engaged in the transaction of business of grave import. Some depredations had been recently committed upon the English by the Indians inhabiting the upper regions of the Susquehanna,--especially by the Sinniquoes, who, in an incursion against the Piscattaways, a friendly tribe in the vicinity of St. Mary's, had advanced into the low country, where they had plundered the dwellings of the settlers and even murdered two or three families. The victims of these outrages happened to be Protestants, and Fendall's party availed themselves of the circumstance, to excite the popular jealousy against Lord Baltimore by circulating the report that these murders were committed by Papists in disguise. What was therefore but an ordinary though frightful incident of Indian hostility, was thus exaggerated into a crime of deep malignity, peculiarly calculated still more to embitter the party exasperations of the day. This consideration rendered it a subject of eager anxiety, on the part of the Council, to procure the fullest evidence of the hostile designs of the Indians, and thus not only to enable the province to adopt the proper measure for its own safety, but also confute the false report which had imputed to the Catholics so absurd and atrocious a design. A traveller by the name of Launcelot Sakel happened, but two or three days before the present meeting of the Council, to arrive at the port, where he put afloat the story of an intended invasion of the province by certain Indians of New York, belonging to the tribes of the Five Nations, and gave as his authority for this piece of news a Dutch doctor, whom he had fallen in with on the Delaware, where he left him selling nostrums, and who, he affirmed, was in a short space to appear at St. Mary's. This story, with many particulars, was communicated to the Proprietary, which induced the order to summon the Doctor to attend the council as soon after his arrival as possible. In obedience to this summons, our worthy was now in the presence of the high powers of the province, not a little elated with the personal consequence attached to his coming, as well as the very favourable reception he had obtained from the ladies of the household. This consequence was even enhanced by the suite of inquisitive domestics, who followed, at a respectful distance, his movement towards the council chamber, and who, even there, though not venturing to enter, were gathered into a group which from the outside of the door commanded a view of the party within: in the midst of these Willy of the Flats was by no means an unconspicuous personage. Lord Baltimore received the itinerant physician with that bland and benignant accost which was habitual to him, and proceeded with brief ceremony to interrogate him as to the purport of his visit. The answers were given with a solemn self-complacency, not unmixed with that shrewdness which was an essential attribute to the success of the ancient quacksalver. He described himself as Doctor Claus Debor, a native of Holland, a man of travel, enjoying no mean renown in New York, and, for two years past, a resident of Albany. His chief design in his present journey, he represented to be to disseminate the blessings of his great medicament; whereupon he was about to launch forth into an exuberant tone of panegyric, and had, in fact, already produced a smile at the council board by some high wrought phrases expressive of his incredible labour in the quest of his great secret, when the Proprietary checked his career by a timely admonition. "Ay, we do not seek to know thy merits as a physician, nor doubt the great virtue of thy drugs, worthy Doctor; but in regard thereto, give thee free permission to make what profit of them you reasonably may in the province. Still, touching this license, I must entreat you, in consideration that my Lady Baltimore has weak nerves, and cannot endure rude noises, to refrain from blowing thy trumpet within hearing of this mansion: besides, our people," he added, looking archly towards the group of domestics, some of whom had now edged into the apartment, "are somewhat faint-hearted at such martial sounds." "By my troth!" said Willy, in a half whisper to his companions in the entry; "my Lord hath put it to him for want of manners!--I thought as much would come from his tantararas. Listen, you shall hear more anon. Whist!--the Doctor puts on a face--and will have his say, in turn." "Your very goot and admirable Lordship, mistranslates de significance of my visit," said the Doctor, in his ambitious phrase; "for although I most heartily tank your Lordship's bounty for de permission to sell my inestimable medicament, and which--Got geve het--I do hope shall much advantage my lady wid her weak nerfs and her ailments,--still, I come to opey your most honourable Lordship's summons, which I make pold to pelieve is concerned wid state matters pefore de high and noble council." "Well, and bravely spoken," said Willy; "and with a good face!--the Doctor holds his own, masters." "We would hear what you can tell touching a rumour brought to us by one Master Launcelot Sakel, whom you saw at Christina Fort," said the Proprietary. "There is the point of the matter," whispered Willy, "all in an egg shell." "Dere is weighty news, my Lord," replied the Doctor. "I have goot reason to pelieve dat de Nordern Indians of New York are meditating and concocting mischief against your Lordship's province." "Have a care to the truth of your report," said Colonel Talbot, rising from his seat: "it may be worse for you if you be found to trifle with us by passing current a counterfeit story, churned into consistence in your own brain, out of the froth of idle, way-side gossipings. We have a statute against the spreaders of false news." "Heigh, heigh!--listen to that," said Willy, nudging one of the crowd over whose shoulders he was peering into the room. "There's an outcome with a witness!--there's a flanconade that shall make the Doctor flutter!" "If I am mendacious," replied the Doctor, "dat is, if I am forgetful of mine respect for trute, dese honourable gentlemens shall teal wid me as a lying pusy pody and pragmatical tale-bearer. Your Lordship shall hear. It is put a fortnight ago, when I was making ready for dis journey, in Alpany, I chanced to see in de town so many as two score, perhaps fifty Indians, who were dere trading skins for powder and shot. Dey reported demselves to be Sinniquoes, and said dey came to talk wid de tribes furder back, to get deir help to fight against de Piscattaways." "Indeed!--there is probability in that report," said the Proprietary: "well, and how had they sped? what was their success?" "Some of de Five Nations,--I forget de name of de tribe, my Lord--it might pe de Oneidas--dey told us, promised to march early de next season;--in dere own worts, when de sap pegin to rise." "In what force, did they say?" "In large force, my Lord. De Piscattaways, dey said, were frents to my Lord and de English,--and so dey should make clean work wid red and white." "What more?" "Dey signified dat dey should have great help from de Delawares and Susquehannocks, who, as I could make it out, wanted to go to war wid your Lordship's peoples at once." "True; and they have done so. The insolencies of these tribes are already as much as we can endure. Did they find it easy to purchase their powder and lead in Albany? I should hope that traffic would not be allowed." "My Lord, de traders do not much stop, when dey would turn a penny, to reckon who shall get de loss, so dey get de profit. Dese same Indians I saw afterwards in de town of New York, trading in de same way wid Master Grimes, a merchant." "Mischief will come of this," said the Proprietary, "unless it be speedily taken in hand. What reason was given by the Northern Indians for joining in this scheme?" "I tink it was said," replied the Doctor, "dat your Lordship had not made your treaties wid dem, nor sent dem presents, dese two years past." "True," interposed the Chancellor; "we have failed in that caution--although I have more than once reminded your Lordship of its necessity." "It shall not be longer delayed," replied the Proprietary. "You are sure, Doctor Debor, these were Sinniquoes you saw?" "I only know dem by dere own report--I never heard de name pefore. My man Dobel heard dem as well as me; wid your Lordship's permission I shall ask him," said the Doctor, as he went to the door and directed some of the domestics to call the man Dobel. It happened that Dobel, after his disgrace, had kept apart from the servants of the household, and was now lamenting his misfortune in a voluntary exile on the green at the front door, where Willy of the Flats having hastened to seek him, gave him the order to appear before the council. "Dobel, you are a made man," he said by way of encouragement; "your master wants you to speak to their honours: and the honourable council want to hear you, Dobel; and so does his Lordship. Hold up thy head, Dobel, and speak for thy manhood--boldly and out, like a buckler man." "Ya, ya," replied Dobel, whose acquirements in the English tongue were limited to his professional advertisement of Doctor Debor's fame, and a few slender fragments of phrases in common use. Thus admonished by Willy, he proceeded doggedly to the Council Chamber, where as soon as he entered, the Proprietary made a motion to him with his hand to approach the table,--which Dobel interpreting into an order to deliver his sentiments, he forthwith began in a loud voice-- "Goot beoplish! dish is de drice renowned und ingomprbl Doctor----" Before he had uttered the name, the Doctor's hand was thrust across Dobel's mouth and a volley of Dutch oaths rapped into his ears, at a rate which utterly confounded the poor trumpeter, who was forcibly expelled from the room, almost by a general order. When quiet was restored,--for it may be imagined the scene was not barren of laughter,--the Doctor made a thousand apologies for the stupidity of his servant, and in due time received permission to retire, having delivered all that he was able to say touching the matter in agitation before the Proprietary. The Council were for some time after this incident engaged in the consideration of the conspiracy against the Proprietary, of which new evidences were every day coming to light; and it was now resolved that the matter should be brought into the notice of the judicial authority at an early day. The only circumstance which I have further occasion to notice, related to a diversion which was not unusual at that day amongst the inhabitants of the province, and which required the permission of the Council. It was brought into debate by Colonel Talbot. "Stark Whittle, the swordsman," he said, "has challenged Sergeant Travers to play a prize at such weapons as they may select--and the Sergeant accepts the challenge, provided it meet the pleasure of his Lordship and the Council. I promised to be a patron to the play." "It shall be as you choose," said the Proprietary. "This martial sport has won favour with our people. Let it be so ordered that it tend not to the breach of the peace. We commit it to your hands, Colonel Talbot." The Council, assented and the necessary order was recorded on the journal. CHAPTER XVII. Some do call me Jack, sweetheart, And some do call me Jille: But when I come to the king's faire courte, They call me Wilfulle Wille. THE KNIGHT AND SHEPHERD'S DAUGHTER. The Skipper's necessary affairs in the port engaged him all the day succeeding that of his interview with father Pierre, and therefore prevented him from making his intended visit to the Cripple of St. Jerome's. When the next morning broke upon him, the early bell of St. Mary's Chapel informed him of the Sabbath,--a day seldom distinguished in his calendar from the rest of the week. It was, however, not unheeded now, as it suggested the thought that an opportunity might be afforded him to gain a sight of Blanche Warden--and even, perchance an interview--at the service of the Chapel. In this hope he at once relinquished his design of going to St. Jerome's, at least until after the morning offices of the church were performed. Accordingly, at an hour somewhat in advance of the general attendance of the congregation, the Skipper was seen loitering in the purlieus of the Chapel, where he marked with an inquisitive but cautious watchfulness the various groups that were coming to their devotions. When at length his strained vision was able to descry a cavalcade approaching from the direction of St. Inigoe's, and he discerned the figures of Albert Verheyden and Blanche Warden dallying far in the rear of the Collector and his daughter Alice, their horses almost at a walk, and themselves manifestly engrossed in an earnest conference, he turned hastily towards the church and with a compressed lip and knitted brow, ascended the stair and threw himself into an obscure corner of the little gallery which looked upon the altar. Here he remained a sullen and concealed observer of the rites of the temple,--his bosom rankling with uncharitable thoughts, and his countenance clouded with feelings the most ungenial to the lowly self-abasement and contrition of heart which breathed in every word of the solemn ritual that addressed his ear. The Collector's family entered the place of worship. The Secretary still accompanied Blanche, knelt beside her in prayer, opened her missal to the various services of the day, and tendered the customary offices of familiar gallantry common to such an occasion, with an unrebuked freedom: all this in the view of the Skipper, whose eye flashed with a vengeful fire, as he gazed upon the man to whom he attributed the wrong he deemed himself to have suffered in his recent interview with the maiden. The service ended and the throng was retiring, when Cocklescraft planted himself on the outside of the door. His purpose was to exchange even but a word with the daughter of the Collector--at least to win a recognition of his presence by a smile, a nod, the smallest courtesy,--so dear to the heart of a lover. She came at last, loiteringly with father Pierre and Albert Verheyden. Perhaps she did not see Cocklescraft in the shade of the big elm, even although her father's weaker sight had recognised him, and the old man had stepped aside to shake his hand. She passed on to her horse without once turning her head towards him. The Skipper abruptly sprang from the Collector to help her into her saddle, but Blanche had already Albert's hand, and in a moment was in her seat. Cocklescraft's proffered service was acknowledged by a bow and only a casual word. The Secretary in an instant mounted his steed, and, with the maiden, set forth on their ride at a brisk gallop. The Brother of the Coast forgetful of his usual circumspection, stood with folded arms and moody visage, looking darkly upon them as they disappeared, and muttering half-audible ejaculations of wrath. He was, after an interval, roused from his abstraction by the hand of father Pierre gently laid upon his shoulder: "You have forgotten the censer of virgin silver, you promised to offer at this shrine," said the priest in a grave voice. "It was to be an offering for the sin of a wayward spirit of anger. Beware, son, that thou dost no wrong to a brother." "I have not forgotten the censer, holy father," returned the Skipper, with an ineffectual effort to assume his usual equanimity. "I have only deferred the offering--until I may give it," he added in a stern voice--"with an honest conscience. Thou shalt have it anon. I have business now that stands in the way:--good morning to you, father." And with these words he walked rapidly away. In the afternoon Cocklescraft was seen plying his way from the quay in a small boat, attended by two seamen who rowed him to a point some five or six miles below the town, where he landed, and set out on foot for St. Jerome's. On the following morning, whilst the dawn yet cast its grey hue over the face of the land, two men, in shaggy frize dresses, arrived at the hut of the Cripple. They rode on rough, little beach-ponies, each provided with a sack. The mastiff bitch eyed the visiters with a malign aspect from her station beneath the door sill, and by her low mutterings warned them against a too near approach. They accordingly stood at bay. "Curse on the slut!" said one; "she has the eye of a very devil;--it might not be safe to defy her. Not a mouse is stirring:--the old Trencherman is as still as his bowl. Were it safe, think you, to wake him?" "Why not?" demanded the other. "He will be in a passion, and threaten, at first, with his weapon;--but when he knows we come to trade with him, I will warrant he butters his wrinkles as smoothly with a smile as you could desire. Strike your staff, Nichol, against the door." "The fiend fetch me, if I venture so near as to strike, with that bitch at the step. Try it thyself, Perry Cadger." "Nay, and it comes to that, I will rouse him in another fashion," said the other. "Master Swale--Master Robert Swale--Halloo--halloo!" "Rob, man, awake,--turn out for thy friends!" exclaimed the first. The growl of the mastiff bitch was now changed into a hoarse bark. Some stir was heard from the inside of the hut, and, in a moment afterwards, the door was unbolted and brought sufficiently open to allow the uncouth head and half dressed figure of the Cripple to be seen. A short blunderbuss was levelled directly in the face of the visiters, whilst an ungracious repulse was screamed out in a voice husky with rage. "Begone, you misbegotten thieves! What makes you here? Do you think I am an ale draper to take in every strolling runagate of the night. Begone, or by my body, I will baptize you with a sprinkling of lead!" "In God's name, Robert Swale," exclaimed the first speaker, "turn thy weapon aslant! Thou mayst do a deed of mischief upon thy friends. We are Nichol Upstake, and Peregrine Cadger--friends, Rob,--friends, who have come to drive bargains to thy profit. Open your eyes, Master--put on your glasses--we have gold in pocket, man." "Ha, ha, ha!" chuckled the tenant of the hut; "thou art astir, cronies! Ha, ha! I took ye for land loupers--sharks. By the Five Wounds, I knew ye not! Have patience a space and I will open." When the Cripple had dressed himself he came swinging forth in his bowl, and passing beyond the curtilage of his dwelling went to the beach, whither he was followed by his two visiters who had now dismounted from their ponies. Here he halted, and taking off his cap, exposed his bare head and loose white tresses to the morning breeze which came somewhat sharply from the water. "Soh!" he exclaimed, "there is refreshment in that! It is my custom to expel these night-cap vapours with the good salt water breeze: that is a commodity that may reach the province without paying duty to his Lordship! a cheap physic, a cheap physic, masters. Now what scent art thou upon, Nichol Upstake? Perry Cadger, man of sarsnet and grogram, I guess thy errand." "In truth, Robert Swale," said Upstake---- "No Robert Swale, nor Master Robert Swale," testily interrupted the owner of the cabin: "none of your worshipful phrase for me! Thou art but a shallow hypocrite to affect this reverence. Rob of the Bowl is the best I get from you when your longings are satisfied; ay, and it is said with a curl of your lip; and you make merry over my unworthiness with your pot-fellows. So, be honest, and give me plain Rob; I seek no flattery." "You do us wrong, good Master Rob," interposed Peregrine Cadger---- "To your needs," said Rob, sternly: "Speak in the way of your trade! You have no voice, nor I ear for aught else." "Then, in brief," said Nichol Upstake, "I would fain know if you could supply me with Antigua to-day, or aqua vitæ, I care not which?" "If such a thing might be, where wouldst thou take it, Nichol?" inquired Rob. "To Warrington on the Cliffs." "Ay, to Warrington on the Cliffs; good!--and warily to be borne? no hawk's eye upon thy path?" "It shall be by night, if you like it," said the dealer. "Well, well!" replied the Cripple; "I can give you a little of both, master: a flagon or so; some three or four. My hut is small, and hath a scant cellar. But the money in hand, Nichol Upstake! Good gold--full weight--and a fair price, too, mark you! I must have a trifle above my last market--ten shillings the gallon on the brandy, and two more for the Antigua. Leave thy kegs, and see me again at sunset. The money in hand! the money in hand! there is no trust in my commonwealth." "It shall be so," said Nichol. "And now, Master Cadger, what wilt? You have a scheme to cozen dame and wench with gewgaws; I see it in thine eye: and you will swear upon book and cross, if need be, they have stood you a wondrous hard purchase, even at the full three hundred per cent. excess you purpose to exact above the cost; and all the while it has come out of Rob's warehouse as cheap as beggars' alms: Ha, ha, ha! This world thrives on honesty! it grows fat on virtue! knavery only starves! Your rogue in rags, what hath he but his deserts! Let him repent and turn virtuous, like you and me, Perry, and his torn cloak and threadbare doublet shall be fenced and lined to defy all weathers. Hark ye, master, I have camblets, satins, and velvets, cambric, and lawn for thee--choice commodities all. Thou shalt see them in the hut." "How came you by so rich an inventory, Rob?" The Cripple turned a fierce eye upon the mercer, and with one glance conveyed his meaning, as he touched the handle of his dagger and said in a low tone, "Dost forget the covenant between us? Peregrine Cadger you know I brook no such question." The mercer stood for a moment abashed, and then replied: "An idle word, Master Rob, which meant no harm: as you say, honesty will only thrive. You shall find never a knave that is not some part fool. I will into the hut to look at the wares." "Do so," said the Cripple. "You will find them in the box behind the door. There is need that you leave me, so follow him, Nichol. I have sudden business, masters, which it does not concern you to witness. When you have seen what you desire, depart quickly; leave your sacks and come back at sunset. I charge you, have a care that your eyes do not wander towards my motions. You know me, and know that I have sentinels upon your steps who have power to sear your eye-balls if you but steal one forbidden glance: away!" The dealers withdrew into the hut, wondering at the abrupt termination of their interview, and implicitly confiding in the power of the Cripple to make good his threat. "The Lord have mercy upon us!" said the mercer, in a smothered voice, after they had entered the door; "the Cripple hath matters on hand which it were not for our good to pry into. Pray you, Nichol, let us make our survey and do his bidding, by setting forth at once. I am not the man to give him offence." The cause of this unexpected dismissal of the visiters was the apparition of Cocklescraft, whose figure, in the doubtful light of the morning, was seen by Rob at a distance, on the profile of the bank in the neighbourhood of the Wizard's Chapel. He had halted upon observing the Cripple in company with strangers, and had made a signal which was sufficiently intelligible to the person to whom it was addressed, to explain his wish to meet him. Rob, having thus promptly rid himself of his company, now swung on his short crutches, almost as rapidly as a good walker could have got over the ground, towards the spot where the Buccaneer had halted. "Steer your cockleshell there to the right, old worm!" said the Freebooter, as Rob came opposite to the bank on which he stood. "You shall find it easier to come up by the hollow." "The plagues of a foul conscience light on thee!" replied the Cripple, desisting from farther motion, and wiping the perspiration from his brow. "Is it more seemly I should waste my strength on the fruitless labour to clamber up that rough slope, or thou come down to me? You mock me, sirrah!" he added, with an expression of sudden anger; "Thou know'st I cannot mount the bank." "Thou know'st I can drag thee up, reverend fragment of a sinful man!" returned Cocklescraft, jocularly; "yes, and with all thy pack of evil passions at thy back, besides. Would you hold our meeting in sight from the window of the hut, where you have just lodged a pair of your busy meddlers--your bumpkin cronies in the way of trade? It was such as these that, but a few nights ago, set his Lordship's hounds upon our tracks. Come up, man, without farther parley." The Cripple's fleeting anger changed, as usual, to that bitter smile and chuckle with which he was wont to return into a tractable mood, as he said,-- "A provident rogue! a shrewd imp! He has his instinct of mischief so keen that his forecast never sleepeth. The devil hath made him a perfect scholar. There, Dickon, give me thy hand," he added, when he came to the steep ascent which his machine of locomotion was utterly inadequate to surmount. "Give me thy hand, good cut-throat. Help me to the top." The muscular seaman, instead of extending his hand to his companion, descended the bank, and taking the bowl and its occupant upon his shoulder, strode upward to the even ground, and deposited his load with as little apparent effort as if he had been dealing with a truss of hay. "Bravely!" ejaculated Rob, when he was set down. "I scarce could have done better in my best day. Now, what set thee to jogging so early, Dickon? Where dost thou come from?" "From the Chapel," replied the other. "I came there from the Port last night, express to see you; and having no special favour for the bed I slept on, I left it at the first streak of light to go and rouse you from your dreams, and lo! there you are at one of your dog and wolf bargains with the country side clowns." "Discreet knaves, Dickon, who have come to ease us of somewhat of our charge of contraband: stout jerkins--stout and well lined; rogues of substance--Nichol Upstake, the ordinary keeper of Warrington, and Perry Cadger, the mercer of St. Mary's. Seeing thee here, I dismissed them until sunset. That Peregrine Cadger is somewhat leaky as a gossip, and might tell tales if he were aware that I consorted with you." "I see them taking the road on their ponies," said Cocklescraft; "we may venture to the hut. I am sharp set for breakfast, and when I have a contented stomach, I will hold discourse with you, Rob, touching matters of some concern to us both." The Cripple and his guest, upon this hint, repaired to the hut, and in due time the morning meal was supplied and despatched. Cocklescraft then opened the purport of his visit. "Has it ever come into your wise brain, Master Rob," he asked, "that you are getting somewhat old; and that it might behoove you to make a shrift at the confessional, by way of settling your account? I take it, it will not be a very clean reckoning without a good swashing penance." "How now, thou malignant kite!" exclaimed the Cripple; "what's in the wind?" "Simply, Rob, that the time has come when, peradventure, we must part. I am tired of this wicked life. I shall amend; and I come to counsel you to the like virtuous resolution. I will be married, Robert Swale, Man of the Bowl!" "Grammercy! thou wilt be married! thou! I spit upon thee for a fool. What crotchet is this?" "I will be married, as I say, neither more nor less. Now to what wench, ask you? Why to the very fairest and primest flower of this province--the Rose of St. Mary's--the Collector's own daughter. I mark that devil's sneer of unbelief of yours, old buckler man: truer word was never spoke by son of the sea or land, than I speak now." "To the Collector's daughter!" ejaculated the Cripple, in a tone of derision. "Thy carriage is bold in the Port, but no measure of audacity will ever bring thee to that favour. Would'st thou play at thine old game, and sack the town, and take the daintiest in it for ransom? You know no other trick of wooing, Dickon." "By my hand, Rob, I am specially besought by the Collector to make one at a choice merry-making which his daughter has on foot for next Thursday. Ay, and I am going, on his set command, to dance a gailliard with Mistress Blanche. Oh, she shall be the very bird of the sea--the girl of the billow, Rob! She shall be empress of the green wave that nursed me, and the blue sky, and the wide waste. Her throne shall be on the deck of my gay bark: and my merry men shall spring at her beck as deftly as at the boatswain's pipe!" "You shall sooner meet your deservings," said Rob, "on the foal of the acorn, with a hempen string, than find grace with the Collector's child. Thy whole life has been adversary to the good will of the father." "I know it," replied Cocklescraft. "I was born in natural warfare with the customs and all who gather them; the more praise for my exploit! I shall change my ways and forsake evil company. I shall be a man of worship. We shall shut up the Chapel, Rob; expel our devils; pack off our witches to Norway, and establish an honest vocation. Therefore, Rob, go to father Pierre; repent of your misdeeds, and live upon your past gains. You are rich and may afford to entertain henceforth a reputable conscience." "Do not palter with me, sirrah! but tell me what this imports." "Then truly, Rob, I am much disturbed in my fancies. I love the wench, and mean to have her--fairly if I can--but after the fashion of the Coast if I must. She doth not consent as yet--mainly because she hath a toy of delight in that silken Secretary of my Lord--a bookish pale-cheeked, sickly strummer of stringed instruments--one Master Verheyden, I think they call him." "Ha!" exclaimed the Cripple, as a frown gathered on his brow; "what is he? Whence comes he?" "His Lordship's chamber secretary," replied Cocklescraft; "brought hither I know not when nor whence. A silent-paced, priestly pattern of modesty, who feeds on the favour of his betters, as a lady's dog, that being allowed to lick the hand of his mistress, takes the privilege to snarl on all who approach her. I shall make light work with him by whipping him out of my way. Why are you angry, that you scowl so, Master Rob?" "I needs must be angry to see thee make a fool of thyself," replied the master of the hut. "Verheyden--his Lordship's secretary!" he muttered to himself. "No, no! it would be a folly to think it." "Mutter as you will, Rob," said Cocklescraft; "by St. Iago, I will try conclusions with the Secretary--folly or no folly! He hath taught the maiden," he added, with a bitter emphasis, "to affect a scorn for me, and he shall smart for it." "Ha! thy spirit is ever for undoing!" exclaimed Rob, suddenly changing his mood, and forcing a harsh laugh of derision. "Mischief is your proper element--your food, your repose, your luxury. Well, if thou needst must take on a new life, and strive to be worshipful, I would counsel thee to begin it with some deed of charity, not strife. I had as well make my lecture to a young wolf! Ha, Dickon, thou wilt be a prospering pupil to the master that teaches thee the virtue of charity! Such rede will be welcome to thee as water to thy shoes! I have scanned thee in all thy humours!" "I spurn upon your advice, and will not be scorned, old man!" said Cocklescraft, angrily. "The maiden shall be mine, though I pluck her from beneath her father's blazing roof-tree; and then farewell to the province, and to thee! Mark you that! I come not to be taunted with thy ill-favoured speech! My men shall be withdrawn from the Chapel. I will put them on worthier service than to minister to thy greediness." "Hot-brained, silly idiot--thou drivelling fool!" shouted Rob. "Dost thou not know that I can put thee in the dust and trample on thee as a caitiff? that I can drive thee from the province as a vile outlaw? Art thou such a dizzard as to tempt my anger? If you would thrive even in your villanous wooing, have a care not to provoke my displeasure! One word from me, and not a man paces thy deck: thou goest abroad unattended, stiverless--a fugitive, with hue and cry at thy heels. How dar'st thou reprove me, boy?" "Thy hand, Rob," said Cocklescraft, relenting. "You say no more than my folly warrants; I am a wanton fool: your pardon--let there be peace between us." "Art reasonable again? Bravely confessed, Dickon! I forgive thy rash speech. Now go thy ways, and the Foul One speed thee! I have naught to counsel, either for strife or peace, since thou hast neither wit, wisdom, nor patience for sober advice against the current of thy will. It will not be long before this maimed trunk shall sink into its natural resting place--and it matters not to me how my remnant of time be spent--whether in hoarding or keeping. The world will find me an heir to squander what little store it hath pleased my fortune to gather. So go thy ways!" "I will see you again, friend Rob," said the Buccaneer. "I have matter to look after at the Chapel, and then shall get back to the Port, to drive my suit to a speedy issue. I came here but in honest dealing with you, to give you friendly notice of my design, and, perchance, to get your aid. You have no counsel for me? It is well; my own head and arm shall befriend me; they have stood me in stead in straits more doubtful than this: farewell--farewell!" As the Skipper stepped along the beach, Rob planted himself in the door of the hut and looked after him for some moments, nodding his head significantly towards him, and muttering in a cynical undertone, "Go thy ways, snake of the sea, spawn of a water devil! Thou married! ha, ha! Thy lady gay shall have a sweetened cup in thee: and thy wooing shall be tender and gentle--yea, as the appetite of the sword-fish. It shall be festival wooing--all in the light--in the light--of the bride's own blazing roof: a dainty wolf! a most tractable shark! Oh, I cannot choose but laugh!" END OF VOLUME I. NEW AND VALUABLE BOOKS, PUBLISHED AND PREPARING FOR PUBLICATION BY LEA & BLANCHARD, SUCCESSORS TO CAREY & CO. PHILADELPHIA. AND TO BE HAD OF ALL BOOKSELLERS. * * * * * LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART. By J. G. 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Being a Familiar Introduction to the Principles of Chemistry, Mechanics, Hydrostatics and Pneumatics, Adapted to the comprehension of Young People. _Illustrated by Numerous Wood Cuts._ In One Volume, embossed cloth. * * * * * Thirty Years' Correspondence BETWEEN John Jebb, D.D., F.R.S., Bishop of Limerick, Ardfert, and Aghadoe, AND Alexander Knox, Esq., M.R.I.A. Edited by the Rev. CHARLES FORSTER, B.D., Perpetual Curate of Ash next Sandwich; formerly Domestic Chaplain to Bishop Jebb. _In Two Volumes, Octavo._ * * * * * A GEOLOGICAL MANUAL. By HENRY T. DE LA BECHE, Esq., F.R.S., F.G.S., Member of the Geological Society of France, &c. _In One Volume, Octavo._ With One Hundred and four Wood Cuts. 
39780	----	BALTIMORE HATS PAST AND PRESENT. AN HISTORICAL SKETCH OF THE HAT INDUSTRY OF BALTIMORE FROM ITS EARLIEST DAYS TO THE PRESENT TIME. BY WILLIAM T. BRIGHAM. _PRINTED FOR GRATUITOUS CIRCULATION ONLY._ BALTIMORE: MDCCCLXXXX. COPYRIGHTED, 1890, BY WM. T. BRIGHAM. _Press and Bindery of Isaac Friedenwald, Baltimore, Md._ PREFACE. It is not impossible that some useful information may be conveyed by this book. Should these pages prove of such service, their cost in labor is most cheerfully donated. This volume is composed of a series of articles which appeared in a Trade Journal, covering a period of two years from 1887 to 1889. It must be accepted as but a brief history of an industry long identified with Baltimore. Thanks are due the Librarian of the Maryland Historical Society and Mr. B. R. Sheriff for favors in lending rare and valuable old City directories; also to the many citizens who kindly aided and assisted in the search for needed information. THE AUTHOR. BALTIMORE, 1890. CONTENTS. 1. INTRODUCTORY 2. EARLY DAYS 3. PERIOD OF THE REVOLUTION 4. AFTER THE REVOLUTION 5. EARLY IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 6. SOME OLD FIRMS 7. PATRIARCHS OF THE TRADE 8. JACOB ROGERS 9. OLD METHODS 10. JOHN PETTICORD 11. MIDDLE OF THE CENTURY 12. FASHIONS 13. NEW DEVELOPMENTS 14. GROWTH OF BUSINESS 15. HISTORY OF THE MACKINAW HAT 16. MODERN IMPROVEMENTS 17. A MODEL ESTABLISHMENT 18. WAYS AND MEANS OF THE PRESENT TIME Baltimore Hats--Past and Present. INTRODUCTORY. No. 1. Past and present have each their independent significance. The past gives freely to us the experiences of others, the present a suitable opportunity to improve upon what has already occurred. With our observation and acceptance of these privileges so easily obtained, we reap the benefit of their advantages and unconsciously find ourselves the gainers both in capacity and intelligence. A history of the past, giving the record of events and circumstances existing before our own day, bringing to our knowledge the accomplishments, business enterprises and undertakings of our predecessors, is a profitable study, and the reader gratifies his curiosity in observing how differently things were conducted and managed a century ago as compared with the processes of the present day, exciting a sense of wonder at the rapid progress that has been made in a comparatively short period of time. Think of it! quite within the lifetime of many of us have been the most wonderful of inventions--the steam engine, steam vessels, the telegraph and other wonders and triumphs of electricity. The wildest fancy may not be styled visionary in anticipating the appearance of things still more surprising. [Illustration: THEN.] [Illustration: NOW.] Continued familiarity with the present system of making hats has the tendency in a great degree to prevent a recognition, until brought to our notice by comparison of the wide difference existing between the old and new methods, and this common every-day experience assists in making us unappreciative of the remarkable improvements that have been made in this branch of business. Only a half a century ago the time required to make a single fur hat from the prepared material was fully a week, and the average production was two hats per day per man. With the bowing of the fur, the forming and shrinking of the bodies, and the handwork of finishing and trimming, all of which by the aid of modern science and invention is to-day done by machinery more perfectly and completely at the rate in production of twenty times that of fifty years ago, while the sewing of a straw hat, which could hardly be done in an hour by the plodding work of the hand, stitch by stitch, is, by the rapid sewing-machine, made in a minute. When we think of the largest number of stitches our mothers and sisters could take in their needlework by hand and contrast it with the result of the sewing-machine that spins its twenty-two hundred stitches a minute, we are able to gain some adequate idea of the saving of labor, and while we complacently accept these marvellous accomplishments, the question whether it be to the poor and needy a loss or gain is still an undecided problem. With all the advantages now at our command, it appears to us a matter of surprise how our forefathers, with their apparently indifferent methods, could profitably succeed in their labors. With steam engines, sewing-machines and electricity, the quick accomplishments of the present compared with the slow movements of the past tend to make one think we are living in an age of wonders amounting almost to miracles. What would be the exclamation of the ghosts of our great-grandfathers who, with the rapid trot of an ox-team, drove to church miles away through the storms of winter to exemplify their devotion to the truth of their faith, if suddenly they could rise and observe the luxury of the present modes of transportation in convenient palace cars and palatial steamships, our comfortable and gaudy churches, and our easy ways of communicating instantly with those thousands of miles away from us? Aladdin's wonderful experiences, or the magical change by Cinderella's fairy god-mother, would appear tame to their intense surprise. [Illustration: RAPID TRANSIT IN OLDEN TIMES.] In a series of articles it is proposed to give an account of the growth of the hat manufacturing business, one of the most interesting of Baltimore's industries; how at an early period it was raised into conspicuous prominence in common with other enterprises undertaken in the active spirit which has always characterized Baltimore merchants as among the foremost of their time. They will also treat of its gradual growth and development, followed by a temporary decline of progress caused by the Civil War and its consequences, and finally of its triumphant stride to place itself again in line with other leading industries of this enterprising metropolis, for without doubt it holds to-day an enviable position among the different trades, a position acquired by the thoroughness, determination and perseverance of those engaged in its development. [Illustration: AN OLD TIMER.] EARLY DAYS. No. 2. The spirit of ambition and independence constituting the fundamental principles of manhood, and inspiring a nobleness of character which in time of the country's struggle for liberty helped to give her the benefits of wise counsel, noble patriotism and manly service, was early manifested by the neighboring colony of Virginia, as in the year 1662 she ventured upon a practical plan to encourage the manufacture of hats by offering a premium of ten pounds of tobacco for every domestic hat made of fur or wool. What resulted from this generous act we are not informed, but there is no evidence that it in any degree stimulated the production of hats in that colony, and it is a noted fact that hat-making to any extent has never flourished south of Baltimore. This city seems to have been the southern boundary line--the geographical limit in that direction--of hat-manufacturing. As an offset to this enterprising manifesto of Virginia is a petition in the year 1731 of the hat-makers of London to the "Lords of Trade," to enact a law forbidding the American colonists to wear hats not made in Great Britain. This law was passed, attaching a penalty of five hundred pounds sterling (twenty-five hundred dollars) for its violation. The archives of the New Jersey Historical Society for the year 1731 show that there was one hatter in that colony, and from a history of Boston we learn that sixteen hat-makers of that town were affected by the edict of these despotic English law-makers. In this manner were the enterprises of the new continent checked and the attempt made to crush out that spirit of progress so manifest in the brightest of the English colonies. It was the continuation of such injustice and oppression that eventually inspired a rebellious spirit to take the place of patience and submission, ending in a revolt, the termination of which secured us liberty and justice and the announcement of our complete independence on the 4th of July, 1776. The style of hat of this period (1731) had the sides of the brim turned up, with a front of an easy curl, which, nearly resembling a cap-visor, made it in shape somewhat between a hat and cap; this seems to have been the first approach toward the "cocked" or three-cornered hat afterwards so extensively used, and to Americans the most familiar of past styles, from its being a fashion of the period of the Revolution, by which it became the prominent part of an historical costume. The arbitrary law before alluded to was afterwards modified, but an uncomfortable restriction continued to be enforced upon all manufactures, for in the year 1750 the English Parliament, among other unjust acts, enacted a law forbidding exportation of hats from one colony to another and allowing no hatter to have more than two apprentices at one time, "because the colonists, if let alone, would soon supply the whole world with hats." [Illustration: 1731] The French fashion of this time had the brazen characteristic of its brim rising erect from the forehead, a style seemingly in keeping with the then irritable condition and reckless agitation of the French people. Planché, in his "Cyclopædia of Costumes" (vol. 1, page 261), quotes a humorous description, evidently referring to this particular style, as follows: "Some wear their hats with the corners that should cover the forehead high in the air, these are called Gawkies; others do not half cover their heads, which, indeed, is owing to the shallowness of their crowns, but between beaver and eyebrows exposes a blank forehead, which looks like a sandy road in a surveyor's plan." [Illustration: 1750] From the year 1750 until after the Revolution there was but little change in the general character of style in men's hats: the custom of erecting the brims by tying or looping them up prevailed. Soon the elevation of the brim of 1750 was abandoned and a change made by looping it at the points of a triangle, producing the three-cornered or "cocked" hat. This was a becoming style we must admit, and one seemingly well suited to the independent, fearless and patriotic characteristics of our forefathers' traits, the possession of which at that time gave us all the comforts that are ours now. The "cocked" hat enjoyed a long popularity, continuing in fashion until near the close of the century, when the "steeple top" and "chimney pot" styles--slang terms for the high beavers--came into vogue, a style which Ashton, an English writer, designates as "the hideous head-covering that has martyrized at least three generations." [Illustration: 1760] Departure from settled and accustomed styles created the same furore and astonishment, and subjected the venturesome individual whose inclinations led an advance in fashion to the same exposure to ridicule as affects the "swell" of the present day, and the reporters of "society doings" then were as close observers, as keen in wit, and as unmerciful in criticism as any of their kin to-day. Planché, quoting from the _London Chronicle_ for 1762, refers to fashion of hats at that time as follows: "Hats," says the writer, "are now worn on the average six and three-fifths inches broad in the brim and cocked. Some have their hats open like a church spout or like the scales they weigh their coffee in; some wear them rather sharp like the nose of the greyhound, and we can designate by the taste of the hat the mood of the wearer's mind. There is a military cock and a mercantile cock, and while the beaux of St. James wear their hats under their arms, the beaux of Moorfields-Mall wear theirs diagonally over the left or right eye; sailors wear their hats uniformly tucked down to the crown, and look as if they carried a triangular apple pasty upon their heads." That "there is nothing new under the sun" is a maxim the truth of which is often verified within the limits of fashionable manners; thus the counterpart of the present captivating custom of carrying in the public ball-room or at the private party the collapsed "opera" hat under the arm is seen in the fashion of 1762, the only difference being, not as now, to doff the hat in the house, but when promenading the street the beau was to be seen with "A pretty black beaver tucked under his arm, If placed on his head it might keep him too warm." [Illustration: Folded Hat, 1762.] [Illustration: The 'Opera', 1887.] The folded hat of 1762 differed from the opera hat of the present day also in the softness of the crown, permitting its being flattened, and the brim, as if hinged front and rear, folded at the sides like the corners of a book, while the present opera hat, constructed with jointed springs, allows its cylindrical crown to be flattened down to a level with the brim, which keeps its fixed shape. Scharf's "Chronicles of Baltimore" give the copy of an inventory made in the year 1779 of the personal effects of one Thos. Edgerton, a citizen of the Province of Maryland, and among them is his hat, described as having a gold band and feathers. This hat evidently was the celebrated cavalier style that appears in many of the portraits of Rubens, Vandycke and Rembrandt, of all styles the prettiest and most picturesque ever introduced. The wide brim of the cavalier hat was arranged as suited the fancy of the wearer, some of whom allowed it to take its natural shape, some would wear it looped up on the side, and by others it was caught up and attached to the crown at different angles; in fact, it was modeled very much as the ladies now-a-days do the "Gainsborough," exercising their own individual fancy as to the treatment of the brim. [Illustration: The 'Cavalier', 1689] Identical with the interests of Baltimore were the industries of other towns of the colony of Maryland, and among the earliest records referring to the hat business are several advertisements found in the _Maryland Gazette_, published at Annapolis. In February, 1760, Chas. Diggs advertises "men's and boys' castor and felt hats." In 1761 Barnet West advertises "gold and silver band hats, just imported from London," and in April, 1761, appears the advertisement of Nathaniel Waters, of Annapolis, who announces that he has for sale "silver and gold buttons and loops for hats, and that he carries on the hat-making as usual." About this time Annapolis, being in her palmy days, was the center of gentility and fashionable life; here was congregated the blue blood of English aristocracy, who strove to foster and cultivate the same courtly splendor and etiquette existing in old England, which brought to the venerable place the enviable fame of being considered the most fashionable of our colonial towns. [Illustration: THE BEAU OF 1762.] PERIOD OF THE REVOLUTION. No. 3. An indulgence of those inborn habits of luxury and fondness for rich and expensive dress by the wealthy land owners, comprising the large majority of the population of the Southern colonies, encouraged a demand for articles more elaborate and costly than those produced within the colonial territory; hence imported fabrics were by them largely preferred to those of domestic make. The gay and festive social life, and the means easily acquired from their profitable crops of cotton and tobacco, permitted indulgence in lavish expenditures for articles of fashionable attire and household elegance. The general customs of the people of the South had the effect of retarding the progress of ordinary trades by not affording sufficient patronage to encourage their successful undertaking; while, on the contrary, from the greater necessity with the Northern people of personal exertion and labor to provide the comforts of home life, sprung that support of manufactures which has so largely increased as to place the power and wealth of the country in their hands. The event of the American Revolution, however, somewhat changed this aspect of affairs. The genuineness of Maryland's loyalty was certainly in one way nobly demonstrated, and by an act of patriotic self-sacrifice, gave to her an unlooked-for reward in a prosperous future. Her people quickly espousing the cause of liberty, at once rejected articles of foreign make and gave choice to those of home production, thus stimulating industries in their midst which had not before flourished from lack of encouragement and support. Actuated by a feeling of sympathy for their fellow-citizens of Boston--whom the British Parliament in 1774 attempted to shut out from commercial intercourse with every part of the world--the citizens of Baltimore called a town meeting, unanimously recommending a general congress of delegates, to meet at Annapolis, to take action against this indignity on American liberties. The congress met June 22, 1774, offering their heartiest support not only in resolution, but in the more substantial way of money and food, as aid to their Boston friends in the resistance to British tyranny and oppression, supplementing these patriotic resolutions by one making the importation of English goods an act disloyal to the sentiment of American hearts. The earliest manufacturing hatter in Baltimore, of whom any definite knowledge can be obtained, was David Shields, who kept store at No. 14 Gay street. As the location was on the east side of Gay and the seventh house from the corner of Baltimore street, it probably was about half-way between Baltimore and Fayette streets. Here he sold to his patrons the products of his "back shop" or factory, which was located on the south side of East, now Fayette street, at a point half-way between Gay and Frederick streets. Mr. Shields' father was from Pennsylvania. David Shields was born in the year 1737, and his descendants of to-day include some of the wealthiest and most refined citizens of Baltimore. In Scharf's "Chronicles of Baltimore" his name is mentioned, in connection with others, in the year 1769 as aiding by a general subscription in procuring an engine for the extinguishment of fires; this engine was for the "Mechanical Fire Company," and was the first machine of its kind in Baltimore, costing the sum of two hundred and sixty-four dollars. Unfortunately, the information gained of Mr. Shields' business career is so meagre as to leave much to the imagination, but it is natural to suppose that in 1769, being thirty-two years of age, he must have been established in business. That Mr. Shields was a public-spirited citizen is further proven by his connection with the First Baptist Society, being one of a committee constituted for the purpose of purchasing a lot upon which to erect a church; this was in 1773, two years before the Revolution. The church was built on Front street, upon the site now occupied by the Merchants' Shot Tower, and was the first Baptist Church erected in Baltimore. The _Federal Gazette_ announces the death of Mr. Shields, October 4, 1811, in the seventy-fourth year of his age; his funeral taking place from his residence, which was over his place of business, on Gay street. What may have been the actual condition of the hat business of Baltimore just before the Revolution has been difficult to ascertain. Mr. Shields must have been in business during this period, and it is more than probable that in a town of the size of Baltimore at that date there must have been others engaged in this branch of business, but how many and who they were cannot be ascertained. It is very likely that the restriction placed by English rule upon most manufacturing industries prior to the Revolution operated detrimentally upon this industry also, and while the ordinary kind of wool felt hats were made by the hatter in his own shop, undoubtedly most of the fashionable hats sold and worn at that time were of English or French make. Paris (which then, as well as now, was the axis upon which revolved the world of fashion) possibly supplied the wants of Baltimore's highborn gentry, always famous for exquisite dress and refined taste, with the French chapeau--the _ton_ of those days. As there are no existing detailed statistics of the business of Baltimore during the Revolutionary War, the record of some business firms has been entirely lost, and although some trades have received slight mention in the published histories of the city, a trace of the existence of but two hatters, who afterwards continued in business, is to be found. Since it is known as a fact that fourteen hatters were engaged in business in Baltimore, not later than ten years after the close of the war, we have a right to suppose that more than two must have been in business during the existence of the war. Among the proceedings of the "Council of Safety" of Maryland, organized at the outbreak of the war, is found the following order: "March 2, 1776. The Council of Safety authorize Major Gist to contract for fifty camp-kettles and as many _hats_ as may be necessary for the battalion, not to exceed 7 shillings apiece." Again, April 6, 1776, "Commissary of Stores of Baltimore is ordered to send to Annapolis 200 of the hats arrived from Philadelphia." Why Baltimore hatters did not supply the needed hats for Maryland militia we cannot say, but probably a sharp competition for so _large_ a contract wrested it from them. The adoption of the "cocked" hat in its various forms as a portion of the military costume of the Continental Army brought about the necessity of making a distinction between civil and military wear. After the close of the American Revolution France was in a state of civil insurrection, and the French "chapeau" of that time was constructed upon a plan somewhat similar to that of the "cocked" hat. With the termination of the French Revolution appeared the "steeple-top" hat, having a conical crown with stiff curled brim, drooping front and rear, being trimmed with a very wide band and ornamented in front with a huge metal buckle, a change radical enough from those preceding it, but admitting a question as to its comparative intrinsic beauty or to its being a more becoming part of male attire; the style withal certainly proved acceptable, for with slight modifications it has continued and is now embodied in the fashionable silk hat of the present time. Thus with the opening of the nineteenth century commenced the era of what may be correctly termed the _high_ hat. Ashton, in "Old Times," says of the style of 1790-95: "The 'cocked' hat had gone out, and the galling yoke of the 'chimney pot' was being inaugurated, which was as yet of limp felt." [Illustration: 1795] In fashions prevailing at the opening of the new century, particularly those of wearing apparel both for ladies and gentlemen, Paris took the lead, and though with many articles to-day Parisian designs and ideas secure the largest share of popularity, yet in regard to hats for gentlemen it can proudly be said that American-made hats are ahead in point of style and quality, and are no longer dependent upon foreign ingenuity for assistance in securing for them a ready sale; in fact, no American industry to-day stands in a more enviable position relatively to foreign manufactures than does that of hat-making. The fancy for sentimental hits and political phrases indulged in by modern hatters seems to have been the rage at an earlier period, as is evident from the following, published in the London _Times_ of December 4, 1795: "If the young men of the present day have not much wit in their heads they have it at least in their _hats_." Among the pleasantries we have seen in this way are the following: "Not yours," "Hands off," "No vermin," and "Rip this as you would a hot potato," and other charming sallies of _refined_ and _elegant_ vivacity. But the wittiest linings are the political ones. The other day we observed one perfectly clean and tidy in which was written: "Avaunt! Guinea Pig," and on the lining of a very powdery hat that lay in the window of the same room were inscribed the two monosyllables "Off-crop." "Guinea pig" and "Off-crop" were probably local political distinctions of the day. [Illustration: A CITIZEN OF '76.] AFTER THE REVOLUTION. No. 4. Not until after the Revolution is it apparent that any attempt was made in Baltimore to concentrate the hatting industry into a legitimate business upon any extensive scale, or to separate the manufacturing from the retail branch of business; in fact, far into the new century was it the practice of those who manufactured extensively for the trade, to continue to keep in operation also a _retail_ establishment. The general system of conducting the hat business at the time of which we are now writing was for the hatter to have his "back shop" in the rear and accessible to the "front shop," where the proprietor and his "prentice hand" made the needed supply for the existing or future small demand likely to come; for hats in those days were "built" for service, not for show, and in a manner quite different from those suited to the modern requirement of almost a monthly change in style. Then the principle demand came from maturing youth, desiring to assume suitable dignity for entrance into manhood, by procuring a "beaver" which, unless he lived to a patriarchal age, might serve him during his natural life, and that, too, without fear of banishment from society for being out of the fashion. In the first "Baltimore City Directory," printed in the year 1796, appear the names of nineteen hatters; the business locations of some of the number, it is curious to observe, being at places hardly recognizable by those living at the present day. Gay street, prior to the year 1808, extended from the water to Griffith's bridge (now called Gay-street bridge), beyond which it was called Bridge street; German lane is now German street; East street is Fayette street, and the euphonious name of Cowpen alley is now dignified by that of Garrett street. Baltimore street was then called Market street, and for a long time after was often designated by either name. The following names and localities of hatters are found in the Baltimore City Directory published in 1796: RICHARD AVERSON, German lane, between Howard and Liberty streets. JOSEPH BURNET, Welcome alley, Federal Hill. PETER BOND, 13 Bridge street, Old Town. WILLIAM BRANSON, 131 Market street. PETER BEZE, 31 Charles street. FREDERICK DEEMS, Cowpen alley. JOSEPH BURNESTON, 17 George street, Fell's Point. " Shop, 19 George street, Fell's Point. GEORGE LITTIG, 141 Market street, Shop on "The Causeway." ARNOLD LIVERS, Shop, 24 South Calvert street. AARON MATTISON, Shop, East street, between Calvert and Gay. WILLIAM MOCKBEE, East street, between St. Paul's lane and Charles street. GASPER MORELLI, 36 Charles street. JOHN PARKS, Shop, 14 Light street. JACOB ROGERS, 29 South street. GEORGE SMITH, 101 Bond street. DAVID SHIELDS, 14 North Gay street. JOHN STEIGER, 250 Market street. JOHN UNDERWOOD, Alley between St. Paul's lane and Calvert street. DANIEL WEAVER, 19 Front street. Judging from localities here given, ten of this number were engaged in business as principals, the others were probably journeymen, working at their trade in the various shops in the town. JOHN PARKS, who did business at 14 Light street, had his residence at 137 Market street, about the location now occupied by Clogg & Son as a Shoe store. In the year 1802, No. 137 Market street was occupied by John Walraven, Hardware and Silversmith, and John and Andrew Parks are in the Dry-goods business, at No. 2 Market space. WILLIAM BRANSON, at 131 Market street, appears to have continued business in the same place up to the year 1810. During the years 1800-2 the firm was Branson & Son; their store was the second house west of Grant street, then called Public alley; the place is now occupied by Geo. Steinbach & Son as a Toy establishment. AARON MATTISON, whose shop, in 1796, was on East street, in 1799 associated his son with himself in business, locating at 16 North Gay street, next door to David Shields. In 1802 Wm. Mattison, probably the son, opened a store at 180 Market street; the firm continuing at 16 N. Gay street as Aaron Mattison & Son. The next year W. Mattison appears at 72 Market street, following which no further record is found of this firm. No. 180 Market street was two doors east of Charles, on the north side, now occupied by Towner & Landstreet's Rubber store. No. 72 Market street was also on the north side, second house east from Lemon, now Holliday street. PETER BOND, whose location was No. 13 Bridge street, continued as a hatter in the same place until the year 1806; afterwards he appears to have changed the character of his business, for in 1807 he is found to be a "storekeeper" at No. 9 Bridge street. No. 13 was on the north side of what is now Gay street, the seventh or eighth house beyond the bridge over the Falls. Peter Bond was a member of the committee of "Vigilance and Safety" organized by the citizens of Baltimore in the dark days of anxiety and trouble preceding the invasion of the city by the British in September, 1814. RICHARD AVERSON had his residence on German lane, between Howard and Eutaw streets. At that time there was but one dwelling-house on German lane between Hanover and Liberty streets. German lane, now German street, then extended only from Charles to Greene street. Mr. Averson kept his hat store at No. 4 County wharf, which was the lower terminus of South Calvert street; he had for his neighbors Gerard T. Hopkins, Peter Cox and George Mason, Grocers. DAVID SHIELDS continued in business at his old locality, 14 North Gay street, certainly until the year 1808, and probably up to the time of his death in 1811. In 1819 his place is found to be occupied by Francis Foster as a hat store. ARNOLD LIVERS would seem to have been the most peripatetic of hatters, and must have caused no little stir and comment among his fellow-tradesmen. Until 1801 he appears as solitary Arnold Livers, carrying on the hat business at 24 South Calvert street, where probably he had a retail "shop." In 1802 the Directory records: "Arnold Livers, 24 South Calvert street," and on Fayette street (probably his residence), also 70 Cumberland Row; Livers & Atkinson, 35 Fell street, and Livers & Atkinson, 10 George street, Fell's Point. In 1804 Arnold Livers is still at 24 South Calvert street, also at 70 Market space, and George Atkinson has succeeded to the firm of Livers & Atkinson. In 1810 it is Livers & Grover, 39 South, corner of Water street. From this time Mr. Livers disappears entirely; one may imagine what a commotion this evidently unsettled man of business must have raised during ten years of these varied and numerous changes, and possibly others of which the Directories give no account. So rapidly and effectively does time erase the evidence of former labors, and so quickly is the past forgotten, that one is surprised and disappointed at not finding more proof on record of what these worthy apostles of work may have done. Of the nineteen whose names are in the Directory of 1796, traces of the personal history of but two of the number can be found: these are David Shields, before alluded to, and John Parks. In Griffith's "Annals of Baltimore," John Parks is mentioned in the year 1784 as subscribing ten pounds to the funds raised by citizens for the purpose of elevating the courthouse to admit the extension of Calvert street. Then the courthouse stood in the bed of Calvert street, which it spanned, where since has been erected and now stands Battle Monument, commemorating the loss of Baltimore's brave citizens, who gave their lives in defence of their homes against British invasion in 1814. Among the patriots whose names are inscribed upon this monument by a grateful people, desiring in such way to honor and perpetuate the memory of those who sacrificed themselves in the defence of their homes and firesides, appears that of JOSEPH BURNESTON, a hatter, who is found in 1796 doing business at 19 George street, Fell's Point. Thus, while little else is known of Mr. Burneston's career, he is immortalized by a noble deed, and his name is handed down to coming generations to show what sacrifices were made in securing to us that freedom and comfort we now possess, sacrifices which should inspire us with the determination that when similar calls come we will be ready to answer as unhesitatingly as did this patriotic hatter. From the location of Mr. Burneston's place of business it may be inferred that he was only a hat-maker, having no "front shop" or retail establishment, but was merely a maker of hat bodies to be sold to retailers, who themselves finished and trimmed them ready for sale. Of the hatters of 1796 there is but one through whom can be connectedly traced Baltimore's hat industry from before the Revolution down to the present time; that one is JACOB ROGERS, whose long-continued business career brings personal knowledge of him down to a time quite within the recollection of some now living. Singularly enough, by this solitary instance are we able to connect hatting in 1769 with that of 1890, for it is known that Mr. Rogers learned his trade with Mr. David Shields, who was in business in 1769, and engaged in their occupation to-day are several who were apprenticed to Mr. Rogers. [Illustration: IN READINESS.] EARLY IN THE XIX CENTURY. No. 5. So wonderful were the recuperative powers of the American people, after undergoing the trials and sacrifices consequent upon a protracted struggle for liberty, as to surprise the most sanguine advocates of self-government. Following the train of war came ruin and desolation, but freedom was the birthright of the people, who, though sorely tried by a tremendous outlay in blood and money, were by no means disheartened or discouraged, and without delay they cheerfully took in hand the task of renovation with the same resolute determination that characterized the conflict with their enemies. The contributions of Maryland to the country's wants during the war were always generous in both men and money. Baltimore, after recovering from the exhaustion consequent upon her constant participation in the seven long years' contest for freedom, commenced the foundation of her future commercial greatness, and early in the present century she had attained a commerce greater in extent than that of many older seaport towns. Baltimore "clippers" were celebrated for their marvelous speed, and their white sails were to be seen in the ports of every foreign nation. Baltimore kept steadily advancing in population and wealth; compared with her rivals, she was precocious. The town was settled in the year 1730, and its increase shows evidence of growth that must have created a surprise in its early days similar to that now experienced by the development in a few weeks of a full-fledged Western city, with its thousands of inhabitants, from its humble foundation of a few straggling hamlets. New York was settled in 1614, Boston in 1630, Philadelphia in 1682, each being well on in existence before Baltimore was born. At the close of the Revolutionary War the population of Baltimore was 5000; in 1800 it was 26,614. The first United States census, taken in 1810, places the number at 35,580, and in 1820 it had grown to be a prosperous commercial city of 62,738 inhabitants. The persistent patriotism of Baltimore throughout the Revolutionary War was proverbial; the strong intelligence of a majority of its citizens, though of foreign birth, gave them an intuitive knowledge of the distinction between right and wrong, and a fine sense of honor and justice prompted them to act as well as theorize, consequently their personal convictions as to the allegiance they owed their adopted country enabled the city of their choice to assume a strong and patriotic attitude in behalf of America's struggle, and incited them to act with the native element in expelling from their midst all who indulged in hostile acts or expressions. But one sentiment prevailed in Baltimore during the period of the war--that of loyalty to country. The courteous attention and honor paid by citizens to many of those who attained distinction in the war lent great assistance to Baltimore in quickly recovering from the damage she had sustained, and gave to the city a renown for hospitality which has remained by her to the present day. Washington, Lafayette, Count Rochambeau, and many others united in unrestricted praises of Baltimore's patriotism and liberality, and General Vallette, who commanded a French division of troops, declared: "I will never forget the happy days I have passed among you, citizens of Baltimore, and I beg you will believe that your remembrance will be forever dear to my memory." The famous General Greene, of Rhode Island, on his way homeward from the war in the South, stopped in Baltimore and gave his impression of the city in 1783 as follows: "Baltimore is a most thriving place. Trade nourishes, and the spirit of building exceeds belief. Not less than three hundred houses are put up in a year. Ground rents are little short of what they are in London. The inhabitants are all men of business." The period from 1800-30, although interrupted by the war of 1812, when the city was made the immediate battle-ground, was marked by a wonderful growth in both commercial and industrial occupations, and, in common with the general prosperity of the place, hat-making also flourished. In 1810 Maryland is found, from the United States census reports, to have taken the lead in the production of fur hats. Aside from the custom with some retailers of making and finishing the hats they sold, we find in the year 1818 several firms engaged in the _manufacture_ of hats. The products of these factories were distributed throughout the entire South, a section the natural resources of which enabled its people to easily recuperate from the war and quickly become large purchasers and consumers of goods which they did not themselves manufacture. In addition to this desirable field of business was the region of the "Far West," then comprising Ohio, Kentucky and Tennessee, the rapid increase of which in population by emigration greatly enlarged the demand for the products of Baltimore's hat industry. This being the most accessible seaport city, regular traffic by wagon trains was established, connecting Baltimore with the West, and giving to the former such superior advantages as to enable its enterprising merchants to secure a large trade, which they long and tenaciously held. The city directories of that period were not, as now-a-days, issued annually, but at intervals of three or four years, and while furnishing much valuable information, cannot be relied upon for complete correctness, the main object of the compiler being to get the names of house-holders and business men, while many who were temporarily employed, and all who were unmarried though permanently employed, were omitted from registration. Thus the Directory of 1818 does not give a full list of hatters in this city at that time, for while it appears that there were in operation in Baltimore twenty-five hat establishments in the year 1818 (five or six of which were extensive manufactories), the Directory does not show any fair proportion of the number that then must have been engaged in the occupation of hat-making. It may be safely estimated from the extent and the activity of this branch of business at that time, that it gave employment to at least three hundred hands. Before the year 1810 the "taper crown" or "steeple top" had yielded to the uncompromising demands of fashion, and a style appeared quite different from that which existed at the opening of the century. It had so expanded its crown as to become "bell" in place of "taper," a change so manifestly popular that the "bell crown" since that time, though subject in a greater or less degree to occasional alterations in its proportions, has been for a dress hat the generally accepted style. [Illustration: 1810] In the style of 1810, Fashion, indulging as she not infrequently does, in a gymnastic summersault from one extreme to another, went in this instance quite as far as prudence would allow: the crown was about seven inches in height and about eight and one-quarter inches across the tip, with a brim about two-and-a-quarter inches wide, the hat being thickly napped with long beaver fur and trimmed with a wide band and buckle. Following the year 1810 there came a reduction in heights of crowns as well as in the proportions of "bell," and a modified style prevailed until the year 1835, when it again developed into an extreme "bell" shape with a very narrow brim, a style so utterly extravagant as to bring it into ridicule. SOME OLD FIRMS. No. 6. Of the hatters engaged in business in Baltimore during the early part of this century, many are worthy of more than passing notice as men of honest character, strict in their dealings and successful in their business undertakings, gaining the respect of their fellow-townsmen and becoming honored and trusted citizens of a growing community. When it is known what were the social surroundings of the "old time" hatter in his youth, it seems a matter of surprise that such good fruit should spring from so unpromising soil. No one was supposed to be capable of conducting the retail hat business unless he had served his term of apprenticeship to the trade, and apprenticeship in those days was no trivial matter. It meant the surrender at an early age of home, with its parental influences--a most dangerous experience for the untrained youth to encounter--and was entered into by contract for a term of years, binding master and hand to its faithful execution; not merely a verbal agreement between parties themselves, but one solemnly executed by parent and employer, ratified and signed before a magistrate and made binding after all this legal form by the attachment of the portentous seal of the Orphans' Court, before the boy could be considered bounden as "an apprentice to the trade." This was virtually a surrender of all domestic control, giving to one not of "kith or kin" absolute guardianship of the boy. The habits and morals of the "'prentice" were often a secondary consideration, if not wholly neglected. Thus, as a class, the journeyman hatters often developed into loose, shiftless, migratory characters, spending their liberal wages freely, with no ambition beyond that of daily support; and the surprise is that from such a source came notably honorable men, whose lives seemed to contradict the whole theory of the influence of early training. To these worthy pioneers belongs the credit of laying a secure foundation for a trade that from humble beginnings has developed into one of the most prominent industries of the country, requiring extensive capital, liberal business capacity, and one that gives employment to a large, intelligent and skillful class of people. Among those conducting the hatting business in Baltimore at the opening of the present century, Mr. Jacob Rogers, from his long and successful business career, as well as from being the only one through whom it has been possible to connect this special industry as it existed before the Revolution, with that of the present time, ranks most prominently. What year Mr. Rogers commenced business cannot be ascertained, but as early as 1796, being nearly 30 years of age, he is found established at the corner of South and Second streets, and in the year 1844 (almost the middle of another century), after the lapse of nearly fifty years, and while actively engaged in business pursuits, his life was suddenly ended; his funeral taking place from his residence, at South and Second streets, his home for more than half a century. About the year 1805 Mr. Rogers erected a large factory on Second street near Tripolet's alley (now Post-Office avenue). This building was about one hundred and fifty feet long, forty wide, and four stories in height. Afterwards a wing extension of considerable proportions was added. [Illustration: Hat shop of Jacob Rogers, built about 1805.] This establishment was one of the "big" concerns of the day, and Mr. Rogers was credited with conducting, at this time, the most extensive and prosperous hat business in the United States. To-day not a vestige remains of Mr. Rogers' factory, and upon its site is the extensive structure of the Corn and Flour Exchange. His store, at the corner of South and Second streets, still remains, however, having been remodeled from that of Mr. Rogers' time, the ground-floor being now occupied by H. W. Totebush as a cigar store. In 1819 Mr. Rogers took as partner in business his eldest son, George, the firm becoming Jacob Rogers & Son. In 1823 Mr. Rogers leased from the Carroll family the property No. 129 West Baltimore street, at the corner of Public alley (now Grant street), where a branch establishment was opened, both establishments being continued up to the time of Mr. Rogers' death, in 1844, at which time the firm was "Jacob Rogers & Sons," William, another son, having been admitted about the year 1835. Upon the occasion of celebrating the laying of the cornerstone of the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad in Baltimore, July 4, 1828 (a great event in the annals of the city), the exhibition of trades was a most prominent feature of the immense procession, and none made a finer display than the hatters. George Rogers commanded that division, a description of which is thus given in the Baltimore _Gazette and Daily Advertiser_ of July 5, 1828: "The hatters' car was drawn by four horses, showing the men at work in the several stages of hat-making. The group attracted much attention; they carried a banner with a white ground, and on the shield was a beaver resting on a scroll bearing the motto: 'With the industry of the beaver we support our rights,' crossed with implements of the trade, the whole supported by the motto: 'We cover all.'" Bazil Sollers commenced business in 1799 at No. 68 Market street, a location on the north side of the street, four doors east of what is now Holliday street. In 1803 he removed to No. 22 Market street, also on the north side, four doors west of Harrison street; this latter place was previously occupied by Brant & Hobby as a hat store in 1801, and by Stansbury & Hobby in 1802. Mr. Sollers continued in business on Market street until the year 1831, when he removed to North Gay, No. 15, on the northwest corner of Front street. His factory was on East, now Fayette street, three doors east of Lemon street. Mr. Sollers continued in the manufacturing business until about the year 1840. James Gould & Co. started hat-manufacturing at No. 3 Water street in the year 1802. Water street at that time was numbered from Calvert to South street, subsequently from South to Calvert, and lately renumbered as formerly. No. 3, the second building from Calvert, is now occupied by J. E. Warner & Co., commission merchants. In 1807 Joseph Cox succeeded to the business of James Gould & Co., and kept a retail store on the corner of South and Water streets. Mr. Cox had the reputation of making a superior class of hats, excelled by no manufacturer in the country, selling at both wholesale and retail. Requiring more extensive accommodations, he located his factory on the corner of Little Water and Calvert streets, where now stands the large warehouse of Keen & Hagerty, tinware manufacturers. In 1829, disposing of his hat business to Boston & Elder, he associated with himself his son James, the firm becoming "James Cox & Son, dealers in hatters' furs and wools," at No. 1 South Liberty street. In latter years, the members of this firm having acquired a competency, retired from business. Joseph Pearson was established as a hat manufacturer in 1809, having his shop on Green, now Exeter street, Old Town. He changed his business in the year 1824 to that of dealer in furs, for which Baltimore in early days was a good market, the _catch_ of the trappers of the Alleghanies and of the pioneers of the new West finding their way to Baltimore, and the otter and muskrat of lower Maryland, Virginia and North Carolina also coming in large quantities to this market. The fur business of Baltimore was then of sufficient importance for Jacob Astor to make Mr. Pearson his representative agent. In latter years the firm became Joseph Pearson & Son, dealers in hatters' furs and trimmings, at 260 Baltimore street. All the members of this firm being dead, Edward Connolly, who was in their employ, succeeded to the business, afterwards changing it to a general hat-jobbing business, which is still conducted by Edward Connolly & Son at 207 W. Baltimore street. John Amos was a well known and respected hatter of Old Town, who commenced business as early as the year 1809 at No. 39 Bridge street, on the north side of the present North Gay street, between High and Exeter. His "back shop," or factory, was on Hillen street. He continued business during the period of thirty years at the same place, and died in 1847 at the age of 67. PATRIARCHS OF THE TRADE. No. 7. Gleaning more closely in the historic field of the early part of the century, others are found whose enterprise contributed largely to this important industry of Baltimore, and whose successful prosecution of the hat business maintained the credit and position won by their predecessors. In the year 1814 Runyon Harris erected a large hat factory on Fish, now Saratoga street. This building was about one hundred and twenty-five feet in length and two and a half stories high. The business of this establishment was carried on under the style of "The Baltimore Hat Manufacturing Co." While evidence cannot be given, it may be inferred that Mr. Harris must, before this date, have been engaged elsewhere in the city in the manufacture of hats, as others entering into business about this time are known to have been apprenticed to Mr. Harris. [Illustration: Ye old Hat Factory of Runyon Harris Balto. Erected in 1814] In 1817 Aaron Clap & Co. commenced the retail hat business at 146 Market street, on the north side, five doors east of St. Paul street, and probably identical with the present 104 East Baltimore street, recently occupied by John Murphy & Co., Publishers. Messrs. Clap & Co. having secured a good location by purchasing the factory of Runyon Harris, engaged extensively in the manufacturing business, which was continued by their several successors down to the year 1864, when results of the civil war (so disastrous to Maryland's manufacturing industries) caused its temporary abandonment, but the enterprise established by Messrs. Aaron Clap & Co. has, by an unbroken series of firms, continued to the present time, being now represented by Brigham, Hopkins & Co. In 1817 Henry Lamson kept a first-class retail hat store at No. 5 South Calvert street, the locality now the southwest corner of Carroll Hall building. In 1822 the firm of Aaron Clap & Co. and Henry Lamson consolidated, making the firm Lamson & Clap, and continuing the retail business at No. 5 South Calvert street, in connection with manufactory. Mr. Lamson in 1827 went to the West Indies in search of health, and died on the island of St. Thomas. He was a gentleman of much social refinement, and was held in high esteem as a citizen. In the year 1827 the firm of Lamson & Clap was dissolved by the death of Mr. Lamson, and Mr. Wm. P. Cole was admitted, the firm becoming Clap, Cole & Co. After the death of Mr. Clap, which occurred in 1834, his widow's interest was retained and the firm was changed to Cole, Clap & Co.; following this, Mrs. Clap retired and Mr. Hugh J. Morrison became a member of the firm, which was made Cole & Morrison. In 1842 Thaddeus and William G. Craft became interested, the firm becoming Cole, Craft & Co., still continuing business at No. 5 South Calvert street (the same place established by Lamson & Clap). About the year 1850 the firm removed to No. 218 West Baltimore street, now 10 East Baltimore street and occupied by Likes, Berwanger & Co., clothiers. In 1853 Mr. Cole associated with him his son, William R., the firm being Wm. P. Cole & Son. In 1857 the firm moved to No. 274 West Baltimore street, present number 46, where they remained until the year 1867, removing then to occupy the building which they had erected at No. 30 Sharp street, now 24 Hopkins Place. In 1861 Mr. Wm. T. Brigham was admitted to the firm, it then becoming Wm. R. Cole & Co. In 1870 the firm name was again changed to Cole, Brigham & Co., which was dissolved in 1877 by the withdrawal of Mr. Brigham, in which year Mr. Brigham associated with Robert D. Hopkins as the firm of Brigham & Hopkins, locating at No. 128 West Fayette street (present number 211), which firm of Brigham & Hopkins continued until 1887, when it was changed to Brigham, Hopkins & Co. by the admission of Isaac H. Francis. In 1884 Brigham & Hopkins erected the large and handsome building at the corner of German and Paca streets, which the present firm continue to occupy as a factory and salesroom. In 1810 Andrew Ruff is found at No. 72 Camden street, likely to have been his place of residence. Whether he was then engaged in business is not known, but in 1817 he had a factory on Davis street between Lexington and Saratoga streets, the site now occupied by the stables of the Adams Express Company. About the year 1822 he established a retail store at 158 Baltimore street. In 1842 the firm was Andrew Ruff & Co., at 194 Baltimore street. At one time Mr. Ruff was foreman in the manufacturing establishment of Clap & Cole. Henry Jenkins, in 1822, was a hat manufacturer at 28 Green street, Old Town, and from 1824 to 1830 Messrs. H. & W. S. Jenkins kept a hat store on the northeast corner of Baltimore and Calvert streets, where afterwards was erected the banking-house of Josiah Lee & Co., now occupied by the Pennsylvania Railroad Company as a ticket office. Joseph Branson was a hatter in the year 1827 at 182 Market street. He was a son of William Branson, who was engaged in the same business from 1796 to 1817. Joseph Branson ranked as the fashionable hatter of that time. He was a man of considerable military distinction in the State. He raised and commanded the famous Marion Rifles, a superb military organization of the city, to which was accorded the honor of receiving General Lafayette upon his visit to Baltimore in 1824. Mr. Branson is said to have been the first to introduce a thorough system of military tactics in Baltimore. He served several terms in the City Council, and was an active, enterprising citizen. In the year 1831 he went out of business and took the position of inspector in the custom house. Mr. Charles Grimes was a well-known hatter who commenced business at 42 Baltimore street about 1823. In 1831 he removed to No. 29 North Gay, near High street. He evidently had a love for his first choice, as in 1833 he is found again at 42 Baltimore street. Mr. Grimes retired from business as early as the year 1839. He was extremely fond of the Maryland sport of duck shooting, in which he was associated with many of Baltimore's sporting gentlemen. In 1853 he removed to Philadelphia, enjoying a life of comfort and ease. He was an exemplary man in all the relations of life, and died in the year 1868 at the advanced age of 73. In 1810 John Petticord was learning his trade with Jacob Rogers, being then fourteen years of age. His honesty and faithfulness were appreciated by his employer, and in 1814 he occupied the position of foreman in Mr. Rogers' factory. After continuing in that capacity for some time he commenced the manufacture of hats on his own account, continuing it until the feebleness of age compelled him to abandon it. Thomas Sappington was a hat manufacturer who, in the year 1831, was located at No. 120 Baltimore street, which at that time was at or near the present number, 116 East Baltimore street. He had his factory on North street near Saratoga. It is known that he was in business for a number of years, but what year he commenced and when he abandoned business cannot be ascertained. Victor Sarata was a Frenchman who located in Baltimore as early as 1838. He opened a retail store at 259 Baltimore street, and was the first one to introduce the silk hat in this city. Wm. H. Keevil was a hatter doing a retail business in 1842 at 66-1/2 Baltimore street. He was evidently of the "buncombe" style, and conducted his business in a sensational manner, advertising extensively and brazenly, as will be seen from the following quotation from an advertisement of his printed in 1842: "Who talks of importing hats from England while _Keevil_ is in the field? Pshaw! 'Tis sheer folly. For while he continues to sell his beautiful hats at his present reduced prices, any such speculation as importing hats from Europe will be 'no go' or 'non-effect.' The hatters, therefore, on the other side of the Atlantic had better keep their hats at home, as it would be quite as profitable for them to send 'wooden nutmegs' and 'sawdust hams' to New England, or coals to Newcastle, as hats to Baltimore to compete with the well-known _Keevil_." His business existence could not have been of long continuance, as in 1850 his name is not found in the City Directory. At the close of the first half of this century there were several who afterwards attained prominence both in business and a public capacity, among whom were Joshua Vansant, Samuel Hindes, Charles Towson, George K. Quail, James L. McPhail, P. E. Riley, John Boston, Ephraim Price, Robert Q. Taylor, Lewis Raymo and others, the last two mentioned being the only ones now living. JACOB ROGERS. No. 8. To one man more than any other belongs the credit of establishing upon an extensive scale the hat business, which in the early part of the present century was so prominently identified with the growth and prosperity of Baltimore; that person was Jacob Rogers, whose business career in his native city extended over a period of more than fifty years, fortified by a reputation that brought the universal respect of his fellow-citizens, and leaving a worthy example for those succeeding him. Jacob Rogers was born in the year 1766. As in those days boys were apprenticed at an early age, it may be supposed that when he was fifteen years old he was in the employ of David Shields, with whom it is known he served his term of apprenticeship at hat-making. In 1796 Mr. Rogers is found the proprietor of a retail hat store at the corner of South and Second streets. He was an enterprising man, and succeeded in building up a business of large proportions. He died in 1842, possessed of a fortune amounting to three hundred thousand dollars, a large accumulation for those days. In 1805 he built an extensive factory on Second street, near Tripolet's alley--now Post-Office avenue--and adjoining the old Lutheran Church, the spire of which then contained the Town Clock; these old landmarks are now all removed and the location occupied by the stately edifice of the Corn and Flour Exchange. The number of hands employed by Mr. Rogers at his factory and "front shop" was about one hundred, including apprentices. His "plank" shop comprised five batteries, aggregating thirty men; in the finishing shop he employed about twenty-five, and he had usually bound to him as many as fifteen apprentices. This would appear to be a large force for a hat-manufacturing concern of that early period, but it must be remembered that the manual labor bestowed upon one hat then was more than that on some thousands in the present day of labor-saving machinery. That Mr. Rogers was a strict disciplinarian and an excellent business man is proven by the perfect control he exercised over the large number in his employ, whom he ruled with a firm hand yet with a wise judgment, and while rebuking any disobedience of orders, was feared, respected and loved for his strict sense of honor, justice and propriety. He boarded under his own roof nearly all his apprentices to the trade; a few were privileged to lodge at home, while their board was supplied by their master, as one of the stipulations of their indenture; so Jacob Rogers' immediate family, which was not a small one, was greatly enlarged by the addition of fifteen to twenty wild, untamed "prentice" boys. What would have been the domestic condition of such a family without the ruling influence of a stern master only those can imagine who know the kind of material of which the journeyman hatter of those days was composed. He was a veritable tramp. As a rule with Mr. Rogers, chastisement immediately followed misconduct; with him the present was the opportune time for punishment, and whether in the home, the shop, or on the street, any of the shop-boys were found doing wrong, correction was given in the then customary way--by flogging. Mr. Rogers was a conscientious member of the Methodist Church, and maintained a high character for honesty and probity, and recognized as a fair man in all his dealings. A good story is told to show how, though driving a keen bargain, he was careful not to misrepresent. In his store one day he was divulging to a friend some of the secrets of his business, showing how successfully a _prime_ beaver-napped hat could be made with the slightest sprinkling of the valuable beaver fur, a trick just then discovered. Soon after a purchaser appeared inquiring for a beaver-napped hat. Mr. Rogers expatiated upon the marvelous beauty of the "tile," and his customer put the question: "Mr. Rogers, is this a genuine beaver hat?" "My dear sir," said Mr. Rogers, "I pledge my word that the best part of the material in that hat is pure beaver." The hat was bought and paid for and the customer departed, well satisfied with his purchase. At once Mr. Rogers was catechised by his friend, who had earnestly watched the trade, remarking: "Why, Mr. Rogers, did you not tell me that there was but a trifling amount of beaver in that hat you just sold, and you, a church member, so misrepresent to a customer?" "My friend," replied Mr. Rogers, "I made no misrepresentation, I told my customer the honest fact, that the _best_ part of the material of which the hat was made was pure beaver, and so it was." The journeyman hatter of Mr. Rogers' time was a character, migratory in his ways, his general habit being to work for a short time--a season or less in one place--then, from desire of change or lack of employment, to seek for pastures new. As railroad travel was not then thought of, and stage-coach conveyance a luxury at most times beyond the pecuniary means of the itinerant hatter, the journey was usually made on foot. Application for work could not be made to the proprietor, but must necessarily go through the medium of an employee. Frequently an applicant in straitened circumstances who failed to be "shopped," appealed to his more fortunate fellow-workmen to relieve his destitute condition, who always made a ready and hearty response by providing for his immediate wants and starting him again on his pilgrimage with a light heart and a wish for good luck. This constant wandering habit frequently brought the hatter of those days to a condition of abject dependence, and supplied a large proportion of that vagrant class now denominated "tramps." It was often the boast of these hatter "tramps" that in the period of a year or two they would make the tour of the entire country from Portland, Maine, to Baltimore in the South, and Pittsburg, then "far west," "shopping" awhile in some town or village and then marching on in search of another chance. [Illustration: Hat Store of Jacob Rogers.] In the "season" when labor was in demand good workmen did not apply in vain, but most hat factories were subject to dull times between seasons, necessitating a reduction in the number of hands. This general plan was productive of irregularity in the habits of the workman, allowing him to have no settled place of habitation. Baltimore, however, was an exception to the general rule, her factories providing constant employment for her workmen, thus encouraging a deeper interest in their vocation. It is said that in business Mr. Rogers never knew what dull times were; he kept his hat factory in active operation all the year round. This prosperous condition of things had the tendency to make the Baltimore hatter somewhat of a permanent settler, thereby identifying him more closely with the interests and the growth of his own city, and causing him to become personally concerned in its success and prosperity; an experience quite different from that of his fellow-workmen elsewhere, who were constantly changing their habitation. Thus the Baltimore hatter was reared under conditions favorable to his improvement by serving his apprentice days under the influence of a conscientious master. The effect of this early training was manifest in his character as a good citizen ever after, often securing for him in the place of his birth positions of trust, and many of Baltimore's best citizens, and some of her noblest men, received their early training in the model hat-shops of their own city. With the growing trade of the city, the business of hat-making kept steady pace. The prosperity of the South, and the constant development of the West, provided Baltimore with a wide outlet for her products. Through the business channels of this young and enterprising city flowed a large proportion of the products of the mills and factories of New England, assisting materially the business activity of the place, and it is quite likely that the interests of Baltimore and New England at that time being so connected is an explanation why so many New England people migrated to Baltimore in those days of her prosperity. With characteristic energy and enterprise, Mr. Rogers extended his business, pushing forward into new fields as the settlement of the country advanced. Besides a large trade with the entire South, the wagon-trains, which were the expresses of those days, distributed his goods throughout the States of Ohio, Indiana, Kentucky and Tennessee, thus securing to him at that time the most extensive business in hat manufacture conducted by any one firm in the United States. Fortune favored Mr. Rogers, and during his whole business career there was no interruption in the progress of this industry in Baltimore. Not until his death, or after the middle of the century, was there any noticeable decline. The eventful business career and commendable private life of Mr. Rogers ended on the 10th of April, 1842, he falling suddenly in the old Light-street Methodist Church while attending divine service. The Baltimore _Sun_ of April 11, 1842, mentioned his death as follows: "The illness of Jacob Rogers, Esq., occurred in Light-street Church; he fell in a faint from which he died an hour after at his residence, No. 9 South street. He was well known and respected as one of the most worthy, industrious, and valuable of our citizens of Baltimore." [Illustration: WESTERN EXPRESS, 1825.] OLD METHODS. No. 9. Just as the first half of the present century was expiring, an invention was made that at once revolutionized the whole system of hat-making. A machine was patented in the United States by H. A. Wells, in the year 1846, which successfully accomplished the work of making or forming a hat in a very short space of time, which heretofore had required the slow, tedious and skillful labor of the hands, thus so equally dividing the century that the first half may be practically considered as following the _old_ method, and the latter half as using the _new_ method. So remarkable was this invention that its introduction quickly produced a change in the character of hats by greatly reducing their cost of manufacture, together with a change in the manner of conducting the hat business. To show up the _old_ method of hat-making that existed prior to the use of the Wells machine is the purpose of this chapter, the greater part of the information here given having been gained from an article in "Sears' Guide to Knowledge," published in 1844. Let us enter a Baltimore hat "shop" of fifty years ago and watch the making of a single hat. Fur and wool constitute the main ingredients of which hats have always been made, because possessing those qualities necessary for the process of "felting," the finer and better class of hats being made of the furs of such animals as the beaver, bear, marten, minx, hare and rabbit. The skins of these animals after being stripped from the body are called "pelts"; when the inner side has undergone a process of tanning the skins obtain the name of "furs" in a restricted sense, and the term is still more restricted when applied to the hairy coating cut from the skin. The furs to which the old-time hatter gave preference were the beaver, the muskrat, the nutria, the hare and the rabbit, of which the first was by far the most valuable. These animals all have two kinds of hair on their skins, the innermost of which is short and fine as down, the outermost, thick, long and more sparing, the former being of much use, the latter of no value to the hatter. After receiving the "skins" or "pelts," which are greasy and dirty, they are first cleaned with soap and water, then carried to the "pulling-room," where women are employed in pulling out the coarse outer hairs from the skins, which is done by means of a knife acting against the thumb, the fingers and thumb being guarded by a short leather shield. The skins are then taken and the fur cut or "cropped" from them, which is done by men dexterously using a sharp knife, formed with a round blade, such as is used now-a-days in the kitchen as a "chopping knife." By keeping this knife constantly moving across the skin the fur is taken off or separated without injury to the skin, which is to be tanned for leather or consigned to the glue factory. The cutting of furs, however, had become before 1844 a business in some measure conducted by itself, and a machine had been invented to separate the fur from the skin, which, though it might be considered now a simple affair, was at that time looked upon as a wonder. [Illustration: FUR-CUTTING MACHINE.] We have said the women in the "pulling-room" cut, tear, or pull out the long, coarse hairs from the pelts, and that these hairs are useless to the hatter. But it is impossible completely to separate the coarse from the fine fur by these means, and therefore the fur, when cropped from the pelt, is conveyed to the "blowing-room," finally to effect the separation. The action of the blowing machine is exceedingly beautiful, and may perhaps be understood without a minute detail of its mechanism. A quantity of beaver or any other fur is introduced at one end near a compartment in which a vane or fly is revolving with a velocity of nearly two thousand rotations in a minute. We all know, even from a simple example of a lady's fan, that a body in motion gives rise to a wind or draught, and when the motion is so rapid as is here indicated, the current becomes very powerful. This current of air propels the fur along a hollow trunk to the other end of the machine, and in so doing produces an effect which is as remarkable as valuable. All the coarse and comparatively valueless fur is deposited on a cloth stretched along the trunk, while the more delicate filaments are blown into a receptacle at the other end. Nothing but a very ingenious arrangement of mechanism could produce a separation so complete as is here effected; but the principle of action is not hard to understand. If there were no atmosphere, or if an inclosed place were exhausted of air, a guinea and a feather, however unequal in weight, would fall to the ground with equal velocity, but in ordinary circumstances the guinea would obviously fall more quickly than the feather, because the resistance of the air bears a much larger ratio to the weight of the feather than that of the guinea. As the resistance of air to a moving body acts more forcibly on a light than a heavy substance, so likewise does air when in motion and acting as a moving force. When particles of sand or gravel are driven by the wind, the lightest particles go the greatest distance. So it is with the two kinds of fur in the "blowing machine," those fibers which are finest and lightest are driven to the remote end of the machine. [Illustration: BLOWING ENGINE.] The "body," or "foundation," of a good beaver hat is generally made of eight parts rabbit's fur, three parts Saxony wool, and one part of llama, vicunia, or "red" wool. A sufficient quantity of these for one hat (about two and a half ounces) is weighed out and placed in the hands of the "bower." On entering the "bowing-room" a peculiar twanging noise indicates to the visitor that a stretched cord is in rapid vibration, and the management of this cord by the workman is seen to be one of the many operations in hatting wherein success depends exclusively on skillful manipulation. A bench extends along the front of the room beneath a range of windows, and each "bower" has a little compartment appropriated to himself. The bow is an ashen staff from five to seven feet in length, having a strong cord of catgut stretched over bridges at the two ends. The bow is suspended in the middle by a string from the ceiling, whereby it hangs nearly on a level with the work-bench, and the workman thus proceeds: The wool and coarse fur, first separately and afterwards together, are laid on the bench, and the bower, grasping the staff of the bow with his left hand and plucking the cord with his right hand by means of a small piece of wood, causes the cord to vibrate rapidly against the fur and wool. By repeating this process for a certain time, all the original clots or assemblages of filaments are perfectly opened and dilated, and the fibers, flying upwards when struck, are, by the dexterity of the workman, made to fall in nearly equal thickness on the bench, presenting a very light and soft layer of material. Simple as this operation appears to a stranger, years of practice are required for the attainment of proficiency in it. [Illustration: BOWING] The bowed materials for one hat are divided into two portions, each of which is separately pressed with a light wicker frame; the light mass of fluffy fur, after being pressed with the frame, is covered with a wet cloth, over which is placed a piece of oil-cloth or leather called a "hardening skin," until, by the pressure of the hands backwards and forwards all over the skin, the fibers are brought closer together, the points of contact multiplied, the serrations made to link together, and a slightly coherent fabric formed. These two halves, or "batts," are then formed into a hollow cap by a singular contrivance. One of the "batts," nearly triangular in shape, and measuring about half a yard in each direction, being laid flat, a triangular piece of paper, smaller in size than the batt, is laid upon it, and the edges of the batt, being folded over the paper, meet at the upper surface, and thus form a complete envelope to the paper. The two meeting edges are soon made to combine by gentle pressure and friction, and another "batt" is laid on the other in a similar way, but having the meeting edges on the opposite side of the paper. The double layer, with the enclosed paper, are then folded up in a damp cloth and worked by hand; the workman pressing and bending, rolling and unrolling, until the fibers of the inner layer are incorporated with those of the outer. It is evident that were there not a piece of paper interposed, the whole of the fibers would be worked together into a mass by the opposite sides felting together, but the paper maintains a vacancy within, and when withdrawn at the edge which is to form the opening of the cap, it leaves the felted material in such a form as to constitute, when stretched open, a hollow cone. The "battery" is a large kettle or boiler open at the top, having a fire beneath it, and eight planks ascending obliquely from the margin, so as to form a sort of octagonal work-bench, five or six feet in diameter, at which eight men may work; the planks are made of lead near the kettle, and of mahogany at the outer part, and at each plank a workman operates on a conical cap until the process of felting or "planking" is completed. The "battery" contains hot water slightly acidulated with sulphuric acid. The cap is dipped into the hot liquor, laid on one of the planks, and subjected to a long felting process; it is rolled and unrolled, twisted, pressed, and rubbed with a piece of leather or wood tied to the workman's hand, and rolled with a rolling-pin. From time to time the cap is examined, to ascertain whether the thickness is sufficient in every part, and if any defective places appear, they are wet with a brush dipped in the hot liquor, and a few additional fibers are worked in. Considerable skill is required in order to preserve such an additional thickness of material at one part as shall suffice for the brim of the hat. When this felting process has been continued about two hours, it is found that the heat, moisture, pressure and friction have reduced the cap to one-half its former dimensions, the thickness being increased in a proportionate degree, assuming a conical shape. The "cap" is then taken to the "water-proofing" or "stiffening" room, where the odor of gum, resins and spirits gives some intimation of the materials employed. Gum-lac, gum-sandrach, gum-mastic, resin, frankincense, copal, caoutchouc, spirits of wine and spirits of turpentine, are the ingredients (all of a very inflammable nature) of which the water-proofing is made. This is laid on the cap by means of a brush, and the workman exercises his skill in regulating the quantity at different parts, since the strength of the future brim and crown depends much on this process. After another heating in a hot room, called "stoving," by which the spirit is evaporated, the exterior of the cap is scoured with a weak alkali, to remove a portion of the gummy coating, and thereby enable the beaver fur with which it is to be "napped" or "coated," to adhere. A layer of beaver fur is spread, and, by means of the "hardening stick," is pressed and worked into a very delicate and light felt, just coherent enough to hold together. This layer, which is called a "ruffing" or "roughing," is a little larger than the cap-body, and to unite the two, another visit to the "battery" is necessary. The cap being softened by immersion in the hot liquor, the "ruffing" is laid on it, and patted down with a wet brush, a narrow strip of beaver being laid round the inside of the cap to form the underside of the future brim. The beavered cap is then wrapped in a woolen cloth, immersed frequently in the hot liquor, and rolled on the plank for the space of two hours. The effect of this rubbing and rolling is very curious, and may be illustrated in a simple manner: if a few fibers of beaver fur be laid on a piece of broadcloth, covered with tissue paper, and rubbed gently with the finger, they will penetrate through the cloth and appear on the opposite side. So, likewise, in the process of "ruffing," each fiber is set in motion from root to point, and enters the substance of the felt cap. The hairs proceed in a pretty straight course, and just enter the felt, with the substance of which they form an intimate union. But if the rolling and pressing were continued too long, the hairs would actually pass through the felt, and be seen on the inside instead of the outside of the cap; the workman therefore exercises his judgment in continuing the process only so long as is sufficient to secure the hairs in the felt firm enough to bear the action of the hat-brush in after-days. At length the cap is to assume somewhat the shape of a hat, before it finally leaves the "battery." The workman first turns up the edge of the cap to the depth of about an inch and a half; and then draws the peak of the cap back through the centre or axis so far as not to take out the first fold, but to produce an inner fold of the same depth. The point being turned back again, produces a third fold, and thus the workman proceeds, till the whole hat has acquired the appearance of a flattish circular piece, consisting of a number of concentric folds or rings, with the peak in the centre. This is laid on the "plank," where the workman, keeping the substance hot and wet, pulls, presses and rubs the centre until he has formed a smooth flat portion equal to the intended crown of the hat. He then takes a cylindrical block, on the flat end of which he applies the flattened central portion of the felt, and by holding a string down the curved sides of the block, he causes the surrounding portion of the felt to assume the figure of the block. The part which is to form the brim now appears a puckered appendage round the edge of the hat; but this puckered edge is soon brought to a tolerably flat shape by pulling and pressing. The workman then raises and opens the nap of the hat by means of a peculiar sort of comb, and then shears the hairs to a regular length. Connoisseurs in these matters are learned as to the respective merits of "short naps" and "long naps," and by the shearer's dexterity these are regulated. The visitor recognizes nothing difficult in this operation, yet years of practice are necessary for the attainment of skill therein, since the workman determines the length of the nap by the peculiar position in which the long, light shears are held. A nap or pile as fine as that of velvet can be produced by this operation. However carefully the process of "blowing" may be performed in order to separate the coarse fibers of the fur from the more delicate, there are always a few of the former left mingled with the latter, and these are worked up during the subsequent processes. Women are employed, therefore, after the hats have left the "finishers," in picking out with small tweezers such defective fibers as may present themselves on the surface of the hats. Lastly, the hat is placed in the hands of a workman whose employment requires an accurate eye and a fertile taste in matters of shape and form: this is the "shaper." He has to study the style and fashion of the day, as well as the wishes of individual purchasers, by giving to the brim of the hat such curvatures in various directions as may be needed. Simple as this may appear, the workman who possesses the requisite skill to give the acceptable curl to the brim which is to create the finishing touch for the hat is a desirable hand, and can command a high rate of wages. Thus, in our imaginary tour through an old-fashioned hat factory, we have seen the many skillful manipulations then required to make a hat, which, when compared with modern processes, awaken in our minds a sense of wonder at the change. JOHN PETTICORD. No. 10. The subject of this article, who died in Baltimore, October 11th, 1887, in the 92d year of his age, was probably the oldest hatter in the United States. His identity with Baltimore hatting all the days of his life made him prominent in connection with that industry. Born but a few years after the thirteen states had by compact formed a republic, Washington being President of the United States, Mr. Petticord lived to see in office every President down to that of President Cleveland. When he was a young man of business, savages roamed and tented where beautiful and populous cities with all the advantages of refinement and art now exist. During his lifetime the population of his own city changed from 25,000 to 400,000, and the United States extended its area of territory from the limits of the thirteen original states, which was 367,000 square miles, to upwards of 3,000,000, increasing its population from 5,000,000 to 60,000,000. When John Petticord first made hats, the "Cocked" or "Continental" style was in vogue. No more curious museum could be collected than specimens of the various freaks of fashion in hats that appeared during the lifetime of this old hatter. John Petticord was born in Baltimore in 1796. At an early age he was apprenticed to John Amos to learn the trade of hatting; soon after finishing his service of apprenticeship, he secured work in the establishment of Jacob Rogers. He was faithful to his duties, serving his master with that same conscientiousness that he would have done for himself, soon becoming foreman of Mr. Rogers' extensive factory. After serving with Mr. Rogers for some years, he entered into business as a manufacturer on his own account, and continued until feebleness of age compelled him to abandon it. He was a man of quiet, simple habits, his chief ambition being to lead an upright life, and appear before God and his fellow-creatures an honest man. John Petticord was exemplary in character and habits, modest and gentle in his disposition, pure in his faith and in his living; he had no enemies, and was always known as a reliable man. During his long career as foreman or master of the shop, he never had a quarrel or a serious difficulty with the many who came under his control. He never drank intoxicating beverages, although in his early days that was the general custom, which, with hatters, was unfortunately the universal habit. His manliness and strength of character were also well displayed by his never chewing or smoking tobacco. He was patient and methodical, an indefatigable worker at his trade, believing that undivided attention to his work was a duty he owed to others. John Petticord was a patriot, being one of that noble band who fearlessly stood and successfully resisted the British attack upon Baltimore in 1814. At that time he was a youth of nineteen working at his trade. At noon-time on the eventful September 12th, 1814, the "tocsin" was sounded to call to arms every able-bodied citizen to defend his home and fireside, and, if possible, prevent the destruction of their beautiful city. At the first sound of the cannon, which was the signal agreed upon, John Petticord left his unfinished noonday meal, seized his musket, and was one of the first to join the ranks of his company. The day was desperately hot, and a forced march of two miles to the battlefield brought them, dusty, tired and thirsty, face to face with the enemy, who was in a fresh condition and eager for fight. Petticord's canteen, as all others, by regulation orders, was filled with whiskey, but he, being a temperance man, would not assuage his thirst with grog. Famishing for water, he obtained permission from his superior officer to go a short distance away, where a "squatter" was dispensing cider for the comfort of the soldiers and profit to himself. Petticord, emptying his canteen of whiskey on the ground, had it filled with hard cider, and quenched his thirst with a good round drink. That hard cider, together with heat and exhaustion, came about as near ending the earthly career of John Petticord as did the storm of enemy's bullets which whizzed about his head. On that trying day the bravery of this man was well tested. He stood manfully in position while his comrade on the right fell dead at his feet, and the one on his left was removed wounded from the battlefield, he himself receiving a slight wound on the finger. The riderless white horse of the British General Ross, who had just been killed, pranced by in front of the rank in which Mr. Petticord was stationed, and the hearts of himself and comrades beat lightly with hope of success, as the shouts of the Americans echoed along the line, announced the death of the invaders' great leader, encouraging a grand rally that gave them the victory of the day. Mr. Petticord, though a brave soldier in the time of his country's need, was a man of peace, and, upon the ending of hostilities with Great Britain, resigned his position in the eighth company of the 27th Regiment of Maryland militia. Baltimore always honors her noble band of brave defenders, and upon each anniversary of the 12th of September a public celebration is given, and the Old Defenders occupy the post of honor. It is but a few years since they marched with lively and steady step to martial music; later on, age required their appearing in carriages in the procession, and each year, at the annual dinner given by the city, their number has grown less and less. The present year but three were on earth to answer to the "roll call," and but one able to appear at the banquet. Who can realize the sad feelings of the _last_ of such a noble band? Feeble Old Age, with its infirmities, mindful of its duty, sat perhaps for the last time around the banquet board, where, with friends and comrades, he before had enjoyed happy and jovial times, his spirits were cheered and the occasion made as pleasant as possible, by the presence of many of Baltimore's honored citizens; but not to see a single face of the many with whom during the seventy-five long years he had kept up a pleasant association, is an experience others cannot imagine. With Mr. Petticord's death, but two[1] are left of that noble band who so bravely protected our rights and fought for and firmly secured that liberty and freedom we of the present day are enjoying. [1] This article was written in 1887, since when these two have passed on. MIDDLE OF THE CENTURY. No. 11. Baltimore hat-manufacturing interests at the middle of the century suffered greatly by comparison with those of an earlier period. That which had been a prominent industry, engaged in by active, enterprising men, and extending steadily and widely, keeping pace with the growth of the country, and giving encouragement to the continued employment of skilled labor, was at the middle of this century gradually falling off in volume and importance, and continued to decline until what was once a thriving and prosperous industry of the city, became one almost of insignificance. In the government census of 1810, the statistics regarding hat manufacturing place Maryland as leading in the manufacture of fur hats. While Connecticut, New York, New Jersey and Pennsylvania gained rapidly, still this business in Baltimore continued to increase and grow, until during the period from 1825 to 1850 it reached the height of its prosperity. Before the year 1850 the once prominent concern of James Cox & Sons had retired from the hat-manufacturing business, and the oldest and wealthiest firm was contemplating liquidation, as Messrs. George and William Rogers, of the firm of Jacob Rogers & Sons, had decided to discontinue the business left by their father, choosing to follow other occupations. The retirement of these two firms, so long and closely identified with the mercantile and manufacturing industries of Baltimore, which had successfully contributed by their faithful business labors to its growth and prosperity, was a serious blow to the interests of the city. This change left in the field but one important firm who had been their contemporary--Cole, Craft & Co.--of which the late Wm. P. Cole was the active business partner. This firm followed in succession the business established in 1814 by Runyon Harris, and was the predecessor of the present firm of Brigham, Hopkins & Co. Much speculation might be indulged in as to the real cause of the decline and loss to Baltimore of so important an industry, but the plain facts force but one conviction; namely, the unwillingness of these successful old manufacturers to adopt newer methods of hat making, leading to such reduction in cost, through improvements, as to preclude the chance of their successful competition with those of more progressive ideas. While Baltimore hat makers clung tenaciously to the old ways, whereby labor and expense were incurred unnecessarily, those at the North were readily adopting the various new methods by which improvements in the art of hat making were constantly being made; thus, with the use of newly invented machinery, the cost of making hats was greatly lessened, and the Northern manufacturer constantly gained in competition with those of Baltimore. The invention of the Wells _Forming Machine_ added largely to the misfortune of this business. An expensive machine, with a comparatively tremendous production, required a large market as an output; a heavy royalty also was attached to it, and the business of Baltimore at that time appeared not to be in condition to justify its introduction. Though the machine was invented in 1841, it was not until the year 1852 that the venture was made to introduce into Baltimore the Wells _Hat-body Forming Machine_. With the pecuniary assistance of Wm. P. Cole, Messrs. Bailey & Mead, in 1852, commenced hat forming by machinery, the "mill" being located on Holliday street, and afterwards removed to Front street (present number 320). From failure of support, caused by inability to revive the depressed condition of the hat business, the venture of Messrs. Bailey & Mead was not successful, and Mr. Mead retiring from the firm, the business was continued by Messrs. Bailey, Craft & Co., mainly in the interest of Mr. Cole's factory, until about 1869, when hat forming by machinery in Baltimore was entirely abandoned, followed with the retirement of Mr. Cole from the manufacturing business. Charles Towson, who established himself in the retail hat business in 1836, on Eutaw street, near Lexington, entered into partnership in 1853 with Mr. Mead, the firm being Towson & Mead; they commenced hat manufacturing at No. 10 Water street, in the factory formerly occupied by Jas. Cox & Sons. The business was carried on for about one year, when it was abandoned and the firm was dissolved. Other parties made fruitless attempts to restore to Baltimore the prestige it once held in this business. To one person, however, is due the credit of maintaining a long, persistent and noble fight against odds and difficulties, and who, after all chances to restore vitality to an apparently pulseless enterprise seemed lost, retired from the contest, unscarred and full of honors, after a creditable business career of forty-six years, carried on in the same factory where fifty-two years before he entered service as a boy. This person was Mr. Wm. P. Cole, who engaged in the manufacturing business in 1827, as a member of the firm of Clap, Cole & Co. At the time of Mr. Cole's retirement from the manufacturing business he was associated with his son, Wm. R. Cole, and his nephew, Wm. T. Brigham, as the firm of Wm. R. Cole & Co., who were then engaged in the jobbing hat business and located at No. 30 Sharp street, now 24 Hopkins Place. In the year 1870 the firm was changed to Cole, Brigham & Co.; Mr. Cole retiring from active business only upon the dissolution of that firm in 1877, having been engaged in business on his own account more than half a century, leaving behind a record bright with faithfulness to duty, unspotted by any unmanly business transaction, brilliant in having met every business obligation; for, during the whole course of a long business life, he so systematically managed his affairs as to allow him to pass safely through the many perilous business periods he encountered. As a manufacturer, Mr. Cole acquired a wide reputation for the class of goods he produced, and when the demand was most exclusively for soft felt hats, those manufactured by him were considered the best made in the United States, and were sought by retailers far and near. While at the outbreak of the Civil War there may have lingered a vital spark in the hat industry, that event gave it, apparently, a death thrust. The relative position of Baltimore to both sides was disastrous to its business interests; being close upon the dividing line of hostilities, the sympathies of a large part of its citizens were enlisted in the cause of the South, while, singularly enough, the larger proportion of the wealth and business interests of the city was centered in persons allied by family ties to those of the North, who earnestly upheld the cause of the Union. Cut off from all intercourse with the South--its legitimate field for business--the share of Western trade that was enjoyed by Baltimore was lost by the strategy of war, for with the partial destruction of the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad the channel of her Western trade was diverted, and it drifted in other directions. While dissension and strife were being stirred in Baltimore and her industries lying dormant, business at the North was being stimulated by State and Government calls for articles necessary to equip an army for service. Hats were a needful part of an army's equipment, and Northern hat manufacturers were called upon for the supply; their factories soon assumed the life and activity of prosperity, creating a demand for additional skilled labor with good pay; this induced the unemployed Baltimore hatter to migrate and seek other places for his support. Thus did Baltimore part with an industry of importance closely identified with its prosperous early days, which, after passing through many vicissitudes, dwindled gradually until it became apparently extinct. FASHIONS. No. 12. The high crown hat, vulgarly termed "stove-pipe," may be taken as the general indicator of fashions existing during the period of the present century. Following the "cocked" hat (the counterpart of the French chapeau), which style prevailed at the time of the American Revolution, was the "steeple top," which had a conical crown. This shape for a high hat was soon abandoned and the bell crown substituted, and so acceptable has this particular style proved that, since the opening of this century, it has held supremacy as the fashionable head-covering for man, despite frequent attempts to destroy its popularity by the introduction of other shapes, or the advocating of a change as practical. High hats were first napped with beaver fur, which material, being expensive, necessarily made costly hats. Otter fur was afterwards used, then muskrat, which greatly lessened their cost. "Scratch" or "brush" hats (terms used for hats made with a felt body and afterwards combed or scratched until a nap was raised) were manufactured and worn prior to the middle of the century. These were all stiffened high hats, and constituted the dressy article of headwear until the introduction of the silk hat, which for the last fifty years has maintained its ascendency as the leading article of fashion in gentlemen's hats. About the year 1830 the beaver hat assumed huge proportions of crown, having a very heavy "bell," measuring full seven inches in height and nine inches across the tip; to this crown was added an insignificant brim of only one and a half inches in width. These hats were covered with a beaver nap of such a length that it waved with the wind, and its appearance upon the head of the wearer was as _outre_ and unique as the "shako" on the head of a modern drum-major. To more forcibly illustrate the proportions of this style of hat, we may say that its actual capacity was nearly a peck. Besides the high hats of either beaver, brush or silk, caps made of cloth or fur were much used prior to the introduction of the soft felt hat, and continued to be so until an incident occurred which created a sudden revolution in the tastes of the American people regarding their head-dress. The visit of Louis Kossuth, the eminent Hungarian patriot, to this country in the year 1851, had the effect of producing a wonderful change in the fashion of hats. The one worn by Kossuth was a high unstiffened black felt trimmed with a wide band, and was ornamented with an ostrich feather. The immense popularity of this famous foreigner with all Americans brought about the fashion of a similar hat. Never before or since in this country did the introduction of a new fashion in hats spread with such rapidity as did the "Kossuth." All hat factories in the country were taxed to their utmost capacity to supply the demand, until every American citizen, old and young, was to be seen wearing a soft hat ornamented with an ostrich plume. It was the "Kossuth" that marked the era of the introduction of the soft or slouch hat, and stimulated the sale of that undress article of headwear, which continued in vogue throughout the United States for a number of years. The soft hat appeared in many forms and styles, some of which became universally popular. The "wide-awake," brought out during the election campaign of Abraham Lincoln, in the year 1860, was a noted and successful style. It was a low crown, white felt, with wide black band and binding. Robert Bonner's original and successful advertising of his newspaper, the New York _Ledger_, was a sensation of the day, and the "Ledger" was the name given to a soft hat that commanded a great sale. The peculiarity of the "Ledger" was a narrow leather band and leather binding. The "resorte" brim was an American invention, introduced about the year 1863; it was simply a wire held to the edge of the brim of a soft hat with a binding, and so extended as to maintain a flatness, and permit its conforming to the head without destroying its outlines. This invention was patented, and its extensive use brought large profits to the owners of the patent. The event of the Civil War gave an increased stimulus to the use of the soft hat. With the South in a state of excitement, alarmed with portentous fears of a sectional war, such matters as pertained to elegance of dress were banished from the minds of its people, and the North, with a large army recruiting from its citizen class, brought the universal practice of economy among the American people, limiting their indulgence in expenditures for articles of dress considered as luxuries, and the silk hat falling under that ban, dropped almost into absolute disuse. With the return, however, of prosperity, an apparent desire for a more dressy article was manifest, and the stiff felt hat generally denominated the Derby was introduced. The derby was made in various proportions of crown and brim, as the caprice of fashion dictated, and was, as its name might imply, an adopted English style; it gradually grew in favor with Americans, until it became the universal fashion of the day, maintaining that position for several years. From an increased popularity it has been brought into such common use as to again create a growing desire for an article claiming something bearing a more exclusive mark of gentility or dignity, which the silk hat meets, and the silk hat is again so increasing in use as to establish the certainty of its maintaining with the American people its wonted place of priority as the article of genteel head-dress, marking the standard of fashion and style. Baltimore, always noted for its readiness in accepting foreign fashions, must have been among the first of American cities to adopt the silk hat, which was claimed to be of French invention, but if there be any foundation for the following narrative, the first silk hat was not made in Paris, but in China. It is stated that a French sea-captain, while sailing on the coast of China, desiring to have his shabby napped beaver hat, which had been made in Paris, replaced by a new one, took it ashore, probably to Calcutta or Canton, to see if he could procure one like it. As Parisian styles were not in vogue in China, he found nothing of closer resemblance than the lacquered papier-mache or bamboo straw. The keen shrewdness of the Chinaman, however, quickly suggested a near imitation in silk-plush. This is said to have happened in 1830, and the captain returning to Paris, showed the Chinaman's product to his own hatter, who, upon perceiving its beauty, at once attempted its introduction as a fashion, which has long ruled nearly the whole world. The first silk hat produced in Baltimore is said to have been made by one Victor Sarata in 1838, though some contend that Jacob Rogers was the first to make such goods; but as the silk hat was looked upon as an innovation, and its introduction opposed by hat makers of that time, as being detrimental to their interests, it is more than probable that Mr. Rogers did not give encouragement to the manufacture of an article likely to supplant the use of his own make of "Beavers," "Russias" and "Bolivars," and we may thus safely give credit to Victor Sarata for first producing in Baltimore this new article of fashion, originating in Paris, the city from whence he came. Until the year 1850, Paris fashions were those generally adopted in the leading American cities, after which English fashions in hats entirely superseded the former, becoming so popular that not only large importations of English hats were made, but American manufacturers invariably copied English styles, and indulged in the degrading habit of pirating English trade-marks, for the purpose of increasing their sales. Happily, the necessity for such pernicious practices is at an end, for during the past ten years the great strides made by American manufacturers in the improvements of hat making place them in the foremost rank of that industry; in fact, with those elements of manufacture necessary to perfection, such as fineness of texture, lightness in weight, and elegance in style, American hatters to-day hold supremacy in the whole world, and, favored by relief from the tariff tax upon raw materials from which hats are made, all of which is of foreign growth, America will be found sending to the countries which taught her the art, examples of this industry far superior to those her teachers ever furnished her. [Illustration: THE "DERBY" OF 1889.] NEW DEVELOPMENTS. No. 13. A strange fact is that the Civil War, so disastrous in its effect upon the industries of Baltimore, was followed at its close by the rise of a new enterprise, of manufacturing straw hats, which so increased and extended that in number of establishments and volume of production it soon outrivalled those of fur hats in their most prosperous time, thus securing to this city a kindred business, greater in extent and importance than the one which had, by force of circumstances, been wrested from her. The good reputation which the products of the new industry has acquired in every part of the country has contributed not only to the prosperity of the city, but has assisted by adding credit for the high standard of its manufactured goods. In the year 1866 Mr. G. O. Wilson and Mr. Albert Sumner left their homes in Foxboro, Mass., in search of a promising field for establishing the business of renovating straw hats. Without any definite place in view, one city after another was visited, Baltimore being finally their chosen locality. Messrs. Wilson & Sumner associated with them Mr. W. C. Perry, who also came from Foxboro, and the firm was made Sumner & Perry, establishing themselves in the rear of No. 71, now 10 West Lexington street. Mr. Sumner withdrawing from the firm the same year, the two remaining partners continued the business at the same place as the firm of Wilson & Perry. At that time the retail price of straw hats was such as to allow a profitable business to be done in renovating and altering styles, and in that branch these persons met with success. Previous to this, however, others had been engaged in the business of bleaching and pressing straw hats. Among the first who entered into the business, as far as can be learned, was the firm of Rosenswig, Davidson & Ash, about the year 1848; they were cap manufacturers, and added the pressing of Leghorn hats as an auxiliary business. Mr. Samuel White, who learned his trade of the previously mentioned firm, afterwards carried on hat bleaching and pressing in connection with cap making, at No. 78 South Charles street (present No. 132). From 1850 to 1865 extensive importations of German straw hats came into the port of Baltimore, and Mr. White did a large business in finishing these goods. In 1857 Mr. White commenced the jobbing hat business, forming in 1861 the firm of White, Rosenburg & Co., and is now in business at No. 9 South Howard street, of the firm of S. White & Son. Richard Hill, at present in the retail hat business at No. 5 South Liberty street, was formerly engaged in hat bleaching and pressing at the same locality. Messrs. Wilson & Perry continued to prosper in their enterprise, and, increasing their facilities, gradually developed it into straw goods manufacturing, confining their business for several years almost exclusively with two prominent Baltimore jobbing houses, who supplied sufficient patronage for their constantly increasing production; one of their patrons being Cole, Brigham & Co., the other Armstrong, Cator & Co., one of the largest millinery firms in the country. In 1877 Messrs. Wilson & Perry purchased the premises No. 101 West Lexington street, now 104, where they secured more commodious quarters, and, with an admirably equipped factory, continued to do a large and prosperous business. Mr. Perry died in 1880. In July, 1887, the firm title of Wilson & Perry was changed, Mr. Wilson associating with M. Frank, J. D. Horner and A. Levering, formed the firm of Wilson, Frank & Horner, and occupied the warehouse No. 204 West Baltimore street, in connection with the factory on Lexington street. In January, 1875, Isaac H. Francis and James E. Sumner, who had been in the employ of Wilson & Perry, started the straw hat manufacturing business at the N. W. corner of Lexington and Liberty streets, and in the following year Wm. T. Brigham (then of the firm of Cole, Brigham & Co.) became associated with them, the firm being made Francis, Sumner & Co. In 1877 the firm of Cole, Brigham & Co. was dissolved, Mr. Brigham becoming connected with R. D. Hopkins, as the firm of Brigham & Hopkins, occupying the premises No. 128 West Fayette street (present No. 211). In 1880 Mr. Hopkins was admitted as a partner in the firm of Francis, Sumner & Co., and Messrs. Francis and Sumner became members of the firm of Brigham & Hopkins, the interests of the two firms having always, in fact, been identical since they were first established. The two firms were continued until July, 1887, when, by the withdrawal of Mr. Sumner, they were dissolved, and became consolidated as the firm of Brigham, Hopkins & Co., now occupying the large and spacious factory at the corner of German and Paca streets, erected in 1884. In the year 1880 Messrs. Francis, Sumner & Co. placed their interest in their Lexington and Liberty street factory with Wm. Fales and Jas. M. Hopkins, transferring their own entire business to the enlarged premises at 128 W. Fayette street. Fales & Hopkins continued at the corner of Lexington and Liberty streets until the fall of 1883, when Mr. Hopkins, forced by declining health to give up business, sold his interest to Mr. Louis Oudesluys, the firm becoming Fales & Oudesluys. Mr. James M. Hopkins died of consumption at Colorado Springs, February, 1884. In 1885 S. C. Townsend and John W. Grace became associated with Messrs. Fales & Oudesluys, and a new firm formed, as Fales, Oudesluys & Co., continuing for two years, when it was dissolved, Messrs. Townsend and Grace remaining as the firm of Townsend, Grace & Co., at 128 W. Fayette street, while Messrs. Fales and Oudesluys formed a new firm, as Fales, Oudesluys & Co., locating at 115 S. Eutaw street. Mr. Fales remained in the latter firm but a few months, when it was again changed to that of Oudesluys Bros., comprised of Louis, Adrian and Eugene Oudesluys, now doing business at 115 S. Eutaw street. In 1878 Mr. M. S. Levy, who was then a cap maker, commenced the finishing of straw hats, having the hats sewed by others, while he did the finishing and trimming, his place of business being then at the N. E. corner of Sharp and German streets. With increasing trade, Mr. Levy removed in 1881 to more spacious quarters at Nos. 318 and 320 W. Baltimore street (present numbers 216 and 218), where he commenced the general manufacture of straw hats. In 1883 he took his two sons into partnership, the firm being made M. S. Levy & Sons; their premises being destroyed by fire in October, 1886, they removed to 117 S. Sharp street. In September, 1888, being again the victims of fire, they occupied temporarily the premises N. E. cor. Paca and German streets, remaining there until taking possession of their present extensive factory located at the N. W. cor. of Paca and Lombard streets. In 1880 Tomz, Richardson & Co. commenced in a small way to manufacture straw hats at No. 341 W. Baltimore street (now 317), but, from lack of business experience, soon abandoned the undertaking. Messrs. Bateman & Richardson in 1882 embarked in the business, occupying a portion of the premises No. 5 S. Liberty street. In 1883 Mr. Scutch was admitted as a partner, the firm becoming Bateman, Richardson & Co., and, removing to No. 55 St. Paul street (now 313), continued until 1885; not meeting with anticipated success, they gave up the business. Messrs. Francis O. Cole & Co. in 1882 commenced the manufacture of straw goods, erecting for the purpose a building at Nos. 7 and 9 Saratoga street (now 424 E. Saratoga), continuing business until 1885, when the firm was dissolved. Mr R. Q. Taylor has long been engaged in the manufacture of Mackinaw straw hats as a specialty. His acquaintance with and interest in this product dates as far back as 1850, when he first used the Mackinaw for his retail trade, since which, every season the "Mackinaw" has been the prominent straw hat sent from his establishment, and for a period of fifteen years was the _only_ article of straw hat retailed by him. The successful control of a special style as an article of fashion for thirty-five consecutive years is a remarkable record, an accomplishment that plainly shows ability as a leader of fashion, for which Mr. Taylor's natural capacity so well fits him. Mr. Taylor confined the use of the "Mackinaw" hat strictly to his retail demands until after the year 1868, since when he has manufactured the article for the trade, distributing his products over the entire country, and establishing for "Taylor's Mackinaws" a national fame. In addition to the manufacture of men's and boys' straw hats, which class has heretofore comprised the larger proportion of such goods made in Baltimore, another branch, that of ladies' straw goods, has been developed, and is already assuming interesting proportions, promising to become a valuable addition to this industry. Messrs. Wolford & Shilburg in 1883 commenced the manufacture of ladies' straw goods at No. 6 E. Pratt street, remaining at that place for one year, removing in 1883 to No. 205 Camden street, where they are now located. In 1887, Messrs. L. W. Sumner, G. K. Thompson and D. Whitney, as the firm of Sumner, Thompson & Whitney, commenced the manufacture of ladies' and misses' straw goods, locating their factory at 317 N. Howard street. At the present time there are in Baltimore, apparently in prosperous condition, eight straw hat establishments, giving employment to eleven hundred hands, male and female, and producing annually, manufactured goods to the value of upwards of a million dollars, in the distribution of which Baltimore is brought into close business contact with every State and Territory of the Union, and the city's importance as a manufacturing centre is enhanced by the character of articles sent forth by those engaged in this class of business. GROWTH OF BUSINESS. No. 14. For many years the Mackinaw took precedence of all straw hats as the most desirable summer article for gentlemen's headwear, far out-rivalling in its success as a fashion any other straw product ever introduced to the American people. Having attained this prominent position mainly through its successful management by Baltimore manufacturers, it forms an important factor in the prosperity of the straw hat industry of Baltimore. In fact it is the actual foundation of the present large and increasing straw goods business of the city to-day. While the Mackinaw hat had previously found favor with a few prominent retailers, it was not until the year 1868 that Mr. W. T. Brigham, then of the firm of Wm. R. Cole & Co., observing the merits of the article, concluded to undertake its introduction to the trade, to whom it was generally quite unknown. Among those who had used profitably the Mackinaw for their retail trade were R. Q. Taylor, of Baltimore, Charles Oakford, W. F. Warburton and Louis Blaylock, of Philadelphia. Though it was an article of domestic production, the beauty and commendable qualities of the Mackinaw were indeed a surprising revelation to the trade at large. Each year added to the popularity of the Mackinaw, until it became the acceptable American straw hat, without which no first-class retailer could consider his stock complete. While the great demand existed, Baltimore continued to supply the larger proportion of all the Mackinaw hats sold, and taking advantage of the reputation thus gained for such goods, her manufacturers produced other kinds of straw hats, and by the exercise of proper care and attention acquired such skill as to secure for the straw goods products of Baltimore the worthy reputation of being the best made in the United States, consequently and beyond contradiction the best in the world. In the earliest days of straw hat making in Baltimore, at the time when the Mackinaw was being introduced, the sewing of straw hats by machine was a new invention, and practically a close monopoly controlled by a strong combination of wealthy straw goods manufacturers of the North, who, jointly as a stock company, prevented the sale of the straw sewing machines outside their own circle. Fortunately for the success of the new undertaking in Baltimore, the good qualities of the Mackinaw hat were more satisfactorily retained by hand sewing, rendering machines in their manufacture a useless requirement. Thus an advantage was gained in supplying a hand-sewed hat, embodying such points of perfection in style and finish as to quite surprise those not familiar with the manufacture of such goods. The "Mackinaw" of Baltimore make continued to grow in popular favor until it had secured a greater distribution than was ever before attained by any other article of straw hat, making a remarkable record for tenacity, by holding for upwards of fifteen successive years, popularity as the leading article of summer headwear. Baltimore continued to enlarge and increase her straw hat factories and improve their products, so that now in this industry she stands in the proud position of being the leading city in the United States in the production of the best class of straw hats. This, in brief, is a history of another branch of the hat business, which attained large proportions, supplementing the one which, having gained a degree of importance in the manufacturing history of the city, was by force of circumstances reduced to comparative insignificance. The growth of the straw hat business of Baltimore may be looked upon as somewhat phenomenal. The first introduction of the Mackinaw hat by William R. Cole & Co., in 1867, may be taken as the beginning of straw goods manufacturing, and with but a single manufacturing firm existing in 1875, its development and increase dates from that time. It is doubtful if in 1875 the total value of manufactured straw goods produced in Baltimore reached the sum of $75,000, while in the face of a steady and constant decline in values--the result of labor-saving machines, together with reduced cost of raw material--an increase in production of twenty-fold is an accomplishment of less than fifteen years. This success cannot be attributed to any local advantages, but is due entirely to the energy, enterprise and business qualifications of those engaged in the business, qualifications which have accomplished the result of giving valuable assistance in the city's advancement as an important manufacturing centre. It has also, by the recognized merits of its products, lent a worthy influence throughout the whole United States in sustaining the excellent reputation long enjoyed by Baltimore for the good quality and reliability of its manufactured goods. HISTORY OF THE MACKINAW HAT. No. 15. A result of the remarkable popularity of the Mackinaw straw hat was, that Baltimore came rapidly forward as a straw goods manufacturing place, becoming important as a center in that particular branch of business; therefore a history of the article which contributed so largely to the development of this industry is likely to prove both interesting and instructive. "Mackinaw," as a trade term or name, does not, as might be supposed, indicate the region from whence the articles comes, but undoubtedly received its christening from some one of the few retailers who early used these goods, in order to create a distinction from a similar, but much inferior article, then termed the "Canada" hat. While both the "Mackinaw" and the "Canada" are made of wheat straw, the difference between the two, as the product of one country and of nearly the same latitude, is a great surprise. The wheat of the eastern part of Canada produces a straw dark in color, harsh in texture, and of little use for making a hat, while that grown in the western part of the same country is clear and white in color, possessing a brilliant enamel which imparts the beauty that rendered the Mackinaw so famous as an article of fashion. The Mackinaw must be considered a local rather than a national production, coming as it does from a region comprised within a small radius around the city of Detroit, part of which is Canadian territory and part within the borders of the United States; for while considerable straw from which the plait is made is raised and plaited within the limits of the State of Michigan, by far the largest proportion, as also the best quality, is the product of the Canadian territory. Nature seems to have provided a small community with unusual advantages, for within a limited territory has been produced all the large quantity of straw plait required to supply the popular demand that for many years existed for Mackinaw hats, and all efforts elsewhere to produce material combining the peculiarities of this straw, from which these hats were made, invariably failed. The claim of the Mackinaw to antiquity and long use is perhaps as strong as that of other plaits with which the trade has become familiar, for no doubt the natives of the country made use of these hats as a head-covering long before they became an article of trade. The Mackinaw was for many years after its first introduction sold under the designation of the "Canada" hat, the name given to a similar but comparatively degraded article produced in Lower, or Eastern Canada; and the title Mackinaw was first applied by the late Mr. Charles Oakford, of Philadelphia, or by Mr. R. Q. Taylor, of Baltimore, each of whom were among the first to make it a fashionable hat. The makers of these goods are wholly the poor, ignorant half-breeds, who spring from the Canadian French and the Indian. Finding that hats, as well as the skins of the animals they trapped, could be traded for, the family talent was brought into use to produce something that might contribute to their meagre subsistence. So during the winter season, while the men hunted the muskrat, the Indian women and children plaited straw and made hats, which, on the opening of spring, were carried with the skins obtained by the hunters, to the towns, where they were exchanged for food, drink, clothing and ammunition. To the advantages of soil and climate is attributed that purity of color, brilliancy of enamel, toughness of fibre and elasticity of texture which are recommendations of the Mackinaw. Added to these natural qualities was the advantage of a peculiar treatment given to the straw by the natives, who employed a whitening or bleaching process without the use of chemicals, giving increased beauty to the article. During the prosperity of Mackinaw straw plaiting, a prominent character among the half-breeds was one Madame Lousseux, a sturdy, aged matron, with twelve hearty daughters, who, inheriting their mother's prolific nature, were in turn each the proprietress of a family of a dozen boys and girls. They all appeared to inherit the old lady's natural ability and wonderful expertness, and surpassed all competitors in the plaiting of the straw. The choicest products in braid and hats came from the Lousseux family. In 1834, and for many years after, these goods were sold and used only as ordinary harvest hats. It now seems surprising that an article possessing such attractive merits should have occupied a secondary position and been so long in establishing the reputation it finally secured. The first person, as far as discovered, who used this article for retail purposes as a genteel and fashionable hat, was Henry Griswold in the year 1845, who did business in the then little and obscure town of Racine, Wisconsin. The Raciners must have been people of an appreciative and refined taste, as it appears that Mr. Griswold sold the hat for several seasons to his own advantage. Prior to 1846 these goods were sold in New York by Leland, Mellen & Co., at that time the largest wholesale hat firm in the country. Mr. Mellen retired from business in 1851. In reply to a personal inquiry of the writer in the year 1874, Mr. Mellen wrote from Framingham, Mass., as follows: "The Canada straw hat from the region of Detroit was sold by our firm as early as 1845. After being blocked and trimmed, they were sold as an ordinary staple hat. We sold a few to John H. Genin, W. H. Beebe & Co., and Charles Knox, then the leading retail hatters of Broadway. I think, however, they were sold by them only as a fishing or harvest hat. We continued to receive these goods from Detroit for several seasons, until an article from Lower Canada, of inferior quality and less price, made its appearance, and stopped the sale, as far as we were concerned." The exact date of the appearance of the Mackinaw in Philadelphia cannot be accurately determined, but it must have been as early as 1847. Messrs. Beebe, Coster & Co., a prominent retail firm in Philadelphia, in 1849, sold the tapering crown, wide brim "Canada straw hat." From about 1855 to 1860 the Mackinaw became so very popular in the Quaker City that it was recognized as a leading article. The prominent retailers then using it were Charles Oakford, W. F. Warburton, Louis Blaylock, and Sullender & Pascall; each of these firms themselves finished the straw hats, taking them as they were sewed by the natives, which was with a taper crown and wide brim, making little pretence to any variety in style or proportion. Messrs. Sullender & Pascall made an advanced step and undertook one season to sell the Mackinaw to the exclusion of all other straw hats, preparing them in various shapes and for the first time adapting them to the requirements and tastes of a "nobby" trade. In 1847 William Ketchem of Buffalo, E. B. Wickes of Syracuse, and John Heywood & Sons of Rochester sold these hats. In 1848 L. Benedict & Co., prominent retailers of Cleveland, handled the goods. This firm was followed next season by Messrs. R. & N. Dockstadter, then a very prominent concern in the same place. In 1849 they were sold in Sandusky by C. C. Keech. The Mackinaw during these periods must have been introduced and sold in other places, but it had not secured its recognition as an article worthy of being placed on a level with foreign productions, which were then considered the desirable and suitable straw hat for genteel wear. It was probably not until after the year 1855 that the article received its title of "Mackinaw," and not until then did it secure its well merited, dignified position. By far the largest retailer of the Mackinaw hat in this country, and the one to whom belongs the greatest credit in popularizing it, is Mr. R. Q. Taylor, of Baltimore. He introduced the hat to his customers as far back as 1850, and for _thirty_ consecutive seasons sold it without any apparent diminution of popularity. For many years Mr. Taylor sold the Mackinaw to the exclusion of all other straw hats. At one time so identified did the Mackinaw become with the people of this city, that it was said a Baltimorean might be recognized anywhere by the straw hat he wore. Mr. Taylor asserts that in the years 1872 and 1873 he retailed from his own counter, in the two seasons, upwards of 9000 hats. The reputation of the Mackinaw has been admirably sustained by Mr. Taylor, whose firm is still engaged in their manufacture, with a constant demand for them. Probably no other straw hat ever introduced to the American public can show such a continued and extended sale. In 1868 Messrs. Wm. R. Cole & Co., predecessors of the present firm of Brigham, Hopkins & Co., commenced to produce these goods for the general trade, and it is to their efforts that much of the widespread popularity of the Mackinaw is due. They first tried these hats with their own local trade, and finding them eminently successful, ventured to offer them in New York, meeting with much encouragement. From a small commencement their trade in these goods continued to increase until a large and well established business was secured, continuing to grow in volume and extent, and becoming the precursor of an industry that places Baltimore in a leading position as a manufacturing place for straw goods. MODERN IMPROVEMENTS. No. 16. In the rank of those whose successful undertakings have contributed towards the restoration to Baltimore of a lost industry, and placing it upon such a foundation as to have it recognized as one of importance, no firm stands more prominent or has done more towards its accomplishment than that of Brigham, Hopkins & Co. The straw hat business inaugurated by this firm's immediate predecessors, and encouraged by their own efforts, has grown in volume and strength until Baltimore is now designated in trade parlance "the straw hat city," rightfully claiming the honor of surpassing in this class of her manufactured products the efforts of all rivals of this or of any other country. Messrs. Brigham, Hopkins & Co., while possessing a large business, have the pleasure of conducting it in a spacious building, whose architectural design is one of the handsomest of its kind in the country, and whose conveniences for the successful prosecution of their business cannot be excelled. A business coming from one of its pioneers through a direct succession of firms gives to Brigham, Hopkins & Co. a natural pride in such an inheritance, and brings also a pleasure in being able to trace its progress from its origin, showing how this branch of manufacture was at an early day brought to an admirable condition of prosperity, afterwards to pass through a period of almost total decay, then again to attain a development that entitles it to rank with any of the successful and prominent industries of the city. It is a pleasant reflection as well as a happy coincidence that the restoration of a forsaken industry, once a vital element in the city's life and activity, is greatly due to the labors of the firm who, in this branch, connect the past with the present, the old with the new. The enterprising business traits manifested by Runyon Harris, in erecting, in the year 1814, a large hat factory in this city, seemed to have prompted his various successors to a spirit of emulation, enabling them to preserve the legacy bequeathed them, and to perpetuate that reputation for meritorious products that was so early earned in the factory of Mr. Harris. Following the erection of the factory by Mr. Harris came the firm of Aaron Clap & Co., who purchased the property and commenced in 1817 the manufacture of hats, and a remarkable fact--one encouraging an innate pride in their successors--is that during three-quarters of a century all of the firms inheriting a title of descent from that of Aaron Clap & Co. have passed in safety through every financial convulsion of the country, and have promptly met every pecuniary obligation incurred. Although during the former period of prosperity in the hat business of Baltimore, felt hats only were manufactured, which business was completely reduced by the unfortunate conditions existing at the time of the Civil War; its revival came through the establishing of a different branch, that of the manufacture of straw hats; and while Messrs. Brigham, Hopkins & Co. have lately entered extensively into the manufacture of silk and felt hats also, it is the purpose of this article to dwell more particularly upon facts relating to the straw hat branch that has contributed so largely in bringing Baltimore once again forward as a leading hat manufacturing city. Prior to 1860 Messrs. Wm. P. Cole & Son, then manufacturers and jobbers, became especially interested in the straw goods branch of their business. Being at that time manufacturers of the best class of felt hats, the straw goods sold by them were all made in the factories of the North. Machines for sewing the straw braid were not then in use, and much of the straw products of foreign countries came ready sewed in shapes that were very irregular in proportions and sizes. The looseness of the stitches in sewing rendered the use of glue a necessity in the manufacture of the hats, producing an article of headwear that gave but little comfort. Suggestions for improvements were given the manufacturers, who adopted them with advantage to themselves. The first suggestion made by the Baltimore firm was an improvement in the appearance of the hat by trimming it with wider bands. At that time the use of bands about 14 lines wide was prevalent, and the adoption of 23-line bands was looked upon as a very radical departure. The substitution of leather sweats for those of oil muslin was also first undertaken by the Baltimore firm; following which, the most important improvement ever gained in the production of straw goods was conceived and executed in this city, which was the abandonment of the heavy glue-sizing and the manufacture of the comfortable "flexible finish" straw hat, an accomplishment secured by careful attention to the proper sewing of the goods aided by hand finish. For several years Wm. P. Cole & Son and their successors had straw hats of their own designing made and finished at the North, continuing to suggest improvements which were made at their command, and the privilege of retaining which for their own trade was for the time extended to them by the manufacturers, from which they gained such advantages as would arise from having goods superior to and differing from the general class sold by others. It was in the year 1875, upon the dissolution of the firm of Cole, Brigham & Co., that Mr. W. T. Brigham and Mr. R. D. Hopkins, uniting as the firm of Brigham & Hopkins, became straw hat manufacturers. The Mackinaw straw hat had at this time gained well in popularity; the natural firmness and flexibility of the Mackinaw were merits particularly acceptable to the trade, and the new firm made a careful study of embodying as far as possible in the manufacture of all their straw hats, those essential points possessed by the Mackinaw. So successful were their efforts that, by the exercise of thorough watchfulness, they continued to improve, until they secured for their products a celebrity that gave the firm the foremost position in the trade. Following the onward movement of the straw hat business in Baltimore since its first introduction (less than twenty years ago), it is interesting to watch its constant and steady growth, and to observe the advance that has been accomplished. Even before Messrs. Brigham & Hopkins entered upon the business, a great improvement in the straw goods had already been made through the favorable impetus imparted by their predecessors. Straw hats which from a lack of style and comfort had heretofore played a secondary part in the conditions of man's costume, were so much improved in style and finish as to be accepted as a desirable article of dress, thus an increased demand was created for them. To still further improve the straw hat, and as near as possible secure perfection, was the aim of the Baltimore manufacturers. Entering the field with the commendable object of producing a class of goods that should be recognized as the best, Messrs. Brigham & Hopkins, abandoning traditional ways, commenced their work upon a thoroughly independent basis; copying after none, but relying upon their own ingenuity; striving to improve upon every last effort, observing and studying the wants and needs of their customers, they continued to put forth a class of goods bearing an undoubted stamp of originality, which, being supplemented by excellent workmanship and the use of good materials, resulted in securing a large patronage, and brought to them a constantly increasing trade. In this way did the firm secure a recognized position at the head of the straw hat industry of the country, and gained for their products a reputation for excellence in style and finish that is widespread over the whole country. American manufacturers had a long and tedious struggle in their efforts to overcome the prejudices of the people existing in favor of foreign productions, but steady endeavors to win the approval of Americans for American made hats have scored a genuine success, and the American gentleman of to-day may take a just pride in wearing a straw hat of Baltimore make--one not to be excelled. A MODEL ESTABLISHMENT. No. 17. That part of the history of Baltimore which relates to the present position of its hat industry is especially interesting, as it records a business that has acquired large proportions, placing it prominently among the many important manufactures of this city. A business identified with the very earliest days of the city's existence, growing and assuming in its movement a condition of vigor and prosperity that is encouraging for the future, has given to Baltimore a name and fame that places her in an enviable position at the very head of the hat-manufacturing cities of this country. As an example, showing the growth and progress of the hat business, and giving evidence of its extent in Baltimore at the present time, no better illustration could be offered than a description of the complete establishment erected by Messrs. Brigham, Hopkins & Co. for the requirements of their extensive business. [Illustration: PRESENT FACTORY OF BRIGHAM, HOPKINS & CO.] While at the present time the hat business of Baltimore is largely confined to the special manufacture of straw goods, a revived movement made by one firm in the manufacture of silk and felt hats assures a development of that branch of the business also into such proportions that ere long it may restore to Baltimore the prestige and rank it once held as the manufacturing centre of high grades of that class of goods. Going back to the early period of 1814, Runyon Harris, the predecessor of this firm, in advance of his time displayed evidence of progressive ideas by erecting what was then considered a large and spacious factory. His structure was one hundred and twenty-five feet in length, about twenty-five in width, and two and a half stories high; the area of space upon the two floors, which was alone suited for work-people, was 6200 square feet. The line of successors to Runyon Harris have all been found proverbially enterprising and energetic, always noted as active and successful manufacturers of their day. Inheriting somewhat the spirit of activity so marked in their worthy predecessors, Messrs. Brigham, Hopkins & Co. are found in the advance, and make no idle boast of an establishment whose breadth of space, architectural beauty, and convenience of arrangement find few rivals in the whole catalogue of similar business places in this country. Their warehouse, prominently situated, rising six stories above ground, being one hundred and fifty feet deep by forty in width, gives a surface area of 42,000 square feet of work room, all of which is provided with unusual advantages for daylight and ventilation. Added to this is the detached "make-shop" of the firm, located at Relay Station, on the line of the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad, nine miles from the city.[2] It is a high studded building, of one story, built in this manner to allow the condensing and evaporation of steam, which escapes from the "batteries" of boiling water, around which the men are constantly at work. This building is one hundred and thirty by sixty feet, giving in addition to the city warehouse 7800 square feet, or a total in round numbers of 50,000 square feet, upwards of an acre of working space, which is a good showing of growth and expansion when contrasted with one of the best establishments of the year 1814. [2] This department has lately been removed to the city, and is located corner Paca and King streets. The handsome structure at the corner of German and Paca streets was erected by Messrs. Brigham, Hopkins & Co., designed and arranged to suit the demands of their own manufacturing business. Ground was broken in the month of April, 1884, and the building completed and occupied in January, 1885. It has a frontage of forty-one feet six inches on German street, and extends back on Paca street one hundred and fifty feet to Cider Alley. Located upon one of the broadest thoroughfares, at a point which is the water-shed of this part of the city, being at the level of one hundred feet above tide-water, it rises prominently among other fine warehouses surrounding it, showing its array of architectural beauty to advantage, for it is one of the most imposing of the mercantile structures of the city. The building is constructed of Baltimore pressed brick and the famous Potomac red sandstone, which together so harmonize in color as to render a very pleasing effect; the ornamentations surrounding the windows are in terra-cotta and moulded brick. The style of the building is Romanesque, or round arched. Very striking features are the immense arched openings upon the Paca street façade, being seventeen feet in width and twenty-five feet in height, which with their broad treatment of mullioned panels and heavy rough-hewn stonework, give strength and character to the building. These spacious windows are not simply for effect, but designate the location of the principal offices, and by their wide expanse afford abundance of light to the show-rooms, making these departments particularly attractive by the cheerful airiness and brightness that plenty of sunlight always brings. [Illustration: THE LARGE OFFICE WINDOWS.] Throughout the whole building is a generous treatment of spacious windows, flooding the interior with a bountiful supply of light, so necessary to the production of properly manufactured goods as well as to the health and comfort of the work-people. The main entrance to this building is marked by its liberal dimension. A slight elevation is made from the sidewalk, and beyond a recess of several feet are framed two large French plate glass windows, which afford a view of the entire extent of the first floor with its offices and extensive storage room. Entrance doors are placed on either side of this recess. [Illustration: THE FRONT ENTRANCE.] Broad stairways connect every floor, providing easy and quick ingress and egress at both the front and the back part of the building, rendering in the greatest degree security to the lives of those employed within. Adjoining, in the rear, is another structure three stories high, separated from the main building by fire-proof brick walls, and used as a boiler-room, as also for other departments of work desirable to be kept apart from the general work-rooms. This separate building was designed as an additional means of safety, in not having the large boilers within the limits of the main building. From basement to roof this model factory is well equipped with all necessary modern plans for producing the best that is capable of being made in this manufacturing line. WAYS AND MEANS OF THE PRESENT TIME. No. 18. Taking the start for a tour of inspection through the establishment of Brigham, Hopkins & Co., one is ushered directly into the first or main floor of the building, which is partly occupied by offices for the members of the firm and for the necessary clerical force, as well as the show-rooms for the exhibit of the products of this factory. These various apartments are partitioned off with handsomely beaded cherry, and a series of arched windows give beauty to the architecture and serve the practical purpose of ventilation. The several rooms upon this floor are handsomely finished in solid cherry; this was done solely with the view of harmonizing the effect with that of the exterior of the building, rather than for an indulgence in luxury. In the first office is a capacious fire-proof vault, having its counterpart in size in the basement, upon which the one in the office rests; it is built of yellow enameled-face brick, and with its handsomely finished iron door surmounted with a bold decoration in terra-cotta, adds greatly to the ornamentation of this room. The desks are all of cherry, large and capacious, designed expressly for the required accommodation of the bookkeepers. Adjoining is the private office of the members of the firm; among the decorations of this room is a spacious open fire-place, ornamented with terra-cotta tile and a handsome mantelpiece in carved cherry. The carpeted floor and tasty furniture serve to give that comfort that is looked for in the modern office of the business man. Beyond and leading from this office are show-rooms for the exhibition of the firm's products. These show-rooms, two in number, are without doubt the best in finish, breadth of space and arrangement of any in this branch of business in the United States, affording the best conveniences for the display of the handsome goods they contain; the first in size, 25 x 18 feet, with an adjoining one 18 x 12 feet, is supplied with handsomely designed show-cases of solid cherry and of glass; the wall space is colored a light tint, while the ceilings are laid off in yellow and brown. A long table of cherry occupies the centre of the large room, while the hard-wood floors are partially covered with oriental rugs. When these rooms are filled with the choice products of the firm, embracing the finest qualities of straw, with their trimmings of various hues and colors, intermingled with the sombre black of the derbys and the brilliant lustre of the silk hat, upon which is thrown a bountiful supply of light that comes from the spacious windows, a striking melange of harmonious colors is produced. Here the customer is surrounded by all that is desired from which to make his selection. [Illustration: A BIT OF THE OFFICES] Beyond these show-rooms is still another room devoted to the valuable collection of hat trimmings. While to the uninitiated the trimmings of a hat, consisting merely of its band and binding, may appear quite insignificant, yet to the manufacturer it is a part of great importance. Here in this room, stored in various quantities, are two hundred different designs of hat-bands, every one of which is the product of a French or German loom, mostly made from original designs furnished and sent abroad to be executed for this firm. From this, the last of the series of departments on this floor, exit is gained to the remaining space, which is used for the packing and storing of goods ordered and received finished from the factory. With an ascent to the second floor by a broad stairway, the "finishing" department of silk and fur hats is entered; this department occupies the entire space of this floor. Here the silk hat is made and finished complete, and the derby, whose process of manufacture belongs to several departments, receives its finishing touches, of curling and setting the brim, after which it is neatly nested in tissue paper and placed in paper boxes to be sent to the packer. The third floor provides three departments: that of silk and felt hat trimming, straw hat trimming department, and that very valuable and necessary auxiliary to business, the printing department. Although two branches of the hat business are carried on under the same roof (that of straw and that of silk and felt hats), they are kept entirely separate and distinct in all their requirements and details, which affords a reason for the difference in aspect of the trimming departments on this floor. In one, the multitude of busy hands is at work upon hats of black, while in the adjoining department, the many nimble fingers are handling the light and delicate straw and the bright ribbons, making a contrast of the sombre with the gay. Entering the next department, we find that element of development, that force of propulsion by means of which modern business plans are moved and executed--the printing press. This department is fitted and furnished complete with such requirements as are necessary to the advance of an enterprising business. A large Gordon press, propelled by steam power, is kept constantly in use to supply the vast amount of printing required in the details of this business. Tips, labels, size-marks, tickets for use in the various departments of "making," "sewing," "sizing," "finishing," and "blocking." Order tickets, coupons, boxes and box labels and mercantile printing are but a portion of the work done here. In addition, a patent gas-heating press is used for printing in gold and silver leaf. There also emanates from this department a monthly trade journal, conducted under the auspices of the firm. Ascending to the fourth floor, the noisy sound of machinery is first heard. This is the department for sewing straw braid; here unquestionably centres the interest in a hat factory; the hum of a hundred machines quickens the pulse, and to the observer, the interest and astonishment increases as the wonderful machine with its lightning speed, guided by the magic touch of the young woman who rules it, draws towards itself yard after yard of the delicate strand of straw plait which it sews together by the finest stitch of the most slender thread, till suddenly a hat comes forth, complete in its full perfection of shape. One's surprise would not be more greatly heightened by a display of the magician's art. The marvel of this accomplishment may be effectively demonstrated by a simple statement. That bit of mechanism occupying a space of 10 x 12 inches, with its apparently simple arrangement of levers and cogs, merely carrying a needle to and fro, up and down, will do in a single minute the work an industrious woman with her unaided fingers could not do in less than an hour. That little machine is capable of doing within the working hours of a day the labor of sixty women; while a hundred machines in a factory are capable of producing the handwork of six thousand people; this shows the progress of the world, and the advance that has come to this branch of industry within the last thirty years. [Illustration: SEWING DEPARTMENT.] Straw braid preparatory to being sewed is wound upon reels, from which it is easily fed to the sewing machine; this department of winding and reeling is also located upon this floor. Adjoining is the machine room. This department is not only the hospital for invalid and incapacitated machines, where they receive the treatment required to put them in suitable working condition, but its field of usefulness is extended to the making of much of the required machinery, implements and various tools used throughout the establishment. Another flight of stairs and the fifth floor is reached. This is the straw hat pressing department, occupied entirely by men. Here are the more weighty evidences of labor and work. Heavy and powerful hydraulic presses are used in shaping the ordinary kinds of straw hats, and the necessary metal moulds that form the "dies" for these machines represent tons of zinc. Also in this room is row after row of benches, equipped for that special branch of "hand-finish," which has so greatly assisted in the reputation of the straw hats sent from this establishment. These benches each accommodate six workmen, are supplied with a labor-saving appliance of great merit, the invention of one of the firm's employees and at present in use only in this factory, which is, that by means of rubber tubes a combination of gas and air is carried into the pressing irons, by which heat is regulated to any required degree. The advantage of this may be realized when it is known that heretofore these press-irons were heated by "slugs" or pieces of iron or steel, which, drawn from the furnaces of anthracite coal fires, were encased in the hollow irons. By this new invention a remarkable saving is made, by the abandonment of the furnace, in the coal necessarily used, also in the not insignificant matter of time consumed by the presser in the constant replenishing of "slugs." Its work is acceptable to the workman and desirable for securing an improvement to the goods. [Illustration: STRAW HAT FINISHING DEPARTMENT.] The next, the sixth floor, has a department of both the straw and felt hat branches of the business. The finishing department of felt hats is a large room 150 by an average of 25 feet, closely studded on three sides with large windows, which at this height throw upon the workmen an unobstructed flood of light, affording unusual advantages for the most thorough perfection in the finish of these goods. This room has capacity for one hundred finishers, allowing generous space for each, giving the convenience and comfort that but few factories afford their work-people. Adjoining is the department of bleaching and dyeing of straw plaits. This department is supplied with all the modern conveniences for securing the best results. Large wooden vats receive the straw plaits for a thorough cleansing before it is ready for manufacture. Bleaching tubs are near at hand, and large copper vats with all the required steam attachments for dyeing the many desired colors are here conveniently arranged. Ascending still another flight of stairs, the drying department is reached; this is the most spacious of all the many divisions of this establishment, for it has the sky for a ceiling and unlimited space, being virtually upon the roof. Here, ninety feet from the ground, is carried on one of the important divisions of the straw hat business. Two large rooms, really houses in themselves, are built upon this roof; these are the bleach houses, which are provided with artificial stone floors, rendering them thoroughly secure from the chance of ignited brimstone coming in contact with any part of the woodwork of the building. The remaining space upon the roof, equal in its extent to two good-sized city building lots, is secured around and over by a substantial wire netting. Within this enclosure the hats and straw braids coming from the bleaching and dyeing departments are dried. Ascent has been provided by stairways leading from the front part of this building; descent is also had by the rear, where broad stairs are partitioned off from the work-rooms, making a continuous spacious hallway from top to basement--a wise precaution, taken in consideration of the safety of the lives of those employed. This building, capable of accommodating six hundred work-people, is provided with the most convenient means of escape in case of fire by these broad stairways at each end of the building. As additional precaution for safety, the boilers supplying the required steam for the various departments, as well as for the motive power and heat, are in a building adjoining the main one, but separated by a fire-proof brick wall, and is only accessible by entrance from the outside; here are located two boilers, with a combined capacity of one hundred horse power. Above this boiler-room are two departments desirable to be kept apart from the others; these are the moulding and casting departments, in one of which is made the vast number of plaster shapes and blocks required in the factory, and some idea may be gained of the quantity when it is here mentioned that this department converts annually two hundred barrels of plaster of Paris into hat blocks. In the casting department are the necessary melting furnaces and other requisites for casting metal "dies," parts of machinery, and the various things needed in a large manufacturing business. Two large freight elevators, reaching from basement to roof, each of one ton capacity and propelled by steam power, are placed in the building. These elevators are furnished with automatic attachments by which as they ascend and descend each of the floors open and close, thus avoiding permanent openings, the frequent cause of accidents and assistance in the spread of a conflagration; an additional small elevator gives the convenience of transmitting light packages to and from every floor. Electric bells and tubes afford telephonic communication with every department. Steam heat radiates throughout the entire building, and a reel of hose attached to a water supply pipe is in readiness upon each floor in case of fire. The length of steam, gas, and water pipes throughout the building is estimated at five miles. The telegraph call-box signals for the messenger, and the telephone, aids in the execution of the advanced method of reducing the detailed requirements of a large business to a perfectly controllable system in its management. The engine supplying the motive power for this establishment is located in the basement. With exception of this room, partitioned off for the engine, the entire space of the basement of this large building is used for receiving and storing raw materials used in the manufacture of both straw and fur hats. Here the visitor's imagination may indulge in a wide scope, and his thoughts wander away to many foreign lands, for in this store-room are found the products of nearly every country in the world. China is seen in its strong and durable straw plaits; Japan, a new and formidable rival, shows its handsome goods; far-off India contributing its products, while England, France and Belgium send their choice plaits; Italy, Germany, and Spain are represented, as also South America, Canada, and our own United States, while the Hawaiian Islands make a pretence at competition with the world in the making of straw plaits, by submitting creditable specimens of their native products. Furs for making derby hats are also here, sent by Russia, France and Germany. In observing the firm's connection with countries quite encompassing the entire globe, some idea of the extent of this business may be realized. Thus a fair description is here given of a thoroughly equipped hat factory existing in Baltimore, in the year eighteen hundred and eighty-nine, and the reader may realize by comparison the advance of improvement from the last decade of the eighteenth century to the commencement of the last decade of the nineteenth century. THE END. The Hatter and Furrier PUBLISHED MONTHLY AT _7 Washington Place,--=NEW YORK=_, Is the LARGEST AND HANDSOMEST HAT AND FUR JOURNAL IN THE WORLD, and the only journal in its line that gives full and reliable information upon the trades represented by its title. Each number comprises Editorials upon the Trade Styles and Colors, Treasury Decisions, Reports of Meetings, Original Correspondence from Trade Centers, etc., etc. The FASHION PLATES issued each season are superior in design and execution to anything of the kind in this or any other country, and are alone worth the full price of subscription. The =FUR DEPARTMENT= contains special information and reports upon all matters connected with this important industry. All patents of interest to the Hat, Fur and allied Trades are published and illustrated as soon as issued. =ALL FOR $2.00 PER YEAR.= * * * * * _THE GALLISON & HOBRON COMPANY_, _7 Washington Place, Cor. Mercer St., =NEW YORK=_, ISSUE THE FOLLOWING PUBLICATIONS: THE HATTER AND FURRIER, Monthly, $2.00 per Year THE CLOTHIER AND FURNISHER, Monthly, 2.00 " THE CLOAK, SUIT AND LADIES' WEAR REVIEW, Monthly, 2.00 " THE HATTER AND FURRIER DIRECTORY, Yearly, in June. * * * * * Advertising Cuts for Hatters, Furriers, Clothiers and Furnishers. Send for illustrated catalogues. Hatters' Letters _FOR INITIAL LETTERS IN HATS_. GUMMED AND EASILY ATTACHED. _BLOCK OR SCRIPT, IN GOLD OR SILVER._ A complete alphabet of twenty-six dozen letters (one dozen of a kind in a package) mailed on receipt of P. O. Order or stamps, for $1.50. Any special letters at the rate of 75 cents per gross (no dozen packages broken). Neat and strong division boxes at 50 cents apiece. _GEO. FRANKE, 31 Hanover St.,_ _Baltimore, Md._ REFERENCE: DUN'S MERCANTILE AGENCY. CHAPIN HATS Are sold by a representative Broadway Hatter at a saving to the consumer of =ONE DOLLAR ON EACH HAT.= Guaranty with Derby Hats. PRICE FOUR DOLLARS. This hat is warranted equal in value to any sold at Five Dollars. It is absolutely correct New York style. The styles are issued semi-annually by the undersigned and his agents throughout the United States and Canada. Spring Shapes, first Wednesday in March. Fall Shapes, first Wednesday in September. CHAPIN. 1179 Broadway and 12 Astor Place, New York. Guaranty with Silk Hats. PRICE SEVEN DOLLARS. This hat is warranted equal in value to any sold at Eight Dollars. It is absolutely correct New York style. The styles are issued semi-annually by the undersigned and his agents throughout the United States and Canada. Spring Shapes, first Wednesday in March. Fall Shapes, first Wednesday in September. CHAPIN. 1179 Broadway and 12 Astor Place, New York. FIRST-CLASS HATTERS Wishing to secure the CHAPIN Agency for territory not already represented will please communicate with L. A. CHAPIN, =1179 BROADWAY, NEW YORK=. _ONLY SKILLED WORK-PEOPLE EMPLOYED._ EDWARD A. SELLIEZ, MANUFACTURER OF =Fine Cloth Hats and Caps,= No. 17 North Fifth Street, Careful Attention Given to Details. =PHILADELPHIA, PA.= _=NEW YORK AGENT, W. P. MONTAGUE, 635 BROADWAY.=_ YOU MAKE A SAFE HIT WHEN YOU CALL UPON =C. W. FINDLEY & CO.= _261 N. Third Street, Philadelphia, or Cor. Baltimore and Liberty Streets, Baltimore,_ =FOR HATTERS' PRINTING, ADVERTISING NOVELTIES, RICKETT'S HAT TAGS, PURE GOLD INITIALS, BOX LABELS, SIZE MARKS, ADHESIVE LABELS, ETC.= WATERBURY BUTTON CO. No. 48 HOWARD STREET, NEW YORK. FACTORY, WATERBURY, CONN. MANUFACTURERS OF MILITARY, AND ALL UNIFORM BUTTONS, LADIES' FANCY METAL BUTTONS, CLOTH, AND ALL KINDS OF COVERED BUTTONS, VEGETABLE IVORY BUTTONS, GILT, PLAIN AND FANCY BUTTONS. FANCY BRASS GOODS. TOILET PINS. NURSERY PINS. _WILLIAM P. MONTAGUE,_ MANUFACTURER OF NOVELTIES IN BOYS' AND CHILDREN'S =HATS,= =635 Broadway, New York.= SELLING AGENT FOR =BRIGHAM, HOPKINS & CO.= BALTIMORE. =EDWARD A. SELLIEZ,= PHILADELPHIA. The Most Desirable =STRAW,= Silk, Cassimere, Fine Stiff and Self-Conforming =HATS= ARE THOSE MADE BY =BRIGHAM, HOPKINS & CO.= _FACTORIES_: { _German and Paca Sts., Baltimore._ { _Paca and King Sts., Baltimore._ _SALESROOMS_: { _German and Paca Sts., Baltimore._ { _635 Broadway, New York._ The productions of BRIGHAM, HOPKINS & CO. rank as BEST in the UNITED STATES, which signifies the BEST in the WORLD. 
5365	----	RICHARD CARVEL By Winston Churchill CONTENTS OF THE COMPLETE BOOK Volume 1. I. Lionel Carvel, of Carvel Hall II. Some Memories of Childhood III. Caught by the Tide IV. Grafton would heal an Old Breach V. "If Ladies be but Young and Fair" VI. I first suffer for the Cause VII. Grafton has his Chance Volume 2. VIII. Over the Wall IX. Under False Colours X. The Red in the Carvel Blood XI. A Festival and a Parting XII. News from a Far Country Volume 3. XIII. Mr. Allen shows his Hand XIV. The Volte Coupe XV. Of which the Rector has the Worst XVI. In which Some Things are made Clear XVII. South River XVIII. The Black Moll Volume 4. XIX. A Man of Destiny XX. A Sad Home-coming XXI. The Gardener's Cottage XXII. On the Road XXIII. London Town XXIV. Castle Yard XXV. The Rescue Volume 5. XXVI. The Part Horatio played XXVII. In which I am sore tempted XXVIII. Arlington Street XXIX. I meet a very Great Young Man XXX. A Conspiracy XXXI. "Upstairs into the World" XXXII. Lady Tankerville's Drum-major XXXIII. Drury Lane Volume 6. XXXIV. His Grace makes Advances XXXV. In which my Lord Baltimore appears XXXVI. A Glimpse of Mr. Garrick XXXVII. The Serpentine XXXVIII. In which I am roundly brought to task XXXIX. Holland House XL. Vauxhall XLI. The Wilderness Volume 7. XLII. My Friends are proven XLIII. Annapolis once more XLIV. Noblesse Oblige XLV. The House of Memories XLVI. Gordon's Pride XLVII. Visitors XLVIII. Multum in Parvo XLIX. Liberty loses a Friend Volume 8. L. Farewell to Gordon's LI. How an Idle Prophecy came to pass LII. How the Gardener's Son fought the Serapis LIII. In which I make Some Discoveries LIV. More Discoveries. LV. The Love of a Maid for a Man LVI. How Good came out of Evil LVII. I come to my Own again FOREWORD My sons and daughters have tried to persuade me to remodel these memoirs of my grandfather into a latter-day romance. But I have thought it wiser to leave them as he wrote them. Albeit they contain some details not of interest to the general public, to my notion it is such imperfections as these which lend to them the reality they bear. Certain it is, when reading them, I live his life over again. Needless to say, Mr. Richard Carvel never intended them for publication. His first apology would be for his Scotch, and his only defence is that he was not a Scotchman. The lively capital which once reflected the wit and fashion of Europe has fallen into decay. The silent streets no more echo with the rumble of coaches and gay chariots, and grass grows where busy merchants trod. Stately ball-rooms, where beauty once reigned, are cold and empty and mildewed, and halls, where laughter rang, are silent. Time was when every wide-throated chimney poured forth its cloud of smoke, when every andiron held a generous log,--andirons which are now gone to decorate Mr. Centennial's home in New York or lie with a tag in the window of some curio shop. The mantel, carved in delicate wreaths, is boarded up, and an unsightly stove mocks the gilded ceiling. Children romp in that room with the silver door-knobs, where my master and his lady were wont to sit at cards in silk and brocade, while liveried blacks entered on tiptoe. No marble Cupids or tall Dianas fill the niches in the staircase, and the mahogany board, round which has been gathered many a famous toast and wit, is gone from the dining room. But Mr. Carvel's town house in Annapolis stands to-day, with its neighbours, a mournful relic of a glory that is past. DANIEL CLAPSADDLE CARVEL. CALVERT HOUSE, PENNSYLVANIA, December 21, 1876. RICHARD CARVEL CHAPTER I LIONEL CARVEL, OF CARVEL HALL Lionel Carvel, Esq., of Carvel Hall, in the county of Queen Anne, was no inconsiderable man in his Lordship's province of Maryland, and indeed he was not unknown in the colonial capitals from Williamsburg to Boston. When his ships arrived out, in May or June, they made a goodly showing at the wharves, and his captains were ever shrewd men of judgment who sniffed a Frenchman on the horizon, so that none of the Carvel tobacco ever went, in that way, to gladden a Gallic heart. Mr. Carvel's acres were both rich and broad, and his house wide for the stranger who might seek its shelter, as with God's help so it ever shall be. It has yet to be said of the Carvels that their guests are hurried away, or that one, by reason of his worldly goods or position, shall be more welcome than another. I take no shame in the pride with which I write of my grandfather, albeit he took the part of his Majesty and Parliament against the Colonies. He was no palavering turncoat, like my Uncle Grafton, to cry "God save the King!" again when an English fleet sailed up the bay. Mr. Carvel's hand was large and his heart was large, and he was respected and even loved by the patriots as a man above paltry subterfuge. He was born at Carvel Hall in the year of our Lord 1696, when the house was, I am told, but a small dwelling. It was his father, George Carvel, my great-grandsire, reared the present house in the year 1720, of brick brought from England as ballast for the empty ships; he added on, in the years following, the wide wings containing the ball-room, and the banquet-hall, and the large library at the eastern end, and the offices. But it was my grandfather who built the great stables and the kennels where he kept his beagles and his fleeter hounds. He dearly loved the saddle and the chase, and taught me to love them too. Many the sharp winter day I have followed the fox with him over two counties, and lain that night, and a week after, forsooth, at the plantation of some kind friend who was only too glad to receive us. Often, too, have we stood together from early morning until dark night, waist deep, on the duck points, I with a fowling-piece I was all but too young to carry, and brought back a hundred red-heads or canvas-backs in our bags. He went with unfailing regularity to the races at Annapolis or Chestertown or Marlborough, often to see his own horses run, where the coaches of the gentry were fifty and sixty around the course; where a negro, or a hogshead of tobacco, or a pipe of Madeira was often staked at a single throw. Those times, my children, are not ours, and I thought it not strange that Mr. Carvel should delight in a good main between two cocks, or a bull-baiting, or a breaking of heads at the Chestertown fair, where he went to show his cattle and fling a guinea into the ring for the winner. But it must not be thought that Lionel Carvel, your ancestor, was wholly unlettered because he was a sportsman, though it must be confessed that books occupied him only when the weather compelled, or when on his back with the gout. At times he would fain have me read to him as he lay in his great four-post bed with the flowered counterpane, from the Spectator, stopping me now and anon at some awakened memory of his youth. He never forgave Mr. Addison for killing stout, old Sir Roger de Coverley, and would never listen to the butler's account of his death. Mr. Carvel, too, had walked in Gray's Inn Gardens and met adventure at Fox Hall, and seen the great Marlborough himself. He had a fondness for Mr. Congreve's Comedies, many of which he had seen acted; and was partial to Mr. Gay's Trivia, which brought him many a recollection. He would also listen to Pope. But of the more modern poetry I think Mr. Gray's Elegy pleased him best. He would laugh over Swift's gall and wormwood, and would never be brought by my mother to acknowledge the defects in the Dean's character. Why? He had once met the Dean in a London drawing-room, when my grandfather was a young spark at Christ Church, Oxford. He never tired of relating that interview. The hostess was a very great lady indeed, and actually stood waiting for a word with his Reverence, whose whim it was rather to talk to the young provincial. He was a forbidding figure, in his black gown and periwig, so my grandfather said, with a piercing blue eye and shaggy brow. He made the mighty to come to him, while young Carvel stood between laughter and fear of the great lady's displeasure. "I knew of your father," said the Dean, "before he went to the colonies. He had done better at home, sir. He was a man of parts." "He has done indifferently well in Maryland, sir," said Mr. Carvel, making his bow. "He hath gained wealth, forsooth," says the Dean, wrathfully, "and might have had both wealth and fame had his love for King James not turned his head. I have heard much of the colonies, and have read that doggerel 'Sot Weed Factor' which tells of the gluttonous life of ease you lead in your own province. You can have no men of mark from such conditions, Mr. Carvel. Tell me," he adds contemptuously, "is genius honoured among you?" "Faith, it is honoured, your Reverence," said my grandfather, "but never encouraged." This answer so pleased the Dean that he bade Mr. Carvel dine with him next day at Button's Coffee House, where they drank mulled wine and old sack, for which young Mr. Carvel paid. On which occasion his Reverence endeavoured to persuade the young man to remain in England, and even went so far as to promise his influence to obtain him preferment. But Mr. Carvel chose rather (wisely or not, who can judge?) to come back to Carvel Hall and to the lands of which he was to be master, and to play the country squire and provincial magnate rather than follow the varying fortunes of a political party at home. And he was a man much looked up to in the province before the Revolution, and sat at the council board of his Excellency the Governor, as his father had done before him, and represented the crown in more matters than one when the French and savages were upon our frontiers. Although a lover of good cheer, Mr. Carvel was never intemperate. To the end of his days he enjoyed his bottle after dinner, nay, could scarce get along without it; and mixed a punch or a posset as well as any in our colony. He chose a good London-brewed ale or porter, and his ships brought Madeira from that island by the pipe, and sack from Spain and Portugal, and red wine from France when there was peace. And puncheons of rum from Jamaica and the Indies for his people, holding that no gentleman ever drank rum in the raw, though fairly supportable as punch. Mr. Carvel's house stands in Marlborough Street, a dreary mansion enough. Praised be Heaven that those who inherit it are not obliged to live there on the memory of what was in days gone by. The heavy green shutters are closed; the high steps, though stoutly built, are shaky after these years of disuse; the host of faithful servants who kept its state are nearly all laid side by side at Carvel Hall. Harvey and Chess and Scipio are no more. The kitchen, whither a boyish hunger oft directed my eyes at twilight, shines not with the welcoming gleam of yore. Chess no longer prepares the dainties which astonished Mr. Carvel's guests, and which he alone could cook. The coach still stands in the stables where Harvey left it, a lumbering relic of those lumbering times when methinks there was more of goodwill and less of haste in the world. The great brass knocker, once resplendent from Scipio's careful hand, no longer fantastically reflects the guest as he beats his tattoo, and Mr. Peale's portrait of my grandfather is gone from the dining-room wall, adorning, as you know, our own drawing-room at Calvert House. I shut my eyes, and there comes to me unbidden that dining-room in Marlborough Street of a gray winter's afternoon, when I was but a lad. I see my dear grandfather in his wig and silver-laced waistcoat and his blue velvet coat, seated at the head of the table, and the precise Scipio has put down the dumb-waiter filled with shining cut-glass at his left hand, and his wine chest at his right, and with solemn pomp driven his black assistants from the room. Scipio was Mr. Carvel's butler. He was forbid to light the candles after dinner. As dark grew on, Mr. Carvel liked the blazing logs for light, and presently sets the decanter on the corner of the table and draws nearer the fire, his guests following. I recall well how jolly Governor Sharpe, who was a frequent visitor with us, was wont to display a comely calf in silk stocking; and how Captain Daniel Clapsaddle would spread his feet with his toes out, and settle his long pipe between his teeth. And there were besides a host of others who sat at that fire whose names have passed into Maryland's history,--Whig and Tory alike. And I remember a tall slip of a lad who sat listening by the deep-recessed windows on the street, which somehow are always covered in these pictures with a fine rain. Then a coach passes,--a mahogany coach emblazoned with the Manners's coat of arms, and Mistress Dorothy and her mother within. And my young lady gives me one of those demure bows which ever set my heart agoing like a smith's hammer of a Monday. CHAPTER II SOME MEMORIES OF CHILDHOOD A traveller who has all but gained the last height of the great mist-covered mountain looks back over the painful crags he has mastered to where a light is shining on the first easy slope. That light is ever visible, for it is Youth. After nigh fourscore and ten years of life that Youth is nearer to me now than many things which befell me later. I recall as yesterday the day Captain Clapsaddle rode to the Hall, his horse covered with sweat, and the reluctant tidings of Captain Jack Carvel's death on his lips. And strangely enough that day sticks in my memory as of delight rather than sadness. When my poor mother had gone up the stairs on my grandfather's arm the strong soldier took me on his knee, and drawing his pistol from his holster bade me snap the lock, which I was barely able to do. And he told me wonderful tales of the woods beyond the mountains, and of the painted men who tracked them; much wilder and fiercer they were than those stray Nanticokes I had seen from time to time near Carvel Hall. And when at last he would go I clung to him, so he swung me to the back of his great horse Ronald, and I seized the bridle in my small hands. The noble beast, like his master, loved a child well, and he cantered off lightly at the captain's whistle, who cried "bravo" and ran by my side lest I should fall. Lifting me off at length he kissed me and bade me not to annoy my mother, the tears in his eyes again. And leaping on Ronald was away for the ferry with never so much as a look behind, leaving me standing in the road. And from that time I saw more of him and loved him better than any man save my grandfather. He gave me a pony on my next birthday, and a little hogskin saddle made especially by Master Wythe, the London saddler in the town, with a silver-mounted bridle. Indeed, rarely did the captain return from one of his long journeys without something for me and a handsome present for my mother. Mr. Carvel would have had him make his home with us when we were in town, but this he would not do. He lodged in Church Street, over against the Coffee House, dining at that hostelry when not bidden out, or when not with us. He was much sought after. I believe there was scarce a man of note in any of the colonies not numbered among his friends. 'Twas said he loved my mother, and could never come to care for any other woman, and he promised my father in the forests to look after her welfare and mine. This promise, you shall see, he faithfully kept. Though you have often heard from my lips the story of my mother, I must for the sake of those who are to come after you, set it down here as briefly as I may. My grandfather's bark 'Charming Sally', Captain Stanwix, having set out from Bristol on the 15th of April, 1736, with a fair wind astern and a full cargo of English goods below, near the Madeiras fell in with foul weather, which increased as she entered the trades. Captain Stanwix being a prudent man, shortened sail, knowing the harbour of Funchal to be but a shallow bight in the rock, and worse than the open sea in a southeaster. The third day he hove the Sally to; being a stout craft and not overladen she weathered the gale with the loss of a jib, and was about making topsails again when a full-rigged ship was descried in the offing giving signals of distress. Night was coming on very fast, and the sea was yet running too high for a boat to live, but the gallant captain furled his topsails once more to await the morning. It could be seen from her signals that the ship was living throughout the night, but at dawn she foundered before the Sally's boats could be put in the water; one of them was ground to pieces on the falls. Out of the ship's company and passengers they picked up but five souls, four sailors and a little girl of two years or thereabouts. The men knew nothing more of her than that she had come aboard at Brest with her mother, a quiet, delicate lady who spoke little with the other passengers. The ship was 'La Favourite du Roy', bound for the French Indies. Captain Stanwix's wife, who was a good, motherly person, took charge of the little orphan, and arriving at Carvel Hall delivered her to my grandfather, who brought her up as his own daughter. You may be sure the emblem of Catholicism found upon her was destroyed, and she was baptized straightway by Doctor Hilliard, my grandfather's chaplain, into the Established Church. Her clothes were of the finest quality, and her little handkerchief had worked into the corner of it a coronet, with the initials "E de T" beside it. Around her neck was that locket with the gold chain which I have so often shown you, on one side of which is the miniature of the young officer in his most Christian Majesty's uniform, and on the other a yellow-faded slip of paper with these words: "Elle est la mienne, quoiqu'elle ne porte pas mou nom." "She is mine, although she does not bear my name." My grandfather wrote to the owners of 'La Favourite du Roy', and likewise directed his English agent to spare nothing in the search for some clew to the child's identity. All that he found was that the mother had been entered on the passenger-list as Madame la Farge, of Paris, and was bound for Martinico. Of the father there was no trace whatever. The name "la Farge" the agent, Mr. Dix, knew almost to a certainty was assumed, and the coronet on the handkerchief implied that the child was of noble parentage. The meaning conveyed by the paper in the locket, which was plainly a clipping from a letter, was such that Mr. Carvel never showed it to my mother, and would have destroyed it had he not felt that some day it might aid in solving the mystery. So he kept it in his strongbox, where he thought it safe from prying eyes. But my Uncle Grafton, ever a deceitful lad, at length discovered the key and read the paper, and afterwards used the knowledge he thus obtained as a reproach and a taunt against my mother. I cannot even now write his name without repulsion. This new member of the household was renamed Elizabeth Carvel, though they called her Bess, and of a course she was greatly petted and spoiled, and ruled all those about her. As she grew from childhood to womanhood her beauty became talked about, and afterwards, when Mistress Carvel went to the Assembly, a dozen young sparks would crowd about the door of her coach, and older and more serious men lost their heads on her account. Her devotion to Mr. Carvel was such, however, that she seemed to care but little for the attention she received, and she continued to grace his board and entertain his company. He fairly worshipped her. It was his delight to surprise her with presents from England, with rich silks and brocades for gowns, for he loved to see her bravely dressed. The spinet he gave her, inlaid with ivory, we have still. And he caused a chariot to be made for her in London, and she had her own horses and her groom in the Carvel livery. People said it was but natural that she should fall in love with Captain Jack, my father. He was the soldier of the family, tall and straight and dashing. He differed from his younger brother Grafton as day from night. Captain Jack was open and generous, though a little given to rash enterprise and madcap adventure. He loved my mother from a child. His friend Captain Clapsaddle loved her too, and likewise Grafton, but it soon became evident that she would marry Captain Jack or nobody. He was my grandfather's favourite, and though Mr. Carvel had wished him more serious, his joy when Bess blushingly told him the news was a pleasure to see. And Grafton turned to revenge; he went to Mr. Carvel with the paper he had taken from the strong-box and claimed that my mother was of spurious birth and not fit to marry a Carvel. He afterwards spread the story secretly among the friends of the family. By good fortune little harm arose therefrom, since all who knew my mother loved her, and were willing to give her credit for the doubt; many, indeed, thought the story sprang from Grafton's jealousy and hatred. Then it was that Mr. Carvel gave to Grafton the estate in Kent County and bade him shift for himself, saying that he washed his hands of a son who had acted such a part. But Captain Clapsaddle came to the wedding in the long drawing-room at the Hall and stood by Captain Jack when he was married, and kissed the bride heartily. And my mother cried about this afterwards, and said that it grieved her sorely that she should have given pain to such a noble man. After the blow which left her a widow, she continued to keep Mr. Carvel's home. I recall her well, chiefly as a sad and beautiful woman, stately save when she kissed me with passion and said that I bore my father's look. She drooped like the flower she was, and one spring day my grandfather led me to receive her blessing and to be folded for the last time in those dear arms. With a smile on her lips she rose to heaven to meet my father. And she lies buried with the rest of the Carvels at the Hall, next to the brave captain, her husband. And so I grew up with my grandfather, spending the winters in town and the long summers on the Eastern Shore. I loved the country best, and the old house with its hundred feet of front standing on the gentle slope rising from the river's mouth, the green vines Mr. Carvel had fetched from England all but hiding the brick, and climbing to the angled roof; and the velvet green lawn of silvery grass brought from England, descending gently terrace by terrace to the waterside, where lay our pungies and barges. There was then a tiny pillared porch framing the front door, for our ancestors never could be got to realize the Maryland climate, and would rarely build themselves wide verandas suitable to that colony. At Carvel Hall we had, to be sure, the cool spring house under the willows for sultry days, with its pool dished out for bathing; and a trellised arbour, and octagonal summer house with seats where my mother was wont to sit sewing while my grandfather dreamed over his pipe. On the lawn stood the oaks and walnuts and sycamores which still cast their shade over it, and under them of a summer's evening Mr. Carvel would have his tea alone; save oftentimes when a barge would come swinging up the river with ten velvet-capped blacks at the oars, and one of our friendly neighbours--Mr. Lloyd or Mr. Bordley, or perchance little Mr. Manners --would stop for a long evening with him. They seldom came without their ladies and children. What romps we youngsters had about the old place whilst our elders talked their politics. In childhood the season which delighted me the most was spring. I would count the days until St. Taminas, which, as you knew, falls on the first of May. And the old custom was for the young men to deck themselves out as Indian bucks and sweep down on the festivities around the Maypole on the town green, or at night to surprise the guests at a ball and force the gentlemen to pay down a shilling, and sometimes a crown apiece, and the host to give them a bowl of punch. Then came June. My grandfather celebrated his Majesty's birthday in his own jolly fashion, and I had my own birthday party on the tenth. And on the fifteenth, unless it chanced upon a Sunday, my grandfather never failed to embark in his pinnace at the Annapolis dock for the Hall. Once seated in the stern between Mr. Carvel's knees, what rapture when at last we shot out into the blue waters of the bay and I thought of the long summer of joy before me. Scipio was generalissimo of these arrangements, and was always at the dock punctually at ten to hand my grandfather in, a ceremony in which he took great pride, and to look his disapproval should we be late. As he turned over the key of the town house he would walk away with a stern dignity to marshal the other servants in the horse-boat. One fifteenth of June two children sat with bated breath in the pinnace, --Dorothy Manners and myself. Mistress Dolly was then as mischievous a little baggage as ever she proved afterwards. She was coming to pass a week at the Hall, her parents, whose place was next to ours, having gone to Philadelphia on a visit. We rounded Kent Island, which lay green and beautiful in the flashing waters, and at length caught sight of the old windmill, with its great arms majestically turning, and the cupola of Carvel House shining white among the trees; and of the upper spars of the shipping, with sails neatly furled, lying at the long wharves, where the English wares Mr. Carvel had commanded for the return trips were unloading. Scarce was the pinnace brought into the wind before I had leaped ashore and greeted with a shout the Hall servants drawn up in a line on the green, grinning a welcome. Dorothy and I scampered over the grass and into the cool, wide house, resting awhile on the easy sloping steps within, hand in hand. And then away for that grand tour of inspection we had been so long planning together. How well I recall that sunny afternoon, when the shadows of the great oaks were just beginning to lengthen. Through the greenhouses we marched, monarchs of all we surveyed, old Porphery, the gardener, presenting Mistress Dolly with a crown of orange blossoms, for which she thanked him with a pretty courtesy her governess had taught her. Were we not king and queen returned to our summer palace? And Spot and Silver and Song and Knipe, the wolf-hound, were our train, though not as decorous as rigid etiquette demanded, since they were forever running after the butterflies. On we went through the stiff, box-bordered walks of the garden, past the weather-beaten sundial and the spinning-house and the smoke-house to the stables. Here old Harvey, who had taught me to ride Captain Daniel's pony, is equerry, and young Harvey our personal attendant; old Harvey smiles as we go in and out of the stalls rubbing the noses of our trusted friends, and gives a gruff but kindly warning as to Cassandra's heels. He recalls my father at the same age. Jonas Tree, the carpenter, sits sunning himself on his bench before the shop, but mysteriously disappears when he sees us, and returns presently with a little ship he has fashioned for me that winter, all complete with spars and sails, for Jonas was a shipwright on the Severn in the old country before he came as a king's passenger to the new. Dolly and I are off directly to the backwaters of the river, where the new boat is launched with due ceremony as the Conqueror, his Majesty's latest ship-of-the-line. Jonas himself trims her sails, and she sets off right gallantly across the shallows, heeling to the breeze for all the world like a real man-o'-war. Then the King would fain cruise at once against the French, but Queen Dorothy must needs go with him. His Majesty points out that when fighting is to be done, a ship of war is no place for a woman, whereat her Majesty stamps her little foot and throws her crown of orange blossoms from her, and starts off for the milk-house in high dudgeon, vowing she will play no more. And it ends as it ever will end, be the children young or old, for the French pass from his Majesty's mind and he runs after his consort to implore forgiveness, leaving poor Jonas to take care of the Conqueror. How short those summer days? All too short for the girl and boy who had so much to do in them. The sun rising over the forest often found us peeping through the blinds, and when he sank into the bay at night we were still running, tired but happy, and begging patient Hester for half an hour more. "Lawd, Marse Dick," I can hear her say, "you an' Miss Dolly's been on yo' feet since de dawn. And so's I, honey." And so we had. We would spend whole days on the wharves, all bustle and excitement, sometimes seated on the capstan of the Sprightly Bess or perched in the nettings of the Oriole, of which ship old Stanwix was now captain. He had grown gray in Mr. Carvel's service, and good Mrs. Stanwix was long since dead. Often we would mount together on the little horse Captain Daniel had given me, Dorothy on a pillion behind, to go with my grandfather to inspect the farm. Mr. Starkie, the overseer, would ride beside us, his fowling-piece slung over his shoulder and his holster on his hip; a kind man and capable, and unlike Mr. Evans, my Uncle Grafton's overseer, was seldom known to use his firearms or the rawhide slung across his saddle. The negroes in their linsey-woolsey jackets and checked trousers would stand among the hills grinning at us children as we passed; and there was not one of them, nor of the white servants for that matter, that I could not call by name. And all this time I was busily wooing Mistress Dolly; but she, little minx, would give me no satisfaction. I see her standing among the strawberries, her black hair waving in the wind, and her red lips redder still from the stain. And the sound of her childish voice comes back to me now after all these years. And this was my first proposal: "Dorothy, when you grow up and I grow up, you will marry me, and I shall give you all these strawberries." "I will marry none but a soldier," says she, "and a great man." "Then will I be a soldier," I cried, "and greater than the Governor himself." And I believed it. "Papa says I shall marry an earl," retorts Dorothy, with a toss of her pretty head. "There are no earls among us," I exclaimed hotly, for even then I had some of that sturdy republican spirit which prevailed among the younger generation. "Our earls are those who have made their own way, like my grandfather." For I had lately heard Captain Clapsaddle say this and much more on the subject. But Dorothy turned up her nose. "I shall go home when I am eighteen,"--she said, "and I shall meet his Majesty the King." And to such an argument I found no logical answer. Mr. Marmaduke Manners and his lady came to fetch Dorothy home. He was a foppish little gentleman who thought more of the cut of his waistcoat than of the affairs of the province, and would rather have been bidden to lead the assembly ball than to sit in council with his Excellency the Governor. My first recollection of him is of contempt. He must needs have his morning punch just so, and complained whiningly of Scipio if some perchance were spilled on the glass. He must needs be taken abroad in a chair when it rained. And though in the course of a summer he was often at Carvel Hall he never tarried long, and came to see Mr. Carvel's guests rather than Mr. Carvel. He had little in common with my grandfather, whose chief business and pleasure was to promote industry on his farm. Mr. Marmaduke was wont to rise at noon, and knew not wheat from barley, or good leaf from bad; his hands he kept like a lady's, rendering them almost useless by the long lace on the sleeves, and his chief pastime was card-playing. It was but reasonable therefore, when the troubles with the mother country began, that he chose the King's side alike from indolence and contempt for things republican. Of Mrs. Manners I shall say more by and by. I took a mischievous delight in giving Mr. Manners every annoyance my boyish fancy could conceive. The evening of his arrival he and Mr. Carvel set out for a stroll about the house, Mr. Marmaduke mincing his steps, for it had rained that morning. And presently they came upon the windmill with its long arms moving lazily in the light breeze, near touching the ground as they passed, for the mill was built in the Dutch fashion. I know not what moved me, but hearing Mr. Manners carelessly humming a minuet while my grandfather explained the usefulness of the mill, I seized hold of one of the long arms as it swung by, and before the gentlemen could prevent was carried slowly upwards. Dorothy screamed, and her father stood stock still with amazement and fear, Mr. Carvel being the only one who kept his presence of mind. "Hold on tight, Richard!" I heard him cry. It was dizzy riding, though the motion was not great, and before I had reached the right angle I regretted my rashness. I caught a glimpse of the Bay with the red sun on it, and as I turned saw far below me the white figure of Ivie Rawlinson, the Scotch miller, who had run out. "O haith!" he shouted. "Hand fast, Mr. Richard!"--And so I clung tightly and came down without much inconvenience, though indifferently glad to feel the ground again. Mr. Marmaduke, as I expected, was in a great temper, and swore he had not had such a fright for years. He looked for Mr. Carvel to cane me stoutly: But Ivie laughed heartily, and said: "I wad yell gang far for anither laddie wi' the spunk, Mr. Manners," and with a sly look at my grandfather, "Ilka day we hae some sic whigmeleery." I think Mr. Carvel was not ill pleased with the feat, or with Mr. Marmaduke's way of taking it. For afterwards I overheard him telling the story to Colonel Lloyd, and both gentlemen laughing over Mr. Manners's discomfiture. CHAPTER III CAUGHT BY THE TIDE It is a nigh impossible task on the memory to trace those influences by which a lad is led to form his life's opinions, and for my part I hold that such things are bred into the bone, and that events only serve to strengthen them. In this way only can I account for my bitterness, at a very early age, against that King whom my seeming environment should have made me love. For my grandfather was as stanch a royalist as ever held a cup to majesty's health. And children are most apt before they can reason for themselves to take the note from those of their elders who surround them. It is true that many of Mr. Carvel's guests were of the opposite persuasion from him: Mr. Chase and Mr. Carroll, Mr. Lloyd and Mr. Bordley, and many others, including our friend Captain Clapsaddle. And these gentlemen were frequently in argument, but political discussion is Greek to a lad. Mr. Carvel, as I have said, was most of his life a member of the Council, a man from whom both Governor Sharpe and Governor Eden were glad to take advice because of his temperate judgment and deep knowledge of the people of the province. At times, when his Council was scattered, Governor Sharpe would consult Mr. Carvel alone, and often have I known my grandfather to embark in haste from the Hall in response to a call from his Excellency. 'Twas in the latter part of August, in the year 1765, made memorable by the Stamp Act, that I first came in touch with the deep-set feelings of the times then beginning, and I count from that year the awakening of the sympathy which determined my career. One sultry day I was wading in the shallows after crabs, when the Governor's messenger came drifting in, all impatience at the lack of wind. He ran to the house to seek Mr. Carvel, and I after him, with all a boy's curiosity, as fast as my small legs would carry me. My grandfather hurried out to order his barge to be got ready at once, so that I knew something important was at hand. At first he refused me permission to go, but afterwards relented, and about eleven in the morning we pulled away strongly, the ten blacks bending to the oars as if their lives were at stake. A wind arose before we sighted Greensbury Point, and I saw a bark sailing in, but thought nothing of this until Mr. Carvel, who had been silent and preoccupied, called for his glass and swept her decks. She soon shortened sail, and went so leisurely that presently our light barge drew alongside, and I perceived Mr. Zachariah Hood, a merchant of the town, returning from London, hanging over her rail. Mr. Hood was very pale in spite of his sea-voyage; he flung up his cap at our boat, but Mr. Carvel's salute in return was colder than he looked for. As we came in view of the dock, a fine rain was setting in, and to my astonishment I beheld such a mass of people assembled as I had never seen, and scarce standing-room on the wharves. We were to have gone to the Governor's wharf in the Severn, but my grandfather changed his intention at once. Many of the crowd greeted him as we drew near them, and, having landed, respectfully made room for him to pass through. I followed him a-tremble with excitement and delight over such an unwonted experience. We had barely gone ten paces, however, before Mr. Carvel stopped abreast of Mr. Claude, mine host of the Coffee House, who cried: "Hast seen his Majesty's newest representative, Mr. Carvel?" "Mr. Hood is on board the bark, sir," replied my grandfather. "I take it you mean Mr. Hood." "Ay, that I do; Mr. Zachariah Hood, come to lick stamps for his brother-colonists." "After licking his Majesty's boots," says a wag near by, which brings a laugh from those about us. I remembered that I had heard some talk as to how Mr. Hood had sought and obtained from King George the office of Stamp Distributor for the province. Now, my grandfather, God rest him! was as doughty an old gentleman as might well be, and would not listen without protest to remarks which bordered sedition. He had little fear of things below, and none of a mob. "My masters," he shouted, with a flourish of his stick, so stoutly that people fell back from him, "know that ye are met against the law, and endanger the peace of his Lordship's government." "Good enough, Mr. Carvel," said Claude, who seemed to be the spokesman. "But how if we are stamped against law and his Lordship's government? How then, sir? Your honour well knows we have naught against either, and are as peaceful a mob as ever assembled." This brought on a great laugh, and they shouted from all sides, "How then, Mr. Carvel?" And my grandfather, perceiving that he would lose dignity by argument, and having done his duty by a protest, was wisely content with that. They opened wider the lane for him to pass through, and he made his way, erect and somewhat defiant, to Mr. Pryse's, the coachmaker opposite, holding me by the hand. The second storey of Pryse's shop had a little balcony standing out in front, and here we established ourselves, that we might watch what was going forward. The crowd below grew strangely silent as the bark came nearer and nearer, until Mr. Hood showed himself on the poop, when there rose a storm of hisses, mingled with shouts of derision. "How goes it at St. James, Mr. Hood?" and "Have you tasted his Majesty's barley?" And some asked him if he was come as their member of Parliament. Mr. Hood dropped a bow, though what he said was drowned. The bark came in prettily enough, men in the crowd even catching her lines and making them fast to the piles. A gang-plank was thrown over. "Come out, Mr. Hood," they cried; "we are here to do you honour, and to welcome you home again." There were leather breeches with staves a-plenty around that plank, and faces that meant no trifling. "McNeir, the rogue," exclaimed Mr. Carvel, "and that hulk of a tanner, Brown. And I would know those smith's shoulders in a thousand." "Right, sir," says Pryse, "and 'twill serve them proper. when the King's troops come among them for quartering." Pryse being the gentry's patron, shaped his politics according to the company he was in: he could ill be expected to seize one of his own ash spokes and join the resistance. Just then I caught a glimpse of Captain Clapsaddle on the skirts of the crowd, and with him Mr. Swain and some of the dissenting gentry. And my boyish wrath burst forth against that man smirking and smiling on the decks of the bark, so that I shouted shrilly: "Mr. Hood will be cudgelled and tarred as he deserves," and shook my little fist at him, so that many under us laughed and cheered me. Mr. Carvel pushed me back into the window and out of their sight. The crew of the bark had assembled on the quarterdeck, stout English tars every man of them, armed with pikes and belaying-pins; and at a word from the mate they rushed in a body over the plank. Some were thrust off into the water, but so fierce was their onset that others gained the wharf, laying sharply about them in all directions, but getting full as many knocks as they gave. For a space there was a very bedlam of cries and broken heads, those behind in the mob surging forward to reach the scrimmage, forcing their own comrades over the edge. McNeir had his thigh broken by a pike, and was dragged back after the first rush was over; and the mate of the bark was near to drowning, being rescued, indeed, by Graham, the tanner. Mr. Hood stood white in the gangway, dodging a missile now and then, waiting his chance, which never came. For many of the sailors were captured and carried bodily to the "Rose and Crown" and the "Three Blue Balls," where they became properly drunk on Jamaica rum; others made good their escape on board. And at length the bark cast off again, amidst jeers and threats, and one-third of her crew missing, and drifted slowly back to the roads. From the dock, after all was quiet, Mr. Carvel stepped into his barge and rowed to the Governor's, whose house was prettily situated near Hanover Street, with ground running down to the Severn. His Excellency appeared much relieved to see my grandfather; Mr. Daniel Dulany was with him, and the three gentlemen at once repaired to the Governor's writing-closet for consultation. Mr. Carvel's town house being closed, we stopped with his Excellency. There were, indeed, scarce any of the gentry in town at that season save a few of the Whig persuasion. Excitement ran very high; farmers flocked in every day from the country round about to take part in the demonstration against the Act. Mr. Hood's storehouse was burned to the ground. Mr. Hood getting ashore by stealth, came, however, unmolested to Annapolis and offered at a low price the goods he had brought out in the bark, thinking thus to propitiate his enemies. This step but inflamed them the more. My grandfather having much business to look to, I was left to my own devices, and the devices of an impetuous lad of twelve are not always such as his elders would choose for him. I was continually burning with a desire to see what was proceeding in the town, and hearing one day a great clamour and tolling of bells, I ran out of the Governor's gate and down Northwest Street to the Circle, where a strange sight met my eyes. A crowd like that I had seen on the dock had collected there, Mr. Swain and Mr. Hammond and other barristers holding them in check. Mounted on a one-horse cart was a stuffed figure of the detested Mr. Hood. Mr. Hammond made a speech, but for the laughter and cheering I could not catch a word of it. I pushed through the people, as a boy will, diving between legs to get a better view, when I felt a hand upon my shoulder, bringing me up suddenly. And I recognized Mr. Matthias Tilghman, and with him was Mr. Samuel Chase. "Does your grandfather know you are here, lad?" said Mr. Tilghman. I paused a moment for breath before I answered: "He attended the rally at the dock himself, sir, and I believe enjoyed it." Both gentlemen smiled, and Mr. Chase remarked that if all the other party were like Mr. Carvel, troubles would soon cease. "I mean not Grafton," says he, with a wink at Mr. Tilghman. "I'll warrant, Richard, your uncle would be but ill pleased to see you in such company." "Nay, sir," I replied, for I never feared to speak up, "there are you wrong. I think it would please my uncle mightily." "The lad hath indifferent penetration," said Mr, Tilghman, laughing, and adding more soberly: "If you never do worse than this, Richard, Maryland may some day be proud of you." Mr. Hammond having finished his speech, a paper was placed in the hand of the effigy, and the crowd bore it shouting and singing to the hill, where Mr. John Shaw, the city carpenter, had made a gibbet. There nine and thirty lashes were bestowed on the unfortunate image, the people crying out that this was the Mosaic Law. And I cried as loud as any, though I knew not the meaning of the words. They hung Mr. Hood to the gibbet and set fire to a tar barrel under him, and so left him. The town wore a holiday look that day, and I was loth to go back to the Governor's house. Good patriots' shops were closed, their owners parading as on Sunday in their best, pausing in knots at every corner to discuss the affair with which the town simmered. I encountered old Farris, the clockmaker, in his brown coat besprinkled behind with powder from his queue. "How now, Master Richard?" says he, merrily. "This is no place for young gentlemen of your persuasion." Next I came upon young Dr. Courtenay, the wit of the Tuesday Club, of whom I shall have more to say hereafter. He was taking the air with Mr. James Fotheringay, Will's eldest brother, but lately back from Oxford and the Temple. The doctor wore five-pound ruffles and a ten-pound wig, was dressed in cherry silk, and carried a long, clouded cane. His hat had the latest cock, for he was our macaroni of Annapolis. "Egad, Richard," he cries, "you are the only other loyalist I have seen abroad to-day." I remember swelling with indignation at the affront. "I call them Tories, sir," I flashed back, "and I am none such." "No Tory!" says he, nudging Mr. Fotheringay, who was with him; "I had as lief believe your grandfather hated King George." I astonished them both by retorting that Mr. Carvel might think as he pleased, that being every man's right; but that I chose to be a Whig. "I would tell you as a friend, young man," replied the doctor, "that thy politics are not over politic." And they left me puzzling, laughing with much relish over some catch in the doctor's words. As for me, I could perceive no humour in them. It was now near six of the clock, but instead of going direct to the Governor's I made my way down Church Street toward the water. Near the dock I saw many people gathered in the street in front of the "Ship" tavern, a time-honoured resort much patronized by sailors. My curiosity led me to halt there also. The "Ship" had stood in that place nigh on to three-score years, it was said. Its latticed windows were swung open, and from within came snatches of "Tom Bowling," "Rule Britannia," and many songs scarce fit for a child to hear. Now and anon some one in the street would throw back a taunt to these British sentiments, which went unheeded. "They be drunk as lords," said Weld, the butcher's apprentice, "and when they comes out we'll hev more than one broken head in this street." The songs continuing, he cried again, "Come out, d-n ye." Weld had had more than his own portion of rum that day. Spying me seated on the gate-post opposite, he shouted: "So ho, Master Carvel, the streets are not for his Majesty's supporters to-day." Other artisans who were there bade him leave me in peace, saying that my grandfather was a good friend of the people. The matter might have ended there had I been older and wiser, but the excitement of the day had gone to my head like wine. "I am as stout a patriot as you, Weld," I shouted back, and flushed at the cheering that followed. And Weld ran up to me, and though I was a good piece of a lad, swung me lightly onto his shoulder. "Harkee, Master Richard," he said, "I can get nothing out of the poltroons by shouting. Do you go in and say that Weld will fight any mother's son of them single-handed." "For shame, to send a lad into a tavern," said old Bobbins, who had known my grandfather these many years. But the desire for a row was so great among the rest that they silenced him. Weld set me down, and I, nothing loth, ran through the open door. I had never before been in the "Ship," nor, indeed, in any tavern save that of Master Dingley, near Carvel Hall. The "Ship" was a bare place enough, with low black beams and sanded floor, and rough tables and chairs set about. On that September evening it was stifling hot; and the odours from the men, and the spilled rum and tobacco smoke, well-nigh overpowered me. The room was filled with a motley gang of sailors, mostly from the bark Mr. Hood had come on, and some from H.M.S. Hawk, then lying in the harbour. A strapping man-o'-war's-man sat near the door, his jacket thrown open and his great chest bared, and when he perceived me he was in the act of proposing a catch; 'twas "The Great Bell o' Lincoln," I believe; and he held a brimming cup of bumbo in his hand. In his surprise he set it awkwardly down again, thereby spilling full half of it. "Avast," says he, with an oath, "what's this come among us?" and he looked me over with a comical eye. "A d-d provincial," he went on scornfully, "but a gentleman's son, or Jack Ball's a liar." Whereupon his companions rose from their seats and crowded round me. More than one reeled against me. And though I was somewhat awed by the strangeness of that dark, ill-smelling room, and by the rough company in which I found myself, I held my ground, and spoke up as strongly as I might. "Weld, the butcher's apprentice, bids me say he will fight any man among you single-handed." "So ho, my little gamecock, my little schooner with a swivel," said he who had called himself Jack Ball, "and where can this valiant butcher be found?" "He waits in the street," I answered more boldly. "Split me fore and aft if he waits long," said Jack, draining the rest of his rum. And picking me up as easily as did Weld he rushed out of the door, and after him as many of his mates as could walk or stagger thither. In the meantime the news had got abroad in the street that the butcher's apprentice was to fight one of the Hawk's men, and when I emerged from the tavern the crowd had doubled, and people were running hither in all haste from both directions. But that fight was never to be. Big Jack Ball had scarce set me down and shouted a loud defiance, shaking his fist at Weld, who stood out opposite, when a soldierly man on a great horse turned the corner and wheeled between the combatants. I knew at a glance it was Captain Clapsaddle, and guiltily wished myself at the Governor's. The townspeople knew him likewise, and many were slinking away even before he spoke, as his charger stood pawing the ground. "What's this I hear, you villain," said he to Weld, in his deep, ringing voice, "that you have not only provoked a row with one of the King's sailors, but have dared send a child into that tavern with your fool's message?" Weld was awkward and sullen enough, and no words came to him. "Your tongue, you sot," the captain went on, drawing his sword in his anger, "is it true you have made use of a gentleman's son for your low purposes?" But Weld was still silent, and not a sound came from either side until old Robbins spoke up. "There are many here can say I warned him, your honour," he said. "Warned him!" cried the captain. "Mr. Carvel has just given you twenty pounds for your wife, and you warned him!" Robbins said no more; and the butcher's apprentice, hanging his head, as well he might before the captain, I was much moved to pity for him, seeing that my forwardness had in some sense led him on. "Twas in truth my fault, captain," I cried out. The captain looked at me, and said nothing. After that the butcher made bold to take up his man's defence. "Master Carvel was indeed somewhat to blame, sir," said he, "and Weld is in liquor." "And I'll have him to pay for his drunkenness," said Captain Clapsaddle, hotly. "Get to your homes," he cried. "Ye are a lot of idle hounds, who would make liberty the excuse for riot." He waved his sword at the pack of them, and they scattered like sheep until none but Weld was left. "And as for you, Weld," he continued, "you'll rue this pretty business, or Daniel Clapsaddle never punished a cut-throat." And turning to Jack Ball, he bade him lift me to the saddle, and so I rode with him to the Governor's without a word; for I knew better than to talk when he was in that mood. The captain was made to tarry and sup with his Excellency and my grandfather, and I sat perforce a fourth at the table, scarce daring to conjecture as to the outcome of my escapade. But as luck would have it, the Governor had been that day in such worry and perplexity, and my grandfather also, that my absence had passed unnoticed. Nor did my good friend the captain utter a word to them of what he knew. But afterwards he called me to him and set me upon his knee. How big, and kind, and strong he was, and how I loved his bluff soldier's face and blunt ways. And when at last he spoke, his words burnt deep in my memory, so that even now I can repeat them. "Richard," he said, "I perceive you are like your father. I love your spirit greatly, but you have been overrash to-day. Remember this, lad, that you are a gentleman, the son of the bravest and truest gentleman I have ever known, save one; and he is destined to high things." I know now that he spoke of Colonel Washington. "And that your mother," here his voice trembled,--"your mother was a lady, every inch of her, and too good for this world. Remember, and seek no company, therefore, beyond that circle in which you were born. Fear not to be kind and generous, as I know you ever will be, but choose not intimates from the tavern." Here the captain cleared his throat, and seemed to seek for words. "I fear there are times coming, my lad," he went on presently, "when every man must choose his side, and stand arrayed in his own colours. It is not for me to shape your way of thinking. Decide in your own mind that which is right, and when you have so decided,"--he drew his sword, as was his habit when greatly moved, and placed his broad hand upon my head,--"know then that God is with you, and swerve not from thy course the width of this blade for any man." We sat upon a little bench in the Governor's garden, in front of us the wide Severn merging into the bay, and glowing like molten gold in the setting sun. And I was thrilled with a strange reverence such as I have sometimes since felt in the presence of heroes. CHAPTER IV GRAFTON WOULD HEAL AN OLD BREACH Doctor Hilliard, my grandfather's chaplain, was as holy a man as ever wore a gown, but I can remember none of his discourses which moved me as much by half as those simple words Captain Clapsaddle had used. The worthy doctor, who had baptized both my mother and father, died suddenly at Carvel Hall the spring following, of a cold contracted while visiting a poor man who dwelt across the river. He would have lacked but three years of fourscore come Whitsuntide. He was universally loved and respected in that district where he had lived so long and ably, by rich and poor alike, and those of many creeds saw him to his last resting-place. Mr. Carroll, of Carrollton, who was an ardent Catholic, stood bareheaded beside the grave. Doctor Hilliard was indeed a beacon in a time when his profession among us was all but darkness, and when many of the scandals of the community might be laid at the door of those whose duty it was to prevent them. The fault lay without doubt in his Lordship's charter, which gave to the parishioners no voice in the choosing of their pastors. This matter was left to Lord Baltimore's whim. Hence it was that he sent among us so many fox-hunting and gaming parsons who read the service ill and preached drowsy and illiterate sermons. Gaming and fox-hunting, did I say? These are but charitable words to cover the real characters of those impostors in holy orders, whose doings would often bring the blush of shame to your cheeks. Nay, I have seen a clergyman drunk in the pulpit, and even in those freer days their laxity and immorality were such that many flocked to hear the parsons of the Methodists and Lutherans, whose simple and eloquent words and simpler lives were worthy of their cloth. Small wonder was it, when every strolling adventurer and soldier out of employment took orders and found favour in his Lordship's eyes, and were given the fattest livings in place of worthier men, that the Established Church fell somewhat into disrepute. Far be it from me to say that there were not good men and true in that Church, but the wag who writ this verse, which became a common saying in Maryland, was not far wrong for the great body of them:-- "Who is a monster of the first renown? A lettered sot, a drunkard in a gown." My grandfather did not replace Dr. Hilliard at the Hall, afterwards saying the prayers himself. The doctor had been my tutor, and in spite of my waywardness and lack of love for the classics had taught me no little Latin and Greek, and early instilled into my mind those principles necessary for the soul's salvation. I have often thought with regret on the pranks I played him. More than once at lesson-time have I gone off with Hugo and young Harvey for a rabbit hunt, stealing two dogs from the pack, and thus committing a double offence. You may be sure I was well thrashed by Mr. Carvel, who thought the more of the latter misdoing, though obliged to emphasize the former. The doctor would never raise his hand against me. His study, where I recited my daily tasks, was that small sunny room on the water side of the east wing; and I well recall him as he sat behind his desk of a morning after prayers, his horn spectacles perched on his high nose and his quill over his ear, and his ink-powder and pewter stand beside him. His face would grow more serious as I scanned my Virgil in a faltering voice, and as he descanted on a passage my eye would wander out over the green trees and fields to the glistening water. What cared I for "Arma virumque" at such a time? I was watching Nebo a-fishing beyond the point, and as he waded ashore the burden on his shoulders had a much keener interest for me than that AEneas carried out of Troy. My Uncle Grafton came to Dr. Hilliard's funeral, choosing this opportunity to become reconciled to my grandfather, who he feared had not much longer to live. Albeit Mr. Carvel was as stout and hale as ever. None of the mourners at the doctor's grave showed more sorrow than did Grafton. A thousand remembrances of the good old man returned to him, and I heard him telling Mr. Carroll and some other gentlemen, with much emotion, how he had loved his reverend preceptor, from whom he had learned nothing but what was good. "How fortunate are you, Richard," he once said, "to have had such a spiritual and intellectual teacher in your youth. Would that Philip might have learned from such a one. And I trust you can say, my lad, that you have made the best of your advantages, though I fear you are of a wild nature, as your father was before you." And my uncle sighed and crossed his hands behind his back. "'Tis perhaps better that poor John is in his grave," he said. Grafton had a word and a smile for every one about the old place, but little else, being, as he said, but a younger son and a poor man. I was near to forgetting the shilling he gave Scipio. 'Twas not so unostentatiously done but that Mr. Carvel and I marked it. And afterwards I made Scipio give me the coin, replacing it with another, and flung it as far into the river as ever I could throw. As was but proper to show his sorrow at the death of the old chaplain he had loved so much, Grafton came to the Hall drest entirely in black. He would have had his lady and Philip, a lad near my own age, clad likewise in sombre colours. But my Aunt Caroline would none of them, holding it to be the right of her sex to dress as became its charms. Her silks and laces went but ill with the low estate my uncle claimed for his purse, and Master Philip's wardrobe was twice the size of mine. And the family travelled in a coach as grand as Mr. Carvel's own, with panels wreathed in flowers and a footman and outrider in livery, from which my aunt descended like a duchess. She embraced my grandfather with much warmth, and kissed me effusively on both cheeks. "And this is dear Richard?" she cried. "Philip, come at once and greet your cousin. He has not the look of the Carvels," she continued volubly, "but more resembles his mother, as I recall her." "Indeed, madam," my grandfather answered somewhat testily, "he has the Carvel nose and mouth, though his chin is more pronounced. He has Elizabeth's eyes." But my aunt was a woman who flew from one subject to another, and she had already ceased to think of me. She was in the hall. "The dear old home?" she cries, though she had been in it but once before, regarding lovingly each object as her eye rested upon it, nay, caressingly when she came to the great punch-bowl and the carved mahogany dresser, and the Peter Lely over the broad fireplace. "What memories they must bring to your mind, my dear," she remarks to her husband. "'Tis cruel, as I once said to dear papa, that we cannot always live under the old rafters we loved so well as children." And the good lady brushes away a tear with her embroidered pocket-napkin. Tears that will come in spite of us all. But she brightens instantly and smiles at the line of servants drawn up to welcome them. "This is Scipio, my son, who was with your grandfather when your father was born, and before." Master Philip nods graciously in response to Scipio's delighted bow. "And Harvey," my aunt rattles on. "Have you any new mares to surprise us with this year, Harvey?" Harvey not being as overcome with Mrs. Grafton's condescension as was proper, she turns again to Mr. Carvel. "Ah, father, I see you are in sore need of a woman's hand about the old house. What a difference a touch makes, to be sure." And she takes off her gloves and attacks the morning room, setting an ornament here and another there, and drawing back for the effect. "Such a bachelor's hall as you are keeping!" "We still have Willis, Caroline," remonstrates my grandfather, gravely. "I have no fault to find with her housekeeping." "Of course not, father; men never notice," Aunt Caroline replies in an aggrieved tone. And when Willis herself comes in, auguring no good from this visit, my aunt gives her the tips of her fingers. And I imagine I see a spark fly between them. As for Grafton, he was more than willing to let bygones be bygones between his father and himself. Aunt Caroline said with feeling that Dr. Hilliard's death was a blessing, after all, since it brought a long-separated father and son together once more. Grafton had been misjudged and ill-used, and he called Heaven to witness that the quarrel had never been of his seeking,--a statement which Mr. Carvel was at no pains to prove perjury. How attentive was Mr. Grafton to his father's every want. He read his Gazette to him of a Thursday, though the old gentleman's eyes are as good as ever. If Mr. Carvel walks out of an evening, Grafton's arm is ever ready, and my uncle and his worthy lady are eager to take a hand at cards before supper. "Philip, my dear," says my aunt, "thy grandfather's slippers," or, "Philip, my love, thy grandfather's hat and cane." But it is plain that Master Philip has not been brought up to wait on his elders. He is curled with a novel in his grandfather's easy chair by the window. "There is Dio, mamma, who has naught to do but serve grandpapa," says he, and gives a pull at the cord over his head which rings the bell about the servants' ears in the hall below. And Dio, the whites of his eyes showing, comes running into the room. "It is nothing, Diomedes," says Mr. Carvel. "Master Philip will fetch what I need.". Master Philip's papa and mamma stare at each other in a surprise mingled with no little alarm, Master Philip being to all appearances intent upon his book. "Philip," says my grandfather, gently. I had more than once heard him speak thus, and well knew what was coming. "Sir," replies my cousin, without looking up. "Follow me, sir," said Mr. Carvel, in a voice so different that Philip drops his book. They went up the stairs together, and what occurred there I leave to the imagination. But when next Philip was bidden to do an errand for Mr. Carvel my grandfather said quietly: "I prefer that Richard should go, Caroline." And though my aunt and uncle, much mortified, begged him to give Philip another chance, he would never permit it. Nevertheless, a great effort was made to restore Philip to his grandfather's good graces. At breakfast one morning, after my aunt had poured Mr. Carvel's tea and made her customary compliment to the blue and gold breakfast china, my Uncle Grafton spoke up. "Now that Dr. Hilliard is gone, father, what do you purpose concerning Richard's schooling?" "He shall go to King William's school in the autumn," Mr. Carvel replied. "In the autumn!" cried my uncle. "I do not give Philip even the short holiday of this visit. He has his Greek and his Virgil every day." "And can repeat the best passages," my aunt chimes in. "Philip, my dear, recite that one your father so delights in." However unwilling Master Philip had been to disturb himself for errands, he was nothing loth to show his knowledge, and recited glibly enough several lines of his Virgil verbatim; thereby pleasing his fond parents greatly and my grandfather not a little. "I will add a crown to your savings, Philip," says his father. "And here is a pistole to spend as you will," says Mr. Carvel, tossing him the piece. "Nay, father, I do not encourage the lad to be a spendthrift," says Grafton, taking the pistole himself. "I will place this token of your appreciation in his strong-box. You know we have a prodigal strain in the family, sir." And my uncle looks at me significantly. "Let it be as I say, Grafton," persists Mr. Carvel, who liked not to be balked in any matter, and was not over-pleased at this reference to my father. And he gave Philip forthwith another pistole, telling his father to add the first to his saving if he would. "And Richard must have his chance," says my Aunt Caroline, sweetly, as she rises to leave the room. "Ay, here is a crown for you, Richard," says my uncle, smiling. "Let us hear your Latin, which should be purer than Philip's." My grandfather glanced uneasily at me across the table; he saw clearly the trick Grafton had played me, I think. But for once I was equal to my uncle, and haply remembered a line Dr. Hilliard had expounded, which fitted the present case marvellously well. With little ceremony I tossed back the crown, and slowly repeated those words used to warn the Trojans against accepting the Grecian horse: "Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes." "Egad," cried Mr. Carvel, slapping his knee, "the lad bath beaten you on your own ground, Grafton." And he laughed as my grandfather only could laugh, until the dishes rattled on the table. But my uncle thought it no matter for jesting. Philip was also well versed in politics for a lad of his age, and could discuss glibly the right of Parliament to tax the colonies. He denounced the seditious doings in Annapolis and Boston Town with an air of easy familiarity, for Philip had the memory of a parrot, and 'twas easy to perceive whence his knowledge sprang. But when my fine master spoke disparagingly of the tradesmen as at the bottom of the trouble, my grandfather's patience came to an end. "And what think you lies beneath the wealth and power of England, Philip?" he asked. "Her nobility, sir, and the riches she draws from her colonies," retorts Master Philip, readily enough. "Not so," Mr. Carvel said gravely. "She owes her greatness to her merchants, or tradesmen, as you choose to call them. And commerce must be at the backbone of every great nation. Tradesmen!" exclaimed my grandfather. "Where would any of us be were it not for trade? We sell our tobacco and our wheat, and get money in return. And your father makes a deal here and a deal there, and so gets rich in spite of his pittance." My Uncle Grafton raised his hand to protest, but Mr. Carvel continued: "I know you, Grafton, I know you. When a lad it was your habit to lay aside the money I gave you, and so pretend you had none." "And 'twas well I learned then to be careful," said my uncle, losing for the instant his control, "for you loved the spend-thrift best, and I should be but a beggar now without my wisdom." "I loved not John's carelessness with money, but other qualities in him which you lacked," answered Mr. Carvel. Grafton shot a swift glance at me; and so much of malice and of hatred was conveyed in that look that with a sense of prophecy I shuddered to think that some day I should have to cope with such craft. For he detested me threefold, and combined the hate he bore my dead father and mother with the ill-will he bore me for standing in his way and Philip's with my grandfather's property. But so deftly could he hide his feelings that he was smiling again instantly. To see once, however, the white belly of the shark flash on the surface of the blue water is sufficient. "I beg of you not to jest of me before the lads, father," said Grafton. "God knows there was little jest in what I said," replied Mr. Carvell soberly, "and I care not who hears it. Your own son will one day know you well enough, if he does not now. Do not imagine, because I am old, that I am grown so foolish as to believe that a black sheep can become white save by dye. And dye will never deceive such as me. And Philip," the shrewd old gentleman went on, turning to my cousin, "do not let thy father or any other make thee believe there cannot be two sides to every question. I recognize in your arguments that which smacks of his tongue, despite what he says of your reading the public prints and of forming your own opinions. And do not condemn the Whigs, many of whom are worthy men and true, because they quarrel with what they deem an unjust method of taxation." Grafton had given many of the old servants cause to remember him. Harvey in particular, who had come from England early in the century with my grandfather, spoke with bitterness of him. On the subject of my uncle, the old coachman's taciturnity gave way to torrents of reproach. "Beware of him as has no use for horses, Master Richard," he would say; for this trait in Grafton in Harvey's mind lay at the bottom of all others. At my uncle's approach he would retire into his shell like an oyster, nor could he be got to utter more than a monosyllable in his presence. Harvey's face would twitch, and his fingers clench of themselves as he touched his cap. And with my Aunt Caroline he was the same. He vouchsafed but a curt reply to all her questions, nor did her raptures over the stud soften him in the least. She would come tripping into the stable yard, daintily holding up her skirts, and crying, "Oh, Harvey, I have heard so much of Tanglefoot. I must see him before I go." Tanglefoot is led out begrudgingly enough, and Aunt Caroline goes over his points, missing the greater part of them, and remarking on the depth of chest, which is nothing notable in Tanglefoot. Harvey winks slyly at me the while, and never so much as offers a word of correction. "You must take Philip to ride, Richard, my dear," says my aunt. "His father was never as fond of it as I could have wished. I hold that every gentleman should ride to hounds." "Humph!" grunts Harvey, when she is gone to the house, "Master Philip to hunt, indeed! Foxes to hunt foxes!" And he gives vent to a dry laugh over his joke, in which I cannot but join. "Horsemen grows. Eh, Master Richard? There was Captain Jack, who jumped from the cradle into the saddle, and I never once seen a horse get the better o' him. And that's God's truth." And he smooths out Tanglefoot's mane, adding reflectively, "And you be just like him. But there was scarce a horse in the stables what wouldn't lay back his ears at Mr. Grafton, and small blame to 'em, say I. He never dared go near 'em. Oh, Master Philip comes by it honestly enough. She thinks old Harvey don't know a thoroughbred when he sees one, sir. But Mrs. Grafton's no thoroughbred; I tell 'ee that, though I'm saying nothing as to her points, mark ye. I've seen her sort in the old country, and I've seen 'em here, and it's the same the world over, in Injy and Chiny, too. Fine trappings don't make the horse, and they don't take thoroughbreds from a grocer's cart. A Philadelphy grocer," sniffs this old aristocrat. "I'd knowed her father was a grocer had I seen her in Pall Mall with a Royal Highness, by her gait, I may say. Thy mother was a thoroughbred, Master Richard, and I'll tell 'ee another," he goes on with a chuckle, "Mistress Dorothy Manners is such another; you don't mistake 'em with their high heads and patreeshan ways, though her father be one of them accidents as will occur in every stock. She's one to tame, sir, and I don't envy no young gentleman the task. But this I knows," says Harvey, not heeding my red cheeks, "that Master Philip, with all his satin small-clothes, will never do it." Indeed, it was no secret that my Aunt Caroline had been a Miss Flaven, of Philadelphia, though she would have had the fashion of our province to believe that she belonged to the Governor's set there; and she spoke in terms of easy familiarity of the first families of her native city, deceiving no one save herself, poor lady. How fondly do we believe, with the ostrich, that our body is hidden when our head is tucked under our wing! Not a visitor in Philadelphia but knew Terence Flaven, Mrs. Grafton Carvel's father, who not many years since sold tea and spices and soap and glazed teapots over his own counter, and still advertised his cargoes in the public prints. He was a broad and charitable-minded man enough, and unassuming, but gave way at last to the pressure brought upon him by his wife and daughter, and bought a mansion in Front Street. Terence Flaven never could be got to stay there save to sleep, and preferred to spend his time in his shop, which was grown greatly, chatting with his customers, and bowing the ladies to their chariots. I need hardly say that this worthy man was on far better terms than his family with those personages whose society they strove so hard to attain. At the time of Miss Flaven's marriage to my uncle 'twas a piece of gossip in every month that he had taken her for her dower, which was not inconsiderable; though to hear Mr. and Mrs. Grafton talk they knew not whence the next month's provender was to come. They went to live in Kent County, as I have said, spending some winters in Philadelphia, where Mr. Grafton was thought to have interests, though it never could be discovered what his investments were. On hearing of his marriage, which took place shortly before my father's, Mr. Carvel expressed neither displeasure nor surprise. But he would not hear of my mother's request to settle a portion upon his younger son. "He has the Kent estate, Bess," said he, "which is by far too good for him. Never doubt but that the rogue can feather his own nest far better than can I, as indeed he hath already done. And by the Lord," cried Mr. Carvel, bringing his fist down upon the card-table where they sat, "he shall never get another farthing of my money while I live, nor afterwards, if I can help it! I would rather give it over to Mr. Carroll to found a nunnery." And so that matter ended, for Mr. Carvel could not be moved from a purpose he had once made. Nor would he make any advances whatsoever to Grafton, or receive those hints which my uncle was forever dropping, until at length he begged to be allowed to come to Dr. Hilliard's funeral, a request my grandfather could not in decency refuse. 'Twas a pathetic letter in truth, and served its purpose well, though it was not as dust in the old gentleman's eyes. He called me into his bedroom and told me that my Uncle Grafton was coming at last. And seeing that I said nothing thereto, he gave me a queer look and bade me treat them as civilly as I knew how. "I well know thy temper, Richard," said he, "and I fear 'twill bring thee trouble enough in life. Try to control it, my lad; take an old man's advice and try to control it." He was in one of his gentler moods, and passed his arm about me, and together we stood looking silently through the square panes out into the rain, at the ducks paddling in the puddles until the darkness hid them. And God knows, lad that I was, I tried to be civil to them. But my tongue rebelled at the very sight of my uncle ('twas bred into me, I suppose), and his fairest words seemed to me to contain a hidden sting. Once, when he spoke in his innuendo of my father, I ran from the room to restrain some act of violence; I know not what I should have done. And Willis found me in the deserted, study of the doctor, where my hot tears had stained the flowered paper on the wall. She did her best to calm me, good soul, though she had her own troubles with my Lady Caroline to think about at the time. I had one experience with Master Philip before our visitors betook themselves back to Kent, which, unfortunate as it was, I cannot but relate here. My cousin would enter into none of those rough amusements in which I passed my time, for fear, I took it, of spoiling his fine broadcloths or of losing a gold buckle. He never could be got to wrestle, though I challenged him more than once. And he was a well-built lad, and might, with a little practice, have become skilled in that sport. He laughed at the homespun I wore about the farm, saying it was no costume for a gentleman's son, and begged me sneeringly to don leather breeches. He would have none of the company of those lads with whom I found pleasure, young Harvey, and Willis's son, who was being trained as Mr. Starkie's assistant. Nor indeed did I disdain to join in a game with Hugo, who had been given to me, and other negro lads. Philip saw no sport in a wrestle or a fight between two of the boys from the quarters, and marvelled that I could lower myself to bet with Harvey the younger. He took not a spark of interest in the gaming cocks we raised together to compete at the local contests and at the fair, and knew not a gaff from a cockspur. Being one day at my wits' end to amuse my cousin, I proposed to him a game of quoits on the green beside the spring-house, and thither we repaired, followed by Hugo, and young Harvey come to look on. Master Philip, not casting as well as he might, cries out suddenly to Hugo: "Begone, you black dog! What business have you here watching a game between gentlemen?" "He is my servant, cousin," I said quietly, "and no dog, if you please. And he is under my orders, not yours." But Philip, having scarcely scored a point, was in a rage. "And I'll not have him here," he shouted, giving poor Hugo a cuff which sent him stumbling over the stake. And turning to me; continued insolently: "Ever since we came here I have marked your manner toward us, as though my father had no right in my grandfather's house." Then could I no longer contain myself. I heard young Harvey laugh, and remark: "'Tis all up with Master Philip now." But Philip, whatever else he may have been, was no coward, and had squared off to face me by the time I had run the distance between the stakes. He was heavier than I, though not so tall; and he parried my first blow and my second, and many more; having lively work of it, however, for I hit him as often as I was able. To speak truth, I had not looked for such resistance, and seeing that I could not knock him down, out of hand, I grew more cool and began to study what I was doing. "Take off your macaroni coat," said I. "I have no wish to ruin your clothes." But he only jeered in return: "Take off thy wool-sack." And Hugo, getting to his feet, cried out to me not to hurt Marse Philip, that he had meant no harm. But this only enraged Philip the more, and he swore a round oath at Hugo and another at me, and dealt a vicious blow at my stomach, whereat Harvey called out to him to fight fair. He was more skilful at the science of boxing than I, though I was the better fighter, having, I am sorry to say, fought but too often before. And presently, when I had closed one of his eyes, his skill went all to pieces, and he made a mad rush at me. As he went by I struck him so hard that he fell heavily and lay motionless. Young Harvey ran into the spring-house and filled his hat as I bent over my cousin. I unbuttoned his waistcoat and felt his heart, and rejoiced to find it beating; we poured cold water over his face and wrists. By then, Hugo, who was badly frightened, had told the news in the house, and I saw my Aunt Caroline come running over the green as fast as her tight stays would permit, crying out that I had killed her boy, her dear Philip. And after her came my Uncle Grafton and my grandfather, with all the servants who had been in hearing. I was near to crying myself at the thought that I should grieve my grandfather. And my aunt, as she knelt over Philip, pushed me away, and bade me not touch him. But my cousin opened one of his eyes, and raised his hand to his head. "Thank Heaven he is not killed!" exclaims Aunt Caroline, fervently. "Thank God, indeed!" echoes my uncle, and gives me a look as much as to say that I am not to be thanked for it. "I have often warned you, sir," he says to Mr. Carvel, "that we do not inherit from stocks and stones. And so much has come of our charity." I knew, lad that I was; that he spoke of my mother; and my blood boiled within me. "Have a care, sir, with your veiled insults," I cried, "or I will serve you as I have served your son." Grafton threw up his hands. "What have we harboured, father?" says he. But Mr. Carvel seized him by the shoulder. "Peace, Grafton, before the servants," he said, "and cease thy crying, Caroline. The lad is not hurt." And being a tall man, six feet in his stockings, and strong despite his age, he raised Philip from the grass, and sternly bade him walk to the house, which he did, leaning on his mother's arm. "As for you, Richard," my grandfather went on, "you will go into my study." Into his study I went, where presently he came also, and I told him the affair in as few words as I might. And he, knowing my hatred of falsehood, questioned me not at all, but paced to and fro, I following him with my eyes, and truly sorry that I had given him pain. And finally he dismissed me, bidding me make it up with my cousin, which I was nothing loth to do. What he said to Philip and his father I know not. That evening we shook hands, though Philip's face was much swollen, and my uncle smiled, and was even pleasanter than before, saying that boys would be boys. But I think my Aunt Caroline could never wholly hide the malice she bore me for what I had done that day. When at last the visitors were gone, every face on the plantation wore a brighter look. Harvey said: "God bless their backs, which is the only part I ever care to see of their honours." And Willis gave us a supper fit for a king. Mr. Lloyd and his lady were with us, and Mr. Carvel told his old stories of the time of the First George, many of which I can even now repeat: how he and two other collegians fought half a dozen Mohocks in Norfolk Street, and fairly beat them; and how he discovered by chance a Jacobite refugee in Greenwich, and what came of it; nor did he forget that oft-told episode with Dean Swift. And these he rehearsed in such merry spirit and new guise that we scarce recognized them, and Colonel Lloyd so choked with laughter that more than once he had to be hit between the shoulders. CHAPTER V "IF LADIES BE BUT YOUNG AND FAIR" No boyhood could have been happier than mine, and throughout it, ever present with me, were a shadow and a light. The shadow was my Uncle Grafton. I know not what strange intuition of the child made me think of him so constantly after that visit he paid us, but often I would wake from my sleep with his name upon my lips, and a dread at my heart. The light--need I say?--was Miss Dorothy Manners. Little Miss Dolly was often at the Hall after that happy week we spent together; and her home, Wilmot House, was scarce three miles across wood and field by our plantation roads. I was a stout little fellow enough, and before I was twelve I had learned to follow to hounds my grandfather's guests on my pony; and Mr. Lloyd and Mr. Carvel when they shot on the duck points. Ay, and what may surprise you, my dears, I was given a weak little toddy off the noggin at night, while the gentlemen stretched their limbs before the fire, or played at whist or loo Mr. Carvel would have no milksop, so he said. But he early impressed upon me that moderation was the mark of a true man, even as excess was that of a weak one. And so it was no wonder that I frequently found my way to Wilmot House alone. There I often stayed the whole day long, romping with Dolly at games of our own invention, and many the time I was sent home after dark by Mrs. Manners with Jim, the groom. About once in the week Mr. and Mrs. Manners would bring Dorothy over for dinner or tea at the Hall. She grew quickly--so quickly that I scarce realized--into a tall slip of a girl, who could be wilful and cruel, laughing or forgiving, shy or impudent, in a breath. She had as many moods as the sea. I have heard her entertain Mr. Lloyd and Mr. Bordley and the ladies, and my grandfather, by the hour, while I sat by silent and miserable, but proud of her all the same. Boylike, I had grown to think of her as my possession, tho' she gave me no reason whatever. I believe I had held my hand over fire for her, at a word. And, indeed, I did many of her biddings to make me wonder, now, that I was not killed. It used to please her, Ivie too, to see me go the round of the windmill, tho' she would cry out after I left the ground. And once, when it was turning faster than common and Ivie not there to prevent, I near lost my hold at the top, and was thrown at the bottom with such force that I lay stunned for a full minute. I opened my eyes to find her bending over me with such a look of fright and remorse upon her face as I shall never forget. Again, walking out on the bowsprit of the 'Oriole' while she stood watching me from the dock, I lost my balance and fell into the water. On another occasion I fought Will Fotheringay, whose parents had come for a visit, because he dared say he would marry her. "She is to marry an earl," I cried, tho' I had thrashed another lad for saying so. "Mr. Manners is to take her home when she is grown, to marry her to an earl." "At least she will not marry you, Master Richard," sneered Will. And then I hit him. Indeed, even at that early day the girl's beauty was enough to make her talked about. And that foolish little fop, her father, had more than once declared before a company in our dining room that it was high time another title came into his family, and that he meant to take Dolly abroad when she was sixteen. Lad that I was, I would mark with pain the blush on Mrs. Manners's cheek, and clinch my fists as she tried to pass this off as a joke of her husband's. But Dolly, who sat next me at a side table, would make a wry little face at my angry one. "You shall call me 'my lady,' Richard. And sometimes, if you are good, you shall ride inside my coroneted coach when you come home." Ah, that was the worst of it! The vixen was conscious of her beauty. But her airs were so natural that young and old bowed before her. Nothing but worship had she had from the cradle. I would that Mr. Peale had painted her in her girlhood as a type of our Maryland lady of quality. Harvey was right when he called her a thoroughbred. Her nose was of patrician straightness, and the curves of her mouth came from generations of proud ancestors. And she had blue eyes to conquer and subdue; with long lashes to hide them under when she chose, and black hair with blue gloss upon it in the slanting lights. I believe I loved her best in the riding-habit that was the colour of the red holly in our Maryland woods. At Christmas-tide, when we came to the eastern shore, we would gallop together through miles of country, the farmers and servants tipping and staring after her as she laid her silver-handled whip upon her pony. She knew not the meaning of fear, and would take a fence or a ditch that a man might pause at. And so I fell into the habit of leading her the easy way round, for dread that she would be hurt. How those Christmas times of childhood come sweeping back on my memory! Often, and without warning, my grandfather would say to me: "Richard, we shall celebrate at the Hall this year." And it rarely turned out that arrangements had not been made with the Lloyds and the Bordleys and the Manners, and other neighbours, to go to the country for the holidays. I have no occasion in these pages to mention my intimacy with the sons and daughters of those good friends of the Carvels', Colonel Lloyd and Mr. Bordley. Some of them are dead now, and the rest can thank God and look back upon worthy and useful lives. And if any of these, my old playmates, could read this manuscript, perchance they might feel a tingle of recollection of Children's Day, when Maryland was a province. We rarely had snow; sometimes a crust upon the ground that was melted into paste by the noonday sun, but more frequently, so it seems to me, a foggy, drizzly Christmas, with the fires crackling in saloon and lady's chamber. And when my grandfather and the ladies and gentlemen, his guests, came down the curving stairs, there were the broadly smiling servants drawn up in the wide hall,--all who could gather there,--and the rest on the lawn outside, to wish "Merry Chris'mas" to "de quality." The redemptioners in front, headed by Ivie and Jonas Tree, tho' they had long served their terms, and with them old Harvey and his son; next the house blacks and the outside liveries, and then the oldest slaves from the quarters. This line reached the door, which Scipio would throw open at "de quality's" appearance, disclosing the rest of the field servants, in bright-coloured gowns, and the little negroes on the green. Then Mr. Carvel would make them a little speech of thanks and of good-will, and white-haired Johnson of the senior quarters, who had been with my great-grandfather, would start the carol in a quaver. How clear and sweet the melody of those negro voices comes back to me through the generations! And the picture of the hall, loaded with holly and mistletoe even to the great arch that spanned it, with the generous bowls of egg-nog and punch on the mahogany by the wall! And the ladies our guests, in cap and apron, joining in the swelling hymn; ay, and the men, too. And then, after the breakfast of sweet ham and venison, and hot bread and sausage, made under Mrs. Willis, and tea and coffee and chocolate steaming in the silver, and ale for the gentlemen if they preferred, came the prayers and more carols in the big drawing-room. And then music in the big house, or perhaps a ride afield to greet the neighbours, and fiddling and dancing in the two big quarters, Hank's and Johnson's, when the tables were cleared after the bountiful feast Mr. Carvel was wont to give them. There was no stint, my dears,--naught but good cheer and praising God in sheer happiness at Carvel Hall. At night there was always a ball, sometimes at Wilmot House, sometimes at Colonel Lloyd's or Mr. Bordley's, and sometimes at Carvel Hall, for my grandfather dearly loved the company of the young. He himself would lead off the minuet,--save when once or twice his Excellency Governor Sharpe chanced to be present,--and would draw his sword with the young gallants that the ladies might pass under. And I have seen him join merrily in the country dances too, to the clapping of hands of the company. That was before Dolly and I were let upon the floor. We sat with the other children, our mammies at our sides, in the narrow gallery with the tiny rail that ran around the ball-room, where the sweet odour of the green myrtleberry candles mixed with that of the powder and perfume of the dancers. And when the beauty of the evening was led out, Dolly would lean over the rail, and pout and smile by turns. The mischievous little baggage could hardly wait for the conquering years to come. They came soon enough, alack! The season Dorothy was fourteen, we had a ball at the Hall the last day of the year. When she was that age she had near arrived at her growth, and was full as tall as many young ladies of twenty. I had cantered with her that morning from Wilmot House to Mr. Lloyd's, and thence to Carvel Hall, where she was to stay to dinner. The sun was shining warmly, and after young Harvey had taken our horses we strayed through the house, where the servants were busy decorating, and out into my grandfather's old English flower garden, and took the seat by the sundial. I remember that it gave no shadow. We sat silent for a while, Dorothy toying with old Knipe, lying at our feet, and humming gayly the burden of a minuet. She had been flighty on the ride, with scarce a word to say to me, for the prospect of the dance had gone to her head. "Have you a new suit to wear to-night, to see the New Year in, Master Sober?" she asked presently, looking up. "I am to wear a brocade that came out this autumn from London, and papa says I look like a duchess when I have my grandmother's pearls." "Always the ball!" cried I, slapping my boots in a temper. "Is it, then, such a matter of importance? I am sure you have danced before--at my birthdays in Marlboro' Street and at your own, and Will Fotheringay's, and I know not how many others." "Of course," replies Dolly, sweetly; "but never with a real man. Boys like you and Will and the Lloyds do not count. Dr. Courtenay is at Wilmot House, and is coming to-night; and he has asked me out. Think of it, Richard! Dr. Courtenay!" "A plague upon him! He is a fop!" "A fop!" exclaimed Dolly, her humour bettering as mine went down. "Oh, no; you are jealous. He is more sought after than any gentleman at the assemblies, and Miss Dulany vows his steps are ravishing. There's for you, my lad! He may not be able to keep pace with you in the chase, but he has writ the most delicate verses ever printed in Maryland, and no other man in the colony can turn a compliment with his grace. Shall I tell you more? He sat with me for over an hour last night, until mamma sent me off to bed, and was very angry at you because I had engaged to ride with you to-day." "And I suppose you wish you had stayed with him," I flung back, hotly. "He had spun you a score of fine speeches and a hundred empty compliments by now." "He had been better company than you, sir," she laughed provokingly. "I never heard you turn a compliment in your life, and you are now seventeen. What headway do you expect to make at the assemblies?" "None," I answered, rather sadly than otherwise. For she had touched me upon a sore spot. "But if I cannot win a woman save by compliments," I added, flaring up, "then may I pay a bachelor's tax!" My lady drew her whip across my knee. "You must tell us we are beautiful, Richard," said she, in another tone. "You have but to look in a pier-glass," I retorted. "And, besides, that is not sufficient. You will want some rhyming couplet out of a mythology before you are content." She laughed again. "Sir," answered she, "but you have wit, if you can but be got angry." She leaned over the dial's face, and began to draw the Latin numerals with her finger. So arch, withal, that I forgot my ill-humour. "If you would but agree to stay angry for a day," she went on, in a low tone, "perhaps--" "Perhaps?" "Perhaps you would be better company," said Dorothy. "You would surely be more entertaining." "Dorothy, I love you," I said. "To be sure. I know that," she replied. "I think you have said that before." I admitted it sadly. "But I should be a better husband than Dr. Courtenay." "La!" cried she; "I am not thinking of husbands. I shall have a good time, sir, I promise you, before I marry. And then I should never marry you. You are much too rough, and too masterful. And you would require obedience. I shall never obey any man. You would be too strict a master, sir. I can see it with your dogs and your servants. And your friends, too. For you thrash any boy who does not agree with you. I want no rough squire for a husband. And then, you are a Whig. I could never marry a Whig. You behaved disgracefully at King William's School last year. Don't deny it!" "Deny it!" I cried warmly; "I would as soon deny that you are an arrant flirt, Dorothy Manners, and will be a worse one." "Yes, I shall have my fling," said the minx. "I shall begin to-night, with you for an audience. I shall make the doctor look to himself. But there is the dressing-bell." And as we went into the house, "I believe my mother is a Whig, Richard. All the Brices are." "And yet you are a Tory?" "I am a loyalist," says my lady, tossing her head proudly; "and we are one day to kiss her Majesty's hand, and tell her so. And if I were the Queen," she finished in a flash, "I would teach you surly gentlemen not to meddle." And she swept up the stairs so stately, that Scipio was moved to say slyly: "Dem's de kind of ladies, Marse Richard, I jes dotes t' wait on!" Of the affair at King William's School I shall tell later. We had some dozen guests staying at the Hall for the ball. At dinner my grandfather and the gentlemen twitted her, and laughed heartily at her apt retorts, and even toasted her when she was gone. The ladies shook their heads and nudged one another, and no doubt each of the mothers had her notion of what she would do in Mrs. Manners's place. But when my lady came down dressed for the ball in her pink brocade with the pearls around her neck, fresh from the hands of Nester and those of her own tremulous mammy, Mr. Carvel must needs go up to her and hold her at arm's length in admiration, and then kiss her on both her cheeks. Whereat she blushed right prettily. "Bless me!" says he; "and can this be Richard's little playmate grown? Upon my word, Miss Dolly, you'll be the belle of the ball. Eh, Lloyd? Bless me, bless me, you must not mind a kiss from an old man. The young ones may have their turn after a while." He laughed as my grandfather only could laugh, and turned to me, who had reddened to my forehead. "And so, Richard, she has outstripped you, fair and square. You are only an awkward lad, and she--why, i' faith, in two years she'll be beyond my protection. Come, Miss Dolly," says he; "I'll show you the mistletoe, that you may beware of it." And he led her off on his arm. "The old year and the new, gentlemen!" he cried merrily, as he passed the door, with Dolly's mammy and Nester simpering with pride on the landing. The company arrived in coach and saddle, many having come so far that they were to stay the night. Young Mr. Beall carried his bride on a pillion behind him, her red riding-cloak flung over her ball dress. Mr. Bordley and family came in his barge, Mr. Marmaduke and his wife in coach and four. With them was Dr. Courtenay, arrayed in peach-coloured coat and waistcoat, with black satin breeches and white silk stockings, and pinchbeck buckles a-sparkle on his shoes. How I envied him as he descended the stairs, stroking his ruffles and greeting the company with the indifferent ease that was then the fashion. I fancied I saw his eyes wander among the ladies, and not marking her he crossed over to where I stood disconsolate before the fireplace. "Why, Richard, my lad," says he, "you are quite grown since I saw you. And the little girl that was your playmate,--Miss Dolly, I mean,--has outstripped me, egad. She has become suddenly une belle demoiselle, like a rose that blooms in a night." I answered nothing at all. But I had given much to know whether my stolid manner disconcerted him. Unconsciously I sought the bluff face above the chimney, depicted in all its ruggedness by the painter of King Charles's day, and contrasted with the bundle of finery at my side. Dr. Courtenay certainly caught the look. He opened his snuff-box, took a pinch, turned on his heel, and sauntered off. "What did you say, Richard?" asked Mr. Lloyd, coming up to me, laughing, for he had seen the incident. "I looked merely at the man of Marston Moor, sir, and said nothing." "Faith, 'twas a better answer than if you had used your tongue, I think," answered my friend. But he teased me a deal that night when Dolly danced with the doctor, and my grandfather bade me look to my honours. My young lady flung her head higher than ever, and made a minuet as well as any dame upon the floor, while I stood very glum at the thought of the prize slipping from my grasp. Now and then, in the midst of a figure, she would shoot me an arch glance, as much as to say that her pinions were strong now. But when it came to the country dances my lady comes up to me ever so prettily and asks the favour. "Tis a monstrous state, indeed, when I have to beg you for a reel!" says she. And so was I made happy. CHAPTER VI I FIRST SUFFER FOR THE CAUSE In the eighteenth century the march of public events was much more eagerly followed than now by men and women of all stations, and even children. Each citizen was ready, nay, forward, in taking an active part in all political movements, and the children mimicked their elders. Old William Farris read his news of a morning before he began the mending of his watches, and by evening had so well digested them that he was primed for discussion with Pryse, of the opposite persuasion, at the Rose and Crown. Sol Mogg, the sexton of St. Anne's, had his beloved Gazette in his pocket as he tolled the church bell of a Thursday, and would hold forth on the rights and liberties of man with the carpenter who mended the steeple. Mrs. Willard could talk of Grenville and Townshend as knowingly as her husband, the rich factor, and Francie Willard made many a speech to us younger Sons of Liberty on the steps of King William's School. We younger sons, indeed, declared bitter war against the mother-country long before our conservative old province ever dreamed of secession. For Maryland was well pleased with his Lordship's government. I fear that I got at King William's School learning of a far different sort than pleased my grandfather. In those days the school stood upon the Stadt House hill near School Street, not having moved to its present larger quarters. Mr. Isaac Daaken was then Master, and had under him some eighty scholars. After all these years, Mr. Daaken stands before me a prominent figure of the past in an ill-fitting suit of snuff colour. How well I recall that schoolroom of a bright morning, the sun's rays shot hither and thither, and split violet, green, and red by the bulging glass panes of the windows. And by a strange irony it so chanced that where the dominie sat--and he moved not the whole morning long save to reach for his birches--the crimson ray would often rest on the end of his long nose, and the word "rum" be passed tittering along the benches. For some men are born to the mill, and others to the mitre, and still others to the sceptre; but Mr. Daaken was born to the birch. His long, lanky legs were made for striding after culprits, and his arms for caning them. He taught, among other things, the classics, of course, the English language grammatically, arithmetic in all its branches, book-keeping in the Italian manner, and the elements of algebra, geometry, and trigonometry with their applications to surveying and navigation. He also wrote various sorts of hands, fearful and marvellous to the uninitiated, with which he was wont to decorate my monthly reports to my grandfather. I can shut my eyes and see now that wonderful hyperbola in the C in Carvel, which, after travelling around the paper, ended in intricate curves and a flourish which surely must have broken the quill. The last day of every month would I fetch that scrolled note to Mr. Carvel, and he laid it beside his plate until dinner was over. And then, as sure as the sun rose that morning, my flogging would come before it set. This done with, and another promised next month provided Mr. Daaken wrote no better of me, my grandfather and I renewed our customary footing of love and companionship. But Mr. Daaken, unwittingly or designedly, taught other things than those I have mentioned above. And though I never once heard a word of politics fall from his lips, his school shortly became known to all good Tories as a nursery of conspiracy and sedition. There are other ways of teaching besides preaching, and of that which the dominie taught best he spoke not a word. He was credited, you may well believe, with calumnies against King George, and once my Uncle Grafton and Mr. Dulany were for clapping him in jail, avowing that he taught treason to the young. I can account for the tone of King William's School in no other way than to say that patriotism was in the very atmosphere, and seemed to exude in some mysterious way from Mr. Daaken's person. And most of us became infected with it. The dominie lived outside the town, in a lonely little hamlet on the borders of the Spa. At two of the clock every afternoon he would dive through School Street to the Coffee House, where the hostler would have his bony mare saddled and waiting. Mr. Daaken by no chance ever entered the tavern. I recall one bright day in April when I played truant and had the temerity to go afishing on Spa Creek with Will Fotheringay, the bass being plentiful there. We had royal sport of it that morning, and two o'clock came and went with never a thought, you may be sure. And presently I get a pull which bends my English rod near to double, and in my excitement plunge waist deep into the water, Will crying out directions from the shore, when suddenly the head of Mr. Daaken's mare is thrust through the bushes, followed by Mr. Daaken himself. Will stood stock still from fright, and I was for dropping my rod and cutting, when I was arrested by the dominie calling out: "Have a care, Master Carvel; have a care, sir. You will lose him. Play him, sir; let him run a bit." And down he leaps from his horse and into the water after me, and together we landed a three-pound bass, thereby drenching his snuff-coloured suit. When the big fish lay shining in the basket, the dominie smiled grimly at William and me as we stood sheepishly by, and without a word he drew his clasp knife and cut a stout switch from the willow near, and then and there he gave us such a thrashing as we remembered for many a day after. And we both had another when we reached home. "Mr. Carvel," said Mr. Dulany to my grandfather, "I would strongly counsel you to take Richard from that school. Pernicious doctrines, sir, are in the air, and like diseases are early caught by the young. 'Twas but yesterday I saw Richard at the head of a rabble of the sons of riff-raff, in Green Street, and their treatment of Mr. Fairbrother hath set the whole town by the ears." What Mr. Dulany had said was true. The lads of Mr. Fairbrother's school being mostly of the unpopular party, we of King William's had organized our cohorts and led them on to a signal victory. We fell upon the enemy even as they were emerging from their stronghold, the schoolhouse, and smote them hip and thigh, with the sheriff of Anne Arundel County a laughing spectator. Some of the Tories (for such we were pleased to call them) took refuge behind Mr. Fairbrother's skirts, who shook his cane angrily enough, but without avail. Others of the Tory brood fought stoutly, calling out: "God save the King!" and "Down with the traitors!" On our side Francie Willard fell, and Archie Dennison raised a lump on my head the size of a goose egg. But we fairly beat them, and afterwards must needs attack the Tory dominie himself. He cried out lustily to the sheriff and spectators, of whom there were many by this time, for help, but got little but laughter for his effort. Young Lloyd and I, being large lads for our age, fairly pinioned the screeching master, who cried out that he was being murdered, and keeping his cane for a trophy, thrust him bodily into his house of learning, turned the great key upon him, and so left him. He made his escape by a window and sought my grandfather in the Duke of Marlboro' Street as fast as ever his indignant legs would carry him. Of his interview with Mr. Carvel I know nothing save that Scipio was requested presently to show him the door, and conclude therefrom that his language was but ill-chosen. Scipio's patrician blood was wont to rise in the presence of those whom he deemed outside the pale of good society, and I fear he ushered Mr. Fairbrother to the street with little of that superior manner he used to the first families. As for Mr. Daaken, I feel sure he was not ill-pleased at the discomfiture of his rival, though it cost him five of his scholars. Our schoolboy battle, though lightly undertaken, was fraught with no inconsiderable consequences for me. I was duly chided and soundly whipped by my grandfather for the part I had played; but he was inclined to pass the matter after that, and set it down to the desire for fighting common to most boyish natures. And he would have gone no farther than this had it not been that Mr. Green, of the Maryland Gazette, could not refrain from printing the story in his paper. That gentleman, being a stout Whig, took great delight in pointing out that a grandson of Mr. Carvel was a ringleader in the affair. The story was indeed laughable enough, and many a barrister's wig nodded over it at the Coffee House that day. When I came home from school I found Scipio beside my grandfather's empty seat in the dining-room, and I learned that Mr. Carvel was in the garden with my Uncle Grafton and the Reverend Bennett Allen, rector of St. Anne's. I well knew that something out of the common was in the wind to disturb my grandfather's dinner. Into the garden I went, and under the black walnut tree I beheld Mr. Carvel pacing up and down in great unrest, his Gazette in his hand, while on the bench sat my uncle and the rector of St. Anne's. So occupied was each in his own thought that my coming was unperceived; and I paused in my steps, seized suddenly by an instinctive dread, I know not of what. The fear of Mr. Carvel's displeasure passed from my mind so that I cared not how soundly he thrashed me, and my heart filled with a yearning, born of the instant, for that simple and brave old gentleman. For the lad is nearer to nature than the man, and the animal oft scents a danger the master cannot see. I read plainly in Mr. Allen's handsome face, flushed red with wine as it ever was, and in my Uncle Grafton's looks a snare to which I knew my grandfather was blind. I never rightly understood how it was that Mr. Carvel was deceived in Mr. Allen; perchance the secret lay in his bold manner and in the appearance of dignity and piety he wore as a cloak when on his guard. I caught my breath sharply and took my way toward them, resolved to make as brave a front as I might. It was my uncle, whose ear was ever open, that first heard my footstep and turned upon me. "Here is Richard, now, father," he said. I gave him so square a look that he bent his head to the ground. My grandfather stopped in his pacing and his eye rested upon me, in sorrow rather than in anger, I thought. "Richard," he began, and paused. For the first time in my life I saw him irresolute. He looked appealingly at the rector, who rose. Mr. Allen was a man of good height and broad shoulders, with piercing black eyes, reminding one more of the smallsword than aught else I can think of. And he spoke solemnly, in a deep voice, as though from the pulpit. "I fear it is my duty, Richard, to say what Mr. Carvel cannot. It grieves me to tell you, sir, that young as you are you have been guilty of treason against the King, and of grave offence against his Lordship's government. I cannot mitigate my words, sir. By your rashness, Richard, and I pray it is such, you have brought grief to your grandfather in his age, and ridicule and reproach upon a family whose loyalty has hitherto been unstained." I scarce waited for him to finish. His pompous words stung me like the lash of a whip, and I gave no heed to his cloth as I answered: "If I have grieved my grandfather, sir, I am heartily sorry, and will answer to him for what I have done. And I would have you know, Mr. Allen, that I am as able as any to care for the Carvel honour." I spoke with a vehemence, for the thought carried me beyond myself, that this upstart parson his Lordship had but a year since sent among us should question our family reputation. "Remember that Mr. Allen is of the Church, Richard," said my grandfather, severely. "I fear he has little respect for Church or State, sir," Grafton put in. "You are now reaping the fruits of your indulgence." I turned to my grandfather. "You are my protector, sir," I cried. "And if it please you to tell me what I now stand accused of, I submit most dutifully to your chastisement." "Very fair words, indeed, nephew Richard," said my uncle, "and I draw from them that you have yet to hear of your beating an honest schoolmaster without other provocation than that he was a loyal servant to the King, and wantonly injuring the children of his school." He drew from his pocket a copy of that Gazette Mr. Carvel held in his hand, and added ironically: "Here, then, are news which will doubtless surprise you, sir. And knowing you for a peaceful lad, never having entertained such heresies as those with which it pleases Mr. Green to credit you, I dare swear he has drawn on his imagination." I took the paper in amaze, not knowing why my grandfather, who had ever been so jealous of others taking me to task, should permit the rector and my uncle to chide me in his presence. The account was in the main true enough, and made sad sport of Mr. Fairbrother. "Have I not been caned for this, sir?" said I to my grandfather. These words seemed to touch Mr. Carvel, and I saw a tear glisten in his eye as he answered: "You have, Richard, and stoutly. But your uncle and Mr. Allen seem to think that your offence warrants more than a caning, and to deem that you have been actuated by bad principles rather than by boyish spirits." He paused to steady his voice, and I realized then for the first time how sacred he held allegiance to the King. "Tell me, my lad," said he, "tell me, as you love God and the truth, whether they are right." For the moment I shrank from speaking, perceiving what a sad blow to Mr. Carvel my words must be. And then I spoke up boldly, catching the exulting sneer on my Uncle Grafton's face and the note of triumph reflected in Mr. Allen's. "I have never deceived you, sir," I said, "and will not now hide from you that I believe the colonies to have a just cause against his Majesty and Parliament." The words came ready to my lips: "We are none the less Englishmen because we claim the rights of Englishmen, and, saving your presence, sir, are as loyal as those who do not. And if these principles be bad," I added to my uncle, "then should we think with shame upon the Magna Charta." My grandfather stood astonished at such a speech from me, whom he had thought a lad yet without a formed knowledge of public affairs. But I was, in fact, supersaturated with that of which I spoke, and could have given my hearers many able Whig arguments to surprise them had the season befitted. There was silence for a space after I had finished, and then Mr. Carvel sank right heavily upon the bench. "A Carvel against the King!" was all he said. Had I been alone with him I should have cast myself at his feet, for it hurt me sorely to see him so. As it was, I held my head high. "The Carvels ever did what they believed right, sir," I answered. "You would not have me to go against my conscience?" To this he replied nothing. "The evil has been done, as I feared, father," said Grafton, presently; "we must now seek for the remedy." "Let me question the lad," Mr. Allen softly interposed. "Tell me, Richard, who has influenced you to this way of thinking?" I saw his ruse, and was not to be duped by it. "Men who have not feared to act bravely against oppression, sir," I said. "Thank God," exclaimed my uncle, with fervour, "that I have been more careful of Philip's associations, and that he has not caught in the streets and taverns this noxious creed!" "There is no danger from Philip; he remembers his family name," said the rector. "No," quoth Mr. Carvel, bitterly, "there is no danger from Philip. Like his father, he will ever believe that which best serves him." Grafton, needless to say, did not pursue such an argument, but rising, remarked that this deplorable affair had kept him long past his dinner hour, and that his services were as ever at his father's disposal. He refused to stay, though my grandfather pressed him of course, and with a low bow of filial respect and duty and a single glance at the rector, my uncle was gone. And then we walked slowly to the house and into the dining room, Mr. Carvel leading the procession, and I an unwilling rear, knowing that my fate would be decided between them. I thought Mr. Allen's grace would never end, and the meal likewise; I ate but little, while the two gentlemen discussed parish matters. And when at last Scipio had retired, and the rector of St. Anne's sat sipping the old Madeira, his countenance all gravity, but with a relish he could not hide, my grandfather spoke up. And though he addressed himself to the guest, I knew full well what he said was meant for me. "As you see, sir," said he, "I am sore perplexed and troubled. We Carvels, Mr. Allen, have ever been stanch to Church and King. My great-grandsire fought at Naseby and Marston Moor for Charles, and suffered exile in his name. 'Twas love for King James that sent my father hither, though he swore allegiance to Anne and the First George. I can say with pride that he was no indifferent servant to either, refusing honours from the Pretender in '15, when he chanced to be at home. An oath is an oath, sir, and we have yet to be false to ours. And the King, say I, should, next to God, be loved and loyally served by his subjects. And so I have served this George, and his grandfather before him, according to the talents which were given me." "And ably, sir, permit me to say," echoed the rector, heartily. Too heartily, methought. And he carefully filled his pipe with choice leaf out of Mr. Carvel's inlaid box. "Be that as it may, I have done my best, as we must all do. Pardon me, sir, for speaking of myself. But I have brought up this lad from a child, Mr. Allen," said Mr. Carvel, his words coming slowly, as if each gave him pain, "and have striven to be an example to him in all things. He has few of those faults which I most fear; God be thanked that he loves the truth, for there is yet a chance of his correction. A chance, said I?" he cried, his speech coming more rapid, "nay, he shall be cured! I little thought, fool that I was, that he would get this pox. His father fought and died for the King; and should trouble come, which God forbid, to know that Richard stood against his Majesty would kill me." "And well it might, Mr. Carvel," said the divine. He was for the moment sobered, as weak men must be in the presence of those of strong convictions. My grandfather had half risen in his chair, and the lines of his smooth-shaven face deepened visibly with the pain of the feelings to which he gave utterance. As for me, I was well-nigh swept away by a bigness within me, and torn between love and duty, between pity and the reason left me, and sadly tried to know whether my dear parent's life and happiness should be weighed against what I felt to be right. I strove to speak, but could say nothing. "He must be removed from the influences," the rector ventured, after a halt. "That he must indeed," said my grandfather. "Why did I not send him to Eton last fall? But it is hard, Mr. Allen, to part with the child of our old age. I would take passage and go myself with him to-morrow were it not for my duties in the Council." "Eton! I would have sooner, I believe, wrought by the side of any rascally redemptioner in the iron mines of the Patapsco than have gone to Eton. "But for the present, sir, I would counsel you to put the lad's studies in the charge of some able and learned man, that his mind may be turned from the disease which has fed upon it. Some one whose loyalty is beyond question." "And who so fit as yourself, Mr. Allen?" returned my grandfather, relief plain in his voice. "You have his Lordship's friendship and confidence, and never has rector of St. Anne's or of any other parish brought letters to his Excellency to compare with yours. And so I crave your help in this time of need." Mr. Allen showed becoming hesitation. "I fear you do me greater honour than I deserve, Mr. Carvel," he answered, a strain of the pomp coming back, "though my gracious patron is disposed to think well of me, and I shall strive to hold his good opinion. But I have duties of parish and glebe to attend, and Master Philip Carvel likewise in my charge." I held my breath for my grandfather's reply. The rector, however, had read him, and well knew that a show of reluctance would but inflame him the more. "How now, sir?" he exclaimed. "Surely, as you love the King, you will not refuse me in this strait." Mr. Allen rose and grasped him by the hand. "Nay, sir," said he, "and you put it thus, I cannot refuse you." The thought of it was too much. I ran to my grandfather crying: "Not Mr. Allen, sir, not Mr. Allen. Any one else you please,--Mr. Fairbrother even." The rector drew back haughtily. "It is clear, Mr. Carvel," he said, "that Richard has other preferences." "And be damned to them!" shouted my grandfather. "Am I to be ruled by this headstrong boy? He has beat Mr. Fairbrother, and shall have no skimmed-milk supervision if I can help it." And so it was settled that I should be tutored by the rector of St. Anne's, and I took my seat beside my cousin Philip in his study the very next day. CHAPTER VII GRAFTON HAS HIS CHANCE To add to my troubles my grandfather was shortly taken very ill with the first severe sickness he had ever in his life endured. Dr. Leiden came and went sometimes thrice daily, and for a week he bore a look so grave as to frighten me. Dr. Evarts arrived by horse from Philadelphia, and the two physicians held long conversations in the morning room, while I listened at the door and comprehended not a word of their talk save when they spoke of bleeding. And after a very few consultations, as is often the way in their profession, they disagreed and quarrelled, and Dr. Evarts packed himself back to Philadelphia in high dudgeon. Then Mr. Carvel began to mend. There were many who came regularly to inquire of him, and each afternoon I would see the broad shoulders and genial face of Governor Sharpe in the gateway, completing his walk by way of Marlboro' Street. I loved and admired him, for he had been a soldier himself before he came out to us, and had known and esteemed my father. His Excellency should surely have been knighted for his services in the French war. Once he spied me at the window and shook his cane pleasantly, and in he walks to the room where I sat reading of the victories of Blenheim and Malplaquet, for chronicles of this sort I delighted in. "Aha, Richard," says he, taking up the book, "'tis plain whither your tastes lead you. Marlboro was a great general, and as sorry a scoundrel as ever led troops to battle. Truly," says he, musing, "the Lord often makes queer choice in his instruments for good." And he lowered himself into the easy chair and crossed his legs, regarding me very comically. "What's this I hear of your joining the burghers and barristers, and trouncing poor Mr. Fairbrother and his flock, and crying 'Liberty forever!' in the very ears of the law?" he asks. "His Majesty will have need of such lads as you, I make no doubt, and should such proceedings come to his ears I would not give a pipe for your chances." I could not but laugh, confused as I was, at his Excellency's rally. And this I may say, that had it pleased Providence to give me dealing with such men of the King's side as he, perchance my fortunes had been altered. "And in any good cause, sir," I replied, "I would willingly give my life to his Majesty." "So," said his Excellency, raising his eyebrows, "I see clearly you are of the rascals. But a lad must have his fancies, and when your age I was hot for the exiled Prince. I acquired more sense as I grew older. And better an active mind, say I, than a sluggard partisan." At this stage of our talk came in my Uncle Grafton, and bowing low to the Governor made apology that some of the elders of the family had not been there to entertain him. He told his Excellency that he had never left the house save for necessary business, which was true for once, my uncle having taken up his abode with us during that week. But now, thanking Heaven and Dr. Leiden and his own poor effort, he could report his dear father to be out of danger. Governor Sharpe answered shortly that he had been happy to hear the good news from Scipio. "Faith," says he, "I was well enough entertained, for I have a liking for this lad, and to speak truth I saw him here as I came up the walk." My uncle smiled deprecatingly, and hid any vexation he might have had from this remark. "I fear that Richard lacks wisdom as yet, your Excellency," said he, "and has many of his father's headstrong qualities." "Which you most providentially escaped," his Excellency put in. Grafton bit his lip. "Necessity makes us all careful, sir," said he. "Necessity does more than that, Mr. Carvel," returned the Governor, who was something of a wit; "necessity often makes us fools, if we be not careful. But give me ever a wanton fool rather than him of necessity's handiwork. And as for the lad," says he, "let him not trouble you. Such as he, if twisted a little in the growth, come out straight enough in the end." I think the Governor little knew what wormwood was this to my uncle. "'Tis heartily to be hoped, sir," he said, "for his folly has brought trouble enough behind it to those who have his education and his welfare in hand, and I make no doubt is at the bottom of my father's illness." At this injustice I could not but cry out, for all the town knew, and my grandfather himself best of all, that the trouble from which he now suffered sprang from his gout. And yet my heart was smitten at the thought that I might have hastened or aggravated the attack. The Governor rose. He seized his stick aggressively and looked sharply at Grafton. "Nonsense," he exclaimed; "my friend Mr. Carvel is far too wise to be upset by a boyish prank which deserves no notice save a caning. And that, my lad," he added lightly, "I dare swear you got with interest." And he called for a glass of the old Madeira when Scipio came with the tray, and departed with a polite inquiry after my Aunt Caroline's health, and a prophecy that Mr. Carvel would soon be taking the air again. There had been high doings indeed in Marlboro' Street that miserable week. My grandfather took to his bed of a Saturday afternoon, and bade me go down to Mr. Aikman's, the bookseller, and fetch him the latest books and plays. That night I became so alarmed that I sent Diomedes for Dr. Leiden, who remained the night through. Sunday was well gone before the news reached York Street, when my Aunt Caroline came hurrying over in her chair, and my uncle on foot. They brushed past Scipio at the door, and were pushing up the long flight when they were stopped on the landing by Dr. Leiden. "How is my father, sir?" Grafton cried, "and why was I not informed at once of his illness? I must see him." "Your vater can see no one, Mr. Carvel," said the doctor, quietly. "What," says my uncle, "you dare to refuse me?" "Not so lout, I bray you," says the doctor; "I tare any ting vere life is concerned." "But I will see him," says Grafton, in a sort of helpless rage, for the doctor's manner baffled him. "I will see him before he dies, and no man alive shall say me nay." Then my Aunt Caroline gathered up her skirt, and made shift to pass the doctor. "I have come to nurse him," said she, imperiously, and, turning to where I stood near, she added: "Bid a servant fetch from York Street what I shall have need of." The doctor smiled, but stood firm. He cared little for aught in heaven or earth, did Dr. Leiden, and nothing whatever for Mr. and Mrs. Grafton Carvel. "I peg you, matam, do not disturp yourself," said he. "Mr. Carvel is aply attended by an excellent voman, Mrs. Villis, and he has no neet of you." "What," cried my aunt; "this is too much, sir, that I am thrust out of my father-in-law's house, and my place taken by a menial. That woman able!" she fumed, dropping suddenly her cloak of dignity; "Mr. Carvel's charity is all that keeps her here." Then my uncle drew himself up. "Dr. Leiden," says he, "kindly oblige me by leaving my father's house, and consider your services here at an end. And Richard," he goes on to me, "send my compliments to Dr. Drake, and request him to come at once." I was stepping forward to say that I would do nothing of the kind, when the doctor stopped me by a signal, as much as to say that the quarrel was wide enough without me. He stood with his back against the great arched window flooded with the yellow light of the setting sun, a little black figure in high relief, with a face of parchment. And he took a pinch of snuff before he spoke. "I am here py Mr. Carvel's orters, sir," said he, "and py tose alone vill I leaf." And this is how the Chippendale piece was broke, which you, my children, and especially Bess, admire so extravagantly. It stood that day behind the doctor, and my uncle, making a violent move to get by, struck it, and so it fell with a great crash lengthwise on the landing; and the wonderful vases Mr. Carroll had given my grandfather rolled down the stairs and lay crushed at the bottom. Withal he had spoken so quietly, Dr. Leiden possessed a temper drawn from his Teutonic ancestors. With his little face all puckered, he swore so roundly at my uncle in some lingo he had got from his father,--High German or Low German,--I know not what, that Grafton and his wife were glad enough to pick their way amongst the broken bits of glass and china, to the hall again. Dr. Leiden shook his fist at their retreating persons, saying that the Sabbath was no day to do murder. I followed them with the pretence of picking up what was left of the ornaments. What between anger against the doctor and Mrs. Willis, and fright and chagrin at the fall of the Chippendale piece, my aunt was in such a state of nervous flurry that she bade the ashy Scipio call her chairmen, and vowed, in a trembling voice, she would never again enter a house where that low-bred German was to be found. But my Uncle Grafton was of a different nature. He deemed defeat but a postponement of the object he wished to gain, and settled himself in the library with a copy of "Miller on the Distinction of Ranks in Society." He appeared at supper suave as ever, gravely concerned as to his father's health, which formed the chief topic between us. He gave me to understand that he would take the green room until the old gentleman was past danger. Not a word, mind you, of Dr. Leiden, nor did my uncle express a wish to go into the sick-room, from which even I was forbid. Nay, the next morning he met the doctor in the hall and conversed with him at some length over the case as though nothing had occurred between them. While my Uncle Grafton was in the house I had opportunity of marking the intimacy which existed between him and the rector of St. Anne's. The latter swung each evening the muffled knocker, and was ushered on tiptoe across the polished floor to the library where my uncle sat in state. It was often after supper before the rector left, and coming in upon them once I found wine between them and empty decanters on the board, and they fell silent as I passed the doorway. Our dear friend Captain Clapsaddle was away when my grandfather fell sick, having been North for three months or more on some business known to few. 'Twas generally supposed he went to Massachusetts to confer with the patriots of that colony. Hearing the news as he rode into town, he came booted and spurred to Marlboro' Street before going to his lodgings. I ran out to meet him, and he threw his arms about me on the street so that those who were passing smiled, for all knew the captain. And Harvey, who always came to take the captain's horse, swore that he was glad to see a friend of the family once again. I told the captain very freely of my doings, and showed him the clipping from the Gazette, which made him laugh heartily. But a shade came upon his face when I rehearsed the scene we had with my uncle and Mr. Allen in the garden. "What," says he, "Mr. Carvel hath sent you to Mr. Allen on your uncle's advice?" "No," I answered, "to do my uncle justice, he said not a word to Mr. Carvel about it." The captain turned the subject. He asked me much concerning the rector and what he taught me, and appeared but ill-pleased at that I had to tell him. But he left me without so much as a word of comment or counsel. For it was a principle with Captain Clapsaddle not to influence in any way the minds of the young, and he would have deemed it unfair to Mr. Carvel had he attempted to win my sympathies to his. Captain Daniel was the first the old gentleman asked to see when visitors were permitted him, and you may be sure the faithful soldier was below stairs waiting for the summons. I was some three weeks with my new tutor, the rector, before my grandfather's illness, and went back again as soon as he began to mend. I was not altogether unhappy, owing to a certain grim pleasure I had in debating with him, which I shall presently relate. There was much to annoy and anger me, too. My cousin Philip was forever carping and criticising my Greek and Latin, and it was impossible not to feel his sneer at my back when I construed. He had pat replies ready to correct me when called upon, and 'twas only out of consideration for Mr. Carvel that I kept my hands from him when we were dismissed. I think the rector disliked Philip in his way as much as did I in mine. The Reverend Bennett Allen, indeed, might have been a very good fellow had Providence placed him in a different setting; he was one of those whom his Excellency dubbed "fools from necessity." He should have been born with a fortune, though I can think of none he would not have run through in a year or so. But nature had given him aristocratic tastes, with no other means toward their gratification than good looks, convincing ways, and a certain bold, half-defiant manner, which went far with his Lordship and those like him, who thought Mr. Allen excellent good company. With the rector, as with too many others, holy orders were but a means to an end. It was a sealed story what he had been before he came to Governor Sharpe with Baltimore's directions to give him the best in the colony. But our rakes and wits, and even our solid men, like my grandfather, received him with open arms. He had ever a tale on his tongue's end tempered to the ear of his listener. Who had most influenced my way of thinking, Mr. Allen had well demanded. The gentleman was none other than Mr. Henry Swain, Patty's father. Of her I shall speak later. He was a rising barrister and man of note among our patriots, and member of the Lower House; a diffident man in public, with dark, soulful eyes, and a wide, white brow, who had declined a nomination to the Congress of '65. At his fireside, unknown to my grandfather and to Mr. Allen, I had learned the true principles of government. Before the House Mr. Swain spoke only under extraordinary emotion, and then he gained every ear. He had been my friend since childhood, but I never knew the meaning and the fire of oratory until curiosity brought me to the gallery of the Assembly chamber in the Stadt House, where the barrister was on his feet at the time. I well remember the tingle in my chest as I looked and listened. And I went again and again, until the House sat behind closed doors. And so, when Mr. Allen brought forth for my benefit those arguments of the King's party which were deemed their strength, I would confront him with Mr. Swain's logic. He had in me a tough subject for conversion. I was put to very small pains to rout my instructor out of all his positions, because indolence, and lack of interest in the question, and contempt for the Americans, had made him neglect the study of it. And Philip, who entered at first glibly enough at the rector's side, was soon drawn into depths far beyond him. Many a time was Mr. Allen fain to laugh at his blunders. I doubt not my cousin had the facts straight enough when he rose from the breakfast table at home; but by the time he reached the rectory they were shaken up like so many parts of a puzzle in a bag, and past all straightening. The rector was especially bitter toward the good people of Boston Town, whom he dubbed Puritan fanatics. To him Mr. Otis was but a meddling fool, and Mr. Adams a traitor whose head only remained on his shoulders by grace of the extreme clemency of his Majesty, which Mr. Allen was at a loss to understand. When beaten in argument, he would laugh out some sneer that would set my blood simmering. One morning he came in late for the lesson, smelling strongly of wine, and bade us bring our books out under the fruit trees in the garden. He threw back his gown and tilted his cap, and lighting his pipe began to speak of that act of Townshend's, passed but the year before, which afterwards proved the King's folly and England's ruin. "Principle!" exclaimed my fine clergyman at length, blowing a great whiff among the white blossoms. "Oons! your Americans worship his Majesty stamped upon a golden coin. And though he saved their tills from plunder from the French, the miserly rogues are loth to pay for the service." I rose, and taking a guinea-piece from my pocket, held it up before him. "They care this much for gold, sir, and less for his Majesty, who cares nothing for them," I said. And walking to the well near by, I dropped the piece carelessly into the clear water. He was beside me before it left my hand, and Philip also, in time to see the yellow coin edging this way and that toward the bottom. The rector turned to me with a smile of cynical amusement playing over his features. "Such a spirit has brought more than one brave fellow to Tyburn, Master Carvel," he said. And then he added reflectively, "But if there were more like you, we might well have cause for alarm." 
5367	----	RICHARD CARVEL By Winston Churchill Volume 3. XIII. Mr. Allen shows his Hand XIV. The Volte Coupe XV. Of which the Rector has the Worst XVI. In which Some Things are made Clear XVII. South River XVIII. The Black Moll XIX. A Man of Destiny CHAPTER XIII MR. ALLEN SHOWS HIS HAND So Dorothy's beauty had taken London by storm, even as it had conquered Annapolis! However, 'twas small consolation to me to hear his Grace of Chartersea called a pig and a profligate while better men danced her attendance in Mayfair. Nor, in spite of what his Lordship had said, was I quite easy on the score of the duke. It was in truth no small honour to become a duchess. If Mr. Marmaduke had aught to say, there was an end to hope. She would have her coronet. But in that hour of darkness I counted upon my lady's spirit. Dr. Courtenay came to the assembly very late, with a new fashion of pinchbeck buckles on his pumps and a new manner of taking snuff. (I caught Fotheringay practising this by the stairs shortly after.) Always an important man, the doctor's prominence had been increased that day by the letter he had received. He was too thorough a courtier to profess any grief over Miss Manners's match, and went about avowing that he had always predicted a duke for Miss Dorothy. And he drew a deal of pleasure from the curiosity of those who begged but one look at the letter. Show it, indeed! For no consideration. A private communication from one gentleman to another must be respected. Will Fotheringay swore the doctor was a sly dog, and had his own reasons for keeping it to himself. The doctor paid his compliment to the captain of the Thunderer, and to his Lordship; hoped that he would see them at the meet on the morrow, tho' his gout forbade his riding to hounds. He saluted me in the most friendly way, for I played billiards with him at the Coffee House now, and he won my money. He had pronounced my phaeton to be as well appointed as any equipage in town, and had done me the honour to drive out with me on several occasions. It was Betty that brought him humiliation that evening. "What do you think of the soar our Pandora hath taken, Miss Betty?" says he. "From a Maryland manor to a ducal palace. 'Tis a fable, egad! No less!" "Indeed, I think it is," retorted Betty. "Mark me, doctor, Dorothy will not put up an instant with a roue and a brute." "A roue!" cries he, "and a brute! What the plague, Miss Tayloe! I vow I do not understand you." "Then ask my Lord Comyn, who knows your Duke of Chartersea," said Betty. Dr. Courtenay's expression was worth a pistole. "Comyn know him!" he repeated. "That he does," replied Betty, laughing. "His Lordship says Chartersea is a pig and a profligate, and I remember not what else. And that Dolly will not look at him. And so little Mr. Marmaduke may go a-hunting for another title." No wonder I had little desire for dancing that night! I wandered out of the assembly-room and through the silent corridors of the Stadt House, turning over and over again what I had heard, and picturing Dorothy reigning over the macaronies of St. James's Street. She had said nothing of this in her letter to Betty, and had asked me to write to her. But now, with a duke to refuse or accept, could she care to hear from her old playmate? I took no thought of the time, until suddenly my conscience told me I had neglected Patty. As I entered the hall I saw her at the far end of it talking to Mr. Allen. This I thought strange, for I knew she disliked him. Lord Comyn and Mr. Carroll, the barrister, and Singleton, were standing by, listening. By the time I was halfway across to them the rector turned away. I remember thinking afterwards that he changed colour when he said: "Your servant, Mr. Richard." But I thought nothing of it at the time, and went on to Patty. "I have come for a country dance, before we go, Patty," I said. Then something in her mien struck me. Her eyes expressed a pain I had remarked in them before only when she spoke to me of Tom, and her lips were closed tightly. She flushed, and paled, and looked from Singleton to Mr. Carroll. They and his Lordship remained silent. "I--I cannot, Richard. I am going home," she said, in a low voice. "I will see if the chariot is here," I answered, surprised, but thinking of Tom. She stopped me. "I am going with Mr. Carroll," she said. I hope a Carvel never has to be rebuffed twice, nor to be humbled by craving an explanation before a company. I was confounded that Patty should treat me thus, when I had done nothing to deserve it. As I made for the door, burning and indignant, I felt as tho' every eye in the room was upon me.' Young Harvey drove me that night. "Marlboro' Street, Mr. Richard?" said he. "Coffee House," replied I, that place coming first into my head. Young Harvey seldom took liberties; but he looked down from the box. "Better home, sir; your pardon, sir." "D--n it!" I cried, "drive where I bid you!" I pulled down the fore-glass, though the night was cold, and began to cast about for the cause of Patty's action. And then it was the rector came to my mind. Yes, he had been with her just before I came up, and I made sure on the instant that my worthy instructor was responsible for the trouble. I remembered that I had quarrelled with him the morning before I had gone to Bentley Manor, and threatened to confess his villany and my deceit to Mr. Carvel. He had answered me with a sneer and a dare. I knew than Patty put honour and honesty before all else in the world, and that she would not have suffered my friendship for a day had she believed me to lack either. But she, who knew me so well, was not likely to believe anything he might say without giving me the chance to clear myself. And what could he have told her? I felt my anger growing big within me, until I grew afraid of what I would do if I were tempted. I had a long score and a heavy score against this rector of St. Anne's,--a score that had been gathering these years. And I felt that my uncle was somewhere behind him; that the two of them were plotters against me, even as Harvey had declared; albeit my Uncle Grafton was little seen in his company now. And finally, in a sinister flash of revelation, came the thought that Grafton himself was at the back of this deception of my grandfather, as to my principles. Fool that I was, it had never occurred to me before. But how was he to gain by it? Did he hope that Mr. Carvel, in a fit of anger, would disinherit me when he found I had deceived him? Yes. And so had left the matter in abeyance near these two years, that the shock might be the greater when it came. I recalled now, with a shudder, that never since the spring of my grandfather's illness had my uncle questioned me upon my politics. I was seized with a fit of fury. I suspected that Mr. Allen would be at the Coffee House after the assembly. And I determined to seize the chance at once and have it out with him then and there. The inn was ablaze, but as yet deserted; Mr. Claude expectant. He bowed me from my chariot door, and would know what took me from the ball. I threw him some short answer, bade Harvey go home, saying that I would have some fellow light me to Marlboro' Street when I thought proper. And coming into the long room I flung aside my greatcoat and commanded a flask of Mr. Stephen Bordley's old sherry, some of which Mr. Claude had obtained at that bachelor's demise. The wine was scarce opened before I heard some sort of stir at the front, and two servants in a riding livery of scarlet and white hurried in to seek Mr. Claude. The sight of them sufficed mine host, for he went out as fast as his legs would go, giving the bell a sharp pull as he passed the door; and presently I heard him complimenting two gentlemen into the house. The voice of one I knew,--being no other than Captain Clapsaddle's; and him I had not seen for the past six months. I was just risen to my feet when they came in at the door beside me. "Richard!" cried the captain, and grasped my hand in both his own. I returned his pressure, too much pleased to speak. Then his eye was caught by my finery. "So ho!" says he, shaking his head at me for a sad rogue. "Wine and women and fine clothes, and not nineteen, or I mistake me. It was so with Captain Jack, who blossomed in a week; and few could vie with him, I warrant you, after he made his decision. But bless me!" he went on, drawing back, "the lad looks mature, and a fair two inches broader than last spring. But why are you not at the assembly, Richard?" "I have but now come from there, sir," I replied, not caring in the presence of a stranger to enter into reasons. At my answer the captain turned from me to the gentleman behind him, who had been regarding us both as we talked. There are some few men in the world, I thank God for it, who bear their value on their countenance; who stand unmistakably for qualities which command respect and admiration and love! We seem to recognize such men, and to wonder where we have seen them before. In reality we recognize the virtues they represent. So it was with him I saw in front of me, and by his air and carriage I marked him then and there as a man born to great things. You all know his face, my dears, and I pray God it may live in the sight of those who come after you, for generation upon generation! "Colonel Washington," said the captain, "this is Mr. Richard Carvel, the son of Captain Carvel." Mr. Washington did not speak at once. He stood regarding me a full minute, his eye seeming to penetrate the secrets of my life. And I take pride in saying it was an eye I could meet without flinching. "Your father was a brave man, sir," he said soberly, "and it seems you favour him. I am happy in knowing the son." For a moment he stood debating whether he would go to the house of one of his many friends in Annapolis, knowing that they would be offended when they learned he had stopped at the inn. He often came to town, indeed, but seldom tarried long; and it had never been my fortune to see him. Being arrived unexpectedly, and obliged to be away early on the morrow, he decided to order rooms of Mr. Claude, sat down with me at the table, and commenced supper. They had ridden from Alexandria. I gathered from their conversation that they were on their way to Philadelphia upon some private business, the nature of which, knowing Captain Daniel's sentiments and those of Colonel Washington, I went not far to guess. The country was in a stir about the Townshend duties; and there being some rumour that all these were to be discharged save only that on tea, anxiety prevailed in our middle colonies that the merchants of New York would abandon the association formed and begin importation. It was of some mission to these merchants that I suspected them. As I sat beside Colonel Washington, I found myself growing calmer, and ashamed of my lack of self-control. Unconsciously, when we come in contact with the great of character, we mould our minds to their qualities. His very person seemed to exhale, not sanctity, but virility. I felt that this man could command himself and others. In his presence self-command came to me, as a virtue gone out of him. 'Twas not his speech, I would have you know, that took hold of me. He was by no means a brilliant talker, and I had the good fortune to see him at his ease, since he and the captain were old friends. As they argued upon the questions of the day, the colonel did not seek to impress by words, or to fascinate by manner. His opinions were calm and moderate, and appeared to me so just as to admit of no appeal. He scrupled not to use a forceful word when occasion demanded. And yet, now and then, he had a lively way about him with all his dignity. When he had finished his supper he bade Mr. Claude bring another bottle of Mr. Bordley's sherry, having tested mine, and addressed himself to me. He would know what my pursuits had been; for my father's sake, what were my ambitions? He questioned me about Mr. Carvel's plantation, of which he had heard, and appeared pleased with the answers I gave as to its management and methods. Captain Daniel was no less so. Mr. Washington had agriculture at his finger ends, and gave me some advice which he had found serviceable at Mount Vernon. "'Tis a pity, Richard," said he, smiling thoughtfully at the captain, "'tis a pity we have no service afield open to our young men. One of your spirit and bearing should be of that profession. Captain Jack was as brave and dashing an officer as I ever laid eyes on." I hesitated, the tingling at the compliment. "I begin to think I was born for the sea, sir," I answered, at length. "What!" cried the captain; "what news is this, Richard? 'Slife! how has this come about?" My anger subdued by Mr. Washington's presence, a curious mood had taken its place. A foolish mood, I thought it, but one of feeling things to come. "I believe I shall one day take part in a great sea-fight," I said. And, tho' ashamed to speak of it, I told him of Stanwix's prophecy that I should pace the decks of a man-o'-war. "A pox on Stanwix!" said the captain, "an artful old seadog! I never yet knew one who did not think the sun rises and sets from poop to forecastle, who did not wheedle with all the young blood to get them to follow a bow-legged profession." Colonel Washington laughed. "Judge not, Clapsaddle," said he; "here are two of us trying to get the lad for our own bow-legged profession. We are as hot as Methodists to convert." "Small conversion he needed when I was here to watch him, colonel. And he rides with any trooper I ever laid eyes on. Why, sir, I myself threw him on a saddle before he could well-nigh walk, and 'twere a waste of material to put him in the navy." "But what this old man said of a flag not yet seen in heaven or earth interests me," said Colonel Washington. "Tell me," he added with a penetration we both remarked, "tell me, does your Captain Stanwix follow the times? Is he a man to read his prints and pamphlets? In other words, is he a man who might predict out of his own heated imagination?" "Nay, sir," I answered, "he nods over his tobacco the day long. And I will make bold to swear, he has never heard of the Stamp Act." "'Tis strange," said the colonel, musing; "I have heard of this second sight--have seen it among my own negroes. But I heartily pray that this may be but the childish fancy of an old mariner. How do you interpret it, sir?" he added, addressing himself to me. "If a prophecy, I can interpret it in but one way," I began, and there I stopped. "To be sure," said Mr. Washington. He studied me awhile as though weighing my judgment, and went on: "Needless to say, Richard, that such a service, if it comes, will not be that of his Majesty." "And it were, colonel, I would not embark in it a step," I cried. He laughed. "The lad has his father's impulse," he said to Captain Daniel. "But I thought old Mr. Carvel to be one of the warmest loyalists in the colonies." I bit my lip; for, since that unhappy deception of Mr. Carvel, I had not meant to be drawn into an avowal of my sentiments. But I had, alas, inherited a hasty tongue. "Mr. Washington," said the captain, "old Mr. Carvel has ever been a good friend to me. And, though I could not but perceive which way the lad was tending, I had held it but a poor return for friendship had I sought by word or deed to bring him to my way of thinking. Nor have I ever suffered his views in my presence." "My dear sir, I honour you for it," put in the colonel, warmly. "It is naught to my credit," returned the captain. "I would not, for the sake of my party and beliefs, embitter what remains of my old friend's life." I drew a long breath and drained the full glass before me. "Captain Daniel!" I cried, "you must hear me now. I have been waiting your coming these months. And if Colonel Washington gives me leave, I will speak before him." The colonel bade me proceed, avowing that Captain Carvel's son should have his best assistance. With that I told them the whole story of Mr. Allen's villany. How I had been sent to him because of my Whig sentiments, and for thrashing a Tory schoolmaster and his flock. This made the gentlemen laugh, tho' Captain Daniel had heard it before. I went on to explain how Mr. Carvel had fallen ill, and was like to die; and how Mr. Allen, taking advantage of his weakness when he rose from his bed, had gone to him with the lie of having converted me. But when I told of the scene between my grandfather and me at Carvel Hall, of the tears of joy that the old gentleman shed, and of how he had given me Firefly as a reward, the captain rose from his chair and looked out of the window into the blackness, and swore a great oath all to himself. And the expression I saw come into the colonel's eyes I shall never forget. "And you feared the consequences upon your grandfather's health?" he asked gravely. "So help me God!" I answered, "I truly believe that to have undeceived him would have proved fatal." "And so, for the sake of the sum he receives for teaching you," cried the captain, with another oath, "this scoundrelly clergyman has betrayed you into a lie. A scheme, by God's life! worthy of a Machiavelli!" "I have seen too many of his type in our parishes," said Mr. Washington; "and yet the bishop of London seems powerless. And so used have we become in these Southern colonies to tippling and gaming parsons, that I warrant his people accept him as nothing out of the common." "He is more discreet than the run of them, sir. His parishioners dislike him, not because of his irregularities, but because he is attempting to obtain All Saints from his Lordship, in addition to St. Anne's. He is thought too greedy." He was silent, his brow a little furrowed, and drummed with his fingers upon the table. "But this I cannot reconcile," said he, presently, "that the reward is out of all proportion to the risk. Such a clever rascal must play for higher stakes." I was amazed at his insight. And for the moment was impelled to make a clean breast of my suspicions,--nay, of my convictions of the whole devil's plot. But I had no proofs. I remembered that to the colonel my uncle was a gentleman of respectability and of wealth, and a member of his Excellency's Council. That to accuse him of scheming for my inheritance would gain me nothing in Mr. Washington's esteem. And I caught myself before I had said aught of Mr. Allen's conduct that evening. "Have you confronted this rector with his perfidy, Richard?" he asked. "I have, colonel, at my first opportunity." And I related how Mr. Allen had come to the Hall, and what I had said to him, and how he had behaved. And finally told of the picquet we now had during lessons, not caring to shield myself. Both listened intently, until the captain broke out. Mr. Washington's indignation was the stronger for being repressed. "I will call him out!" cried Captain Daniel, fingering his sword, as was his wont when angered; "I will call him out despite his gown, or else horse him publicly!" "No, my dear sir, you will do nothing of the kind," said the colonel. "You would gain nothing by it for the lad, and lose much. Such rascals walk in water, and are not to be tracked. He cannot be approached save through Mr. Lionel Carvel himself, and that channel, for Mr. Carvel's sake, must be closed." "But he must be shown up!" cried the captain. "What good will you accomplish?" said Mr. Washington; "Lord Baltimore is notorious, and will not remove him. Nay, sir, you must find a way to get the lad from his influence." And he asked me how was my grandfather's health at present. I said that he had mended beyond my hopes. "And does he seem to rejoice that you are of the King's party?" "Nay, sir. Concerning politics he seems strangely apathetic, which makes me fear he is not so well as he appears. All his life he has felt strongly." "Then I beg you, Richard, take pains to keep neutral. Nor let any passing event, however great, move you to speech or action." The captain shook his head doubtfully, as tho' questioning the ability of one of my temper to do this. "I do not trust myself, sir," I answered. He rose, declaring it was past his hour for bed, and added some kind things which I shall cherish in my memory. As he was leaving he laid his hand on my shoulder. "One word of advice, my lad," he said. "If by any chance your convictions are to come to your grandfather's ears, let him have them from your own lips." And he bade me good night. The captain tarried but a moment longer. "I have a notion who is to blame for this, Richard," he said. "When I come back from New York, we shall see what we shall see." "I fear he is too slippery for a soldier to catch," I answered. He went away to bed, telling me to be prudent, and mind the colonel's counsel until he returned from the North. CHAPTER XIV THE VOLTE COUPE I was of a serious mind to take the advice. To prove this I called for my wrap-rascal and cane, and for a fellow with a flambeau to light me. But just then the party arrived from the assembly. I was tempted, and I sat down again in a corner of the room, resolved to keep a check upon myself, but to stay awhile. The rector was the first in, humming a song, and spied me. "Ho!" he cried, "will you drink, Richard? Or do I drink with you?" He was already purple with wine. "God save me from you and your kind!" I replied. "'Sblood! what a devil's nest of fireworks!" he exclaimed, as he went off down the room, still humming, to where the rest were gathered. And they were soon between bottle and stopper, and quips a-coursing. There was the captain of the Thunderer, Collinson by name, Lord Comyn and two brother officers, Will Fotheringay, my cousin Philip, openly pleased to be found in such a company, and some dozen other toadeaters who had followed my Lord a-chair and a-foot from the ball, and would have tracked him to perdition had he chosen to go; and lastly Tom Swain, leering and hiccoughing at the jokes, in such a beastly state of drunkenness as I had rarely seen him. His Lordship recognized me and smiled, and was pushing his chair back, when something Collinson said seemed to restrain him. I believe I was the butt of more than one jest for my aloofness, though I could not hear distinctly for the noise they made. I commanded some French cognac, and kept my eye on the rector, and the sight of him was making me dangerous. I forgot the advice I had received, and remembered only the months he had goaded me. And I was even beginning to speculate how I could best pick a quarrel with him on any issue but politics, when an unexpected incident diverted me. Of a sudden the tall, ungainly form of Percy Singleton filled the doorway, wrapped in a greatcoat. He swept the room at a glance, and then strode rapidly toward the corner where I sat. "I had thought to find you here," he said, and dropped into a chair beside me. I offered him wine, but he refused. "Now," he went on, "what has Patty done?" "What have I done that I should be publicly insulted?" I cried. "Insulted!" says he, "and did she insult you? She said nothing of that." "What brings you here, then?" I demanded. "Not to talk, Richard," he said quietly, "'tis no time tonight. I came to fetch you home. Patty sent me." Patty sent him! Why had Patty sent him? But this I did not ask, for I felt the devil within me. "We must first finish this bottle," said I, offhand, "and then I have a little something to be done which I have set my heart upon. After that I will go with you." "Richard, Richard, will you never learn prudence? What is it you speak of?" I drew my sword and laid it upon the table. "I mean to spit that eel of a rector," said I, "or he will bear a slap in the face. And you must see fair play." Singleton seized my coat, at the same time grasping the hilt of my sword with the other hand. But neither my words nor my action had gone unnoticed by the other end of the room. The company there fell silent awhile, and then we heard Captain Collinson talking in even, drawling tones. "'Tis strange," said he, "what hot sparks a man meets in these colonies. They should be stamped out. His Majesty pampers these d--d Americans, is too lenient by far. Gentlemen, this is how I would indulge them!" He raised a closed fist and brought it down on the board. He spoke to Tories, but he forgot that Tories were Americans. In those days only the meanest of the King's party would listen to such without protest from an Englishman. But some of the meaner sort were there: Philip and Tom laughed, and Mr. Allen, and my Lord's sycophants. Fotheringay and some others of sense shook their heads one to another, comprehending that Captain Collinson was somewhat gone in wine. For, indeed, he had not strayed far from the sideboard at the assembly. Comyn made a motion to rise. "It is already past three bells, sir, and a hunt to-morrow," he said. "From bottle to saddle, and from saddle to bottle, my Lord. We must have our pleasure ashore, and sleep at sea," and the captain tipped his flask with a leer. He turned his eye uncertainly first on me, then on my Lord. "We are lately from Boston, gentlemen, that charnel-house of treason, and before we leave, my Lord, I must tell them how Mr. Robinson of the customs served that dog Otis, in the British Coffee House. God's word, 'twas as good as a play." I know not how many got to their feet at that, for the story of the cowardly beating of Mr. Otis by Robinson and the army officers had swept over the colonies, burning like a flame all true-hearted men, Tory and Whig alike. I wrested my sword from Singleton's hold, and in a trice I had reached the captain over chairs and table, tearing myself from Fotheringay on the way. I struck a blow that measured a man on the floor. Then I drew back, amazed. I had hit Lord Comyn instead! The captain stood a yard beyond me. The thing had been so deftly done by the rector of St. Anne's--Comyn jostled at the proper moment between me and Collinson--that none save me guessed beyond an accident; least of all my Lord Comyn himself. He was up again directly and his sword drawn, addressing me. "Bear witness, my Lord, that I have no desire to fight with you," said I, with what coolness I could muster. "But there is one here I would give much for a chance to run through." And I made a step toward Mr. Allen with such a purpose in my face and movements that he could not mistake. I saw the blood go from his face; yet he was no coward to physical violence. But he (or I?) was saved by the Satan's luck that followed him, for my Lord stepped in between us with a bow, his cheek red where I had struck him. "It is my quarrel now, Mr. Carvel," he cried. "As you please, my Lord," said I. "It boots not who crosses with him," Captain Collinson put in. "His Lordship uses the sword better than any here. But it boots not so that he is opposed by a loyal servant of the King." I wheeled on him for this. "I would have you know that loyalty does not consist in outrage and murder, sir," I answered, "nor in the ridiculing of them. And brutes cannot be loyal save through interest." He was angered, as I had desired. I had hopes then of shouldering the quarrel on to him, for I had near as soon drawn against my own brother as against Comyn. I protest I loved him then as one with whom I had been reared. "Let me deal with this young gamecock, Comyn," cried the captain, with an oath. "He seems to think his importance sufficient." But Comyn would brook no interference. He swore that no man should strike him with impunity, and in this I could not but allow he was right. "You shall hear from me, Mr. Carvel," he said. "Nay," I answered, "and fighting is to be done, sir, let us be through with it at once. A large room upstairs is at our disposal; and there is a hunt to-morrow which one of us may like to attend." There was a laugh at this, in which his Lordship joined. "I would to God, Mr. Carvel," he said, "that I had no quarrel with you!" "Amen to that, my Lord," I replied; "there are others here I would rather fight." And I gave a meaning look at Mr. Allen. I was of two minds to announce the scurvy trick he had played, but saw that I would lose rather than gain by the attempt. Up to that time the wretch had not spoken a word; now he pushed himself forward, though well clear of me. "I think it my duty as Mr. Carvel's tutor, gentlemen, to protest against this matter proceeding," he said, a sneer creeping into his voice. "Nor can I be present at it. Mr. Carvel is young and, besides, is not himself with liquor. And, in the choice of politics, he knows not which leg he stands upon. My Lord and gentlemen, your most humble and devoted." He made a bow and, before the retort on my lips could be spoken, left the tavern. My cousin Philip left with him. Tom Swain had fallen asleep in his chair. Captain Collinson and Mr. Furness, of the Thunderer, offered to serve his Lordship, which made me bethink that I, too, would have need of some one. 'Twas then I remembered Singleton, who had passed from my mind. He was standing close behind me, and nodded simply when I asked him. And Will Fotheringay came forward. "I will act, Richard, if you allow me," he said. "I would have you know I am in no wise hostile to you, my Lord, and I am of the King's party. But I admire Mr. Carvel, and I may say I am not wholly out of sympathy with that which prompted his act." It was a noble speech, and changed Will in my eyes; and I thanked him with warmth. He of all that company had the courage to oppose his Lordship! Mr. Claude was called in and, as is the custom in such cases, was told that some of us would play awhile above. He was asked for his private room. The good man had his suspicions, but could not refuse a party of such distinction, and sent a drawer thither with wine and cards. Presently we followed, leaving the pack of toadies in sad disappointment below. We gathered about the table and made shift at loo until the fellow had retired, when the seconds proceeded to clear the room of furniture, and Lord Comyn and I stripped off our coats and waistcoats. I had lost my anger, but felt no fear, only a kind of pity that blood should be shed between two so united in spirit as we. Yes, my dears, I thought of Dorothy. If I died, she would hear that it was like a man--like a Carvel. But the thought of my old grandfather tightened my heart. Then the clock on the inn stairs struck two, and the noise of harsh laughter floated up to us from below. And Comyn,--of what was he thinking? Of some fair home set upon the downs across the sea, of some heroic English mother who had kept her tears until he was gone? Her image rose in dumb entreaty, invoked by the lad before me. What a picture was he in his spotless shirt with the ruffles, his handsome boyish face all that was good and honest! I had scarce felt his Lordship's wrist than I knew I had to deal with a pupil of Angelo. At first his attacks were all simple, without feint or trickery, as were mine. Collinson cursed and cried out that it was buffoonery, and called on my Lord not to let me off so easily; swore that I fenced like a mercer, that he could have stuck me like a pin-cushion twenty and twenty times. Often have I seen two animals thrust into a pit with nothing but good-will between them, and those without force them into anger and a deadly battle. And so it was, unconsciously, between Comyn and me. I forgot presently that I was not dealing with Captain Collinson, and my feelings went into my sword. Comyn began to press me, nor did I give back. And then, before it came over me that we had to do with life and death, he was upon me with a volte coupe, feinting in high carte and thrusting in low tierce, his point passing through a fold in my shirt. And I were not alive to write these words had I not leaped out of his measure. "Bravo, Richard!" cried Fotheringay. "Well made, gads life!" from Mr. Furness. We engaged again, our faces hot. Now I knew that if I did not carry the matter against him I should be killed out of hand, and Heaven knows I was not used to play a passive part. I began to go carefully, but fiercely; tried one attack after another that my grandfather and Captain Daniel had taught me,--flanconnades, beats, and lunges. Comyn held me even, and in truth I had much to do to defend myself. Once I thought I had him in the sword-arm, after a circular parry, but he was too quick for me. We were sweating freely by now, and by reason of the buzzing in my ears I could scarce hear the applause of the seconds. What unlucky chance it was I know not that impelled Comyn to essay again the trick by which he had come so near to spitting me; but try it he did, this time in prime and seconde. I had come by nature to that intuition which a true swordsman must have, gleaned from the eyes of his adversary. Long ago Captain Daniel had taught me the remedy for this coupe. I parried, circled, and straightened, my body in swift motion and my point at Comyn's heart, when Heaven brought me recollection in the space of a second. My sword rang clattering on the floor. His Lordship understood, but too late. Despairing his life, he made one wild lunge at me that had never gone home had I held to my hilt. But the rattle of the blade had scarce reached my ears when there came a sharp pain at my throat, and the room faded before me. I heard the clock striking the half-hour. I was blessed with a sturdy health such as few men enjoy, and came to myself sooner than had been looked for, with a dash of cold water. And the first face I beheld was that of Colonel Washington. I heard him speaking in a voice that was calm, yet urgent and commanding. "I pray you, gentlemen, give back. He is coming to, and must have air. Fetch some linen!" "Now God be praised!" I heard Captain Daniel cry. With that his Lordship began to tear his own shirt into strips, and the captain bringing a bowl and napkin, the colonel himself washed the wound and bound it deftly, Singleton and Captain Daniel assisting. When Mr. Washington had finished, he turned to Comyn, who stood, anxious and dishevelled, at my feet. "You may be thankful that you missed the artery, my Lord," he said. "With all my heart, Colonel Washington!" cried his Lordship. "I owe my life to his generosity." "What's that, sir?" Mr. Carvel dropped his sword, rather than run me through." "I'll warrant!" Captain Daniel put in; "'Od's heart! The lad has skill to point the eye of a button. I taught him myself." Colonel Washington stood up and laid his hand on the captain's arm. "He is Jack Carvel over again," I heard him say, in a low voice. I tried to struggle to my feet, to speak, but he restrained me. And sending for his servants, he ordered them to have his baggage removed from the Roebuck, which was the best bed in the house. At this moment the door opened, and Mr. Swain came in hurriedly. "I pray you, gentlemen," he cried, "and he is fit to be moved, you will let me take him to Marlboro' Street. I have a chariot at the door." CHAPTER XV OF WHICH THE RECTOR HAS THE WORST 'Twas late when I awoke the next day with something of a dull ache in my neck, and a prodigious stiffness, studying the pleatings of the bed canopy over my head. And I know not how long I lay idly thus when I perceived Mrs. Willis moving quietly about, and my grandfather sitting in the armchair by the window, looking into Freshwater Lane. As my eyes fell upon him my memory came surging back,--first of the duel, then of its cause. And finally, like a leaden weight, the thought of the deception I had practised upon him, of which he must have learned ere this. Nay, I was sure from the troubled look of his face that he knew of it. "Mr. Carvel," I said. At the sound of my voice he got hastily from his chair and hurried to my side. "Richard," he answered, taking my hand, "Richard!" I opened my mouth to speak, to confess. But he prevented me, the tears filling the wrinkles around his eyes. "Nay, lad, nay. We will not talk of it. I know all." "Mr. Allen has been here--" I began. "And be d--d to him! Be d--d to him for a wolf in sheep's clothing!" shouted my grandfather, his manner shifting so suddenly to anger that I was taken back. "So help me God I will never set foot in St. Anne's while he is rector. Nor shall he come to this house!" And he took three or four disorderly turns about the room. "Ah!" he continued more quietly, with something of a sigh, "I might have known how stubborn your mind should be. That you was never one to blow from the north one day and from the south the next. I deny not that there be good men and able of your way of thinking: Colonel Washington, for one, whom I admire and honour; and our friend Captain Daniel. They have been here to-day, Richard, and I promise you were good advocates." Then I knew that I was forgiven. And I could have thrown myself at Mr. Carvel's feet for happiness. "Has Colonel Washington spoken in my favour, sir?" "That he has. He is upon some urgent business for the North, I believe, which he delayed for your sake. Both he and the captain were in my dressing-room before I was up, ahead of that scurrilous clergyman, who was for pushing his way to my bed-curtains. Ay, the two of them were here at nigh dawn this morning, and Mr. Allen close after them. And I own that Captain Daniel can swear with such a consuming violence as to put any rogue out of countenance. 'Twas all Mr. Washington could do to restrain Clapsaddle from booting his Reverence over the balustrade and down two runs of the stairs, the captain declaring he would do for every cur's son of the whelps. 'Diomedes,' says I, waking up, 'what's this damnable racket on the landing? Is Mr. Richard home?' For I had some notion it was you, sir, after an over-night brawl. And I profess I would have caned you soundly. The fellow answered that Captain Clapsaddle's honour was killing Mr. Allen, and went out; and came back presently to say that some tall gentleman had the captain by the neck, and that Mr. Allen was picking his way down the ice on the steps outside. With that I went in to them in my dressing-gown. "'What's all this to-do, gentlemen?' said I. "'I'd have finished that son of a dog,' says the captain, 'and Colonel Washington had let me.' "'What, what!' said I. 'How now? What! Drive a clergyman from my house gentlemen?' "'What's Richard been at now?' "Mr. Washington asked me to dress, saying that they had something very particular to speak about; that they would stay to breakfast with me, tho' they were in haste to be gone to New York. I made my compliments to the colonel and had them shown to the library fire, and hurried down after them. Then they told me of this affair last night, and they cleared you, sir. 'Faith,' cried I, 'and I would have fought, too. The lad was in the right of it, though I would have him a little less hasty.' D--n me if I don't wish you had knocked that sea captain's teeth into his throat, and his brains with them. I like your spirit, sir. A pox on such men as he, who disgrace his Majesty's name and set better men against him." "And they told you nothing else, sir?" I asked, with misgiving. "That they did. Mr. Washington repeated the confession you made to them, sir, in a manner that did you credit. He made me compliments on you, --said that you were a man, sir, though a trifle hasty: in the which I agreed. Yes, d--n me, a trifle hasty like your father. I rejoice that you did not kill his Lordship, my son." The twilight was beginning; and the old gentleman going back to his chair was set amusing, gazing out across the bare trees and gables falling gray after the sunset. What amazed me was that he did not seem to be shocked by the revelation near as much as I had feared. So this matter had brought me happiness where I looked for nothing but sorrow. "And the gentlemen are gone north, sir?" said I, after a while. "Yes, Richard, these four hours. I commanded an early dinner for them, since the colonel was pleased to tarry long enough for a little politics and to spin a glass. And I profess, was I to live neighbours with such a man, I might come to his way of thinking, despite myself. Though I say it that shouldn't, some of his Majesty's ministers are d--d rascals." I laughed. As I live, I never hoped to hear such words from my grandfather's lips. "He did not seek to convince, like so many of your hotheaded know-it-alls," said Mr. Carvel; "he leaves a man to convince himself. He has great parts, Richard, and few can stand before him." He paused. And then his smooth-shaven face became creased in a roguish smile which I had often seen upon it. "What baggage is this I hear of that you quarrelled over at the assembly? Ah, Sir, I fear you are become but a sad rake!" says he. But by great good fortune Dr. Leiden was shown in at this instant. And the candles being lighted, he examined my neck, haranguing the while in his vile English against the practice of duelling. He bade me keep my bed for two days, thereby giving me no great pleasure. "As I hope to live," said Mr. Carvel when the doctor was gone, "one would have thought his Excellency himself had been pinked instead of a whip of a lad, for the people who have been here. His Lordship and Dr. Courtenay came before the hunt, and young Mr. Fotheringay, and half a score of others. Mr. Swain is but now left to go to Baltimore on some barrister's business." I was burning to learn what the rector had said to Patty, but it was plain Mr. Carvel knew nothing of this part of the story. He had not mentioned Grafton among the callers. I wondered what course my uncle would now pursue, that his plans to alienate me from my grandfather had failed. And I began debating whether or not to lay the whole plot before Mr. Carvel. Prudence bade me wait, since Grafton had not consorted with the rector openly, at least--for more than a year. And yet I spoke. "Mr. Carvel!" He stirred in his chair. "Yes, my son." He had to repeat, and still I held my tongue. Even as I hesitated there came a knock at the door, and Scipio entered, bearing candles. "Massa Grafton, suh," he said. My uncle was close at his heels. He was soberly dressed in dark brown silk, and his face wore that expression of sorrow and concern he knew how to assume at will. After greeting his father with his usual ceremony, he came to my bedside and asked gravely how I did. "How now, Grafton!" cried Mr. Carvel; "this is no funeral. The lad has only a scratch, thank God!" My uncle looked at me and forced a smile. "Indeed I am rejoiced to find you are not worried over this matter, father," said he. "I am but just back from Kent to learn of it, and looked to find you in bed." "Why, no, sir, I am not worried. I fought a duel in my own day,--over a lass, it was." This time Grafton's smile was not forced. "Over a lass, was it?" he asked, and added in a tone of relief, "and how do you, nephew?" Mr. Carvel saved me from replying. "'Od's life!" he cried; "no, I did not say this was over a lass. I have heard the whole matter; how Captain Collinson, who is a disgrace to the service, brought shame upon his Majesty's supporters, and how Richard felled the young lord instead. I'll be sworn, and I had been there, I myself would have run the brute through." My uncle did not ask for further particulars, but took a chair, and a dish of tea from Scipio. His smug look told me plainer than words that he thought my grandfather still ignorant of my Whig sentiments. "I often wish that this deplorable practice of duelling might be legislated against," he remarked. "Was there no one at the Coffee House with character enough to stop the lads?" Here was my chance. "Mr. Allen was there," I said. "A devil's plague upon him!" shouted my grandfather, beating the floor with his stick. "And the lying hypocrite ever crosses my path, by gad's life! I'll tear his gown from his back!" I watched Grafton narrowly. Such as he never turn pale, but he set down his tea so hastily as to spill the most of it on the dresser. "Why, you astound me, my dear father!" he faltered; "Mr. Allen a lying hypocrite? What can he have done?" "Done!" cried my grandfather, sputtering and red as a cherry with indignation. "He is as rotten within as a pricked pear, I tell you, sir! For the sake of retaining the lad in his tuition he came to me and lied, sir, just after I had escaped death, and said that by his influence Richard had become loyal, and set dependence upon Richard's fear of the shock 'twould give me if he confessed--Richard, who never told me a falsehood in his life! And instead of teaching him, he has gamed with the lad at the rectory. I dare make oath he has treated your son to a like instruction. 'Slife, sir, and he had his deserts, he would hang from a gibbet at the Town Gate." I raised up in bed to see the effect of this on my uncle. But however the wind veered, Grafton could steer a course. He got up and began pacing the room, and his agitation my grandfather took for indignation such as his own. "The dog!" he cried fiercely. "The villain! Philip shall leave him to-morrow. And to think that it was I who moved you to put Richard to him!" His distress seemed so real that Mr. Carvel replied: "No, Grafton, 'twas not your fault. You were deceived as much as I. You have put your own son to him. But if I live another twelve hours I shall write his Lordship to remove him. What! You shake your head, sir!" "It will not do," said my uncle. "Lord Baltimore has had his reasons for sending such a scoundrel--he knew what he was, you may be sure, father. His Lordship, sir, is the most abandoned rake in London, and that unmentionable crime of his but lately in the magazines--" "Yes, yes," my grandfather interrupted; "I have seen it. But I will publish him in Annapolis." My uncle's answer startled me, so like was it to the argument Colonel Washington himself had used. "What would you publish, sir? Mr. Allen will reply that what he did was for the lad's good, and your own. He may swear that since Richard mentioned politics no more he had taken his conversion for granted." My grandfather groaned, and did not speak, and I saw the futility of attempting to bring Grafton to earth for a while yet. My uncle had recovered his confidence. He had hoped, so he said, that I had become a good loyalist: perchance as I grew older I would see the folly of those who called themselves Patriots. But my grandfather cried out to him not to bother me then. And when at last he was gone, of my own volition I proposed to promise Mr. Carvel that, while he lived, I would take no active part in any troubles that might come. He stopped me with some vehemence. "I pray God there may be no troubles, lad," he answered; "but you need give me no promise. I would rather see you in the Whig ranks than a trimmer, for the Carvels have ever been partisans." I tried to express my gratitude. But he sighed and wished me good night, bidding me get some rest. I had scarce finished my breakfast the next morning when I heard a loud rat-tat-tat upon the street door-surely the footman of some person of consequence. And Scipio was in the act of announcing the names when, greatly to his disgust, the visitors themselves rushed into my bedroom and curtailed the ceremony. They were none other than Dr. Courtenay and my Lord Comyn himself. His Lordship had no sooner seen me than he ran to the bed, grasped both my hands and asked me how I did, declaring he would not have gone to yesterday's hunt had he been permitted to visit me. "Richard," cried the doctor, "your fame has sprung up like Jonah's gourd. The Gazette is but just distributed. Here's for you! 'Twill set the wags a-going, I'll warrant." He drew the newspaper from his pocket and began to read, stopping now and anon to laugh: "Rumour hath it that a Young Gentleman of Quality of this Town, who is possessed of more Valour than Discretion, and whose Skill at Fence and in the Field is beyond his Years, crossed Swords on Wednesday Night with a Young Nobleman from the Thunderer. The Cause of this Deplorable Quarrel, which had its Origin at the Ball, is purported to have been a Young Lady of Wit and Beauty. (& we doubt it not; for, alas! the Sex hath Much to answer for of this Kind.) "The Gentlemen, with their Seconds, repaired after the Assembly to the Coffee House. 'Tis said upon Authority that H-s L-dsh-p owes his Life to the Noble Spirit of our Young American, who cast down his Blade rather than sheathe it in his Adversary's Body, thereby himself receiving a Grievous, the' happily not Mortal, Wound. Our Young Gentleman is become the Hero of the Town, and the Subject of Prodigious Anxiety of all the Ladies thereof." "There's for you, my lad!" says he; "Mr. Green has done for you both cleverly." "Upon my soul," I cried, raising up in bed, "he should be put in the gatehouse for his impudence! My Lord,--" "Don't 'My Lord' me," says Comyn; "plain 'Jack' will do." There was no resisting such a man: and I said as much. And took his hand and called him 'Jack,' the doctor posing before the mirror the while, stroking his rues. "Out upon you both," says he, "for a brace of sentimental fools!" "Richard," said Comyn, presently, with a roguish glance at the doctor, "there were some reason in our fighting had it been over a favour of Miss Manners. Eh? Come, doctor," he cried, "you will break your neck looking for the reflection of wrinkles. Come, now, we must have little Finery's letter. I give you my word Chartersea is as ugly as all three heads of Cerberus, and as foul as a ship's barrel of grease. I tell you Miss Dorothy would sooner marry you." "And she might do worse, my Lord," the doctor flung back, with a strut. "Ay, and better. But I promise you Richard and I are not such fools as to think she will marry his Grace. We must have the little coxcomb's letter." "Well, have it you must, I suppose," returns the doctor. And with that he draws it from his pocket, where he has it buttoned in. Then he took a pinch of Holland and began. The first two pages had to deal with Miss Dorothy's triumph, to which her father made full justice. Mr. Manners world have the doctor (and all the province) to know that peers of the realm, soldiers, and statesmen were at her feet. Orders were as plentiful in his drawing-room as the candles. And he had taken a house in Arlington Street, where Horry Walpole lived when not at Strawberry, and their entrance was crowded night and day with the footmen and chairmen of the grand monde. Lord Comyn broke in more than once upon the reading, crying,--"Hear, hear!" and,--"My word, Mr. Manners has not perjured himself thus far. He has not done her justice by half." And I smiled at the thought that I had aspired to such a beauty! "'Entre noes, mon cher Courtenay,' Mr. Manners writes, 'entre noes, our Dorothy hath had many offers of great advantage since she hath been here. And but yesterday comes a chariot with a ducal coronet to our door. His Grace of Chartersea, if you please, to request a private talk with me. And I rode with him straightway to his house in Hanover Square.'" "'Egad! And would gladly have ridden straightway to Newgate, in a ducal chariot!" cried his Lordship, in a fit of laughter. "'I rode to Hanover Square,' the doctor continued, 'where we discussed the matter over a bottle. His Grace's generosity was such that I could not but cry out at it, for he left me to name any settlement I pleased. He must have Dorothy at any price, said he. And I give you my honour, mon cher Courtenay, that I lost no time in getting back to Arlington Street, and called Dorothy down to tell her.'" "Now may I be flayed," said Comyn, "if ever there was such another ass!" The doctor took more snuff and fell a-laughing. "But hark to this," said he, "here's the cream of it all: "You will scarce believe me when I say that the baggage was near beside herself with anger at what I had to tell her. 'Marry that misshapen duke!' cries she, 'I would quicker marry Doctor Johnson!' And truly, I begin to fear she hath formed an affection for some like, foul-linened beggar. That his Grace is misshapen I cannot deny; but I tried reason upon her. 'Think of the coronet, my dear, and of the ancient name to which it belongs.' She only stamps her foot and cries out: "'Coronet fiddlesticks! And are you not content with the name you bear, sir?" 'Our name is good as any in the three kingdoms,' said I, with truth. 'Then you would have me, for the sake of the coronet, joined to a wretch who is steeped in debauchery. Yes, debauchery, sir! You might then talk, forsooth, to the macaronies of Maryland, of your daughter the Duchess.'" "There's spirit for you, my lad!" Comyn shouted; "I give you Miss Dorothy." And he drained a glass of punch Scipio had brought in, Doctor Courtenay and I joining him with a will. "I pray you go on, sir," I said to the doctor. "A pest on your impatience!" replied he; "I begin to think you are in love with her yourself." "To be sure he is," said Comyn; "he had lost my esteem and he were not." The doctor gave me an odd look. I was red enough, indeed. "'I could say naught, my dear Courtenay, to induce her to believe that his Grace's indiscretions arose from the wildness of youth. And I pass over the injustice she hath unwittingly done me, whose only efforts are for her bettering. The end of it all was that I must needs post back to the duke, who was stamping with impatience up and down, and drinking Burgundy. I am sure I meant him no offence, but told him in as many words, that my daughter had refused him. And, will you believe me, sir? He took occasion to insult me (I cannot with propriety repeat his speech), and he flung a bottle after me as I passed out the door. Was he not far gone in wine at the time, I assure you I had called him out for it.'" "And, gentlemen," said the doctor, when our merriment was somewhat spent, "I'll lay a pipe of the best Madeira, that our little fool never knows the figure he has cut with his Grace." CHAPTER XVI IN WHICH SOME THINGS ARE MADE CLEAR The Thunderer weighed the next day, Saturday, while I was still upon my back, and Comyn sailed with her. Not, however, before I had seen him again. Our affection was such as comes not often to those who drift together to part. And he left me that sword with the jewelled hilt, that hangs above my study fire, which he had bought in Toledo. He told me that he was heartily sick of the navy; that he had entered only in respect for a wish of his father's, the late Admiral Lord Comyn, and that the Thunderer was to sail for New York, where he looked for a release from his commission, and whence he would return to England. He would carry any messages to Miss Manners that I chose to send. But I could think of none, save to beg him to remind her that she was constantly in my thoughts. He promised me, roguishly enough, that he would have thought of a better than that by the time he sighted Cape Clear. And were I ever to come to London he would put me up at Brooks's Club, and warrant me a better time and more friends than ever had a Caribbee who came home on a visit. My grandfather kept his word in regard to Mr. Allen, and on Sunday commanded the coach at eight. We drove over bad roads to the church at South River. And he afterwards declined the voluntary aid he hitherto had been used to give to St. Anne's. In the meantime, good Mr. Swain had called again, bringing some jelly and cake of Patty's own making; and a letter writ out of the sincerity of her heart, full of tender concern and of penitence. She would never cease to blame herself for the wrong she now knew she had done me. Though still somewhat weak from my wound and confinement, after dinner that Sunday I repaired to Gloucester Street. From the window she saw me coming, and, bare-headed, ran out in the cold to meet me. Her eyes rested first on the linen around my throat, and she seemed all in a fire of anxiety. "I had thought you would come to-day, when I heard you had been to South River," she said. I was struck all of a sudden with her looks. Her face was pale, and I saw that she had suffered as much again as I. Troubled, I followed her into the little library. The day was fading fast, and the leaping flames behind the andirons threw fantastic shadows across the beams of the ceiling. We sat together in the deep window. "And you have forgiven me, Richard?" she asked. "An hundred times," I replied. "I deserved all I got, and more." "If I had not wronged and insulted you--" "You did neither, Patty," I broke in; "I have played a double part for the first and last time in my life, and I have been justly punished for it." "'Twas I sent you to the Coffee House," she cried, "where you might have been killed. How I despise myself for listening to Mr. Allen's tales!" "Then it was Mr. Allen!" I exclaimed, fetching a long breath. "Yes, yes; I will tell you all." "No," said I, alarmed at her agitation; "another time." "I must," she answered more calmly; "it has burned me enough. You recall that we were at supper together, with Betty Tayloe and Lord Comyn, and how merry we were, altho' 'twas nothing but 'Dorothy' with you gentlemen. Then you left me. Afterwards, as I was talking with Mr. Singleton, the rector came up. I never have liked the man, Richard, but I little knew his character. He began by twitting me for a Whig, and presently he said: 'But we have gained one convert, Miss Swain, who sees the error of his ways. Scarce a year since young Richard Carvel promised to be one of those with whom his Majesty will have to reckon. And he is now become,' --laughing,--'the King's most loyal and devoted.' I was beside myself. 'That is no subject for jest, Mr. Allen,' I cried; I will never believe it of him!' 'Jest!' said he; I give you my word I was never soberer in my life.' Then it all came to me of a sudden that you sat no longer by the hour with my father, as you used, and you denounced the King's measures and ministers no more. My father had spoken of it. 'Tell me why he has changed?' I asked, faltering with doubt of you, which I never before had felt. 'Indeed, I know not,' replied the rector, with his most cynical smile; unless it is because old Mr. Carvel might disinherit a Whig. But I see you doubt my word, Miss Swain. Here is Mr. Carroll, and you may ask him.' God forgive me, Richard! I stopped Mr. Carroll, who seemed mightily surprised. And he told me yes, that your grandfather had said but a few days before, and with joy, that you were now of his Majesty's party." "Alas! I might have foreseen this consequence," I exclaimed. "Nor do I blame you, Patty." "But my father has explained all," Patty continued, brightening. "His admiration for you is increased tenfold, Richard. Your grandfather told him of the rector's treachery, which he says is sufficient to make him turn Methodist or Lutheran. We went to the curate's service to-day. And --will you hear more, sir? Or do your ears burn? That patriots and loyalists are singing your praises from Town Gate to the dock, and regretting that you did not kill that detestable Captain Collinson--but I have something else, and of more importance, to tell you, Richard," she continued, lowering her voice. "What Mr. Carroll had told me stunned me like a blow, such had been my faith in you. And when Mr. Allen moved off, I stood talking to Percy Singleton and his Lordship without understanding a word of the conversation. I could scarce have been in my right mind. It was not your going over to the other side that pained me so, for all your people are Tories. But I had rather seen you dead than a pretender and a hypocrite, selling yourself for an inheritance. Then you came. My natural impulse should have been to draw you aside and there accuse you. But this was beyond my strength. And when I saw you go away without a word I knew that I had been unjust. I could have wept before them all. Mr. Carroll went for his coach, and was a full half an hour in getting it. But this is what I would tell you in particular, Richard. I have not spoken of it to a soul, and it troubles me above all else: While Maria was getting my cardinal I heard voices on the other side of the dressing-room door. The supper-room is next, you know. I listened, and recognized the rector's deep tones: 'He has gone to the Coffee House,' he was saying; Collinson declares that his Lordship is our man, if we can but contrive it. He is the best foil in the service, and was taught by--there! I have forgot the name." "Angelo!" I cried. "Yes, yes, Angelo it was. How did you know?" she demanded, rising in her excitement. "Angelo is the great fencing-master of London," I replied. "When I heard that," she said, "I had no doubt of your innocence. I ran out into the assembly room as I was, in my hood, and tried to find Tom. But he--" She paused, ashamed. "Yes, I know," I said hurriedly; "you could not find him." She glanced at me in gratitude. "How everybody stared at me! But little I cared! 'Twas that gave rise to Mr. Green's report. I thought of Percy Singleton, and stopped him in the midst of a dance to bid him run as fast as his legs would carry him to the Coffee House, and to see that no harm befell you. 'I shall hold you responsible for Richard,' I whispered. 'You must get him away from Mr. Claude's, or I shall never speak to you again.' He did not wait to ask questions, but went at once, like the good fellow he is. Then I rode home with Maria. I would not have Mr. Carroll come with me, though he begged hard. Father was in here, writing his brief. But I was all in pieces, Richard, and so shaken with sobbing that I could tell him no more than that you had gone to the Coffee House, where they meant to draw you into a duel. He took me up to my own room, and I heard him going out to wake Limbo to harness, and at last heard him driving away in our coach. I hope I may never in my life spend such another hour as I passed then." The light in the sky had gone out. I looked up at the girl before me as she stood gazing into the flame, her features in strong relief, her lips parted, her hair red-gold, and the rounded outlines of her figure softened. I wondered why I had never before known her beauty. Perchance it was because, until that night, I had never seen her heart. I leaped to my feet and seized her hands. For a second she looked at me, startled. Then she tore them away and ran behind the dipping chair in the corner. "Richard, Richard!" she exclaimed. "Did Dorothy but know!" "Dorothy is occupied with titles," I said. Patty's lip quivered. And I knew, blundering fool that I was, that I had hurt her. "Oh, you wrong her!" she cried; "believe me when I say that she loves you, and you only, Richard." "Loves me!" I retorted bitterly,--brutally, I fear. "No. She may have once, long ago. But now her head is turned." "She loves you now," answered Patty, earnestly; "and I think ever will, if you but deserve her." And with that she went away, leaving me to stare after her in perplexity and consternation. CHAPTER XVII SOUTH RIVER My grandfather's defection from St. Anne's called forth a deal of comment in Annapolis. His Excellency came to remonstrate, but to no avail, and Mr. Carvel denounced the rector in such terms that the Governor was glad to turn the subject. My Uncle Grafton acted with such quickness and force as would have served to lull the sharpest suspicions. He forbid the rector his house, attended the curate's service, and took Philip from his care. It was decided that both my cousin and I were to go to King's College after Christmas. Grafton's conduct greatly pleased my grandfather. "He has behaved very loyally in this matter, Richard." he said to me. "I grow to reproach myself more every day for the injustice I once did him. He is heaping coals of fire upon my old head. But, faith! I cannot stomach your Aunt Caroline. You do not seem to like your uncle, lad." I answered that I did not. "It was ever the Carvel way not to forget," he went on. "Nevertheless, Grafton hath your welfare at heart, I think. His affection for you as his brother's son is great." O that I had spoken the words that burned my tongue! Christmas fell upon Monday of that year, 1769. There was to be a ball at Upper Marlboro on the Friday before, to which many of us were invited. Though the morning came in with a blinding snowstorm from the north, the first of that winter, about ten of the clock we set out from Annapolis an exceeding merry party, the ladies in four coaches-and-six, the gentlemen and their servants riding at the wheels. We laughed and joked despite the storm, and exchanged signals with the fair ones behind the glasses. But we had scarce got two miles beyond the town gate when a messenger overtook us with a note for Mr. Carvel, writ upon an odd slip of paper, and with great apparent hurry: HONOURED SIR, "I have but just come to Annapolis from New York, with Instructions to put into your Hands, & no Others, a Message of the greatest Import. Hearing you are but now set out for Upper Marlboro I beg of you to return for half an Hour to the Coffee House. By so doing you will be of service to a Friend, and confer a Favour upon y'r most ob'd't Humble Servant, "SILAS RIDGEWAY." Our cavalcade had halted while I read, the ladies letting down the glasses and leaning out in their concern lest some trouble had befallen me or my grandfather. I answered them and bade them ride on, vowing that I would overtake the coaches before they reached the Patuxent. Then I turned Cynthia's head for town, with Hugo at my heels. Patty, leaning from the window of the last coach, called out to me as I passed. I waved my hand in return, and did not remember until long after the anxiety in her eyes. As I rode, and I rode hard, I pondered over the words of this letter. I knew not this Mr. Ridgeway from the Lord Mayor of London; but I came to the conclusion before I had reprised the gate that his message was from Captain Daniel. And I greatly feared that some evil had befallen my good friend. So I came to the Coffee House, and throwing my bridle to Hugo, I ran in. I found Mr. Ridgeway neither in the long room nor in the billiard room nor the bar. Mr. Claude told me that indeed a man had arrived that morning from the North, a spare person with a hooked nose and scant hair, in a brown greatcoat with a torn cape. He had gone forth afoot half an hour since. His messenger, a negro lad whose face I knew, was in the stables with Hugo. He had never seen the stranger till he met him that morning in State House Circle inquiring for Mr. Carvel, and had been given a shilling to gallop after me. Impatient as I was to be gone, I sat me down in the coffee room, thinking every minute the man must return, and strongly apprehensive that Captain Daniel must be in some grave predicament. That the favour he asked was of such a nature as I, and not my grandfather, could best fulfil. At length, about a quarter after noon, my man comes in with Mr. Claude close behind him. I liked his looks less than his description, and the moment I clapped eyes on him I knew that Captain Daniel had never chose such a messenger. "This is Mr. Richard Carvel," said Mr. Claude. The fellow made me a low bow, which I scarcely returned. "I am sure, 'sir," he began in a whining voice, "that I crave your forbearance for this prodigious, stupid mistake I have made." "Mistake!" I exclaimed hotly; "you mean to say, sir, that you have brought me back for nothing?" The man's eye shifted, and he made me another bow. "I scarce know what to say, Mr. Carvel," he answered with much humility; "to speak truth, 'twas zeal to my employers, and methought to you, that caused you to retrace your steps in this pestiferous storm. I travel," he proceeded with some importance, "I travel for Messrs. Rinnell and Runn, Barristers of the town of New York, and carry letters to men of mark all over these middle and southern colonies. And my instructions, sir, were to come to Annapolis with all reasonable speed with this double-sealed enclosure for Mr. Carvel: and to deliver it to him, and him only, the very moment I arrived. As I came through your town I made inquiries, and was told by a black fellow in the Circle that Mr. Carvel was but just left for Upper Marlboro with a cavalcade of four coaches-and-six and some dozen gentlemen with their servants. I am sure my mistake was pardonable, Mr. Carvel," he concluded with a smirk; "this gentleman was plainly of the first quality, as was he to whom I was directed. And as he was about to leave town for I knew not how long, I hope I was in the right in bidding the black ride after him, for I give you my word the business was most pressing for him. I crave your forgiveness, and the pleasure of drinking your honour's health." I barely heard the fellow through, and was turning on my heel in disgust, when it struck me to ask him what Mr. Carvel he sought, for I feared lest my grandfather had got into some lawsuit. "And it please your honour, Mr. Grafton Carvel," said he; "your uncle, I understand. Unfortunately he has gone to his estate in Kent County, whither I must now follow him." I bade Mr. Claude summon my servant, not stopping to question the man further, such was my resentment against him. And in ten minutes we were out of the town again, galloping between the nearly filled tracks of the coaches, now three hours ahead of us. The storm was increasing, and the wind cutting, but I dug into Cynthia so that poor Hugo was put to it to hold the pace, and, tho' he had a pint of rum in him, was near perished with the cold. As my anger cooled somewhat I began to wonder how Mr. Silas Ridgeway, whoever he was, could have been such a simpleton as his story made him out. Indeed, he looked more the rogue than the ass; nor could I conceive how reliable barristers could hire such a one. I wished heartily that I had exhausted him further, and a suspicion crossed my brain that he might have come to Mr. Allen, who had persuaded him to deliver a letter to Grafton intended for me. Some foreboding beset me, and I was once close to a full mind for going back, and slacked Cynthia's pace to a trot. But the thought of the pleasures at Upper Marlboro' and the hope of overtaking the party at Mr. Dorsey's place, over the Patuxent, where they looked to dine, decided me in pushing on. And thus we came to South River, with the snow so thick that we could scarce see ten yards in front of us. Beyond, the road winds up the hill'around the end of Mr. Wiley's plantation and plunges shortly into the woods, gray and cold indeed to-day. At their skirt a trail branches off which leads to Mr. Whey's warehouses, on the water's edge a mile or so below. And I marked that this path was freshly trodden. I recall a small shock of surprise at this, for the way was used only in the early autumn to connect with some fields beyond the hill. And then I heard a sharp cry from Hugo and pulled Cynthia short. He was some ten paces behind me. "Marse Dick!" he shouted, the whites of his eyes rolled up. "We'se gwine to be robbed, Marse Dick." And he pointed to the footprints in the snow; "somefin done tole Hugo not come to-day." "Nonsense!" I cried; "Mr. Wiley is making his lazy beggars cut wood against Christmas." When in this temper the poor fellow had more fear of me than of aught else, and he closed up to my horse's flank, glancing apprehensively to the right and left, his teeth rattling. We went at a brisk trot. We know not, indeed, how to account for many things in this world, for with. each beat of Cynthia's feet I found myself repeating the words South River and Marlboro, and seeking in my mind a connection to something gone before. Then, like a sudden gust of wind, comes to me that strange talk between Grafton and the rector, overheard by old Harvey in the stables at Carvel Hall. And Cynthia's ears were pointing forward. With a quick impulse I loosed the lower frogs of my coat, for my sword was buckled beneath, and was reaching for one of the brace of pistols in my saddle-bags. I had but released them when Hugo cried out: "Gawd, Marse Dick, run for yo' life!" and I caught a glimpse of him flying down the road. As I turned a shot rang out, Cynthia reared high with a rough brute of a fellow clinging to her bridle. I sent my charge full into his chest, and as he tumbled in the snow I dug my spurs to the rowels. What happened then is still a blurred picture in my brain. I know that Cynthia was shot from under me before she had taken her leap, and we fell heavily together. And I was scarcely up again and my sword drawn, when the villains were pressing me from all sides. I remember spitting but one, and then I heard a great seafaring oath, the first word out of their mouths, and I was felled from behind with a mighty blow. THE "BLACK MOLL" CHAPTER XVIII THE "BLACK MOLL" I have no intention, my dears, of dwelling upon that part of my adventures which must be as painful to you as to me, the very recollection of which, after all these years, suffices to cause the blood within me to run cold. In my youth men whose natures shrank not from encounter with their enemies lacked not, I warrant you, a checkered experience. Those of us who are wound the tightest go the farthest and strike the hardest. Nor is it difficult for one, the last of whose life is being recorded, to review the outspread roll of it, and trace the unerring forces which have drawn for themselves. Some, indeed, traverse this world weighing, before they partake, pleasure and business alike. But I am not sure, my children, that they better themselves; or that God, in His all-wise judgment, prefers them to such as are guided by the divine impulse with which He has endowed them. Far be it from me to advise rashness or imprudence, as such; nor do I believe you will take me so. But I say unto you: do that which is right, and let God, not man, be your interpreter. My narrative awaits me. I came to my wits with an immoderate feeling of faintness and sickness, with no more remembrance of things past than has a man bereft of reason. And for some time I swung between sense and oblivion before an overpowering stench forced itself upon my nostrils, accompanied by a creaking, straining sound and sweeping motion. I could see nothing for the pitchy blackness. Then I recalled what had befallen me, and cried aloud to God in my anguish, for I well knew I had been carried aboard ship, and was at sea. I had oftentimes heard of the notorious press-gang which supplied the need of the King's navy, and my first thought was that I had fallen in their clutches. But I wondered that they had dared attack a person of my consequence. I had no pain. I lay in a bunk that felt gritty and greasy to the touch, and my hair was matted behind by a clot of blood. I had been stripped of my clothes, and put into some coarse and rough material, the colour and condition of which I could not see for want of light. I began to cast about me, to examine the size of the bunk, which I found to be narrow, and plainly at some distance from the deck, for I laid hold upon one of the rough beams above me. By its curvature I knew it to be a knee, and thus I came to the caulked sides of the vessel, and for the first time heard the rattling thud and swish of water on the far side of it. I had no sooner made this discovery, which drew from me an involuntary groan, when a ship's lanthorn was of a sudden thrust over me, and I perceived behind it a head covered with shaggy hair and beard, and beetling brows. Never had I been in such a terrifying presence. "Damn my blood and bones, life signals at last! Another three bells gone, my silks and laces, and we had given you to the sharks." The man hung his lanthorn to a hook on the beam, and thrust a case-bottle of rum toward me, at the same time biting off a great quid of tobacco. For all my alarm I saw that his manner was not unkindly, and as I was conscious of a consuming thirst I seized and tipped it eagerly. "'Tis no fine Madeira, my blood," said he, "such as I fancy your palate is acquainted with. Yet 'tis as fair a Jamaica as ever Griggs put ashore i' the dark." "Griggs!" I cried, the whole affair coming to me: Griggs, Upper Marlboro', South River, Grafton and the rector plotting in the stalls, and Mr. Silas Ridgeway the accomplice. "Ay, Griggs," replied he; "ye may well repeat it, the-------, I'll lay a puncheon he'll be hailing you shortly. Guinea Griggs, Gold-Coast Griggs, Smuggler Griggs, Skull-and-Bones Griggs. Damn his soul and eyes, he hath sent to damnation many a ship's company." He drained what remained of the bottle, took down the lanthorn, and left me sufficiently terrified to reflect upon my situation, which I found desperate enough, my dears. I have no words to describe what I went through in that vile, foul-smelling place. My tears flowed fast when I thought of my grandfather and of the dear friends I had left behind, and of Dorothy, whom I never hoped to see again. And then, perchance 'twas the rum put heart into me, I vowed I would face the matter show this cut-throat of a Griggs a bold front. Had he meant to murder me, I reflected, he had done the business long since. Then I fell asleep. I awoke, I know not how soon, to discover the same shaggy countenance, and the lanthorn. "Canst walk, Mechlin?" says he. "I can try, at least," I answered. He seemed pleased at this. "You have courage a-plenty, and, by G--, you will have need of it all with that of a Griggs!" He gave me his bottle again, and assisted me down, and I found that my legs, save for the rocking of the ship, were steady enough. I followed him out of the hole in which I had lain on to a deck, which, in the half light, I saw covered with slush and filth. It was small, and but dimly illuminated by a hatchway, up the which I pushed after him, and then another. And so we came to the light of day, which near blinded me: so that I was fain to clap my hand to mine eyes, and stood for a space looking about me like a man dazed. The wind, tho' blowing stiff, was mild, and league after league of the green sea danced and foamed in the morning sunlight, and I perceived that I was on a large schooner under full sail, the crew of which were littered about at different occupations. Some gaming and some drinking, while on the forecastle two men were settling a dispute at fisticuffs. And they gave me no more notice, nor as much, than I had been a baboon thrust among them. From this indifference to a captive I augured no good. Then my conductor, whom I rightly judged to be the mate of this devil's crew, took me roughly by the shoulder and bade me accompany him to the cabin. As we drew near the topgallant poop there sounded in my ears a noise like a tempest, which I soon became aware was a man swearing with a prodigious vehemence in a fog-horn of a voice. "Sdeath and wounds! Where is that dog-fish of a Cockle? Damn his entrails, and he is not come soon, I'll mast-head him naked, by the seven holy spritsails!" And much more and worse to the same tune until we passed the door and stood before him, when he let out an oath like the death-cry of a monster. He was a short, lean man with a leathery face and long, black ropy hair, and beady black eyes that caught the light like a cat's. His looks, indeed, would have scared a timid person into a fit; but I resolved I would die rather than show the fear with which he inspired me. He was dressed in an old navy uniform with dirty lace. His cabin was bare enough, being scattered about with pistols and muskets and cutlasses, with a ragged pallet in one corner, and he sat behind an oaken table covered with greasy charts and spilled liquor and tobacco. "So ho, you are risen from the dead, are you, my fine buck? Mr. What-do-they-call-you?" cried the captain, with a word as foul as any he had yet uttered. "By the Lord, you shall pay for running my bosun through!" "And by the Lord, Captain What's-your-name," I cried back, for the rum I had taken had heated me, "you and your fellow-rascals shall pay in blood for this villanous injury!" Griggs got to his feet and seized his hanger, his face like livid marble seamed with blue. And from force of habit I made motion for my sword, to make the shameful discovery that I was clothed from head to foot in linsey-woolsey. "G-d---my soul," he roared, "if I don't slit you like a herring! The devil burn me to a cinder if I don't give your guts to the sharks!" And he made at me in such a fury that I would certainly have been cut to pieces had I not grasped a cutlass and parried his blow, Cockle looking on with his jaw dropped like a peak without haulyards. With a stroke of my weapon I disarmed Captain Griggs, his sword flying through the cabin window. For I made up my mind I would better die fighting than expire at a hideous torture, which I doubted not he would inflict, and so I took up a posture of defence, with one eye on the mate; despite the kind offices of the latter below I knew not whether he were disposed to befriend me before the captain. What was my astonishment, therefore, to behold Griggs's truculent manner change. "Avast, my man-o-war," he cried; "blood and wounds! I had more than an eye when they brought thee aboard, else I would have killed thee like a sucking-pig under the forecastle, as I have given oath to do. By the Ghost, you are worth seven of that Roger Spratt whom you sent to hell in his boots." Wherewith Cockle, who for all his terrible appearance stood in a mighty awe of his captain, set up a loud laugh, and vowed that Griggs knew a man when he spared me, and was cursed for his pains. "So you were contracted to murder me, Captain Griggs?" said I. "Ay," he replied, a devilish gleam coming into his eye, "but I have now got you and the money to boot. But harkye, I'll stand by my half of the bargain, by G--. If ever you reach Maryland alive, they may hang me to the yardarm of a ship-of-the-line." And I live long enough, my dears, I hope some day to write for you the account of all that befell me on this slaver, Black Moll, for so she was called. 'Twould but delay my story now. Suffice it to say that we sailed for a fortnight or so in the West India seas. From some observations that fell from the mouth of Griggs I gathered that he was searching for an island which evaded him; and each day added to his vexation at not finding it. At times he was drunk for forty hours at a stretch, when he would shut himself in his cabin and leave his ship to the care of Cockle, who navigated with the sober portion of the crew. And such a lousy, brawling lot of convicts I had never clapped eyes upon. As for me, I was treated indifferently well, though 'twas in truth punishment enough to live in that filthy ship, to eat their shins of beef and briny pork and wormy biscuit, to wear rough clothes that chafed my skin. I shared Cockle's cabin, in every way as dirty a place as the den I had left, but with the advantage of air, for which I fervently thanked God. I think the mate had some little friendship for me, though he was too hardened by the life he had led to care a deal what became of me. He encouraged me secretly to continue to beard Griggs as I had begun, saying that it was my sole chance of a whole skin, and vowing that if he had had the courage to pursue the same course his own back had not been checkered like a grating. He told me stories of the captain's cruelty which I dare not repeat for their very horror, and indeed I lacked not for instances to substantiate what he said; men with their backs beaten to a pulp, and others with ears cut off, and mouths slit, and toes missing. So that I lived in hourly fear lest in some drunken fit Griggs might command me to be tortured. But, fortunately, he held small converse with me, and when sober busied himself in trying to find the island and in cursing the fate by which it eluded him. So I existed, and prayed daily for deliverance. I plied Cockle with questions as to what they purposed doing with me, but he was wont to turn sulky, and would answer me not a word. But once, when he was deeper in his cups than common, he let me know that Griggs was to sell me to a certain planter. You may well believe that this did not serve to liven my spirits. At length, one morning, Captain Griggs came out of his cabin and climbed upon the poop, calling all hands aft to the quarterdeck. Whereupon he proceeded to make them a speech that for vileness exceeded aught I have ever heard before or since. He finished by reminding them that this was the anniversary of the scuttling of the sloop Jane, which had made them all rich a year before, off the Canaries; the day that he had sent three and twenty men over the plank to hell. Wherefore he decreed a holiday, as the weather was bright and the trades light, and would serve quadruple portions of rum to every man jack aboard; and they set up a cheer that started the Mother Careys astern. I have no language to depict the bestiality of that day; and if I had I would think it sin to write of it. The helm was lashed on the port tack, the haulyards set taut, and all hands down to the lad who was the cook's scullion proceeded to get drunk. I took the precaution to have a hanger at my side and to slip one of Cockle's pistols within the band of my breeches. I was in an exquisite' agony of indecision as to what manner to act and how to defend myself from their drunken brutality, for I well knew that if I refused to imbibe with them I should probably be murdered for my abstemiousness; and, if I drank, the stuff was so near to alcohol that I could not hope to keep my senses. While in this predicament I received a polite invitation to partake in the captain's company, which I did not see my way clear to refuse, and repaired to the cabin accordingly. There I found Griggs and Cockle seated, and a fair-sized barrel of rum between them that the captain had just moved thither. By way of welcome he shot at me a volley of curses and bade me to fill up, and through fear of offending him I took down my first mug with a fair good grace. Then, in his own particular language, he began the account of the capture of the Jane, taking care in the pauses to see that my mug was full. But, as luck would have it, he got no farther than the boarding by the Black Moll's crew, when he fell to squabbling with Cockle as to who had been the first man over the side; and while they were settling this difference I grasped the opportunity to escape. The maudlin scene that met my eyes on deck defies description; some were fighting, others grinning with a hideous laughter, and still others shouting tavern jokes unspeakable. And suddenly, whilst I was observing these things from a niche behind the cabin door, I heard the captain cry from within, "The ensign, the ensign!" Forgetting his dispute with Cockle, he bumped past me and made his way with some trouble to the poop. I climbed the ladder after him, and to my horror beheld him in a drunken frenzy drag a black flag with a rudely painted skull and cross-bones from the signal-chest, and with uncertain fingers toggle it to the ensign haulyards and hoist to the peak, where it fluttered grimly in the light wind like an evil augur on a fair day. At sight of it the wretches on deck fell to shouting and huzzaing, Griggs standing leering up at it. Then he gravely pulled off his hat and made it a bow, and turned upon me. "Salute it, ye lubberly! Ye are no first-rate here," he thundered. "Salute the flag!" Unless fear had kept me sober, 'tis past my understanding why I was not as drunk as he. Be that as it may, I was near as quarrelsome, and would as soon have worshipped the golden calf as saluted that rag. I flung back some reply, and he lugged out and came at me with a spring like a wild beast; and his men below, seeing us fall out, made a rush for the poop with knives and cutlasses drawn. Betwixt them all I should soon have been in slivers had not the main shrouds offered themselves handy. And up them I sprung, the captain cutting at my legs as I left the sheer-pole, and I stopped not until I reached the schooner's cross-trees, where I drew my cutlass. They pranced around the mast and showered me with oaths, for all the world like a lot of howling dogs which had treed a cat. I began to feel somewhat easier, and cried aloud that the first of them who came up after me would go down again in two pieces. Despite my warning a brace essayed to climb the ratlines, as pitiable an attempt as ever I witnessed, and fell to the deck again. 'Twas a miracle that they missed falling into the sea. And after a while, becoming convinced that they could not get at me, and being too far gone to shoot with any accuracy, they tumbled off the poop swearing to serve me in a hundred horrible ways when they caught me, and fell again to drinking and quarrelling amongst themselves. I was indeed in an unenviable plight, by no means sure that I would not be slain out of hand when they became sufficiently sober to capture me. As I marked the progress of their damnable orgy I cast about for some plan to take advantage of their condition. I observed that a stupor was already beginning to overcome a few of them. Then suddenly an incident happened to drive all else from my mind. Nothing less, my dears, than a white speck of sail gleaming on the southern horizon! For an hour I watched it, now in a shiver of apprehension lest it pass us by, now weeping in an ecstasy of joy over a possible deliverance. But it grew steadily larger, and when about three miles on our port bow I saw that the ship was a brigantine. Though she had long been in sight from our deck, 'twas not until now that she was made out by a man on the forecastle, who set up a cry that brought about him all who could reel thither, Griggs staggering out of his cabin and to the nettings. The sight sobered him somewhat, for he immediately shouted orders to cast loose the guns, himself tearing the breeching from the nine-pounder next him and taking out the tompion. About half the crew were in a liquorish stupor from which the trump itself could scarce have aroused them; the rest responded with savage oaths, swore that they would boil their suppers in the blood of the brigantine's men and give their corpses to the sea. They fell to work on the port battery in so ludicrous a manner that I was fain to laugh despite the gravity of the situation. But when they came to rig the powderhoist and a couple of them descended into the magazine with pipes lighted, I was in imminent expectation of being blown as high as a kite. So absorbed had I been in these preparations that I neglected to watch the brigantine, which I discovered to be standing on and off in a very undecided manner, as though hesitating to attack. My spirits fell again at this, for with all my inexperience I knew her to be a better sailer than the Black Moll. Her master, as Griggs remarked, "was no d--d slouching lubber, and knew a yardarm from a rattan cane." Finally, about six bells of the watch, the stranger wore ship and bore down across our bows, hoisting English colours, at sight of which I could scarce forbear a cheer. At this instant, Captain Griggs woke to the fact that his helm was still lashed, and bestowing a hearty kick on his prostrate quartermaster stuck fast to the pitchy seams of the deck, took the wheel himself, and easing off before the wind to bring the vessels broadside to broadside, commanded that the guns be shooed to the muzzle, an order that was barely executed before the brigantine came within close range. Aboard her was all order and readiness; the men at her guns fuse in hand, an erect and pompous figure of a man, in a cocked hat, on the break of her poop. He raised his hand, two puffs of white smoke darted out, and I heard first the shrieking of shot, the broadside came crashing round us, one tearing through the mainsail below me, another mangling two men in the waist of our schooner, and Griggs gave the order to touch off. But two of his guns answered, one of which had been so gorged with shot that it burst in a hundred pieces and sent the fellow with the swab to perdition, and such a hell of blood and confusion as resulted is indescribable. I saw Griggs in a wild fit of rage force the helm down, the schooner flying into the wind. And by this time, the brigantine having got round and presented her port battery, raked us at a bare hundred yards, and I was the first to guess by the tilting forward of the mast that our hull was hit between wind and water, and was fast settling by the bow. The schooner was sinking like a gallipot. That day, with the sea flashing blue and white in the sun, I saw men go to death with a curse upon their lips and a fever in their eyes, with murder and defiance of God's holy will in their hearts. Overtaken in bestiality, like the judgment of Nineveh, five and twenty disappeared from beneath me, and I had scarce the time to throw off my cutlass before I, too, was engulfed. So expired the Black Moll. 
5366	----	RICHARD CARVEL By Winston Churchill Volume 2. VIII. Over the Wall IX. Under False Colours X. The Red in the Carvel Blood XI. A Festival and a Parting XII. News from a Far Country CHAPTER VIII OVER THE WALL Dorothy treated me ill enough that spring. Since the minx had tasted power at Carvel Hall, there was no accounting for her. On returning to town Dr. Courtenay had begged her mother to allow her at the assemblies, a request which Mrs. Manners most sensibly refused. Mr. Marmaduke had given his consent, I believe, for he was more impatient than Dolly for the days when she would become the toast of the province. But the doctor contrived to see her in spite of difficulties, and Will Fotheringay was forever at her house, and half a dozen other lads. And many gentlemen of fashion like the doctor called ostensibly to visit Mrs. Manners, but in reality to see Miss Dorothy. And my lady knew it. She would be lingering in the drawing-room in her best bib and tucker, or strolling in the garden as Dr. Courtenay passed, and I got but scant attention indeed. I was but an awkward lad, and an old playmate, with no novelty about me. "Why, Richard," she would say to me as I rode or walked beside her, or sat at dinner in Prince George Street, "I know every twist and turn of your nature. There is nothing you could do to surprise me. And so, sir, you are very tiresome." "You once found me useful enough to fetch and carry, and amusing when I walked the Oriole's bowsprit," I replied ruefully. "Why don't you make me jealous?" says she, stamping her foot. "A score of pretty girls are languishing for a glimpse of you,--Jennie and Bess Fotheringay, and Betty Tayloe, and Heaven knows how many others. They are actually accusing me of keeping you trailing. 'La, girls!' said I, 'if you will but rid me of him for a day, you shall have my lasting gratitude.'" And she turned to the spinet and began a lively air. But the taunt struck deeper than she had any notion of. That spring arrived out from London on the Belle of the Wye a box of fine clothes my grandfather had commanded for me from his own tailor; and a word from a maid of fifteen did more to make me wear them than any amount of coaxing from Mr. Allen and my Uncle Grafton. My uncle seemed in particular anxious that I should make a good appearance, and reminded me that I should dress as became the heir of the Carvel house. I took counsel with Patty Swain, and then went to see Betty Tayloe, and the Fotheringay girls, and the Dulany girls, near the Governor's. And (fie upon me!) I was not ill-pleased with the brave appearance I made. I would show my mistress how little I cared. But the worst of it was, the baggage seemed to trouble less than I, and had the effrontery to tell me how happy she was I had come out of my shell, and broken loose from her apron-strings. "Indeed, they would soon begin to think I meant to marry you, Richard," says she at supper one Sunday before a tableful, and laughed with the rest. "They do not credit you with such good sense, my dear," says her mother, smiling kindly at me. And Dolly bit her lip, and did not join in that part of the merriment. I fled to Patty Swain for counsel, nor was it the first time in my life I had done so. Some good women seem to have been put into this selfish world to comfort and advise. After Prince George Street with its gilt and marbles and stately hedged gardens, the low-beamed, vine-covered house in the Duke of Gloucester Street was a home and a rest. In my eyes there was not its equal in Annapolis for beauty within and without. Mr. Swain had bought the dwelling from an aged man with a history, dead some nine years back. Its furniture, for the most part, was of the Restoration, of simple and massive oak blackened by age, which I ever fancied better than the Frenchy baubles of tables and chairs with spindle legs, and cabinets of glass and gold lacquer which were then making their way into the fine mansions of our town. The house was full of twists and turns, and steps up and down, and nooks and passages and queer hiding-places which we children knew, and in parts queer leaded windows of bulging glass set high in the wall, and older than the reign of Hanover. Here was the shrine of cleanliness, whose high-priestess was Patty herself. Her floors were like satin-wood, and her brasses lights in themselves. She had come honestly enough by her gifts, her father having married the daughter of an able townsman of Salem, in the Massachusetts colony, when he had gone north after his first great success in court. Now the poor lady sat in a padded armchair from morning to night, beside the hearth in winter, and under the trees in summer, by reason of a fall she had had. There she knitted all the day long. Her placid face and quiet way come before me as I write. My friendship with Patty had begun early. One autumn day when I was a little lad of eight or nine, my grandfather and I were driving back from Whitehall in the big coach, when we spied a little maid of six by the Severn's bank, with her apron full of chestnuts. She was trudging bravely through the dead leaves toward the town. Mr. Carvel pulled the cord to stop, and asked her name. "Patty Swain, and it please your honour," the child answered, without fear. "So you are the young barrister's daughter?" says he, smiling at something I did not understand. She nodded. "And how is it you are so far from home, and alone, my little one?" asked Mr. Carvel again. For some time he could get nothing out of her; but at length she explained, with much coaxing, that her big brother Tom had deserted her. My grandfather wished that Tom were his brother, that he might be punished as he deserved. He commanded young Harvey to lift the child into the coach, chestnuts and all, and there she sat primly between us. She was not as pretty as Dorothy, so I thought, but her clear gray eyes and simple ways impressed me by their very honesty, as they did Mr. Carvel. What must he do but drive her home to Green Street, where Mr. Swain then lived in a little cottage. Mr. Carvel himself lifted her out and kissed her, and handed her to her mother at the gate, who was vastly overcome by the circumstance. The good lady had not then received that fall which made her a cripple for life. "And will you not have my chestnuts, sir, for your kindness?" says little Patty. Whereat my grandfather laughed and kissed her again, for he loved children, and wished to know if she would not be his daughter, and come to live in Marlboro' Street; and told the story of Tom, for fear she would not. He was silent as we drove away, and I knew he was thinking of my own mother at that age. Not long after this Mr. Swain bought the house in the Duke of Gloucester Street. This, as you know, is back to back with Marlboro. To reach Patty's garden I had but to climb the brick wall at the rear of our grounds, and to make my way along the narrow green lane left there for perhaps a hundred paces of a lad, to come to the gate in the wooden paling. In return I used to hoist Patty over the wall, and we would play at children's games under the fruit trees that skirted it. Some instinct kept her away from the house. I often caught her gazing wistfully at its wings and gables. She was not born to a mansion, so she said. "But your father is now rich," I objected. I had heard Captain Daniel say so. "He may have a mansion of his own and he chooses. He can better afford it than many who are in debt for the fine show they make." I was but repeating gossip. "I should like to see the grand company come in, when your grandfather has them to dine," said the girl. "Sometimes we have grand gentlemen come to see father in their coaches, but they talk of nothing but politics. We never have any fine ladies like--like your Aunt Caroline." I startled her by laughing derisively. "And I pray you never may, Patty," was all I said. I never told Dolly of my intimacy with the barrister's little girl over the wall. This was not because I was ashamed of the friendship, but arose from a fear-well-founded enough--that she would make sport of it. At twelve Dolly had notions concerning the walks of life that most other children never dream of. They were derived, of course, from Mr. Marmaduke. But the day of reckoning arrived. Patty and I were romping beside the back wall when suddenly a stiff little figure in a starched frock appeared through the trees in the direction of the house, followed by Master Will Fotheringay in his visiting clothes. I laugh now when I think of that formal meeting between the two little ladies. There was no time to hoist Miss Swain over the wall, or to drive Miss Manners back upon the house. Patty stood blushing as though caught in a guilty act, while she of the Generations came proudly on, Will sniggering behind her. "Who is this, Richard?" asks Miss Manners, pointing a small forefinger. "Patty Swain, if you must know!" I cried, and added boylike: "And she is just as good as you or me, and better." I was quite red in the face, and angry because of it. "This is Dorothy Manners, Patty, and Will Fotheringay." The moment was a pregnant one. But I was resolved to carry the matter out with a bold front. "Will you join us at catch and swing?" I asked. Will promptly declared that he would join, for Patty was good to look upon. Dolly glanced at her dress, tossed her head, and marched back alone. "Oh, Richard!" cried Patty; "I shall never forgive myself! I have made you quarrel with--" "His sweetheart," said Will, wickedly. "I don't care," said I. Which was not so. Patty felt no resentment for my miss's haughty conduct, but only a tearful penitence for having been the cause of a strife between us. Will's arguments and mine availed nothing. I must lift her over the wall again, and she went home. When we reached the garden we found Dolly seated beside her mother on my grandfather's bench, from which stronghold our combined tactics were powerless to drag her. When Dolly was gone, I asked my grandfather in great indignation why Patty did not play with the children I knew, with Dorothy and the Fotheringays. He shook his head dubiously. "When you are older, Richard, you will understand that our social ranks are cropped close. Mr. Swain is an honest and an able man, though he believes in things I do not. I hear he is becoming wealthy. And I have no doubt," the shrewd old gentleman added, "that when Patty grows up she will be going to the assemblies, though it was not so in my time." So liberal was he that he used to laugh at my lifting her across the wall, and in his leisure delight to listen to my accounts of her childish housekeeping. Her life was indeed a contrast to Dorothy's. She had all the solid qualities that my lady lacked in early years. And yet I never wavered in my liking to the more brilliant and wayward of the two. The week before my next birthday, when Mr. Carvel drew me to him and asked me what I wished for a present that year, as was his custom, I said promptly: "I should like to have Patty Swain at my party, sir." "So you shall, my lad," he cried, taking his snuff and eying me with pleasure. "I am glad to see, Richard, that you have none of Mr. Marmaduke's nonsense about you. She is a good girl, i' faith, and more of a lady now than many who call themselves such. And you shall have your present to boot. Hark'ee, Daniel," said he to the captain; "if the child comes to my house, the poll-parrots and follow-me-ups will be wanting her, too." But the getting her to go was a matter of five days. For Patty was sensitive, like her father, and dreaded a slight. Not so with Master Tom, who must, needs be invited, too. He arrived half an hour ahead of time, arrayed like Solomon, and without his sister! I had to go for Patty, indeed, after the party had begun, and to get the key to the wicket in the wall to take her in that way, so shy was she. My dear grandfather showed her particular attention. And Miss Dolly herself, being in the humour, taught her a minuet. After that she came to all my birthdays, and lost some of her shyness. And was invited to other great houses, even as Mr. Carvel had predicted. But her chief pleasure seemed ever her duty. Whether or no such characters make them one and the same, who can tell? She became the light of her father's house, and used even to copy out his briefs, at which task I often found her of an evening. As for Tom, that graceless scamp, I never could stomach him. I wondered then, as I have since, how he was the brother of such a sister. He could scarce bide his time until Mr. Swain should have a coach and a seat in the country with the gentry. "A barrister," quoth he, "is as good as any one else. And if my father came out a redemptioner, and worked his way, so had old Mr. Dulany. Our family at home was the equal of his." All of which was true, and more. He would deride Patty for sewing and baking, vowing that they had servants enough now to do the work twice over. She bore with him with a patience to be marvelled at; and I could never get it through my head why Mr. Swain indulged him, though he was the elder, and his mother's favourite. Tom began to dress early. His open admiration was Dr. Courtenay, his confessed hope to wear five-pound ruffles and gold sword knots. He clung to Will Fotheringay with a tenacity that became proverbial among us boys, and his boasts at King William's School were his father's growing wealth and intimacy with the great men of the province. As I grew older, I took the cue of political knowledge, as I have said, from Mr. Swain rather than Captain Daniel, who would tell me nothing. I fell into the habit of taking supper in Gloucester Street. The meal was early there. And when the dishes were cleared away, and the barrister's pipe lit, and Patty and her mother had got their sewing, he would talk by the hour on the legality of our resistance to the King, and discuss the march of affairs in England and the other colonies. He found me a ready listener, and took pains to teach me clearly the right and wrong of the situation. 'Twas his religion, even as loyalty to the King was my grandfather's, and he did not think it wrong to spread it. He likewise instilled into me in that way more of history than Mr. Allen had ever taught me, using it to throw light upon this point or that. But I never knew his true power and eloquence until I followed him to the Stadt House. Patty was grown a girl of fifteen then, glowing with health, and had ample good looks of her own. 'Tis odd enough that I did not fall in love with her when Dolly began to use me so outrageously. But a lad of eighteen is scarce a rational creature. I went and sat before my oracle upon the vine-covered porch under the eaves, and poured out my complaint. She laid down her needlework and laughed. "You silly boy," said she, "can't you see that she herself has prescribed for you? She was right when she told you to show attention to Jenny. And if you dangle about Miss Dolly now, you are in danger of losing her. She knows it better than you." I had Jenny to ride the very next day. Result: my lady smiled on me more sweetly than ever when I went to Prince George Street, and vowed Jenny had never looked prettier than when she went past the house. This left my victory in such considerable doubt that I climbed the back wall forthwith in my new top-boots. "So you looked for her to be angry?" said Patty. "Most certainly," said I. "Unreasoning vanity!" she cried, for she knew how to speak plain. "By your confession to me you have done this to please her, for she warned you at the beginning it would please her. And now you complain of it. I believe I know your Dorothy better than you." And so I got but little comfort out of Patty that time. CHAPTER IX UNDER FALSE COLOURS And now I come to a circumstance in my life I would rather pass over quickly. Had I steered the straight course of my impulse I need never have deceived that dear gentleman whom I loved and honoured above any in this world, and with whom I had always lived and dealt openly. After my grandfather was pronounced to be mending, I went back to Mr. Allen until such time as we should be able to go to the country. Philip no longer shared my studies, his hours having been changed from morning to afternoon. I thought nothing of this, being content with the rector's explanation that my uncle had a task for Philip in the morning, now that Mr. Carvel was better. And I was well content to be rid of Philip's company. But as the days passed I began to mark an absence still stranger. I had my Horace and my Ovid still: but the two hours from eleven to one, which he was wont to give up to history and what he was pleased to call instruction in loyalty, were filled with other matter. Not a word now of politics from Mr. Allen. Not even a comment from him concerning the spirited doings of our Assembly, with which the town was ringing. That body had met but a while before, primed to act on the circular drawn up by Mr. Adams of Massachusetts. The Governor's message had not been so prompt as to forestall them, and I am occupied scarce the time in the writing of this that it took our brave members to adopt the petition to his Majesty and to pass resolutions of support to our sister colony of the North. This being done, and a most tart reply penned to his Excellency, they ended that sitting and passed in procession to the Governor's mansion to deliver it, Mr. Speaker Lloyd at their head, and a vast concourse of cheering people at their heels. Shutters were barred on the Tory houses we passed. And though Mr. Allen spied me in the crowd, he never mentioned the circumstance. More than once I essayed to draw from him an opinion of Mr. Adams's petition, which was deemed a work of great moderation and merit, and got nothing but evasion from my tutor. That he had become suddenly an American in principle I could not believe. At length I made bold to ask him why our discussions were now omitted. He looked up from the new play he was reading on the study lounge, with a glance of dark meaning I could not fathom. "You are learning more than I can teach you in Gloucester Street, and at the Stadt House," he said. In truth I was at a loss to understand his attitude until the day in June my grandfather and I went to Carvel Hall. The old gentleman was weak still, so feeble that he had to be carried to his barge in a chair, a vehicle he had ever held in scorn. But he was cheerful, and his spirit remained the same as of old: but for that spirit I believe he had never again risen from his bed in Marlboro' Street. My uncle and the rector were among those who walked by his side to the dock, and would have gone to the Hall with him had he permitted them. He was kind enough to say that my arm was sufficient to lean on. What peace there was sitting once again under the rustling trees on the lawn with the green river and the blue bay spread out before us, and Scipio standing by with my grandfather's punch. Mr. Carvel would have me rehearse again all that had passed in town and colony since his illness, which I did with as much moderation as I was able. And as we talked he reached out and took my hand, for I sat near him, and said: "Richard, I have heard tidings of you that gladden my heart, and they have done more than Dr. Leiden's physic for this old frame of mine. I well knew a Carvel could never go a wrong course, lad, and you least of any." "Tidings, sir?" I said. "Ay, tidings," answered Mr. Carvel. Such a note of relief and gladness there was in the words as I had not heard for months from him, and a vague fear came upon me. "Scipio," he said merrily, "a punch for Mr. Richard." And when the glass was brought my grandfather added: "May it be ever thus!" I drained the toast, not falling into his humour or comprehending his reference, but dreading that aught I might say would disturb him, held my peace. And yet my apprehension increased. He set down his glass and continued: "I had no hope of this yet, Richard, for you were ever slow to change. Your conversion does credit to Mr. Allen as well as to you. In short, sir, the rector gives me an excellent good account of your studies, and adds that the King hath gained another loyal servant, for which I thank God." I have no words to write of my feelings then. My head swam and my hand trembled on my grandfather's, and I saw dimly the old gentleman's face aglow with joy and pride, and knew not what to say or do. The answer I framed, alas, remained unspoken. From his own lips I had heard how much the news had mended him, and for once I lacked the heart, nay, the courage, to speak the truth. But Mr. Carvel took no heed of my silence, setting it down to another cause. "And so, my son," he said, "there is no need of sending you to Eton next fall. I am not much longer for this earth, and can ill spare you: and Mr. Allen kindly consents to prepare you for Oxford." "Mr. Allen consents to that, sir?" I gasped. I think, could I have laid hands on the rector then, I would have thrashed him, cloth and all, within an inch of his life. And as if to crown my misery Mr. Carvel rose, and bearing heavily on my shoulder led me to the stable where Harvey and one of the black grooms stood in livery to receive us. Harvey held by the bridle a blooded bay hunter, and her like could scarce be found in the colony. As she stood arching her neck and pawing the ground, I all confusion and shame, my grandfather said simply: "Richard, this is Firefly. I have got her for you from Mr. Randolph, of Virginia, for you are now old enough to have a good mount of your own." All that night I lay awake, trying to sift some motive for Mr. Allen's deceit. For the life of me I could see no farther than a desire to keep me as his pupil, since he was well paid for his tuition. Still, the game did not seem worth the candle. However, he was safe in his lie. Shrewd rogue that he was, he well knew that I would not risk the attack a disappointment might bring my grandfather. What troubled me most of all was the fear that Grafton had reaped the advantage of the opportunity the illness gave him, and by his insidious arts had worked himself back into the good graces of his father. You must not draw from this, my dears, that I feared for the inheritance. Praised be God, I never thought of that! But I came by nature to hate and to fear my uncle, as I hated and feared the devil. I saw him with my father's eyes, and with my mother's, and as my grandfather had seen him in the old days when he was strong. Instinct and reason alike made me loathe him. As the months passed, and letters in Grafton's scroll hand came from the Kent estate or from Annapolis, my misgivings were confirmed by odd remarks that dropped from Mr. Carvel's lips. At length arrived the revelation itself. "I fear, Richard," he had said querulously, "I fear that all these years I have done your uncle an injustice. Dear Elizabeth was wont to plead for him before she died, but I would never listen to her. I was hearty and strong then, and my heart was hard. And a remembrance of many things was fresh in my mind." He paused for breath, as was his habit now. And I said nothing. "But Grafton has striven to wipe out the past. Sickness teaches us that we must condone, and not condemn. He has lived a reputable life, and made the most of the little start I gave him. He has supported his Majesty and my Lord in most trying times. And his Excellency tells me that the coming governor, Eden, will surely reward him with a seat in the Council." I thought of Governor Sharpe's biting words to Grafton. The Governor knew my uncle well, and I was sure he had never sat at his Council. "A son is a son, Richard," continued Mr. Carvel. "You will one day find that out. Your uncle has atoned. He hath been faithful during my illness, despite my cold treatment. And he hath convinced me that your welfare is at his heart. I believe he is fond of you, my lad." No greater sign of breaking health did I need than this, that Mr. Carvel should become blind to Grafton's hypocrisy; forget his attempts to prevent my father's marriage, and to throw doubt upon my mother's birth. The agony it gave me, coming as it did on top of the cruel deception, I shall not dwell upon. And the thought bursting within me remained unspoken. I saw less of Dorothy then than I had in any summer of my life before. In spite of Mrs. Manners, the chrysalis had burst into the butterfly, and Wilmot House had never been so gay. It must be remembered that there were times when young ladies made their entrance into the world at sixteen, and for a beauty to be unmarried at twenty-two was rare indeed. When I went to Wilmot House to dine, the table would be always full, and Mr. Marmaduke simpering at the head of it, his air of importance doubled by his reflected glory. "We see nothing of you, my lad," he would say; "you must not let these young gallants get ahead of you. How does your grandfather? I must pay my compliments to-morrow." Of gallants there were enough, to be sure. Dr. Courtenay, of course, with a nosegay on his coat, striving to catch the beauty's eye. And Mr. Worthington and Mr. Dulany, and Mr. Fitzhugh and Mr. Paca, and I know not how many other young bachelors of birth and means. And Will Fotheringay, who spent some of his time with me at the Hall. Silver and China, with the Manners coat-of-arms, were laid out that had not seen the light for many along day. And there were picnics, and sailing parties, and dances galore, some of which I attended, but heard of more. It seemed to me that my lady was tiring of the doctor's compliments, and had transferred her fickle favour to young Mr. Fitzhugh, who was much more worthy, by the way. As for me, I had troubles enough then, and had become used in some sort to being shelved. One night in July,--'twas the very day Mr. Carvel had spoken to me of Grafton,--I had ridden over to Wilmot House to supper. I had little heart for going, but good Mrs. Manners herself had made me promise, and I could: not break my word. I must have sat very silent and preoccupied at the table, where all was wit and merriment. And more than once I saw the laughter leave Dorothy's face, and caught her eyes upon; me with such a look as set my beast throbbing. They would not meet my own, but would turn away instantly. I was heavy indeed that night, and did not follow the company into the ballroom, but made my excuses to Mrs. Manners. The lawn lay bathed in moonlight; and as I picked, my way over it toward the stables for Firefly, I paused to look back at the house aglow, with light, the music of the fiddles and the sound of laughter floating out of the open windows. Even as I gaped a white figure was framed in the doorway, paused a moment on the low stone step, and then came on until it stood beside me. "Are you not well, Richard?" "Yes, I am well," I answered. I scarcely knew my own voice. "Is your grandfather worse?" "No, Dorothy; he seems better to-day." She stood seemingly irresolute, her eyes new lifted, now falling before mine. Her slender arms bare, save for the little puff at the shoulders; her simple dress drawn a little above the waist, then falling straight to the white slipper. How real the ecstasy of that moment, and the pain of it! "Why do you not coarse over, as you used to?" she asked, in a low tone. "I am very busy," I replied evasively; "Mr. Carvel cannot attend to his affairs." I longed to tell her the whole truth, but the words would not come. "I hear you are managing the estate all alone," she said. "There is no one else to do it." "Richard," she cried, drawing closer; "you are in trouble. I--I have seen it. You are so silent, and--and you seem to have become older. Tell me, is it your Uncle Grafton?" So astonished was I at the question, and because she had divined so, surely, that I did not answer. "Is it?" she asked again. "Yes," I said; "yes, in part." And then came voices calling from the house. They had missed her. "I am so sorry, Richard. I shall tell no one." She laid her hand ever so lightly upon mine and was gone. I stood staring after her until she disappeared in the door. All the way home I marvelled, my thoughts tumultuous, my hopes rising and falling. But when next I saw her, I thought she had forgotten. We had little company at the Hall that year, on account of Mr. Carvel. And I had been busy indeed. I sought with all my might to master a business for which I had but little taste, and my grandfather complimented me, before the season was done, upon my management. I was wont to ride that summer at four of a morning to canter beside Mr. Starkie afield, and I came to know the yield of every patch to a hogshead and the pound price to a farthing. I grew to understand as well as another the methods of curing the leaf. And the wheat pest appearing that year, I had the good fortune to discover some of the clusters in the sheaves, and ground our oyster-shells in time to save the crop. Many a long evening I spent on the wharves with old Stanwix, now toothless and living on his pension, with my eye on the glow of his pipe and my ear bent to his stories of the sea. It was his fancy that the gift of prophecy had come to him with the years; and at times, when his look would wander to the black rigging in the twilight, he would speak strangely enough. "Faith, Mr. Richard," he would say; "tho' your father was a soldier afore ye, ye were born to the deck of a ship-o'-war. Mark an old man's words, sir." "Can you see the frigate, Stanwix?" I laughed once, when he had repeated this with more than common solemnity. His reply rose above the singing of the locusts. "Ay, sir, that I can. But she's no frigate, sir. Devil knows what she is. She looks like a big merchantman to me, such as I've seed in the Injy trade, with a high poop in the old style. And her piercin's be not like a frigate." He said this with a readiness to startle me, and little enough superstition I had. A light was on his seared face, and his pipe lay neglected on the boards. "Ay, sir, and there be a flag astern of her never yet seed on earth, nor on the waters under the earth. The tide is settin' in, the tide is settin' in." These were words to set me thinking. And many a time they came back to me when the old man was laid away in the spot reserved for those who sailed the seas for Mr. Carvel. Every week I drew up a report for my grandfather, and thus I strove by shouldering labour and responsibility to ease my conscience of that load which troubled it. For often, as we walked together through the yellow fields of an evening, it had been on my tongue to confess the lie Mr. Allen had led me into. But the sight of the old man, trembling and tremulous, aged by a single stroke, his childlike trust in my strength and beliefs, and above all his faith in a political creed which he nigh deemed needful for the soul's salvation,--these things still held me back. Was it worth while now, I asked myself, to disturb the peace of that mind? Thus the summer wore on to early autumn. And one day I was standing booted and spurred in the stables, Harvey putting the bridle upon Firefly, when my boy Hugo comes running in. "Marse Dick!" he cries, "Marse Satan he come in the pinnace, and young Marse Satan and Missis Satan, and Marse Satan's pastor!" "What the devil do you mean, Hugo?" "Young ebony's right, sir," chuckled Harvey; "'tis the devil and his following." "Do you mean Mr. Grafton, fellow?" I demanded, the unwelcome truth coming over me. "That he does," remarked Harvey, laconically. "You won't be wanting her now, your honour?" "Hold my stirrup," I cried, for the news had put me in anger. "Hold my stirrup, sirrah!" I believe I took Firefly the best of thirty miles that afternoon and brought her back in the half-light, my saddle discoloured with her sweat. I clanked into the hall like a captain of horse. The night was sharp with the first touch of autumn, and a huge backlog lay on the irons. Around it, in a comfortable half-circle sat our guests, Grafton and Mr. Allen and Philip smoking and drinking for a whet against supper, and Mrs. Grafton in my grandfather's chair. There was an easy air of possession about the party of them that they had never before assumed, and the sight made me rattle again, the big door behind me. "A surprise for you, my dear nephew," Grafton said gayly, "I'll, lay a puncheon you did, not, expect us." Mr. Carvel woke with a start at the sound of the door and said querulously, "Guests, my lord, and I have done my poor best to make them welcome in your absence." The sense of change in him stung me. How different would his tone have been a year ago! He tattooed with his cane, which was the sign he generally made when he was ready for bed. Toward night his speech would hurt him. I assisted him up, the stairs, my uncle taking his arm on the other side. And together, with Diomedes help; we undressed him, Grafton talking in low tomes the while: Since this was, an office I was wont to perform, my temper was now overwhelming me. But I kept my month closed. At last he had had the simple meal Dr. Leiden allowed him, his candles were snuffed, and my uncle and I made our way to the hall together: There my aunt and Mr. Allen were at picquet. "Supper is insupportably late," says she; with a yawn, and rings the hand-bell. "Scipio," she cries, "why are we not served?" I took a stride forward. But my uncle raised a restraining hand. "Caroline, remember that this is not our house," says he, reprovingly. There fell a deep silence; the log cracking; and just then the door swung on its hinges, and Mr. Starkie entered with the great bunch of keys in his hand. "The buildings are all secure; Mr. Richard," he said. "Very good, Starkie," I replied. I turned to Scipio, standing by the low-boy, his teeth, going like a castanet. "You may serve at the usual hour, Scipio," said I. Supper began stiff as a state banquet. My uncle was conciliatory, with the manners of a Crichton. My aunt, not having come from generations of silver and self-control, flatly in a bad humour. Mr. Allen talked from force of habit, being used to pay in such kind for his meals. But presently the madeira, warmed these two into a better spirit. I felt that I had victory on my side, and was nothing loth to join them at whist, Philip and I against the rector and my aunt, and won something like two pounds apiece from them. Grafton made it a rule never to play. The next morning, when I returned from my inspection, I found the rector and Philip had decamped with two of our choice horses, and that my uncle and aunt had commanded the barge, and gone to Mr. Lloyd's. I sent for Scipio. "Fore de Lawd, Marse Richard," he wailed, "'twan't Scipio's fault. Marse Grafton is dry fambly!" This was Scipio's strongest argument. "I jes' can't refuse one of de fambly, Marse Dick; and old Marse he say he too old now for quarrellin'." I saw that resistance was useless. There was nothing for it but to bide any time. And I busied myself with bills of cargo until I heard the horses on the drive. Mr. Allen and Philip came swaggering in, flushed with the exercise, and calling for punch, and I met them in the hall. "A word with you, Mr. Allen!" I called out. "A thousand, Mr. Richard, if you like," he said gayly, "as soon as this thirst of mine be quenched." I waited while he drained two glasses, when he followed me into the library, closing the door behind him. "Now, sir," I began, "though by a chance you are my mental and spiritual adviser, I intend speaking plain. For I know you to be one of the greatest rogues in the colony." I watched him narrowly the while, for I had some notion he might run me through. But I had misjudged him. "Speak plain, by all means," he replied; "but first let me ask for some tobacco." He filled the bowl of his pipe, and sat him down by the window. For the moment I was silent with sheer surprise. "You know I can't call you out," he went on, surrounding himself with clouds of smoke, "a lad of eighteen or so. And even if I could, I doubt whether I should. I like you, Richard," said he. "You are straight-spoken and commanding. In brief, sir, you are the kind of lad I should have been had not fate pushed me into a corner, and made me squirm for life's luxuries. I hate squirming as much as another. This is prime tobacco, Richard." He had come near disarming me; I was on the edge of a dangerous admiration for this man of the world, and for the life of me, I could not help liking him then. He had a fine presence, was undeniably handsome, and his riding clothes were of the latest London cut. "Are there not better methods for obtaining what you wish than those you practise?" I asked curiously. "No doubt," he answered carelessly; "but these are well enough, and shorter. You were about to do me the honour of a communication?" This brought me to my senses. I had, however, lost much of my heat in the interval. "I should like to know why you lied to Mr. Carvel about my convictions, Mr. Allen," I said. "I am not of the King's party now, and never shall be. And you know this better than another." "Those are strong words, Richard, my lad," said he, bringing his eyebrows together. "They are true words," I retorted. "Why did you lie, I say?" He said nothing for a while, but his breath came heavily. "I will pass it, I will pass it," he said at length, "but, by God! it is more than I have had to swallow in all my life before. Look at your grandfather, sir!" he cried; "behold him on the very brink of the grave, and ask me again why I lied to him! His hope of heaven is scarce less sacred to him than his love of the King, and both are so tightly wrapped about his heart that this knowledge of you would break it. Yes, break his heart, I say" (and he got to his legs), "and you would kill him for the sake of a boyish fancy!" I knew he was acting, as well as though he had climbed upon the table and said it. And yet he had struck the very note of my own fears, and hit upon the one reason why I had not confessed lung ago. "There is more you might have said, Mr. Allen," I remarked presently; "you have a cause for keeping me under your instruction, and that is behind all." He gave me a strange look. "You are too acute by far," said he; "your imagination runs with you. I have said I like you, and I can teach you classics as well as another. Is it not enough to admit that the money I get for your instruction keeps me in champagne?" "No, it is not enough," I said stoutly. "Then you must guess again, my lad," he answered with a laugh, and left the room with the easy grace that distinguished him. There was armed peace the rest of my uncle's visit. They departed on the third day. My Aunt Caroline, when she was not at picquet with Mr. Allen or quarrelling with Mrs. Willis or with Grafton himself, yawned without cessation. She declared in one of her altercations with her lord and master that she would lose her wits were they to remain another day, a threat that did not seem to move Grafton greatly. Philip ever maintained the right to pitch it on the side of his own convenience, and he chose in this instance to come to the rescue of his dear mamma, and turned the scales in her favour. He was pleased to characterize the Hall as insupportable, and vowed that his clothes would be out of fashion before they reached Rousby Hall, their next stopping-place. To do Philip justice, he was more honest a rascal than his father, though I am of the opinion that he had not the brain for great craft. And he had drawn from his mother a love of baubles which kept his mind from scheming. He had little to say to me, and I less to him. Grafton, as may be supposed, made me distinct advances before his departure, perceiving the unwisdom of antagonizing me unnecessarily. He had the imprudence once to ask of me the facts and figures of the estate; and tho' 'twas skilfully done by contrasting his own crops in Kent, you may be sure I was on my guard, and that he got nothing. I was near forgetting an incident of their visit which I afterwards had good cause to remember. The morning of my talk with Mr. Allen I went to the stables to see how he had used Cynthia, and found old Harvey wiping her down, and rumbling the while like a crater. "What think you of the rector as a representative of heaven, Harvey?" I asked. "Him a representative of heaven!" he snorted; "I've heard tell of rotten boroughs, and I'm thinking Mr. Allen will be standing for one. What be him and Mr. Grafton a-doing here, sir, plotting all kinds o' crime while the old gentleman's nigh on his back?" "Plotting?" I said, catching at the word. "Ay, plotting," repeated Harvey, casting his cloth away; "murder and all the crimes in the calendar, I take it. I hear him and Mr. Grafton among the stalls this morning, and when they sees me they look like Knipe, here, caught with a fowl." "And what were they saying?" I demanded. "Saying! God only knows their wickedness. I got the words 'Upper Marlboro' and 'South River' and 'next voyage,' and that profligate rector wanted to know as to how 'Griggs was reliable.'" I thought no more of it at the time, believing it to be some of the small rascalities they were forever at. But that name of Griggs (why, the powers only know) stuck in my mind to turn up again. CHAPTER X. THE RED IN THE CARVEL BLOOD After that, when we went back to Annapolis for the winter, there was no longer any disguise between my tutor and myself. I was not of a mind to feign a situation that did not exist, nor to permit him to do so. I gave him to understand that tho' I went to him for instruction, 'twas through no fault of mine. That I would learn what I pleased and do what pleased me. And the rector, a curse upon him, seemed well content with that; nor could I come at his devil's reason far wanting me, save for the money, as he had declared. There were days when he and I never touched a hook, both being out of humour for study, when he told me yarns of Frederick of Prussia and his giant guard, of Florence and of Venice, and of the court of his Holiness of Rome. For he had drifted about the earth like a log-end in the Atlantic, before his Lordship gave him his present berth. We passed, too, whole mornings at picquet, I learning enough of Horace to quote at the routs we both attended, but a deal more of kings and deuces. And as I may add, that he got no more of my money than did I of his. The wonder of it was that we never became friends. He was two men, this rector of St. Anne's, half of him as lovable as any I ever encountered. But trust him I never would, always meeting him on the middle ground; and there were times, after his talks with Grafton, when his eyes were like a cat's, and I was conscious of a sinister note in his dealing which put me on my guard. You will say, my dears, that some change had come over me, that I was no longer the same lad I have been telling you of. Those days were not these, yet I make no show of hiding or of palliation. Was it Dorothy's conduct that drove me? Not wholly. A wild red was ever in the Carvel blood, in Captain Jack, in Lionel, in the ancestor of King Charles's day, who fought and bled and even gambled for his king. And my grandfather knew this; he warned me, but he paid my debts. And I thank Heaven he felt that my heart was right. I was grown now, certainly in stature. And having managed one of the largest plantations in the province, I felt the man, as lads are wont after their first responsibilities. I commanded my wine at the Coffee House with the best of the bucks, and was made a member of the South River and Jockey clubs. I wore the clothes that came out to me from London, and vied in fashion with Dr. Courtenay and other macaronies. And I drove a carriage of mine own, the Carvel arms emblazoned thereon, and Hugo in the family livery. After a deal of thought upon the subject, I decided, for a while at least, to show no political leanings at all. And this was easier of accomplishment than you may believe, for at that time in Maryland Tory and Whig were amiable enough, and the young gentlemen of the first families dressed alike and talked alike at the parties they both attended. The non-importation association had scarce made itself felt in the dress of society. Gentlemen of degree discussed differences amicably over their decanters. And only on such occasions as Mr. Hood's return, and the procession of the Lower House through the streets, and the arrival of the Good Intent, did high words arise among the quality. And it was because class distinctions were so strongly marked that it took so long to bring loyalists and patriots of high rank to the sword's point. I found time to manage such business affairs of Mr. Carvel's as he could not attend to himself. Grafton and his family dined in Marlboro' Street twice in the week; my uncle's conduct toward me was the very soul of consideration, and he compelled that likewise from his wife and his son. So circumspect was he that he would have fooled one who knew him a whit less than I. He questioned me closely upon my studies, and in my grandfather's presence I was forced to answer. And when the rector came to dine and read to Mr. Carvel, my uncle catechised him so searchingly on my progress that he was pushed to the last source of his ingenuity for replies. More than once was I tempted to blurt out the whole wretched business, for I well understood there was some deep game between him and Grafton. In my uncle's absence, my aunt never lost a chance for an ill-natured remark upon Patty, whom she had seen that winter at the assemblies and elsewhere. And she deplored the state our people of fashion were coming to, that they allowed young girls without family to attend their balls. "But we can expect little else, father," she would say to Mr. Carvel nodding in his chair, "when some of our best families openly espouse the pernicious doctrines of republicanism. They are gone half mad over that Wilkes who should have been hung before this. Philip, dear, pour the wine for your grandfather." Miss Patty had been well received. I took her to her first assembly, where her simple and unassuming ways had made her an instant favourite; and her face, which had the beauty of dignity and repose even so early in life, gained her ample attention. I think she would have gone but little had not her father laughed her out of some of her domesticity. No longer at Sunday night supper in Gloucester Street was the guest seat empty. There was more than one guest seat now, and the honest barrister himself was the most pleased at the change. As I took my accustomed place on the settle cushion,--Patty's first embroidery,--he would cry: "Heigho, Richard, our little Miss Prim hath become a belle. And I must have another clerk now to copy out my briefs, and a housekeeper soon, i' faith." Patty would never fail to flush up at the words, and run to perch on her father's knee and put her hand over his mouth. "How can you, Mr. Swain?" says she; "how can you, when 'tis you and mother, and Richard here, who make me go into the world? You know I would a thousand times rather bake your cakes and clean your silver! But you will not hear of it." "Fie!" says the barrister. "Listen to her, Richard! And yet she will fly up the stairs to don a fine gown at the first rap of the knocker. Oh, the wenches, the wenches! Are they not all alike, mother?" "They have changed none since I was a lass," replies the quiet invalid, with a smile. "And you should know what I was, Henry." "I know!" cries he; "none better. Well I recall the salmon and white your mother gave you before I came to Salem." He sighed and then laughed at the recollection. "And when this strapping young Singleton comes, Richard, 'twould do you good to be hiding there in that cupboard,--and it would hold you,--and count the seconds until Miss Prim has her skirt in her hand and her foot on the lower step. And yet how innocent is she now before you and me." Here he would invariably be smothered. "Percy Singleton!" says Patty, with a fine scorn; "'twill be Mr. Eglinton, the curate, next." "This I know," says her father, slapping me on the shoulder, "this I know, that you are content to see Richard without primping." "But I have known Richard since I was six," says she. "Richard is one of the family. There is no need of disguise from him." I thought, ruefully enough, that it seemed my fate to be one of the family everywhere I went. And just then, as if in judgment, the gate snapped and the knocker sounded, and Patty leaped down with a blush. "What said I say?" cries the barrister. "I have not seen human nature in court for naught. Run, now," says he, pinching her cheek as she stood hesitating whether to fly or stay; "run and put on the new dress I have bought you. And Richard and I will have a cup of ale in the study." The visitor chanced to be Will Fotheringay that time. He was not the only one worn out with the mad chase in Prince George Street, and preferred a quiet evening with a quiet beauty to the crowded lists of Miss Manners. Will declared that the other gallants were fools over the rare touch of blue in the black hair: give him Miss Swain's, quoth he, lifting his glass,--hers was; the colour of a new sovereign. Will was not, the only one. But I think Percy Singleton was the best of them all, tho' Patty ridiculed him--every chance she got, and even to his face. So will: the best-hearted and soberest of women play the coquette. Singleton was rather a reserved young Englishman of four and twenty, who owned a large estate in Talbot which he was laying out with great success. Of a Whig family in the old country, he had been drawn to that party in the new, and so, had made Mr. Swain's acquaintance. The next step in his fortunes was to fall in love with Patty, which was natural enough. Many a night that winter I walked with him from Gloucester Street to the Coffee House, to sit an hour over, a battle. And there Master Tom and Dr. Hamilton, and other gay macaronies would sometimes join us. Singleton had a greater contempt for Tom than I, but bore with him for his sister's sake. For Tom, in addition to his other follies, was become an open loyalist, and never missed his Majesty's health, though he knew no better than my Hugo the question at issue. 'Twas not zeal for King George, however, that made him drunk at one of the assemblies, and forced his sister to leave in the midst of a dance for very shame. "Oh, Richard, is, there not something you can do?" she cried, when, I had got her back in the little parlour in Gloucester Street; "father has argued and, pleaded and threatened in vain. I thought,--I thought perhaps you might help him." "I think I am not one to preach, or to boast," I replied soberly. "Yes," said she, looking grave; "I know you are wilder than you used to be; that you play more than you ought, and higher than you ought." I was silent. "And I suspect at whose door it lies," said she. "'Tis in the blood, Patty," I answered. She glanced at me quickly. "I know you better than you think," she said. "But Tom has not your excuse. And if he had only your faults I would say nothing. He does not care for those he should, and he is forever in the green-room of the theatre." I made haste to change the subject, and to give her what comfort I might; for she was sobbing before she finished. And the next day I gave Tom a round talking-to for having so little regard for his sister, the hem of whose skirt he was not worthy to touch. He took it meekly enough, with a barrel of pat excuses to come after. And he asked me to lend him my phaeton, that he might go a-driving with Miss Crane, of the theatrical company, to Round Bay! Meanwhile I saw Miss Manners more frequently than was good for my peace of mind, and had my turn as her partner at the balls. But I could not bring myself to take third or fourth rank in the army that attended her. I, who had been her playmate, would not become her courtier. Besides, I had not the wit. Was it strange that Dr. Courtenay should pride himself upon the discovery of a new beauty? And in the Coffee House, and in every drawing-room in town, prophesy for her a career of conquest such as few could boast? She was already launched upon that career. And rumour had it that Mr. Marmaduke was even then considering taking her home to London, where the stage was larger and the triumph greater. Was it surprising that the Gazette should contain a poem with the doctor's well-known ear-marks upon it? It set the town a-wagging, and left no room for doubt as to who had inspired it. "Sweet Pandora, tho' formed of Clay, Was fairer than the Light of Day. By Venus learned in Beauty's Arts, And destined thus to conquer Hearts. A Goddess of this Town, I ween, Fair as Pandora, scarce Sixteen, Is destined, e'en by Jove's Command, To conquer all of Maryland. Oh, Bachelors, play have a Care, For She will all your Hearts ensnare." So it ran. I think, if dear Mrs. Manners could have had her way, Dolly would have passed that year at a certain young ladies' school in New York. But Mr. Marmaduke's pride in his daughter's beauty got the better of her. The strut in his gait became more marked the day that poem appeared, and he went to the Coffee House both morning and evening, taking snuff to hide his emotions when Miss Manners was spoken of; and he was perceived by many in Church Street arm in arm with Dr. Courtenay himself. As you may have imagined before now, the doctor's profession was leisure, not medicine. He had known ambition once, it was said, and with reason, for he had studied surgery in Germany for the mere love of the science. After which, making the grand tour in France and Italy, he had taken up that art of being a gentleman in which men became so proficient in my young days. He had learned to speak French like a Parisian, had hobnobbed with wit and wickedness from Versailles to Rome, and then had come back to Annapolis to set the fashions and to spend the fortune his uncle lately had left him. He was our censor of beauty, and passed judgment upon all young ladies as they stepped into the arena. To be noticed by him meant success; to be honoured in the Gazette was to be crowned at once a reigning belle. The chord of his approval once set a-vibrating, all minor chords sang in harmony. And it was the doctor who raised the first public toast to Miss Manners. Alas! I might have known it would be so! But Miss Dorothy was not of a nature to remain dependent upon a censor's favour. The minx deported herself like any London belle of experience, as tho' she had known the world from her cradle. She was not to be deceived by the face value of the ladies' praises, nor rebuffed unmercifully by my Aunt Caroline, who had held the sceptre in the absence of a younger aspirant. The first time these ladies clashed, which was not long in coming, my aunt met with a wit as sharp again as her own, and never afterwards essayed an open tilt. The homage of men Dolly took as Caesar received tribute, as a matter of course. The doctor himself rode to the races beside the Manners coach, leaning gallantly over the door. My lady held court in her father's box, received and dismissed, smiled and frowned, with Courtenay as her master of ceremonies. Mr. Dulany was one of the presidents of the Jockey Club that year, and his horse winning the honours he presented her with his colours, scarlet and white, which she graciously wore. The doctor swore he would import a horse the next season on the chance of the privilege. My aunt was furious. I have never mentioned her beauty because I never could see it. 'Twas a coarser type than attracted me. She was then not greatly above six and thirty, appearing young for that age, and she knew the value of lead in judicious quantity. At that meet gentlemen came to her box only to tally of Miss Manners, to marvel that one so young could have the 'bel air', to praise her beauty and addresse, or to remark how well Mr. Durlany's red and white became her. With all of which Mrs. Grafton was fain to agree, and must even excel, until her small stock of patience was exhausted. To add to her chagrin my aunt lost a pretty sum to the rector by Mr. Dulany's horse. I came upon her after the race trying to coax her head-dress, through her coach door, Mr. Allen having tight hold of her hand the while. "And so he thinks he has found a divinity, does: he?" I overheard her saying: "I, for one, am heartily sick of Dr. Courtenay's motions. Were he, to choose, a wench out of the King's passengers I'd warrant our macaronies to compose odes to her eyebrows." And at that moment perceiving me she added, "Why so disconsolate, my dear nephew? Miss Dolly is the craze now, and will last about as long as another of the doctor's whims. And then you shall have her to yourself." "A pretty woman is ever the fashion, Aunt Caroline," I said. "Hoity-toity," returned my aunt, who had by then succeeded in getting her head-gear safe within; "the fashion, yes until a prettier comes along." "There is small danger of that for the present," I said, smiling: "Surely you can find no fault with this choice!" "Gadzooks! If I were blind, sir, I think I might!" she cried unguardedly. "I will not dispute that, Aunt Caroline," I answered. And as I rode off I heard her giving directions in no mild tone to the coachman through Mr. Allen. Perchance you did not know, my dears, that Annapolis had the first theatre in all the colonies. And if you care to search through the heap of Maryland Gazettes in the garret, I make no doubt you will come across this announcement for a certain night in the spring of the year 1769: By Permission of his Excellency, the Governor, at the New Theatre in Annapolis, by the American Company of Comedians, on Monday next, being the 22nd of this Instant, will be performed ROMEO AND JULIET. (Romeo by a young Gentleman for his Diversion.) Likewise the Farce called MISS IN HER TEENS. To begin precisely at Seven of the Clock. Tickets to be had at the Printing Office. Box 10s. Pit 1s 6d. No Person to be admitted behind the Scenes. The gentleman to perform Romeo was none other than Dr. Courtenay himself. He had a gentlemanly passion for the stage, as was the fashion in those days, and had organized many private theatricals. The town was in a ferment over the event, boxes being taken a week ahead. The doctor himself writ the epilogue, to be recited by the beautiful Mrs. Hallam, who had inspired him the year before to compose that famous poem beginning: "Around her see the Graces play, See Venus' Wanton doves, And in her Eye's Pellucid Ray See little Laughing Loves. Ye gods! 'Tis Cytherea's Face." You may find that likewise in Mr. Green's newspaper. The new theatre was finished in West Street that spring, the old one having proven too small for our gay capital. 'Twas then the best in the New World, the censor having pronounced it far above any provincial playhouse he had seen abroad. The scenes were very fine, the boxes carved and gilded in excellent good taste, and both pit and gallery commodious. And we, too, had our "Fops' Alley," where our macaronies ogled the fair and passed from box to box. For that night of nights when the doctor acted I received an invitation from Dolly to Mr. Marmaduke's box, and to supper afterward in Prince George Street. When I arrived, the playhouse was lit with myriad candles,--to be snuffed save the footlights presently,--and the tiers were all brilliant with the costumes of ladies and gentlemen. Miss Tayloe and Miss Dulany were of our party, with Fitzhugh and Worthington, and Mr. Manners for propriety. The little fop spent his evening, by the way, in a box opposite, where my Aunt Caroline gabbled to him and Mr. Allen during the whole performance. My lady got more looks than any in the house. She always drew admiration; indeed, but there had been much speculation of late whether she favoured Dr. Courtenay or Fitzhugh, and some had it that the doctor's acting would decide between the two. When Romeo came upon the stage he was received with loud applause. But my lady showed no interest,--not she, while the doctor fervently recited, "Out of her favour, where I am in love." In the first orchard scene, with the boldness of a practised lover, he almost ignored Mrs. Hallam in the balcony. It seemed as though he cast his burning words and languishing glances at my lady in the box, whereupon there was a deal of nudging round about. Miss asked for her smelling salts, and declared the place was stifling. But I think if the doctor had cherished a hope of her affections he lost it when he arrived at the lines, "She speaks, yet she says nothing." At that unhappy moment Miss Dorothy was deep in conversation with Fitzhugh, the audible titter in the audience arousing her. How she reddened when she perceived the faces turned her way! "What was it, Betty?" she demanded quickly. But Betty was not spiteful, and would not tell. Fitzhugh himself explained, and to his sorrow, for during the rest of the evening she would have nothing to do with him. Presently she turned to me. Glancing upward to where Patty leaned on the rail between Will Fotheringay and Singleton, she whispered: "I wonder you can sit here so quiet, Richard. You are showing a deal of self-denial." "I am happy enough," I answered, surprised. "I hear you have a rival," says she. "I know I have a dozen," I answered. "I saw Percy Singleton walking with her in Mr. Galloway's fields but yesterday," said Dolly, "and as they came out upon the road they looked as guilty as if I had surprised them arm in arm." Now that she should think I cared for Patty never entered my head. I was thrown all in a heap. "You need not be so disturbed," whispers my lady. "Singleton has a crooked mouth, and I credit Patty with ample sense to choose between you. I adore her, Richard. I wish I had her sweet ways." "But," I interrupted, when I was somewhat recovered, "why should you think me in love with Patty? I have never been accused of that before." "Oh, fie! You deny her?" says Dolly. "I did not think that of you, Richard." "You should know better," I replied, with some bitterness. We were talking in low tones, Dolly with her head turned from the stage, whence the doctor was flinging his impassioned speeches in vain. And though the light fell not upon her face, I seemed to feel her looking me through and through. "You do not care for Patty?" she whispered. And I thought a quiver of earnestness was in her voice. Her face was so close to mine that her breath fanned my cheek. "No," I said. "Why do you ask me? Have I ever been one to make pretences?" She turned away. "But you," I said, bending to her ear, "is it Fitzhugh, Dorothy?" I heard her laugh softly. "No," said she, "I thought you might divine, sir." Was it possible? And yet she had played so much with me that I dared not risk the fire. She had too many accomplished gallants at her feet to think of Richard, who had no novelty and no wit. I sat still, barely conscious of the rising and falling voices beyond the footlights, feeling only her living presence at my side. She spoke not another word until the playhouse servants had relighted the chandeliers, and Dr. Courtenay came in, flushed with triumph, for his mead of praise. "And how went it, Miss Manners?" says he, very confident. "Why, you fell over the orchard wall, doctor," retorts my lady. "La! I believe I could have climbed it better myself." And all he got was a hearty laugh for his pains, Mr. Marmaduke joining in from the back of the box. And the story was at the Coffee House early on the morrow. CHAPTER XI A FESTIVAL AND A PARTING My grandfather and I were seated at table together. It was early June, the birds were singing in the garden, and the sweet odours of the flowers were wafted into the room. "Richard," says he, when Scipio had poured his claret, "my illness cheated you out of your festival last year. I dare swear you deem yourself too old for birthdays now." I laughed. "So it is with lads," said Mr. Carvel; "they will rush into manhood as heedless as you please. Take my counsel, boy, and remain young. Do not cross the bridge before you have to. And I have been thinking that we shall have your fete this year, albeit you are grown, and Miss Dolly is the belle of the province. 'Tis like sunshine into my old heart to see the lads and lasses again, and to hear the merry, merry fiddling. I will have his new Excellency, who seems a good and a kindly man, and Lloyd and Tilghman and Dulany and the rest, with their ladies, to sit with me. And there will be plenty of punch and syllabub and sangaree, I warrant; and tarts and jellies and custards, too, for the misses. Ring for Mrs. Willis, my son." Willis came with her curtsey to the old gentleman, who gave his order then and there. He never waited for a fancy of this kind to grow cold. "We shall all be children again, on that day, Mrs. Willis," says he. "And I catch any old people about, they shall be thrust straight in the town stocks, i' faith." Willis made another curtsey. "We missed it sorely, last year, please your honour," says she, and departs smiling. "And you shall have your Patty Swain, Richard," Mr. Carvel continued. "Do you mind how you once asked the favour of inviting her in the place of a present? Oons! I loved you for that, boy. 'Twas like a Carvel. And I love that lass, Whig or no Whig. 'Pon my soul, I do. She hath demureness and dignity, and suits me better than yon whimsical baggage you are all mad over. I'll have Mr. Swain beside me, too. I'll warrant I'd teach his daughter loyalty in a day, and I had again your years and your spirit!" I have but to close my eyes, and my fancy takes me back to that birthday festival. Think of it, my dears! Near threescore years are gone since then, when this old man you call grandfather, and some--bless me!--great-grandfather, was a lusty lad like Comyn here. But his hand is steady as he writes these words and his head clear, because he hath not greatly disabused that life which God has given him. How can I, tho' her face and form are painted on my memory, tell you what fair, pert Miss Dorothy was at that time'! Ay, I know what you would say: that Sir Joshua's portrait hangs above, executed but the year after, and hung at the second exhibition of the Royal Academy. As I look upon it now, I say that no whit of its colour is overcharged. And there is likewise Mr. Peale's portrait, done much later. I answer that these great masters have accomplished what poor, human art can do. But Nature hath given us a better picture. "Come hither, Bess! Yes, truly, you have Dolly's hair, with the very gloss upon it. But fashions have changed, my child, and that is not as Dolly wore it." Whereupon Bess goes to the portrait, and presently comes back to give me a start. And then we go hand in hand up the stairs of Calvert House even to the garret, where an old cedar chest is laid away under the eaves. Bess, the minx, well knows it, and takes out a prim little gown with the white fading yellow, and white silk mits without fingers, and white stockings with clocks, and a gauze cap, with wings and streamers, that sits saucily on the black locks; and the lawn-embroidered apron; and such dainty, high-heeled slippers with the pearls still a-glisten upon the buckles. Away she flies to put them on. And then my heart gives a leap to see my Dorothy back again,--back again as she was that June afternoon we went together to my last birthday party, her girlish arms bare to the elbow, and the lace about her slender throat. Yes, Bess hath the very tilt of her chin, the regal grace of that slim figure, and the deep blue eyes. "Grandfather, dear, you are crushing the gown!" And so the fire is not yet gone out of this old frame. Ah, yes, there they are again, those unpaved streets of old Annapolis arched with great trees on either side. And here is Dolly, holding her skirt in one hand and her fan in the other, and I in a brave blue coat, and pumps with gold buttons, and a cocked hat of the newest fashion. I had met her leaning over the gate in Prince George Street. And, what was strange for her, so deep in thought that she jumped when I spoke her name. "Dorothy, I have come for you to walk to the party, as we used when we were children." "As we used when we were children!" cried she. And flinging wide the gate, stretched out her hand for me to take. "And you are eighteen years to-day! It seems but last year when we skipped hand in hand to Marlboro' Street with Mammy Lucy behind us. Are you coming, mammy?" she called. "Yes, mistis, I'se comin'," said a voice from behind the golden-rose bushes, and out stepped Aunt Lucy in a new turban, making a curtsey to me. "La, Marse Richard!" said she, "to think you'se growed to be a fine gemman! 'Taint but t'other day you was kissin' Miss Dolly on de plantation." "It seems longer than that to me, Aunt Lucy," I answered, laughing at Dolly's blushes. "You have too good a memory, mammy," said my lady, withdrawing her fingers from mine. "Bress you, honey! De ole woman doan't forgit some things." And she fell back to a respectful six paces. "Those were happy times," said Dorothy. Then the little sigh became a laugh. "I mean to enjoy myself to-day, Richard. But I fear I shall not see as much of you as I used. You are old enough to play the host, now." "You shall see as much as you will." "Where have you been of late, sir? In Gloucester Street?" "'Tis your own fault, Dolly. You are changeable as the sky,--to-day sunny, and to-morrow cold. I am sure of my welcome in Gloucester Street." She tripped a step as we turned the corner, and came closer to my side. "You must learn to take me as you find me, dear Richard. To-day I am in a holiday humour." Some odd note in her tone troubled me, and I glanced at her quickly. She was a constant wonder and puzzle to me. After that night at the theatre my hopes had risen for the hundredth time, but I had gone to Prince George Street on the morrow to meet another rebuff--and Fitzhugh. So I had learned to interpret her by other means than words, and now her mood seemed reckless rather than merry. "Are you not happy, Dolly?" I asked abruptly. She laughed. "What a silly question!" she said. "Why do you ask?" "Because I believe you are not." In surprise she looked up at me, and then down at the pearls upon her satin slippers. "I am going with you to your birthday festival, Richard. Could we wish for more? I am as happy as you." "That may well be, for I might be happier." Again her eyes met mine, and she hummed an air. So we came to the gate, beside which stood Diomedes and Hugo in the family claret-red. A coach was drawn up, and another behind it, and we went down the leafy walk in the midst of a bevy of guests. We have no such places nowadays, my dears, as was my grandfather's. The ground between the street and the brick wall in the rear was a great stretch, as ample in acreage as many a small country-place we have in these times. The house was on the high land in front, hedged in by old trees, and thence you descended by stately tiers until you came to the level which held the dancers. Beyond that, and lower still, a lilied pond widened out of the sluggish brook with a cool and rustic spring-house at one end. The spring-house was thatched, with windows looking out upon the water. Long after, when I went to France, I was reminded of the shy beauty of this part of my old home by the secluded pond of the Little Trianon. So was it that King Louis's Versailles had spread its influence a thousand leagues to our youthful continent. My grandfather sat in his great chair on the sward beside the fiddlers, his old friends gathering around him, as in former years. "And this is the miss that hath already broken half the bachelor hearts in town!" said he, gayly. "What was my prediction, Miss Dolly, when you stepped your first dance at Carvel Hall?" "Indeed, you do me wrong, Mr. Carvel!" "And I were a buck, you would not break mine, I warrant, unless it were tit for tat," said my grandfather; thereby putting me to more confusion than Dolly, who laughed with the rest. "'Tis well to boast, Mr. Carvel, when we are out of the battle," cried Mr. Lloyd. Dolly was carried off immediately, as I expected. The doctor and Worthington and Fitzhugh were already there, and waiting. I stood by Mr. Carvel's chair, receiving the guests, and presently came Mr. Swain and Patty. "Heigho!" called Mr. Carvel, when he saw her; "here is the young lady that hath my old affections. You are right welcome, Mr. Swain. Scipio, another chair! 'Tis not over the wall any more, Miss Patty, with our flowered India silk. But I vow I love you best with your etui." Patty, too, was carried off, for you may be sure that Will Fotheringay and Singleton were standing on one foot and then the other, waiting for Mr. Carvel to have done. Next arrived my aunt, in a wide calash and a wider hoop, her stays laced so that she limped, and her hair wonderfully and fearfully arranged by her Frenchman. Neither she nor Grafton was slow to shower congratulations upon my grandfather and myself. Mr. Marmaduke went through the ceremony after them. Dorothy's mother drew me aside. As long as I could remember her face had been one that revealed a life's disappointment. But to-day I thought it bore a trace of a deeper anxiety. "How well I recall this day, eighteen years ago, Richard," she said. "And how proud your dear mother was that she had given a son to Captain Jack. She had prayed for a son. I hope you will always do your parents credit, my dear boy. They were both dear, dear friends of mine." My Aunt Caroline's harsher voice interrupted her. "Gadzooks, ma'am!" she cried, as she approached us, "I have never in my life laid eyes upon such beauty as your daughter's. You will have to take her home, Mrs. Manners, to do her justice. You owe it her, ma'am. Come, nephew, off with you, and head the minuet with Miss Dolly!" My grandfather was giving the word to the fiddlers. But whether a desire to cross my aunt held me back, or a sense of duty to greet the guests not already come, or a vague intuition of some impending news drawn from Mrs. Manners and Dorothy, I know not. Mr. Fitzhugh was easily persuaded to take my place, and presently I slipped unnoticed into a shaded seat on the side of the upper terrace, whence I could see the changing figures on the green. And I thought of the birthday festivals Dolly and I had spent here, almost since we were of an age to walk. Wet June days, when the broad wings of the house rang with the sound of silver laughter and pattering feet, and echoed with music from the hall; and merry June days, when the laughter rippled among the lilacs, and pansies and poppies and sweet peas were outshone by bright gowns and brighter faces. And then, as if to complete the picture of the past, my eye fell upon our mammies modestly seated behind the group of older people, Aunt Hester and Aunt Lucy, their honest, black faces aglow with such unselfish enjoyment as they alone could feel. How easily I marked Dorothy among the throng! Other girls found it hard to compress the spirits of youth within the dignity of a minuet, and thought of the childish romp of former years. Not so my lady. Long afterwards I saw her lead a ball with the first soldier and gentleman of the land, but on that Tuesday she carried herself full as well, so well that his Excellency and the gentlemen about him applauded heartily. As the strains died away and the couples moved off among the privet-lined paths, I went slowly down the terrace. Dorothy had come up to speak to her mother, Dr. Courtenay lingering impatient at her side. And though her colour glowed deeper, and the wind had loosed a wisp of her hair, she took his Excellency's compliments undisturbed. Colonel Sharpe, our former governor, who now made his home in the province, sat beside him. "Now where a-deuce were you, Richard?" said he. "You have missed as pleasing a sight as comes to a man in a lifetime. Why were you not here to see Miss Manners tread a minuet? My word! Terpsichore herself could scarce have made it go better." "I saw the dance, sir, from a safe distance," I replied. "I'll warrant!" said he, laughing, while Dolly shot me a wayward glance from under her long lashes. "I'll warrant your eyes were fast on her from beginning to end. Come, sir, confess!" His big frame shook with the fun of it, for none in the colony could be jollier than he on holiday occasions: and the group of ladies and gentlemen beside him caught the infection, so that I was sore put to it. "Will your Excellency confess likewise?" I demanded. "So I will, Richard, and make patent to all the world that she hath the remains of that shuttlecock, my heart." Up gets his Excellency (for so we still called him) and makes Dolly a low reverence, kissing the tips of her white fingers. My lady drops a mock curtsey in return. "Your Excellency can do no less than sue for a dance," drawled Dr. Courtenay. "And no more, I fear, sir, not being so nimble as I once was. I resign in your favour, doctor," said Colonel Sharpe. Dr. Courtenay made his bow, his hat tucked under his arm. But he had much to learn of Miss Manners if he thought that even one who had been governor of the province could command her. The music was just begun again, and I making off in the direction of Patty Swain, when I was brought up as suddenly as by a rope. A curl was upon Dorothy's lips. "The dance belongs to Richard, doctor," she said. "Egad, Courtenay, there you have a buffer!" cried Colonel Sharpe, as the much-discomfited doctor bowed with a very ill grace; while I, in no small bewilderment, walked off with Dorothy. And a parting shot of the delighted colonel brought the crimson to my face. Like the wind or April weather was my lady, and her ways far beyond such a great simpleton as I. "So I am ever forced to ask you to dance!" said Dolly. "What were you about, moping off alone, with a party in your honour, sir?" "I was watching you, as I told his Excellency." "Oh, fie!" she cried. "Why don't you assert yourself, Richard? There was a time when you gave me no peace." "And then you rebuked me for dangling," I retorted. Up started the music, the fiddlers bending over their bows with flushed faces, having dipped into the cool punch in the interval. Away flung my lady to meet Singleton, while I swung Patty, who squeezed my hand in return. And soon we were in the heat of it,--sober minuet no longer, but romp and riot, the screams of the lasses a-mingle with our own laughter, as we spun them until they were dizzy. My brain was a-whirl as well, and presently I awoke to find Dolly pinching my arm. "Have you forgotten me, Richard?" she whispered. "My other hand, sir. It is I down the middle." Down we flew between the laughing lines, Dolly tripping with her head high, and then back under the clasped hands in the midst of a fire of raillery. Then the music stopped. Some strange exhilaration was in Dorothy. "Do you remember the place where I used to play fairy godmother, and wind the flowers into my hair?" said she. What need to ask? "Come!" she commanded decisively. "With all my heart!" I exclaimed, wondering at this new caprice. "If we can but slip away unnoticed, they will never find us there," she said. And led the way herself, silent. At length we came to the damp shade where the brook dived under the corner of the wall. I stooped to gather the lilies of the valley, and she wove them into her hair as of old. Suddenly she stopped, the bunch poised in her hand. "Would you miss me if I went away, Richard?" she asked, in a low voice. "What do you mean, Dolly?" I cried, my voice failing. "Just that," said she. "I would miss you, and sorely, tho' you give me trouble enough." "Soon I shall not be here to trouble you, Richard. Papa has decided that we sail next week, on the Annapolis, for home." "Home!" I gasped. "England?" "I am going to make my bow to royalty," replied she, dropping a deep curtsey. "Your Majesty, this is Miss Manners, of the province of Maryland!" "But next week!" I repeated, with a blank face. "Surely you cannot be ready for the Annapolis!" "McAndrews has instructions to send our things after," said she. "There! You are the first person I have told. You should feel honoured, sir." I sat down upon the grass by the brook, and for the moment the sap of life seemed to have left me. Dolly continued to twine the flowers. Through the trees sifted the voices and the music, sounds of happiness far away. When I looked up again, she was gazing into the water. "Are you glad to go?" I asked. "Of course," answered the minx, readily. "I shall see the world, and meet people of consequence." "So you are going to England to meet people of consequence!" I cried bitterly. "How provincial you are, Richard! What people of consequence have we here? The Governor and the honourable members of his Council, forsooth! There is not a title save his Excellency's in our whole colony, and Virginia is scarce better provided." "In spite of my feeling I was fain to laugh at this, knowing well that she had culled it all from little Mr. Marmaduke himself. "All in good time," said I. "We shall have no lack of noted men presently." "Mere two-penny heroes," she retorted. "I know your great men, such as Mr. Henry and Dr. Franklin and Mr. Adams." I began pulling up the grass savagely by the roots. "I'll lay a hundred guineas you have no regrets at leaving any of us, my fine miss!" I cried, getting to my feet. "You would rather be a lady of fashion than have the love of an honest man,--you who have the hearts of too many as it is." Her eyes lighted, but with mirth. Laughing, she chose a little bunch of the lilies and worked them into my coat. "Richard, you silly goose!" she said; "I dote upon seeing you in a temper." I stood between anger and God knows what other feelings, now starting away, now coming back to her. But I always came back. "You have ever said you would marry an earl, Dolly," I said sadly. "I believe you do not care for any of us one little bit." She turned away, so that for the moment I could not see her face, then looked at me with exquisite archness over her shoulder. The low tones of her voice were of a richness indescribable. 'Twas seldom she made use of them. "You will be coming to Oxford, Richard." "I fear not, Dolly," I replied soberly. "I fear not, now. Mr. Carvel is too feeble for me to leave him." At that she turned to me, another mood coming like a gust of wind on the Chesapeake. "Oh, how I wish they were all like you!" she cried, with a stamp of her foot. "Sometimes I despise gallantry. I hate the smooth compliments of your macaronies. I thank Heaven you are big and honest and clumsy and--" "And what, Dorothy?" I asked, bewildered. "And stupid," said she. "Now take me back, sir." We had not gone thirty paces before we heard a hearty bass voice singing: "'It was a lover and his lass, With a hey, with a ho, with a hey nonino.'" And there was Colonel Sharpe, straying along among the privet hedges. And so the morning of her sailing came, so full of sadness for me. Why not confess, after nigh threescore years, that break of day found me pacing the deserted dock. At my back, across the open space, was the irregular line of quaint, top-heavy shops since passed away, their sightless windows barred by solid shutters of oak. The good ship Annapolis, which was to carry my playmate to broader scenes, lay among the shipping, in the gray roads just quickening with returning light. How my heart ached that morning none shall ever know. But, as the sun shot a burning line across the water, a new salt breeze sprang up and fanned a hope into flame. 'Twas the very breeze that was to blow Dorothy down the bay. Sleepy apprentices took down the shutters, and polished the windows until they shone again; and chipper Mr. Denton Jacques, who did such a thriving business opposite, presently appeared to wish me a bright good morning. I knew that Captain Waring proposed to sail at ten of the clock; but after breakfasting, I was of two minds whether to see the last of Miss Dorothy, foreseeing a levee in her honour upon the ship. And so it proved. I had scarce set out in a pungy from the dock, when I perceived a dozen boats about the packet; and when I thrust my shoulders through the gangway, there was the company gathered at the mainmast. They made a gay bit of colour,--Dr. Courtenay in a green coat laced with fine Mechlin, Fitzhugh in claret and silk stockings of a Quaker gray, and the other gentlemen as smartly drest. The Dulany girls and the Fotheringay girls, and I know not how many others, were there to see their friend off for home. In the midst of them was Dorothy, in a crimson silk capuchin, for we had had one of our changes of weather. It was she who spied me as I was drawing down the ladder again. "It is Richard!" I heard her cry. "He has come at last." I gripped the rope tightly, sprang to the deck, and faced her as she came out of the group, her lips parted, and the red of her cheeks vying with the hood she wore. I took her hand silently. "I had given you over, Richard," she said, her eyes looking reproachfully into mine. "Another ten minutes, and I should not have seen you." Indeed, the topsails were already off the caps, the captain on deck, and the men gathered at the capstan. "Have you not enough to wish you good-by, Dolly?" I asked. "There must be a score of them," said my lady, making a face. "But I wish to talk to you." Mr. Marmaduke, however, had no notion of allowing a gathering in his daughter's honour to be broken up. It had been wickedly said of him, when the news of his coming departure got around, that he feared Dorothy would fall in love with some provincial beau before he could get her within reach of a title. When he observed me talking to her, he hurried away from the friends come to see his wife (he had none himself), and seizing me by the arm implored me to take good care of my dear grandfather, and to write them occasionally of the state of his health, and likewise how I fared. "I think Dorothy will miss you more than any of them, Richard," said he. "Will you not, my dear?" But she was gone. I, too, left him without ceremony, to speak to Mrs. Manners, who was standing apart, looking shoreward. She started when I spoke, and I saw that tears were in her eyes. "Are you coming back soon, Mrs. Manners?" I asked. "Oh, Richard! I don't know," she answered, with a little choke in her voice. "I hope it will be no longer than a year, for we are leaving all we hold dear for a very doubtful pleasure." She bade me write to them, as Mr. Marmaduke had, only she was sincere. Then the mate came, with his hand to his cap, respectfully to inform visitors that the anchor was up and down. Albeit my spirits were low, 'twas no small entertainment to watch the doctor and his rivals at their adieus. Courtenay had at his command an hundred subterfuges to outwit his fellows, and so manoeuvred that he was the last of them over the side. As for me, luckily, I was not worth a thought. But as the doctor leaned over her hand, I vowed in my heart that if Dorothy was to be gained only in such a way I would not stoop to it. And in my heart I doubted it. I heard Dr. Courtenay hint, looking meaningly at her cloak, that some of his flowers would not have appeared amiss there. "Why, doctor," says my lady aloud, with a side glance at me, "the wisdom of Solomon might not choose out of twenty baskets." And this was all the thanks he got for near a boat-load of roses! When at length the impatient mate had hurried him off, Dolly turned to me. It was not in me to say more than: "Good-by, Dorothy. And do not forget your old playmate. He will never forget you." We stood within the gangway. With a quick movement she threw open her cloak, and pinned to her gown I saw a faded bunch of lilies of the valley. I had but the time to press her hand. The boatswain's pipe whistled, and the big ship was already sliding in the water as I leaped into my pungy, which Hugo was holding to the ladder. We pulled off to where the others waited. But the Annapolis sailed away down the bay, and never another glimpse we caught of my lady. CHAPTER XII NEWS FROM A FAR COUNTRY If perchance, my dears, there creeps into this chronicle too much of an old man's heart, I know he will be forgiven. What life ever worth living has been without its tender attachment? Because, forsooth, my hair is white now, does Bess flatter herself I do not know her secret? Or does Comyn believe that these old eyes can see no farther than the spectacles before them? Were it not for the lovers, my son, satins and broadcloths had never been invented. And were it not for the lovers, what joys and sorrows would we lack in our lives! That was a long summer indeed. And tho' Wilmot House was closed, I often rode over of a morning when the dew was on the grass. It cheered me to smoke a pipe with old McAndrews, Mr. Manners's factor, who loved to talk of Miss Dorothy near as much as I. He had served her grandfather, and people said that had it not been for McAndrews, the Manners fortune had long since been scattered, since Mr. Marmaduke knew nothing of anything that he should. I could not hear from my lady until near the first of October, and so I was fain to be content with memories--memories and hard work. For I had complete charge of the plantation now. My Uncle Grafton came twice or thrice, but without his family, Aunt Caroline and Philip having declared their independence. My uncle's manner to me was now of studied kindness, and he was at greater pains than before to give me no excuse for offence. I had little to say to him. He spent his visits reading to Mr. Carvel, who sat in his chair all the day long. Mr. Allen came likewise, to perform the same office. My contempt for the rector was grown more than ever. On my grandfather's account, however, I refrained from quarrelling with him. And, when we were alone, my plain speaking did not seem to anger him, or affect him in any way. Others came, too. Such was the affection Mr. Carvel's friends bore him that they did not desert him when he was no longer the companion he had been in former years. We had more company than the summer before. In the autumn a strange thing happened. When we had taken my grandfather to the Hall in June, his dotage seemed to settle upon him. He became a trembling old man, at times so peevish that we were obliged to summon with an effort what he had been. He was suspicious and fault-finding with Scipio and the other servants, though they were never so busy for his wants. Mrs. Willis's dainties were often untouched, and he would frequently sit for hours between slumber and waking, or mumble to himself as I read the prints. But about the time of the equinoctial a great gale came out of the south so strongly that the water rose in the river over the boat landing; and the roof was torn from one of the curing-sheds. The next morning dawned clear, and brittle, and blue. To my great surprise, Mr. Carvel sent for me to walk with him about the place, that he might see the damage with his own eyes. A huge walnut had fallen across the drive, and when he came upon it he stopped abruptly. "Old friend!" he cried, "have you succumbed? After all these years have you dropped from the weight of a blow?" He passed his hand caressingly along the trunk, and scarce ever had I seen him so affected. In truth, for the instant I thought him deranged. He raised his cane above his shoulder and struck the bark so heavily that the silver head sunk deep into the wood. "Look you, Richard," he said, the water coming into his eyes, "look you, the heart of it is gone, lad; and when the heart is rotten 'tis time for us to go. That walnut was a life friend, my son. We have grown together," he continued, turning from me to the giant and brushing his cheeks, "but by God's good will we shall not die so, for my heart is still as young as the days when you were sprouting." And he walked back to the house more briskly than he had come, refusing, for the first time, my arm. And from that day, I say, he began to mend. The lacing of red came again to his cheeks, and before we went back to town he had walked with me to Master Dingley's tavern on the highroad, and back. We moved into Marlboro' Street the first part of November. I had seen my lady off for England, wearing my faded flowers, the panniers of the fine gentleman in a neglected pile at her cabin door. But not once had she deigned to write me. It was McAndrews who told me of her safe arrival. In Annapolis rumours were a-flying of conquests she had already made. I found Betty Tayloe had had a letter, filled with the fashion in caps and gowns, and the mention of more than one noble name. All of this being, for unknown reasons, sacred, I was read only part of the postscript, in which I figured: "The London Season was done almost before we arrived," so it ran. "We had but the Opportunity to pay our Humble Respects to their Majesties; and appear at a few Drum-Majors and Garden Fetes. Now we are off to Brighthelmstone, and thence, so Papa says, to Spa and the Continent until the end of January. I am pining for news of Maryland, dearest Betty. Address me in care of Mr. Ripley, Barrister, of Lincoln's Inn, and bid Richard Carvel write me." "Which does not look as if she were coming back within the year," said Betty, as she poured me a dish of tea. Alas, no! But I did not write. I tried and failed. And then I tried to forget. I was constant at all the gayeties, gave every miss in town a share of my attention, rode to hounds once a week at Whitehall or the South River Club with a dozen young beauties. But cantering through the winter mists 'twas Dolly, in her red riding-cloak and white beaver, I saw beside me. None of them had her seat in the saddle, and none of them her light hand on the reins. And tho' they lacked not fire and skill, they had not my lady's dash and daring to follow over field and fallow, stream and searing, and be in at the death with heightened colour, but never a look away. Then came the first assembly of the year. I got back from Bentley Manor, where I had been a-visiting the Fotheringays, just in time to call for Patty in Gloucester Street. "Have you heard the news from abroad, Richard?" she asked, as I handed her into my chariot. "Never a line," I replied. "Pho!" exclaimed Patty; "you tell me that! Where have you been hiding? Then you shall not have it from me." I had little trouble, however, in persuading her. For news was a rare luxury in those days, and Patty was plainly uncomfortable until she should have it out. "I would not give you the vapours to-night for all the world, Richard," she exclaimed. "But if you must,--Dr. Courtenay has had a letter from Mr. Manners, who says that Dolly is to marry his Grace of Chartersea. There now!" "And I am not greatly disturbed," I answered, with a fine, careless air. The lanthorn on the chariot was burning bright. And I saw Patty look at me, and laugh. "Indeed!" says she; "what a sex is that to which you belong. How ready are men to deny us at the first whisper! And I thought you the most constant of all. For my part, I credit not a word of it. 'Tis one of Mr. Marmaduke's lies and vanities." "And for my part, I think it true as gospel," I cried. "Dolly always held a coronet above her colony, and all her life has dreamed of a duke." "Nay," answered Patty, more soberly; "nay, you do her wrong. You will discover one day that she is loyal to the core, tho' she has a fop of a father who would serve his Grace's chocolate. We are all apt to talk, my dear, and to say what we do not mean, as you are doing." "Were I to die to-morrow, I would repeat it," I exclaimed. But I liked Patty the better for what she had said. "And there is more news, of less import," she continued, as I was silent. "The Thunderer dropped anchor in the roads to-day, and her officers will be at the assembly. And Betty tells me there is a young lord among them,--la! I have clean forgot the string of adjectives she used,--but she would have had me know he was as handsome as Apollo, and so dashing and diverting as to put Courtenay and all our wits to shame. She dined with him at the Governor's." I barely heard her, tho' I had seen the man-o'-war in the harbour as I sailed in that afternoon. The assembly hall was filled when we arrived, aglow with candles and a-tremble with music, the powder already flying, and the tables in the recesses at either end surrounded by those at the cards. A lively scene, those dances at the old Stadt House, but one I love best to recall with a presence that endeared it to me. The ladies in flowered aprons and caps and brocades and trains, and the gentlemen in brilliant coats, trimmed with lace and stiffened with buckram. That night, as Patty had predicted, there was a smart sprinkling of uniforms from the Thunderer. One of those officers held my eye. He was as well-formed a lad, or man (for he was both), as it had ever been my lot to see. He was neither tall nor short, but of a good breadth. His fair skin was tanned by the weather, and he wore his own wavy hair powdered, as was just become the fashion, and tied with a ribbon behind. "Mercy, Richard, that must be his Lordship. Why, his good looks are all Betty claimed for them!" exclaimed Patty. Mr. Lloyd, who was standing by, overheard her, and was vastly amused at her downright way. "I will fetch him directly, Miss Swain," said he, "as I have done for a dozen ladies before you." And fetch him he did. "Miss Swain, this is my Lord Comyn," said he. "Your Lordship, one of the boasts of our province." Patty grew red as the scarlet with which his Lordship's coat was lined. She curtseyed, while he made a profound bow. "What! Another boast, Mr. Lloyd!" he cried. "Miss Swain is the tenth I have met. But I vow they excel as they proceed." "Then you must meet no more, my Lord," said Patty, laughing at Mr. Lloyd's predicament. "Egad, then, I will not," declared Comyn. "I protest I am satisfied." Then I was presented. He had won me on the instant with his open smile and frank, boyish manner. "And this is young Mr. Carvel, whom I hear wins every hunt in the colony?" said he. "I fear you have been misinformed, my Lord," I replied, flashing with pleasure nevertheless. "Nay, my Lord," Mr. Lloyd struck in; "Richard could ride down the devil himself, and he were a fox. You will see for yourself to-morrow." "I pray we may not start the devil," said his Lordship; "or I shall be content to let Mr. Carvel run him down." This Comyn was a man after my own fancy, as, indeed, he took the fancy of every one at the ball. Though a viscount in his own right, he gave himself not half the airs over us provincials as did many of his messmates. Even Mr. Jacques, who was sour as last year's cider over the doings of Parliament, lost his heart, and asked why we were not favoured in America with more of his sort. By a great mischance Lord Comyn had fallen into the tender clutches of my Aunt Caroline. It seemed she had known his uncle, the Honourable Arthur Comyn, in New York; and now she undertook to be responsible for his Lordship's pleasure at Annapolis, that he might meet only those of the first fashion. Seeing him talking to Patty, my aunt rose abruptly from her loo and made toward us, all paint and powder and patches, her chin in the air, which barely enabled her to look over Miss Swain's head. "My Lord," she cries, "I will show you our colonial reel, which is about to begin, and I warrant you is gayer than any dance you have at home." "Your very devoted, Mrs. Carvel," says his Lordship, with a bow, "but Miss Swain has done me the honour." "O Lud!" cries my aunt, sweeping the room, "I vow I cannot keep pace with the misses nowadays. Is she here?" "She was but a moment since, ma'am," replied Comyn, instantly, with a mischievous look at me, while poor Patty stood blushing not a yard distant. There were many who overheard, and who used their fans and their napkins to hide their laughter at the very just snub Mrs. Grafton had received. And I wondered at the readiness with which he had read her character, liking him all the better. But my aunt was not to be disabled by this, --not she. After the dance she got hold of him, keeping him until certain designing ladies with daughters took him away; their names charity forbids me to mention. But in spite of them all he contrived to get Patty for supper, when I took Betty Tayloe, and we were very merry at table together. His Lordship proved more than able to take care of himself, and contrived to send Philip about his business when he pulled up a chair beside us. He drank a health to Miss Swain, and another to Miss Tayloe, and was on the point of filling a third glass to the ladies of Maryland, when he caught himself and brought his hand down on the table. "Gad's life!" cried he, "but I think she's from Maryland, too!" "Who?" demanded the young ladies, in a breath. But I knew. "Who!" exclaimed Comyn. "Who but Miss Dorothy Manners! Isn't she from Maryland?" And marking our astonished nods, he continued: "Why, she descended upon Mayfair when they were so weary for something to worship, and they went mad over her in a s'ennight. I give you Miss Manners!" "And you know her!" exclaimed Patty, her voice quivering with excitement. "Faith!" said his Lordship, laughing. "For a whole month I was her most devoted, as were we all at Almack's. I stayed until the last minute for a word with her,--which I never got, by the way,--and paid near a guinea a mile for a chaise to Portsmouth as a consequence. Already she has had her choice from a thousand a year up, and I tell you our English ladies are green with envy." I was stunned, you may be sure. And yet, I might have expected it. "If your Lordship has left your heart in England," said Betty, with a smile, "I give you warning you must not tell our ladies here of it." "I care not who knows it, Miss Tayloe," he cried. That fustian, insincerity, was certainly not one of his faults. "I care not who knows it. To pass her chariot is to have your heart stolen, and you must needs run after and beg mercy. But, ladies," he added, his eye twinkling; "having seen the women of your colony, I marvel no longer at Miss Manners's beauty." He set us all a-laughing. "I fear you were not born a diplomat, sir," says Patty. "You agree that we are beautiful, yet to hear that one of us is more so is small consolation." "We men turn as naturally to Miss Manners as plants to the sun, ma'am," he replied impulsively. "Yet none of us dare hope for alliance with so brilliant and distant an object. I make small doubt those are Mr. Carvel's sentiments, and still he seems popular enough with the ladies. How now, sir? How now, Mr. Carvel? You have yet to speak on so tender a subject." My eyes met Patty's. "I will be no more politic than you, my Lord," I said boldly, "nor will I make a secret of it that I adore Miss Manners full as much." "Bravo, Richard!" cries Patty; and "Good!" cries his Lordship, while Betty claps her hands. And then Comyn swung suddenly round in his chair. "Richard Carvel!" says he. "By the seven chimes I have heard her mention your name. The devil fetch my memory!" "My name!" I exclaimed, in surprise, and prodigiously upset. "Yes," he answered, with his hand to his head; "some such thought was in my mind this afternoon when I heard of your riding. Stay! I have it! I was at Ampthill, Ossory's place, just before I left. Some insupportable coxcomb was boasting a marvellous run with the hounds nigh across Hertfordshire, and Miss Manners brought him up with a round turn and a half hitch by relating one of your exploits, Richard Carvel. And take my word on't she got no small applause. She told how you had followed a fox over one of your rough provincial counties, which means three of Hertfordshire, with your arm broken, by Heaven! and how they lifted you off at the death. And, Mr. Carvel," said my Lord, generously, looking at my flushed face, "you must give me your hand for that." So Dorothy in England had thought of me at least. But what booted it if she were to marry a duke! My thoughts began to whirl over all Comyn had said of her so that I scarce heard a question Miss Tayloe had put. "Marry Chartersea! That profligate pig!" Comyn was saying. "She would as soon marry a chairman or a chimneysweep, I'm thinking. Why, Miss Tayloe, Sir Charles Grandison himself would scarce suit her!" "Good lack!" said Betty, "I think Sir Charles would be the very last for Dorothy." 
46195	----	AN ACCIDENTAL HONEYMOON ------------------------------------------------------------------------ By DAVID POTTER I FASTEN A BRACELET "Fine Character Drawing" Colored Frontispiece by Martin Justice 12mo, decorated cloth, $1.25 net. -------------- THE LADY OF THE SPUR "A Story of Strong Men and Healthy Women" Colored Frontispiece by Clarence F. Underwood 12mo, decorated cloth, $1.50 J. B. Lippincott Company PUBLISHERS PHILADELPHIA ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [Illustration: ALL THAT GOLDEN AFTERNOON THEY SAILED, AND ALL THE AFTERNOON THEY TALKED (Page 135)] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ AN ACCIDENTAL HONEYMOON By DAVID POTTER Author of "The Lady of the Spur," "I Fasten a Bracelet," etc. WITH ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOR BY GEORGE W. GAGE AND DECORATIONS BY EDWARD STRATTON HOLLOWAY [Illustration] PHILADELPHIA AND LONDON J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY 1911 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY COPYRIGHT, 1911, BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY PUBLISHED OCTOBER, 1911 PRINTED BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY AT THE WASHINGTON SQUARE PRESS PHILADELPHIA, U. S. A. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ ILLUSTRATIONS All that Golden Afternoon They Sailed, and all the Afternoon They Talked "But You've Been Standing in the Water all This Time! What am I Thinking of!" He Waved His Hat from the Gate Miss Yarnell Mounted the Pair of Steps from the Cabin "I'm Afraid You'll Find the Cabin-Door Catch is Broken," said Madge Yarnell in an Undertone "Good-Morning, Patience-on-a-Monument" "Betty, Allow Me to Drink Your Health in Jersey Molly Wine" All the Chivalry in Fessenden's Nature Stirred at Her Words ------------------------------------------------------------------------ MR. FRANCIS CHARLES MCDONALD, OF PRINCETON UNIVERSITY, IS THE AUTHOR OF THE POEM, "BOB WHITE," MADE USE OF IN THIS STORY. I BEG TO EXPRESS MY GRATITUDE FOR HIS PERMISSION TO AVAIL MYSELF OF IT. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ AN ACCIDENTAL HONEYMOON I Fessenden put the girl gently down on the flat rock at the edge of the stream. "There you are, little woman," he said. "You really ought to be careful how you go splashing about. If you hadn't screamed in time----" "Did I scream?" "Rather! Lucky you did." "I didn't scream because I was afraid. I stumbled and--and I thought I saw an eel in that pool, ready to bite me. Eels _do_ bite." "Undoubtedly--horribly!" He stepped back with a little flourish of the hat in his hand. "I beg your pardon," he said. "I took you for a child. That dress, you know, and----" "And my being in paddling." "I'm afraid I've been rather presumptuous." The color in her cheeks deepened a little. "Not at all. It's my own fault. This afternoon--just for an hour or two--I've been dreaming--pretending I wasn't grown up. It's so sad to be grown up." His eyes sparkled with instant sympathy. "After all, are you so _very_ old?" She was seventeen or thereabouts, he guessed--a girl lately arrived at womanhood. Her hair was arranged in a bewildering fashion, requiring a ribbon here and there to keep its blonde glory within bounds. Beneath the dark brows and darker lashes blue eyes showed in sudden flashes--like the glint of bayonets from an ambush. The delicately rounded cheeks, just now a little blushing, and the red-lipped mouth, made her look absurdly young. She had sunk to a seat upon the rock. One foot was doubled under her, and the other, a white vision veiled by the water, dangled uncertainly, as if inclined to seek the retirement possessed by its fellow. His gaze lingered on the curve of throat and shoulder. "If Phidias were only alive----" he said. "Phidias?" [Illustration: "BUT YOU'VE BEEN STANDING IN THE WATER ALL THIS TIME! WHAT AM I THINKING OF!"] "A Greek friend of mine, dead some years. He would have loved to turn you into marble." She gave a little crowing laugh, delightful to hear. "I'd much rather stay alive." "You are right. Better be a Greek goddess alive, than one dead." She laughed again, "You're--unusual." He bowed with another flourish. "Then, so are you." Their eyes met frankly. "Thank you for coming to my rescue," she said. "But you've been standing in the water all this time! What am I thinking of! Come up here." She sprang to her feet, as if to make room for him upon the rock, but sank back quickly. He gave her a scrutinizing glance. "What was that I heard?" "I asked you to get out of that horrid water. It must be frightfully cold." He shook an admonitory finger. "Bravely done, but you can't fool me so easily. I heard a moan, and--and I won't remark that you're crying." "You'd--better not." "You hurt yourself when you stumbled." His firm hand was on her shoulder. "No--n-o. Well, even if I did turn my ankle, I'm not crying. It's very tactless of you to notice." He tried to catch a glimpse of the slim leg through the dancing water. It swung back in vigorous embarrassment. "The other ankle, then?" "Ye-es." "I'm awfully sorry. Can't I do something?" "I think I'll go home." "But you can't walk." "I think so. Isn't this just too tiresome? I _will_ walk." She rose to her feet at the word, but, once there, gave a cry, and stood tottering. His arm caught her about the waist. "Where do you live? Near here anywhere?" "Oh, yes; just up the lane. But it might as well be ten miles." Her brave laugh was half a sob. "Not a bit of it! Hold tight." She flushed and gave an astonished wriggle as she found herself lifted and borne up the lane. "Don't squirm so, child," he ordered. "You're carrying me!" "Oh, no! We're playing lawn-tennis." "Goodness! You fairly _grabbed_ me." "Perhaps I ought to have asked your permission, but if I had you might have refused it." She laughed. "I think I should." "It's too late now," he said contentedly. "Does the foot hurt?" "Not much, thank you--thank you, Mr.----" He was obdurately silent. She tried again. "Thank you, Mr. ----. Please, what's your name?" "'Puddin' Tame,'" he laughed. "'Where do you live?'" she chanted delightedly. "'Down the lane.' No, _you_ live down the lane." "It isn't far now. Are you tired?" "Oh, no! I'm doing very well, thank you." "Perhaps you'd better rest." "By no means. I hope you live over the hills and far away." "You aren't bashful, are you, Mr. Puddin' Tame?" "H'm." He peered down at the injured ankle. "How's the foot?" "A little--cold." "I'm afraid the wrench has interfered with the circulation. Poor child!" "Really, it doesn't hurt--not much." "I see you were born to be a heroine." "And you're a 'knight comes riding by, riding by, riding by'----" "'So early in the morning,'" he finished. "If the knight were sure you thought so"--his eyes were on her cheek--"he might claim a knight's reward." She fell abruptly silent. The Maryland spring was well advanced, and the path along which they moved was carpeted with flowers. The blue bells of the wild myrtle swung almost at their feet. Scarlet runners rioted over the low stone wall at their hand. The sycamores and oaks were clothed in tenderest green. Beyond the left-hand wall, rows of peach-trees marched away, flaunting banners of pink and white. Fessenden heard the tinkle of the brook, winding in the shadow of overhanging banks. Sights and sounds lulled him. He felt himself in harmony with the quiet mood of the girl in his arms. Truly this was an unexpected adventure! His eyes rested upon the piquant face so near his own. It possessed a refinement of outline that was belied by the humble fashion of her gown and by the position in which he had surprised her. The precocious daughter of a farmer, perhaps, or at best the neglected child of one of the war-ruined "first families of the South." He found himself speculating upon the sort of house he was likely to discover at the end of the lane--perhaps a crumbling colonial mansion, equipped with a Confederate colonel and a faithful former slave or two. He smiled unconsciously at the red mouth, and was somewhat disconcerted to find the blue eyes watching him. "Were you making fun of me, Mr. Puddin' Tame?" "Word of honor, no! I was smiling to be in harmony with the day, I fancy." "Maryland _is_ lovely. You're a Northern man, aren't you?" "I freely admit it. But I'm on my way to a house-party at Sandywood." "Sandywood?" "Yes. You know it, of course?" "Of course. It's just over the hill from the Landis house--our house. Sandywood is the old Cary place." "I don't know. I'm to visit a family named Cresap." "It's the same place. The Cresaps are only occupying it for a while." "Then you know Mrs. Cresap?" "Hum-m. Aunty Landis knows her, but I suppose she doesn't know _us_--not in the way you mean. I live with Aunt Katey Landis at White Cottage. Uncle Bob Landis supplies Sandywood with eggs and butter and milk." "Oh, I see." "You've never been on the Eastern Shore before?" "Never. But I've learned to like it already. To rescue a girl from man-eating eels, and----" "Girls don't go in wading every day, even on the Eastern Shore." "If they did, I'd walk over from the railroad station straight through the year." "From Sandywood Station?" "Yes. I was delayed in Baltimore on account of meeting a friend there, so there wasn't any one at the station to meet me. I'm a good walker, and----" "And the fairies led you down the wood-road in time to save disobedient me." "Disobedient?" She nodded. "Aunty Landis told me that I mustn't go in wading. She said it was not becoming--that it was very improper." "How unreasonable!" "That's what I thought. But I wish now I'd obeyed her." "But that would have meant that the poor knight would have ridden by without an excuse for knowing you." "Alas! Well, your task is nearly done. We must be near White Cottage." "Don't say that." She glanced about, and then gave a wriggle so violent that she almost slipped from his arms. "Put me down!" "What's the matter?" "We're nearer than I thought. There's the big oak. The lane comes right up to the back door. The house is on the main road, you know. Put me down!" "But why shouldn't I carry you into the house?" "Because--oh, because Aunty Landis would be terribly frightened! She'd think something dreadful had happened to me. Please put me down. I can limp along, if you'll let me use your arm." He allowed her to slip slowly to the ground. "There you are, then; but be careful." A sigh of relief escaped her as she tried her weight gingerly on the injured foot. "It's ever so much better. I won't even have to hop." Her face was upturned earnestly. "Thank you very much, Mr. Puddin' Tame. You've been very kind." "You're very welcome," he returned, and, seized by a sudden paternal tenderness, he stooped and kissed the red-lipped mouth. She stepped back with a sharp "Oh!" mingled of anger and the pain of her twisted ankle. "Oh! Why did you do that? We were having such fun, and--and now you've spoiled the whole afternoon. What a--a perfectly silly thing to do!" He quailed before the bayonets flashing in the blue eyes. "I was carried away," he said humbly. "I hate you!" "No, no. Don't--please don't do that. Of course I was wrong--unpardonably wrong, I suppose--but you looked so young, and--well, so adorable, that I---- Oh, please don't hate me!" His gloom was so profound that, in spite of herself, she felt her wrath begin to melt. "If you're sure you're very sorry----" "I'm in the dust," he evaded. "Then--all right." She smiled a little, but with caution--he should not be allowed to think himself too easily restored to favor. "I frightened you, didn't I? And you ought to have been frightened. But to show you I trust you now, I'll use your arm as a crutch. Come on. Oh, _what_ a delicious sight for poor Aunty Landis!" Truly enough, the spectacle brought to her feet a motherly-looking woman who had been knitting on the porch of White Cottage. "Good gracious, child! What's the matter?" She fluttered down the steps to meet the bedraggled adventurers. "Have you hurt yourself, dearie? Oh, dear, dear! What is it? Have you broken your leg?" "I'm all right, Aunty. Don't worry. My ankle _might_ be turned a little, that's all. This gentleman has been very kind to me, and helped me home." The woman made Fessenden a spasmodic bow. "I'm sure we're much obliged to you, sir. Is it your ankle, dearie? I told you not to go in wading. The idea of such a thing, and you a young lady!" "Now, Aunty, please don't scold me--not until my foot's fixed, at any rate." Although the girl's lips quivered warningly, Fessenden could have sworn her eyes laughed slyly. But the older woman's vexation was effectually dissolved by the other's pitiful tone. "There, there! You poor silly baby! Come right in, and I'll put your foot in hot water and mustard. That'll take the soreness out." She passed her arm lovingly about the girl's slender shoulders and was leading her away without more ado. The girl hung back. "Aunty, I haven't thanked him--half." "I'm sure the gentleman's been very good," said Mrs. Landis, "but he knows your foot ought to be soaked in hot water just as soon as can be. There won't be any too much time to do it before supper, any way." "By all means," agreed Fessenden. "I'm very glad if I've been of service." Mischief awoke in his glance. "I've had ample reward for anything I've been able to do." The blood crept into the girl's cheeks, but she was not afraid to meet his eyes. "Good-by," he said with evident reluctance. "I hope your ankle will be well very soon." The laughing imps in her eyes suddenly emboldened him. "May I come to-morrow evening to see how you're getting on?" "Of course--if you like. We're through supper by half-past seven, and----" "Supper?" he returned, and paused so pointedly that the girl laughed outright. [Illustration: HE WAVED HIS HAT FROM THE GATE] "O-oh! Would you care to come to supper with us, really?" "Don't ask me unless you're in earnest." "Will you come, then, at half-past six?" "I'll come. Thank you--immensely. Good-night. Good-night, Mrs. Landis." "Good-night, good-night, Mr. Puddin' Tame," called the girl as she hobbled up the steps, supported on the older woman's arm. He waved his hat from the gate, and the girl blew him a smiling kiss--to the very evident embarrassment of Aunty Landis. II Fessenden turned to the right on the main road. At a little distance he paused to glance back at White Cottage. There was nothing of the colonial manor-house in its lines. Clearly, it had always been the home of humble folk. He fancied that good Aunty Landis--whose husband supplied Sandywood "with eggs and milk and butter"--would be the last to lay claim to gentility. It was a little disappointing to be compelled to abandon his dream of a Confederate colonel and of a decayed "first family." "But the little girl is perfectly charming," he mused, and strode up the road humming: "Oh, she smashed all the hearts Of the swains in them parts, Did Mistress Biddy O'Toole." The directions given him by the station-master at Sandywood Station had been so clear that, although a stranger to this part of the country, Fessenden had found his way thus far easily enough. Now, as he topped the rise, his eyes fell at once upon Sandywood House: a buff-and-white structure, with the pillared expansiveness of a true colonial mansion. It was set upon a knoll, across an intervale, the wide expanse of the Chesapeake shimmering in front of it. Ardent Marylanders had been known to maintain that it was fully the equal of Mount Vernon itself. The avenue leading up toward the back of the house from the main road wound a couple of hundred yards through a garden of box and lilac, then swept the pedestrian about an ell to the steps of a demilune porch, and almost vis-à-vis with half a dozen men and women drinking tea. A plump, neutral-tinted woman, a trifle over-gowned, hurried forward to greet him. "Why, Tom Fessenden!" she exclaimed. "So here you are at last! You bad man, you didn't come on the right train. Your things arrived this morning, but when the car came back from the station without you, I thought you'd backed out. The next thing I was expecting was a letter from you, saying you couldn't come at all, you irresponsible man!" "I _would_ have been a loser." "Ve-ry pretty. Really, though, we _have_ a jolly crowd here. All complete except for Roland Cary. If Roland Cary hadn't notions!" "Is any man foolish enough to decline an invitation from you?" "Any man? Oh, Roland Cary's a cousin." "Lucky man! Madam, may I ask if he is so attractive that you wish he had come instead of me?" "I wanted--wanted him to be here with you, silly. He--he is perfectly charming. You know, I'm half afraid of _you_. You're such a superior old Yankee that I dare say you despise us Marylanders, and were as late in getting here as you _dared_ to be." The perennial challenge of the Southern belle was in her tones. Fessenden laughed. "I ran across Danton in Baltimore. Blame it all on him." "Charlie Danton? Oh, isn't he most exasperating! Now, come up and meet everybody. Boys and girls, this is Mr. Fessenden--Mrs. Randall and Dick Randall, over there. And Pinckney--Pinck, do get out of that chair long enough to be polite!--my lord and master, Tom. That's my cousin, May Belle--May Belle Cresap--and Harry Cleborne; and _this_ is Miss Yarnell, the celebrated Miss Madge Yarnell; and--and that's all. How funny! I do believe I'm the only one of us you've ever met before." "That proves how benighted I've been," he returned. "But what can you expect of a man who's never been on the Eastern Shore?" Detecting something proprietary in the manner of the young man who hung over the back of Miss May Belle Cresap's chair, he abandoned his thought of taking a seat next that languid lady, and instead inserted himself deftly between Pinckney Cresap and Miss Madge Yarnell. Cresap shook hands heartily. "Glad to see you, Fessenden. I've heard a lot of you from Polly ever since she knew you in New York--before she did me the honor to marry me. Glad you've got down to see us on our native heath at last." He poked a rather shaky finger at the stranded mint-leaf in the empty glass before him. "A julep? No? You mentioned Charlie Danton just now. You've heard about his high doings, I suppose. Perhaps you're in his confidence?" "Not at all. He's in mine, to the extent of persuading me to buy a small yacht of his this morning--sight unseen. He promised to telegraph over this way somewhere and have it sent around to your boat-landing--if you'll allow me." "Of course. My man will take care of it when it turns up. Danton's a queer one." He rattled his empty glass suggestively at his wife. "He seemed as cynical as ever," commented Fessenden. "He ought to be. They say that if it were befo' de wah' he'd have to meet a certain Baltimore man on the field of honor--a married man, you understand. Coffee and pistols for two!" Fessenden was willing to elude the foreshadowed gossip. "We're shocking Miss Yarnell, I'm afraid." The girl was, indeed, sitting with averted head, her face set rather sternly. "Eh! Oh, I beg your pardon, Madge," said Cresap, with real concern. "I hardly heard what you were saying," she rejoined. "I was thinking of something else." Her voice was unusually deep and mellow, and Fessenden's sensitive ear thrilled pleasurably. He glanced toward her. She was a decided brunette. Her eyes as they met his had a certain defiant challenge, a challenge at once bold and baffling. The distance between her eyes was a trifle too great for perfect beauty, but her complexion was transparently pale, and her teeth were wonderfully white and even. The poise of her head was almost regal, and she had a trick of coming very close to one as she talked, that was very disconcerting. On the whole, Miss Yarnell was a charming person of twenty-three or four, and he began to have a decided appreciation of the adjective Polly Cresap had applied to her. Moreover, the sombre challenge in her dark eyes impelled him to further investigation, under the clatter of teacups and small talk about them. "Why 'celebrated,' Miss Yarnell?" he began. "Why 'celebrated' rather than 'beautiful' or 'stunning' or downright 'handsome'?" "Polly's rather silly," said Miss Yarnell. "Are you dodging?" "I never dodge. But Polly _is_ silly--yes, she's unkind, although she'd be in tears if she dreamed I thought so. She ought not to have called me _that_. No, I don't dodge, but I suppose I can refuse to answer." He declined to notice the ungraciousness of her response. "Oh, of course, but I'm certain to learn the reason you're 'celebrated' from some one--badly garbled, too," he laughed. Contrary to the spirit of his badinage, she seemed resolved to take him seriously. "That's true. I may as well tell you. I'm celebrated--'notorious' would be a better word--because of that affair in Baltimore last year. I was an idiot." "Hard words for yourself. I think I don't understand." "You don't know Baltimore, then?" "Very little. The Club is about all, and that not more than once or twice a year." "The Club! If you've been there once this winter, I'm afraid you've heard of _me_. I'm Madge Yarnell, _the_ Madge Yarnell, the girl who tore down the flag at the cotillion." "O-oh!" He gave her a long stare. "It was _you_." She winced before the contempt in his tone, and her eyes glistened suddenly. "I'm confessing to you," she reminded him with a humility that he knew instinctively was wholly unwonted. "I'm not proud of what I did, although some of my friends"--her glance swept over Polly Cresap--"are still foolish enough to tease me about it." Compelled by his eyes and the light touch of his hand on her arm, she rose with him, and they sauntered together to the isolation of a pillar on the porch-edge. The great bay, now purpling with the first hint of sunset, stretched from the foot of the knoll to the hazy hills of the western shore. Little red glints flashed from the surface of the water and seemed to be reflected in the depths of Miss Yarnell's sombre eyes. She stood with her hands behind her, her head turned a little from him, but held very proudly. A strong woman, evidently; a passionate one, perhaps; a devoted one, if the right man were found. Fessenden, studying her covertly, realized that for the second time that day he had encountered a girl who stirred in him an interest novel and delightful. "Tell me about it, Miss Yarnell," he said at last. "I've only heard that you refused to enter the cotillion room so long as the Stars and Stripes decorated the doorway, and that finally you took down the flag with your own hands. I remember the _Evening Post_ had a solemn editorial on the sinister significance of your alleged performance. It couldn't have been true--I realize that now that I know you. No one could accuse you--you of--that is----" "Of vulgarity. Thank you for being too kind to say it. But I'm afraid most of it's true." "I can't believe it." She turned a grateful glance upon him. His steady, reassuring smile seemed to give her a long-needed sense of comfort and protection. In spite of herself, her eyes fell before his, and her cheeks reddened a little. "I'll tell you all about it," she said. "I did it on a dare. A year ago I was unbelievably silly--I've learned a great deal in a year. A man dared me--and I did it." "I don't acquit you--quite; but what an egregious cad the man must have been!" "No, no, don't think that. He never dreamed I would really dare. But I was determined to show him I wasn't afraid--wasn't afraid of anything--not even of him." "Of him?" "Yes." "O-oh!" he said slowly. "I see. Well, _were_ you afraid--afterward?" She swung her hands from behind her back and struck them together with a sudden gesture of anger. "No, but I hated him. I hate him! Not that he wasn't game. When I turned to him with that dear flag dangling in my hand, he swept me off in a two-step, flag and all. But he smiled. Oh, how he smiled!" She drew a long breath. "D---- his smile!" Her desperate little oath was only pathetic. "I can see that triumphant twist about the corner of his mouth now, like a crooked scar." "Good Lord! Charlie Danton!" Her startled look confirmed the guess her words denied. "No, no." "By Jove! don't I know that smile? We were in college together, you know, and I've made him put on the gloves with me more than once on account of that devilish smile. But I'll do him the justice to believe that he didn't really suppose you'd take that dare." He interrupted himself to laugh a little. "How seriously we're talking! After all, it's no great matter if a--a rather foolish girl did a rather foolish thing." She refused to be enlivened. "I had it out with him," she said. "And since then we haven't seen anything of each other. You heard what Pinckney Cresap said just now?" "About Danton and the possibility of a duel?" "Yes. I'm afraid that's partly my fault. I sent him away, and----" "I see. If he's weak enough to seek consolation in that way, he deserves to lose you." She smiled frankly. "You're very, very comforting. I'm glad I confessed to you--it's done me good." The clatter of the group at the tea-table behind them had effectually muffled the sound of their voices. Their eyes and thoughts, too, had been so preoccupied that it was only now they became aware of a small boy standing on the gravelled walk in front of them. He wore a checked shirt and patched trousers on his diminutive person, and freckles and a disgusted expression on his face. "Gee Whilliken!" exclaimed this apparition, with startling vehemence. "I been standin' here 'most an hour, I bet, without you lookin' at me oncet. I'm Jimmy Jones." "Welcome, scion of an illustrious family!" said Fessenden. "What is your pleasure?" "Ah, g'wan," returned Master Jones. "I got a letter, that's what. I got a letter here for----" He broke off to scan his questioner closely. "You're the man, ain't you? Tall, good-looker, wet pants. Say, Mister, ain't your name Puddin' Tame?" "'Puddin' Tame'?" asked Miss Yarnell, smiling. "Is it a game you want to play, kiddy?" "No, ma'am, 'tain't a game. I want to see _him_. Say, ain't you Puddin' Tame?" "I've been called so," admitted Fessenden, surprised but greatly diverted. "But I'll let you into a secret, Jimmy: it's not my real name." "Aw, who said it was? Don't I know it's a nickname? Guess I heard of Puddin' Tame before you was born." "I believe your guess is incorrect, James." "No, 'tain't neither. Say, here's the letter for you. There ain't no answer." He thrust an envelope into Fessenden's fingers, and disappeared around the corner of the house with a derisive whoop. The sound served to divert the tea-drinkers from their chatter. "What! A _billet doux_ already?" said Mrs. Dick Randall. "This _is_ rushing matters, Mr. Fessenden. I think it's only fair you should let us know who she is." A chorus of exclamations followed, in which, however, Miss Yarnell did not join. "Polly," said Cresap at last, "don't tease Fessenden. Rather, if your inferior half may venture the humble suggestion, I would urge a casual glance at his trousers. What do you see, Little Brighteyes?" "Goodness, Tom! They're _wet_. Positively dripping!" "I lost my way coming over, and had to wade through a brook." "And I never noticed it until now. And I declare I haven't given you a chance to get to your room yet. Pinck, why _didn't_ you remind me? Ring the bell, please. Tom, you must change your things right away." Alone in his room, Fessenden read the note delivered by the cadet of the house of Jones. DEAR MR. PUDDIN' TAME: Shall we have it for a secret that you're coming to supper at our house to-morrow? We aren't quality folk, and maybe Mrs. Cresap wouldn't like it. So please don't breathe it to a soul, but just steal away, and come. BETTY. III Before luncheon the next day, Fessenden had begun to acquire some acquaintance with the members of the Sandywood house-party--a particular acquaintance with the celebrated Miss Yarnell. It did not take him long to perceive that Miss Yarnell and he had been provided for each other's amusement. Harry Cleborne's fatuous devotion to May Belle Cresap--Fessenden rather disliked the two-part Christian name--and the good-natured cliquishness of the four married people, threw upon him the duty of entertaining the unattached bachelor girl. He took up the burden with extraordinary cheerfulness. Pinckney Cresap watched his progress, frankly interested. Once, indeed, he took occasion to compliment him. "You Northerners _have_ some temperament, I see. If only Roland Cary were here, my boy!" "He would have even more, I suppose," laughed Fessenden. "Polly told me about him yesterday." "Eh? Oh, yes, so she was telling me. Oh, I'm not sure about the temperament--unfortunately, I haven't had a chance to judge." He chuckled. "But there's a charm there, that's certain." He chuckled again, as if vastly amused at the recollection of some humor of Roland Cary's. "An eligible _parti_," he went on. "The head of _the_ first family of Maryland. Father and mother both dead--brought up by a doting great-uncle." "Confound him! I'm quite jealous. Where is he? Doesn't he dare show himself?" "Off on some philanthropic scheme, I believe. Roland Cary has notions. But you needn't be jealous--you're doing very well with Madge Yarnell." Toward noon, as they were all debating whether or not a game of tennis was worth while, a trim-looking sloop rounded a wooded point of the bay shore, and ran down toward the boat-landing. "I think that's your yacht, Fessenden," said Cresap. "If Danton has been keeping her up at the Polocoke River Club, she'd be just about due here now." "Let's all go down and have a look at her." A hat or two had to be gotten, and by the time they reached the landing-stage the boat was already tied up. A sunburned man touched his cap to the party. "Mr. Charles Danton's _Will-o'-the-Wisp_," he said. "I was to deliver her at the Cary place, to Mr. Fessenden." "I'm Mr. Fessenden. She looks like a good boat." "There ain't any better of her class from Cape May to Hatteras," said the boatman. "It's a pity Mr. Danton's got the power-boat idea in his head." "Yes, he told me that was one of the reasons he's giving up the _Will-o'-the-Wisp_. He's bought a hundred-ton steam-yacht, I believe." "That's right, sir. Well, she's all right, and I'm to be master of her, so I guess I hadn't ought to complain, but, after all, a real sailer is better, _I_ think, sir." The boat was sloop-rigged, seaworthy rather than fast, and, for her length, very broad of beam and astonishingly roomy. Spars and deck were spick and span in new ash, and her sides glistened with white paint. "Would you like to go over her?" suggested the boatman. "Here's the keys to everything, Mr. Fessenden--the rooms, and these are for the lockers and the water-tanks." The party clambered aboard and proceeded to explore the little craft. The women exclaimed with surprise and delight. "Two cabins!" said Mrs. Dick Randall. "One at each end--do you see, Polly? And what's this cunning cubby-hole between the rooms?" "That's the galley, ma'am," answered the boatman. "The kitchen, you'd call it. Do you see that little oil-stove, there? Big enough to do what's wanted plenty. Yes'm, she's as well found as any old-time Baltimore clipper, she is. A cabin aft for the owner, and a fok's'l room for me. Mr. Danton used to say he had a right to make me comfortable, if he wanted to. You know his queer ways, maybe. We kept the stores in those lockers. She's got some of 'em aboard yet." "I should say so," declared Polly, who had been rummaging about. "Potted tongue and jams, and a whole ham, and, I declare, here's the sweetest little coffee-tin full of coffee!" "Mr. Danton was thinkin' of takin' a cruise," explained the boatman. "And when you bought the _Wisp_, sir, he telegraphed to turn her over right away, in case you wanted to use her while you was here. Well, gentlemen, if you'll excuse me, I'll be walkin' over to the station to catch my train back to Polocoke." He touched his cap and tramped away up the knoll toward the road. "Let's all go for a sail in her," said May Belle. At the suggestion, an idea sprang full-grown into Fessenden's mind. "Some other time," he returned. "I'd rather try her out by myself first. I want to see if she has any mean tricks before I risk any life besides my own. If the wind's right, I may tack about a bit this afternoon." He realized that he had explained too elaborately--Miss Yarnell bent an intent look upon him. As he was returning up the pathway at her side--the others a safe distance ahead--she touched his arm. "Please take me with you when you go sailing this afternoon?" "Oh, I may not go. If I do, I think you'd better not. You see, the _Wisp_ may be a crank." "Nonsense! Besides, I'm a good sailor--swimmer too. I shouldn't care if we were capsized." "I'd care for you." "Please take me. I want particularly to go." "Really, I can't." "You mean you won't!" "I'd rather not, at any rate." Again her intent look surprised him. "Not if I bent 'on bended knee' to you?" "Not if you begged me with bitter tears," he laughed. "I thought you wouldn't, before I asked you," she said broodingly. "I knew it would be of no use." "You did? Why do you want so much to go?" "If I tell you that, will you tell me why you won't take me?" "I can't promise. But what reason can there be except that I don't care to risk your life in a boat I know nothing about?" "What solicitude!" she said with sarcasm. "'Men were deceivers ever.'" She gave him an enigmatic smile as they took up their tennis rackets. Beyond an amused wonder at the vagaries of the modern American--or, at any rate, Maryland--girl, this incident made little impression on Fessenden's mind, occupied as it was with schemes of its own. By the time luncheon had been over an hour or two, however, and it drew on to the time when he might be expected to take out the _Will-o'-the-Wisp_, he confidently anticipated a renewal of Miss Yarnell's request. He was downright disappointed, therefore, when the young woman in question announced that she had a slight headache and thought a nap would do her good. Polly and Mrs. Dick chorused hearty approval, and Pinckney advised a julep. Thus supported, Miss Yarnell mounted the staircase from the wide hallway, not vouchsafing a single glance at Fessenden, who lingered rather ostentatiously about in his yachting flannels. Although his determination--as whimsical as the girl who had inspired it--to keep his projected visit to White Cottage a secret forbade the presence of Madge Yarnell upon the _Wisp_, he would willingly have had another trial of wits with her. However, this was denied him. Mrs. Dick and Polly made perfunctory petitions to accompany him, easily waved aside. Dick Randall himself and Cresap were too lazy even to offer their companionship. May Belle and her follower had taken themselves off an hour before. Thus Fessenden found nothing to hinder his announced plan of trying out the _Wisp_ alone. "I'm off," he declared. "By the way, if I'm not back for dinner, don't worry, and don't wait dinner for me. The wind may fall and make it a drifting match against time, you know, so don't think of delaying dinner, if I don't turn up." Once on board the sloop, he cast off, hoisted mainsail and jib, and stood away to the northward. Although unfamiliar with the dry land of Maryland, Fessenden was not entirely so with its waters. Once or twice he had taken a cruise on the fickle Chesapeake, and he was fairly well acquainted with the character of the sailing and the configuration of the bay. Moreover, he had given a half-hour's close study to some of Cresap's charts that morning. He knew, therefore, that his first long reach on the starboard tack would take him well clear of the land. Thence he planned to come about and sail with the wind to a little cove he had noticed on the map. This cove lay a mile or so above Sandywood, and was concealed therefrom by a heavily-wooded point. He counted upon making a landing there about six o'clock. It was a delightful day for sailing. The breeze was firm, but not too strong--just brisk enough to ruffle the water with a steady purr under the bow as the sloop slid up into the wind. In pure enjoyment Fessenden whistled shrilly and sang snatches of song. His trip had enough of mystery about it to arouse all the boy in him. The thought of his evasion of Miss Yarnell's importunity, too, made him laugh aloud. To be sure, his merriment was a little diminished by his recollection that she had shown no desire to accompany him at the last. Was she merely whimsical, he wondered, or had she acted with a motive? He hauled the mainsail a trifle tauter, and watched with critical eye the flattening of the canvas. The _Wisp_ fairly sailed herself, and needed little attention. He burst into song: "And bends the gallant mast, my boys, While, like the eagle fre-e-e, Away the good ship flies and leaves Old England on her lee." He stopped. The wind pushed persistently at the flattening sail; the water purred under the bow; the shore was already hazy behind him. These things were as they ought to be, yet he had become conscious that something extraordinary had interrupted his flow of song. His eyes, sweeping the whole horizon, came back to the sloop, surveyed her slowly from bowsprit to rudder-post, and rested finally on the closed double-doors of the little cabin that faced him across the cockpit. At that moment a loud knocking shook the latticed doors. Then a mellow voice spoke distinctly: "'Behind no prison grate,' she said, 'That slurs the sunshine half a mile, Live captives so uncomforted As souls behind a smile-- God's pity let us pray,' she said." The doors were flung open, and framed in the hatchway appeared the upper part of the body, the dark hair, the defiant eyes, and the faintly-smiling mouth of the celebrated Miss Madge Yarnell. [Illustration: MISS YARNELL MOUNTED THE PAIR OF STEPS FROM THE CABIN] IV For a moment Fessenden could only stare. Then he gave a long whistle. "This Maryland climate is--extraordinary!" he remarked to the horizon. Miss Yarnell mounted the pair of steps from the cabin to the level of the cockpit, and seated herself on the lockers. "I simply had to come," she explained. "Marvellous impulsion!" "I'm not welcome, then?" "I'm afraid you've guessed it." "Obstinate--man!" "Artful--woman!" "You are a very chilly person. I think I'll begin to hate you pretty soon." "Really!" "Now that I'm here, you might as well make the best of it. Please, sir, I'll try to be very agreeable and entertaining, if you'll only be kind to me." "You'd move a heart of stone, but mine's a diamond. You're always charming--I admit that freely--but I can't consider that in this particular situation. No, no. 'Off with your head; so much for Bolingbroke.'" He braced the wheel against his knee and began to haul in the sheet. "You're going back?" "Yes." "To put me ashore?" "Right, my lady." "Then you intend to sail off again to--to do what you like?" "Humanly speaking, yes." In spite of the heeling deck she rose abruptly, her eyes wide and resolute. "Mr. Fessenden, I'm going with you this afternoon, wherever you go. If you take me back to the landing, I won't go on shore. You'll have to use force, and I warn you I'll resist, and I'm strong for a woman. I solemnly vow I'll make a dreadful scene. And I'll scream, and I can scream _hideously_!" Her words were utterly convincing. He let go the sheet and stared. "By Jove! you _are_ a terror. What in the world is all this about?" "Never mind." "But you make me mind. Surely all this can't be a mere freak on your part. Or is it a joke?" "No. I've a reason for my--my very unlady-like conduct." "Strike out the adjective. But what's the reason?" "I'd rather not tell." She resumed her seat, as if she thought the victory won. Her eyes dwelt on the lines of his powerful figure, well set off by his gray flannels. "You are a distinctly good-looking man, but obstinate." "And you're a remarkably lovely girl, but eccentric; very--eccentric." "You don't know my reasons." "I've asked for them." She laughed evasively. "Isn't it about time to come about?" she said. "It is. But how do you know that? Are you a witch?" "In with the weather braces," she commanded. "Stand by to tack ship! Ready about! Helm's a-lee! Round we go, now. Make fast! All snug, sir." Accompanying her rather uncertain display of nautical language with a pull at the sheets that proved her strength, she gave Fessenden her assistance in bringing the _Wisp_ before the wind. Afterward there was silence between them for a long time. The knots slipped away under the keel of the little yacht, and she drew rapidly in toward land. Fessenden consulted his watch. It was half past five. He decided that it was time to land--time to send his unwelcome visitor away, and to keep his appointment with Betty for supper at White Cottage. Miss Yarnell examined the little binnacle beside the wheel. "Due east," she said sombrely, "almost. If you go back to Sandywood, Mr. Fessenden, remember, I've given you fair warning." "Fear not, mademoiselle. Far be it from me to force you to try your screaming powers on me! I shudder at the thought. No, no. Do you see that cape two or three points south of east? Piney Point, it's called. That's the place I'm aiming for. Are you content?" "Perfectly content." She met his puzzled frown with a faint smile. "You beat the Dutch," he declared in an injured tone. It was just six o'clock when the _Wisp_ grounded gently on the sandy beach of Piney Cove. The westering sun flung red bands across the pine woods, here growing almost to the water's edge. Fessenden led a line ashore and made it fast to a convenient tree. "Now, Miss Yarnell," he smiled, "the voyage is over. I'll really have to ask you to leave me--with my thanks for a delightful afternoon, after all. If you follow the bay shore, you'll be at Sandywood in half an hour, I fancy." She had joined him as he stood on the beach. "Thank you," she said gravely, "but I'm going with you." "Really, this is rather--rather----" "Impossible," she supplied. "Yes, I'll agree to anything you like to say of me, but, Mr. Fessenden, it's very important for me to go with you--to your appointment." He stared, bewildered not only by her audacity, but by her apparent knowledge of his plans. "Do you deny that you have an appointment with some one near here?" she demanded. "I don't deny it. But what if I have? This is too ridiculous! I don't know how you know where I'm bound, but--I don't want to be rude, Miss Yarnell--but even if you do know, I don't see how it matters to you." "It does matter to me," she said, sudden passion in her voice. "It matters terribly." Her suppressed excitement, her entire seriousness, could no longer be doubted. "I don't understand," he said. "I think you must be making some mistake." "No, no. I don't know exactly where you're going, I admit, but I know who it is you're going to see." He felt a baffling sense of amazement over an impossible situation. "Who is it, then?" he demanded. "Please, _please_ don't let us mention names. But I know. Mr. Fessenden, I recognized the envelope that boy brought up yesterday." "The envelope? O-oh! You did?" "Yes. I've seen that style of envelope too often not to know it. Now do you understand why I want to go with you?--why I _must_ go?" "I'm as much at sea as ever. Why?" She flushed vividly. "If you really can't guess, I--I can't tell you." He stared at her helplessly, then tossed both hands in a gesture of despair. "I give it up. I give _you_ up, in fact. You fairly make my head spin! It's getting late, Miss Yarnell. I think you'll find a path behind the grove." "I'm not going to Sandywood." "Then I'll leave you in possession of the yacht. Good-night." He took off his cap smilingly, and, turning, walked rapidly inland. He had not gone half a dozen yards when he heard a light footstep behind him, and wheeled to find her at his very heels. "I'm going with you." "You'll dog me across country?" he asked incredulously. She flushed painfully, but stood her ground. "I'm going with you," she repeated. "Oh, Lord!" he groaned. For a moment he eyed her rather malevolently. "Come back to the sloop, then. We'll talk it over." She followed obediently as he clambered over the low rail of the _Wisp_. "I don't know what to make of you," he complained. "I hardly know what to make of myself." "If I had more time, I might be able to get at things." "You'd better simply take me with you." "Hum-m," he said contemplatively. They were standing side by side on the floor of the cockpit. He waved his hand toward the bay. "All this beautiful scenery ought to be good for your malady--whatever that may be. Look at that sunset, Miss Yarnell. Why, hello! What's that? Dead into the sun! Can't you see it?" She peered beneath the arch of her hand to mark the point. At that moment her elbows were gripped as if by a giant. She felt herself lifted, then thrust firmly, although gently, downward into the little cabin. It was all done in an instant. Fessenden slammed the double-doors deftly upon his prisoner and dropped the catch into the slot. "Good-night," he called reassuringly. He leaped ashore and hurried inland. V Fessenden was well aware that the frail catch that held the doors of the _Wisp's_ cabin would not long hold prisoner so vigorous a young woman as Madge Yarnell. He guessed that in ten minutes she would be wending her disconsolate way toward Sandywood. But ten minutes would be enough--he gave himself no further concern about her. He followed a cow-path beyond the pine grove, crossed a meadow or two, and struck the road not far above White Cottage. A quail called in a field of early wheat, and was answered from a thicket of elderberry near at hand--a charmingly intimate colloquy. Fessenden was serenely conscious that it was good to be only twenty-eight, and on his way to dine, or sup, with an artless girl. In ten minutes he was halting at the gate of White Cottage. Although it was only the dusk of the day, the window shades were down, and the lighted lamps within sent a glow across the wide porch. The door stood invitingly open. As he clicked the gate behind him, he felt as if he were about to enter another world than the one he had left at Sandywood--the enchanted world of boyhood. At the thought, he pursed his lips and sent the rounded notes of the quail through the evening haze. He had not time to repeat them before a slender figure, appearing as if by magic, extended him a warm little hand. "Bob White!" she said gaily. "I'm very glad to see you. I was in the hammock under the hickory there. That gives me a new name for you--I was tired of Puddin' Tame." Her lips echoed the whistle. [Illustration: musical notes of bird song: Bob White.] "I'm glad you've come, Mr. Bob White." "Did you dream for a moment I wouldn't?" "I was a little afraid you might forget your promise. No, what I was really afraid of was that you wouldn't find a chance to steal away. You _did_ steal away, didn't you, ve-ry quietly?" "I did. I sailed away, at any rate, and I didn't tell a soul where I was bound." "I knew you were a reliable man." "How is the sprained ankle? You don't seem to be noticeably crippled." "Of course not. That's all well now--I've been resting in the hammock all day. But come into the house. Supper is ready, and Aunty Landis has the most delicious chocolate, with whipped cream." She tripped ahead of him up the pathway and into the house, calling: "Aunty Landis! Uncle Landis! Here he is. Here's Mr. Bob White. He's ready for supper, I'm sure." The long-suffering good wife met him in the living-room. "Good-evening, Mr.--ah----" "My name is----" "Bob White," interrupted the girl. "Please let it be Bob White. That _must_ be your name. Don't you like it?" "Very much." "Then that's what we'll call him, please, Aunty Landis. Yesterday you were Puddin' Tame, to-day you're Bob White, and all the time you're really somebody else. I'll have the fun of meeting a new man any moment I like." Mrs. Landis received this remark with a look as nearly approaching to sternness as she was capable of. "Betty, you must behave. Remember, you ain't as much of a baby as the gentleman maybe takes you for." The girl fell silent, and seated herself upon a chintz-covered sofa. Fessenden scanned her more closely than the dusk outside had permitted him to do. Her hair was gathered in a shining braid that hung quite to her waist, a girlish and charming fashion. Her blue eyes watched him demurely from beneath a broad, low forehead. The sailor suit of yesterday had given place to a simple white frock--Fessenden noticed that it came fairly to her ankles, now discreetly slippered and stockinged. At the moment of seating themselves at table, they were joined by Uncle Landis, a middle-aged farmer whose preternaturally-shining face and plastered hair, not to mention a silence unbroken throughout the meal, gave plain proof of recent rigorous social instruction on the part of his help-meet. The memory of that supper has always been a delight to Fessenden. The omelet was all golden foam; the puffed potatoes a white-and-brown cloud. The spiced cantaloupe and brandied peaches reminded him of the wonderful concoctions his Grandmother Winthrop had made--she who would never allow any one but herself to wash the glass and silver. The hot Maryland beaten biscuits were crusty to the smoking hearts of them, withstanding his teeth's assault just long enough to make their crumbling to fragments the more delicious. The chocolate, in blue china cups not too small, was served as the Spaniards serve it and as it ought to be served--of the consistency of molasses candy when poured into the pan. And then came the creamy rice pudding for dessert, whereupon Fessenden won Mrs. Landis forever by asking for the receipt and gravely jotting it down in his notebook, in spite of Betty's laughing eyes. Betty's talk flashed and sparkled to his sallies. She showed a self-possession remarkable in a farmer's daughter who was encountering a man of the world for what must have been the first time in her life, as he fancied. Once or twice he felt that she had led him on to talk of himself and to expand his own ideas to a degree unusual in him. "Betty, you're a witch," he declared at last. "I've been clattering away here like a watchman's rattle. You can't be interested in all this stuff about my cart-tail speeches for honest city government." "But I am interested, decidedly. I like to hear about men that do something--they're a novelty." Her frank smile warmed him. "I know there are enough worthless men in the world to make the useful ones count all the more. 'Satan finds some mischief still for idle hands to do.' That's as true in Maryland as anywhere." "You're a worldly-wise small person." "Oh, I read and think a little, Mr. Bob White." She nodded her head at him until the blonde braid danced. After supper Uncle Landis abruptly vanished. Aunty Landis lingered in the dining-room on the plea of clearing off the supper things--in point of fact, Fessenden saw her no more that night. Betty led the way to a couple of steamer-chairs at a corner of the porch. The breeze had freshened a little, and he tucked her knitted scarf about her shoulders with a care not altogether fatherly. "Thank you, Bob White. You're very kind." "Who wouldn't be kind to you, Betty? Look there! Over the top of the hill. Even the stars are peeping out to see if you're comfortable." She gave her little crowing laugh. "What a poet! I always think of Emerson's verse about the stars. Do you remember it? "Over our heads are the maple buds, And over the maple buds is the moon; And over the moon are the starry studs That drop from the angel's shoon." "Where did you learn Emerson?" "I had a teacher who liked him." "Did any one ever tell you that you talk as a prima donna ought to talk, but never does--'soft, gentle, and low'?" "Is that a compliment?" "Certainly. Perhaps you sing." "I'll get my guitar." She flashed into the house and back again. The starlight enabled him to see her indistinctly as she tightened the keys of a small guitar. "I like this song," she explained. "It was written by Fessenden, you know." "By whom?" "Thomas Fessenden, _the_ Fessenden, the man who----" "Oh, of course." To hear himself thus referred to, to hear one of his own casual songs launched from the lips of a country girl in the splendor of a Maryland night, was a novel experience even for Fessenden. He realized with amusement that his identity was wholly unknown to Betty, that capricious young person not having allowed him as yet to mention his own name. She sang, her eyes laughing upon him as her lips rounded to the whistle of the quail in the refrain. "At morn when first the rosy gleam Of rising sun proclaimed the day, There reached me, through my last sweet dream, This oft-repeated lay: (Too sweet for cry, Too brief for song, 'Twas borne along The reddening sky) _Bob White! Daylight, Bob White! Daylight!_" "At eve, when first the fading glow Of setting sun foretold the night, The tender call came, soft and low, Across the dying light: (Too sweet for cry, Too brief for song, 'Twas but a long Contented sigh) _Bob White! Good-night, Bob White! Good-night!_" Fessenden applauded softly, and his young hostess smiled appreciation. "Tell me about yourself, Bob White," she said. "Are you 'tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor'?" "Betty, perhaps _you_ can tell _me_ something. I got away to you without letting any one at Sandywood know, by going for a sail in my sloop." "A ve-ry good idea." "Don't be too sure. After I'd gotten well off, one of the house-party--a girl--coolly appeared from the cabin. She'd been bound to come with me, you see." "Why?" "That's the problem. She was very mysterious, and persistent, no name! When we landed in Piney Cove, she insisted upon following me." "Goodness me!" "We had the most extraordinary time--I fastened her in the cabin by main force. I don't understand it at all. She said she knew I was coming to meet you, and seemed very much wrought up about it. Hold on! She didn't mention your name, but she said she knew who it was I had my appointment with." "How could she guess?" "We happened to be standing together when your little friend, Jimmy Jones, brought your note. She said this afternoon that she recognized the style of the envelope." Betty's guitar slipped from her lap to the floor. "Bob White, Bob White!" she exclaimed. "What's her name?" "Didn't I say? She's a Miss Yarnell--Miss Madge Yarnell, from Baltimore. Do you know anything about her?" The girl stooped to rescue the guitar. Her warm cheek touched his as he, too, groped for it, and both recoiled a little consciously--Fessenden in amusement at his own confusion. "Do you know about Miss Yarnell?" he repeated. "I've heard her name. A girl--the woman who gave me that song--knows who she is. Isn't she the girl who tore down the flag?" "Yes, that's the one. Can you imagine why she pursued me so? Do you suppose she really recognized your writing paper? And even if she did, what is it to her?" She twanged a careless chord or two. "Oh, perhaps she was vexed because you didn't stay at the house-party," she suggested; "because you preferred White Cottage to Sandywood." After a while he struck a match and looked at his watch. "Nine o'clock. I must be going. If I stay much longer, the Cresaps will be sending out their launch to tow me home. You know, I'm supposed to be becalmed out in the bay. I hate to go. I've had a bully time." "Really?" "Perfect. Betty, look here! I'm staying at Sandywood only until Tuesday, and to-day's Friday. H-i-n-t!" She rose and made him an adorable curtsy. "Bob White, Esquire, I respectfully invite you to come to my picnic to-morrow." "Will there be a picnic, really?" "Yes--for you and me." "Great! I'll come, and humbly thank you." "Then you must be at the foot of the lane by the brook at ten o'clock to-morrow morning. And it's another secret, remember. Do you think you can get away?" "I _will_ get away. Perhaps I can invent a business letter that will call me to Baltimore." She clapped her hands. "Oh, I'll attend to that. You know Jimmy Jones is really the Sandywood Station telegraph boy, and he'll do anything for me." "I don't doubt it. There's at least one other person in the same happy condition." "Haven't you a friend in Baltimore who might possibly send you a telegram--somebody so real you could just show it to the Cresaps, and they'd believe it? What fun!" He chuckled. "This is a real conspiracy. The only friend the Cresaps and I have in common is Danton." "Who?" "Charles Danton. D-a-n-t-o-n." "I'll remember." "All right. At ten o'clock to-morrow, at the foot of the lane. You'll meet me there, honest Injun, Betty?" "Honest Injun! Hope I may die!" She had followed him to the edge of the porch and stood looking down at him as he lingered a couple of steps below. "Good-night, Betty." Her hand slipped into his outstretched palm. "Good-night, Bob White." "I've had a lovely time." "So have I." He had not released her hand, and now she leaned toward him until the great braid of her hair fell across her breast. "Bob White, I'm rather sorry I was so--so violent yesterday, when you were carrying me and--and did what you did." She was so close to him that he felt her hair brush his forehead. The blood was pounding in his ears, and his throat was parched. He lifted his left hand slowly to her neck to draw her lips to his. Then, all at once, he steadied himself. "Oh, you little witch!" he said. "I swear I don't know whether you're an innocent or a demon. No, no, Betty! The next time I kiss you, you must ask me outright, not merely _look_ at me! Do you ask me?" She snatched her hand away. "Certainly not. Never!" "Good-night, then." "Good-night, Bob White." She stood motionless until he was lost in the darkness, then whistled softly: [Illustration: musical notes of bird song: Bob White.] She waited until the call was answered from the slope of the hill; then, laughing rather wistfully, she sought Aunty Landis. VI Fessenden joined the others at Sandywood while they were still lingering over coffee in the library. His belated appearance, casual and unconcerned as he endeavored to make it seem, was greeted with a storm of badinage. "Oh, my prophetic soul! You were becalmed sure enough." "Does the poor boy want a bite to eat?" "We were just organizing a relief expedition for you, old man." "What a lonely time you must have had of it, Mr. Fessenden!" This last thrust was from no less a person than Miss Yarnell. He gave her a broad smile in return. He allowed the others to believe what they would, explaining only that he had been compelled to leave the _Will-o'-the-Wisp_ in Piney Cove. Cresap promised to send his man up to bring her back to the landing-stage. [Illustration: "I'M AFRAID YOU'LL FIND THE CABIN-DOOR CATCH IS BROKEN," SAID MADGE YARNELL IN AN UNDERTONE] "I'm afraid you'll find the cabin-door catch is broken," said Madge Yarnell in an undertone, as she halted near Fessenden on her way to bed. "If I hadn't been sure you'd smashed through easily enough, I should have come back to the sloop and sailed away with you." "With me?" "Certainly--made you captive like an old buccaneer. Willy-nilly, I should have clapped you under hatches, and sailed for the Spanish Main." Her brooding eyes dwelt long upon him. "That's very interesting." She struck her hands softly together. "It's worth thinking about. Thank you for the suggestion, Mr. Fessenden." "I'm not sure I understand." "Of course you don't. You're only a man." In the morning, although he was not down for breakfast until nine o'clock, he was ahead of any of the others. One of the servants handed him a telegram. He read it with amusement over Betty's cleverness. THOMAS FESSENDEN, Sandywood, Polocoke County, Maryland. Meet me Club one o'clock. Important personal matter. Want your advice. Don't fail me. CHARLES DANTON. He requested the butler to turn over the telegram to Mr. and Mrs. Cresap, and to explain to them that he would be back at Sandywood before dinner. On the plea that he vastly preferred a walk, he managed to evade the man's suggestion that the car be brought round to take him to Sandywood Station. Precisely at ten o'clock he was cooling his heels on the stone wall at the foot of the lane. In that shaded hollow the sun had not yet pierced to dry the dew from the wild myrtle. Now and then the clambering creepers rustled where a field-mouse ran shyly through them. An oriole flashed from a sycamore, like an orange tossed deftly skyward. Spring was a living presence--Fessenden was stirred by its exuberance as he had not been these ten years. By and by a rattle of wheels came to his ears. Presently a serene gray mare hove in sight, escorting, rather than pulling, a low-swung landau with an ancient calash-top. So capacious was the hood that at first he could descry no one in its depths. Then the mare came to a condescending halt, and a laughing face leaned into view. [Illustration: "GOOD-MORNING, PATIENCE-ON-A-MONUMENT"] "Good-morning, Patience-on-a-Monument." "Good-morning, Grief. Grief, that's the fluffiest hat I ever saw." "Have you been waiting long?" "Hours and hours." "Then, come, get in. We're going driving 'over the hills and far away.'" She clucked to her steed, and the old mare, disdainfully obedient, conveyed them straight through the brook--the water rising to the hub--and up the windings of a wood-road beyond. "The first thing a man wants to know on a picnic," affirmed Betty sagely, "is whether or not there's enough to eat. There isn't, but there will be." "I rest content. Betty, who taught you to dress like that?" "Do you like me--my clothes, I mean?" "I like both, profoundly." She was all in white--fluffy hat, linen shirt-waist, duck skirt, and low shoes. Her hair was done into some sort of knot on her neck--Fessenden was rather weak at deciphering a girl's coiffure. Her eyes shone wonderfully clear, and her smiles were frequent but uncertain, as if she bubbled with jokes too ethereal to share even with him. "Betty," he said, "do you mind my remarking that you look adorable to-day?" "Only to-day?" "Always, you witch! Betty, don't tell me that any mere district school made half of _you_." "Why not?" "Well, it sounds a bit impertinent of me, but your voice--your talk--your dress! And, above all, you have the air--ah----" "Of a lady, Mr. Critic?" "Exactly. One doesn't expect to find _l'air distingué_ in a farmer's daughter." "A farmer's niece." "Of course. Perhaps that makes all the difference. Do you mind my asking who your mother was, Betty?" "My mother was related to the first families of Maryland." He could hardly forbear a smile at the pride manifest in her tone. "I see. She has a right to be proud of her daughter." "Really? Bob White, that's the very nicest thing you could say to me if you'd tried a hundred years. Mother died when I was quite a little girl." Fessenden was silent. For a while, the girl guided the gray mare from wood-road to rambling lane, from lane to turnpike, and from turnpike back to lane. As they rounded a low hill, Fessenden felt the salt breath of the bay upon his face. "Where are we bound?" he asked. "To Jim George's. It's a sort of inn--a very rustic inn. He cooks delicious things. People come here for dinners from as far as Baltimore, but I think it's too early in the season yet for anybody to be here but us." "I hope so with all my heart." They ascended a sandy track through a little forest of pine, and emerged upon an open space. At the foot of a bluff the bay stretched to the horizon. On the forest side stood a log-cabin, amplified on all sides by a veranda of unbarked pine. From this structure promptly hobbled a white-haired darky. "Mawnin', lady. Mawnin', gemman, sah. A day o' glory fo' the time o' year. Yas, sah, yas, ma'am, a real day o' glory. Won't you 'light down, ma'am?" "Of course we will, Jim George, and we want some of your best shad." "Ah d'clar to gracious! Is that yo'all, Miss Betty? Good Lan'! it's been a coon's age since I seen yo' purty face round hyah. It does me proud to see a----" "Shad and corn-pone, Jim George," she interrupted. "I want you to show this gentleman we can still cook in the South." "Ah'll show him. Ah'll show him, Miss Betty. Rufe! Rufe! Come hyah and take Miss Betty's hoss." A boy led the mare away, and Fessenden and the girl established themselves in a hammock under a solitary oak at the bluff's edge. He drew a long breath of the salt air and smiled at his companion. "This is Paradise, and not even a serpent to mar it." In an incredibly short time Jim George appeared, bearing a tray piled high with eatables, and proceeded to spread the cloth on a table under the oak. "Miss Betty," he said, "and, gemman, sah, there's a shad-roe as _is_ a shad-roe. Jes' yo' eat it with all the buttah yo' kin spread on it. This hyah co'n-pone needs a _spoon_ for _it_. Them baked 'taters growed theirselfs right hyah in the patch behint the house. They's as sweet as honey. And hyah's some milk. Yo' 'member Jersey Molly, Miss Betty? Yas'm, this is _her_ milk. None o' yo' _pastorilized_ stuff neither--this is jes' plain _milk_." "Betty," said Fessenden, when Jim George had left them to themselves, "allow me to drink your health in Jersey Molly wine." [Illustration: "BETTY, ALLOW ME TO DRINK YOUR HEALTH IN JERSEY MOLLY WINE"] She touched her tumbler laughingly to his. "Skoal! Bob White, do you know it was only the day before yesterday you picked me out of the brook?" "I was just thinking of that. At any rate, we're better acquainted than people ordinarily are in months." "In three days?" "Certainly," he maintained. "You're a very funny man." "I'm perfectly serious." "I was wondering why you should care to come on a picnic with me. I'm only a country girl, after all, and you--you're different." "I care to come because _you_ are _you_, and that's plenty reason enough." "Hum-m." "Can you say as much?" "I'm not sure." "Cruel child!" "I didn't say no--I only said I wasn't sure." The afternoon slipped away, and at last they ordered their equipage for the homeward drive. Old Jim George bowed them off. "Good-by, Miss Betty. Good-by, gemman, sah. Ah hope yo' bofe come hyah agin right soon--yas, indeedy, and I hope yo' come togedder, too. Yah ha!" He screened his mouth behind his hand and added in a stage whisper: "Miss Betty, that's a mighty fine gemman yo's got, he is so, mighty fine." They pursued the even tenor of their way homeward. The early butterflies flicked the gray mare's nose. Blackbirds pilfered a meal from the plowed fields beside the road. Once a thrush--to Betty's infinite delight--perched on the dashboard and sang a hasty trill. "Spring is lovely," declared Betty. "Lovely," agreed Fessenden with enthusiasm, and did not feel guilty of a commonplace. Into the calm of their content came the clatter of distant hoofs. "There's some one riding down that crossroad there," said Betty. "A woman. Is she waving at us, do you think?" They peered out from the calash-top, and made out a horsewoman galloping down a side-path toward them. Her whip was going on her horse's flank, and now and then she brandished it as if to signal the two in the landau. Betty pulled up. "Let's see what she wants." In another moment the horsewoman was near enough to bring an exclamation of recognition from Fessenden. "Hello! I believe it's Miss Yarnell." "Miss Yarnell?" "The girl who said she recognized the envelope you sent me the other day. Perhaps she wants to ask the way home." Miss Yarnell rode out of the crossroad full tilt, and only checked her sorrel when his nose was within a foot of the gray mare's. Fessenden viewed this characteristic impetuosity with curiosity, which changed to amazement when his eyes fell upon her face. Her eyes were blazing, and her teeth were clenched. She did not wait to be interrogated, but faced the calash-top. "I've been looking for you!" she cried. "Come out here where we can talk." Her tones were not loud, but her voice was choked with passion, and she lifted her riding-whip as she spoke. "Come out! I want to have a talk with you." The response was more prompt than she could have anticipated. Before she could carry out her evident purpose of forcing her uneasy horse to the very dashboard, Fessenden slipped from the landau, ducked under the mare's head, and, seizing the sorrel by the bit, forced him back. "What's up, Miss Yarnell?" he said, with stern jocularity. "You mustn't ride into people's laps, you know." "Oh, I don't want _you_," she said. "I want _her_." Again the silver-mounted whip was brandished toward the calash-top. Betty's piquant face emerged from its depths. "Are you looking for me?" she asked very sweetly. Miss Yarnell's arm fell. She stared at the childish face--at the wide-opened blue eyes and slender figure. "O-oh!" Her voice was tremulous, all hint of violence gone from it. "_You!_ I thought it was--I thought it was some one else." "At any rate, it isn't proper to threaten one with a whip," said Betty gravely. "I--I know it. There!" Her arm swung up, and the whip spun a flashing arc through the air before falling into a field of ripening wheat. "The hateful thing!" She faced the girl again. "I'm sorry. I've been acting like a fool. I beg your pardon--and yours too, Mr. Fessenden." She checked the horse she had already started to wheel, and appealed to Betty. "I _must_ ask you. I came after you because I thought you were--were some one else. I thought so because of that envelope Thursday." "A Baltimore friend of mine happens to have lent me a box of her notepaper." There was impatience in Betty's explanation. "O-oh, I see! But--please!--that telegram from Charlie to him"--she indicated Fessenden. "I supposed--some one--had sent that--to put me off the track." "It wasn't sent from White Cottage." "Then it was real?" "I know nothing about it," returned the girl icily. Miss Yarnell wheeled her horse. "It was real! And I've been wasting time--wasting time!" Going helter-skelter, she was out of sight before Fessenden had time to resume his seat in the carriage. "Whew!" he said, as they resumed their jog-trot pace. "She _is_ a queer fish! But, Betty, why tell a tarradiddle, even to get rid of her?" "I didn't." "I mean about the telegram you sent me." "I didn't send you one." "What! One came--signed by Charles Danton, too, just as we arranged last night." "I had nothing to do with it. After you went away, I remembered that I didn't know your real name, and I was afraid a telegram for 'Bob White, Esquire,' left in the servants' hands, would go wrong. So I didn't send it. I wondered how you'd get away to meet me, but I knew you would contrive some excuse." In his mind's eye, he saw the address of the telegram, "Thomas Fessenden," yet it was true that his identity was unknown to his companion--through her own caprice, to be sure. He gave a long whistle. "Then that wire really was from Danton. By Jove! if he wanted my advice about anything, he ought to have let me know in time. Confound him, it's too late now! It serves him right." He turned to look for sympathy in Betty's eyes, only to find there a light that baffled him. "Are you angry with me about anything?" "I'm not sure whether I am or not. Men are so--so bad, and so presumptuous." "Good heavens! Have _I_ done anything?" But in spite of all he could do to solve this new Betty, she set him down at the foot of the lane a very perplexed young man. VII At Sandywood, Fessenden was little surprised to learn that Miss Yarnell had been summoned home to Baltimore--on account of sickness in her family. "I think she must have gotten a telegram at the station," said Polly Cresap. "She'd been out riding, and when she came in she was in quite a flutter, and told us she had to go home immediately. I really didn't understand just who was sick. We're to send her things after her. You didn't see her at Sandywood Station, did you, Tom? She must have taken the same train you came in on." "No," returned Fessenden, truthfully enough. "She's rather a headlong sort, don't you think?" "Yes, I suppose so. But, poor girl, she has a good deal on her mind! You know, before this disgraceful affair of Charlie Danton's with----" "Polly!" said her husband warningly. "I don't care, Pinck. You know everybody says so." "But nobody knows anything, my dear." "At any rate," she rattled on, "before this affair, Madge was quite fond of Charlie Danton, and now I believe she's eating her heart out." "Remember, Fessenden has just been up to Baltimore to meet Danton," cautioned Cresap. "How do you know it wasn't about this very thing?" "Oh, goodness, Tom! Am I rushing in where angels fear to tread?" "Not at all," he assured her. "Danton didn't mention the matter at all." "Besides, Polly," said Cresap, "no girl eats her heart out nowadays. That sort of thing dates back to hoop-skirts and all that. Madge Yarnell can take care of herself, I'll wager." The next day was Sunday, and for Fessenden the morning dragged rather wearily. But after luncheon he had the inspiration to suggest a sail in the _Will-o'-the-Wisp_. May Belle and Cleborne announced that they had already arranged to go for a walk together, but the others avowed their willingness to sail. The wind was fresh, and Mrs. Dick Randall sat beside Fessenden at the wheel, and met the flying spray merrily. Dick himself flirted with Polly Cresap under the protection of the jibsail forward. Cresap drowsed accommodatingly at full length in the lee gangway. "Harry Cleborne and May Belle think two are company," said Mrs. Dick. "Are they engaged?" "Oh, I imagine there's only an understanding." "Do you think that sort of arrangement is dignified?" "What a funny way to put it! No, I don't think so, now that you put it that way. Madge Yarnell, now--Charlie Danton and she had only an understanding--everybody took it for granted they'd be married some day--and look how it's turned out." "But I understood their falling-out was due to outside influence--wasn't it?" "Partly, of course. But a regular engagement would have had more dignity about it, just as you say, and they would have had to be more careful." "No doubt." "Now, there's Roland Cary--" went on Mrs. Dick. "The handsome cousin Polly spoke of the other day?" "Yes. There's a dignified person for you. Hum-m! Dignified in some ways, but a perfect dee-vil in others." "He must be a very interesting sort. I'd like to meet him." "Oh, he--he _is_ interesting. But I'm worried about Madge and Charlie Danton's case." "I agree with Cresap--Miss Yarnell will follow her own course, whatever that may be." "I suppose so." The bracing air and the dancing yacht, if not the conversation, held Fessenden's interest for an hour or two. As he headed toward home, the glory of the day put a happy idea into his head. He would return Betty's picnic of yesterday by a day's sail on the _Wisp_. Somehow he would manage to elude his Sandywood responsibilities again. Darkness always fell long before dinner was served at Sandywood. Therefore, Fessenden, going for a stroll in the wilderness of a garden, ostensibly to indulge in an ante-prandial cigar, found in the dusk no difficulty in extending his walk to White Cottage. A boyish sense of romance always took possession of him when he approached Betty's vicinity. A knock at the cottage door, and a direct inquiry for her, would have been too commonplace. No workaday method of communication would suffice under a sky shot with stars and in an air a-tingle with spring. Lights shone in a couple of rooms in the upper part of the house, while the lower story was in darkness. Apparently, the farmer's family was already preparing to retire for the night. Fessenden scouted about the place, smiling to himself at the absurdity of his own action. There was nothing to indicate which room was Betty's, and at a venture he tossed a handful of gravel against the panes of the corner room--then another. Betty's head and shoulders were the response, framed in the glow of the lamp gleaming through the white curtain behind her. The face, delicately oval, and the slender throat, seemed wrought of gold. "'So shines a good deed in a naughty world,'" said Fessenden aloud. "Who's there?" she called. "It's I." "Oh, _you_!" "Yes. Can you came down a minute?" "No." "Please come down, Betty. I want to see you about something." "No-o, I can't. Is it anything important?" "Immensely important. You aren't vexed with me still, are you?" "Of course not. And, Bob White, I didn't tell you yesterday, but I did appreciate it very much." "Good!--but what?" "The way you jumped out of the carriage and seized her horse, when she was so belligerent. It was very capable in you." "If it weren't dark down here, you could see me blushing. Come down and see." "No. Bob White, you haven't come around here like a Romeo to--to say good-by, have you?" "Heaven forbid, Betty! I want to ask you to go on a picnic with _me_ to-morrow, in my sailboat." "Oh, goody! Hum-m! I don't know. For how long?" "All day. We can sail down to Rincoteague Island and back." "Who's to go?" "Only you and I, of course." "I'm afraid that wouldn't be quite--well, quite--" "Oh, I see. Then your aunt is invited, too, of course--but reluctantly." "We'll come," she said, with decision. "Shall we bring the luncheon?" "No. The sloop has a lot of stuff on board now. Besides, there used to be a hotel on Rincoteague--such as it was. I'll have the _Wisp_ in Piney Cove at nine to-morrow. We must start early, you know." "We'll be there. Thank you very much." "Betty, do come out a minute--long enough to shake hands. I haven't seen you all day." "You funny man!" she said. "If I weren't--a farmer's girl, I should think you were flirting." He was unable to muster an instant reply. A shade, snapped sharply down, cut the fair hair and laughing face from his view. There was nothing left for him to do but to make his way back to Sandywood, which he did very thoughtfully. After dinner the men grouped themselves in easy chairs at a corner of the porch, to enjoy their cigarettes. Harry Cleborne drew his chair to Fessenden's. "Will you try one of my home-growns, Mr. Fessenden?" he proffered. "That tobacco was raised on my own plantation." Fessenden accepted a cigar, suddenly conscious that Cleborne's unwonted attentions must have an ulterior motive. "Thank you. You're a Marylander, then?" "Virginian," returned the other. "My home's in old Albemarle. I've seen a good deal of Maryland the last year or two, though." His eyes strayed toward the white gowns of the women. "Maryland has its attractions," said Fessenden. "Yes, that's so--even for you?" "Oh, yes, for me, too." Cleborne folded his arms, crossed one leg over the other, and blew a long cloud of smoke. "Look here, Mr. Fessenden," he said, "that's what I want to speak to you about--Maryland attractions." He spoke with evident embarrassment. "May Belle--Miss Cresap--and I saw you yesterday, sitting on the wall at the end of the lane to White Cottage." "Hum! You did?" "Yes. We were out for an early morning walk. Of course, then, we know you didn't go to Baltimore--not on the morning train, at any rate." "Well?" Impatience showed in Fessenden's tone, and the other went on quickly: "We were out for a stroll again this evening, and--you may think it's none of my business, but we saw _her_. She was at the window as we passed the house." "You seem to be fond of walking." "It was entirely an accident both times. But it won't do, Mr. Fessenden." "May I ask _what_ won't do?" "I don't want to be impertinent, sir--you're an older man than I--but, of course, it's easy enough to guess that you've been going over to White Cottage because _she's_ there. Isn't that so?" "Certainly it's so. But is there any harm in that?" "There may not be any harm _yet_, but won't there be?" "This is ridiculous. Betty isn't much more than a child--a very charming one, I admit." "Who?" demanded Cleborne, "Betty?" "Betty Landis, man. Aren't you talking about her?" "Never heard of her," returned the other shortly. "I'm talking about you know whom, Mr. Fessenden. I'm sorry I spoke. I wanted to give you a friendly hint that you should let another man look after his--his _own_ himself. I don't care to be laughed at in this way." "What the devil do you mean?" Cleborne pushed back his chair savagely. "I'm through," he snapped. As good as his word, he stalked off to join May Belle. VIII Dawn was reddening the leaves of the oak outside the window when Fessenden awoke. From the great bay below the house came the ruffle of water--the wind was freshening. But it was not the mutter along the shore, nor the tang of the salt air, that had aroused him. What could that idiot, Cleborne, have been driving at in his talk of Betty? No, Cleborne had declared he had never heard of her. Then whom could his dark hints be about? Was the Virginian a subtle joker, acting at the instigation of Polly or Mrs. Dick? It was not unlikely. And did Madge Yarnell's peculiar conduct have any connection with the matter? While he was still puzzling over Cleborne's words, he fell asleep, and when he awoke again, at a more reasonable hour, his mind instantly became too full of plans for the day's excursion with Betty to hold any conflicting thoughts. At eight o'clock he ate his eggs, toast, and coffee, solving the problem of presenting a sufficient excuse for his proposed day's absence by the simple process of not attempting it. At the last moment, the freshening wind suggested the probable need of ample protection from the weather. Accordingly, he carried a double armful of steamer-rugs and rain-coats from the house to the _Wisp_. In five minutes he was standing for Piney Cove. It took him half an hour or more to reach it, for the wind, blowing steadily from the northwest, held him back. He was rewarded by finding Betty and Aunty Landis awaiting him on the beach. "Good-morning, Mrs. Landis. Hail, Dryad of the Pines!" "Hail, Old Man of the Sea!" Her eyes were as clear as twin pools; her lips were smiling, ready as always to laugh with him or at him, as opportunity might offer. She held her head with that defiant tilt of the chin that was to him one of her always-remembered characteristics. The sunlight flashed from the bay to the shining braid of her hair. Her white sailor suit was set off by two daring bands of color--a scarlet handkerchief at her throat, and a scarlet sash about her waist. That most effective head-dress, a man-o'-war's-man's white hat, crowned her head. Fessenden's eyes dwelt upon her with such frank delight that she blushed a little as Mrs. Landis followed her on board the _Wisp_. The course was set southeast for Rincoteague Island. After a dubious phrase or two about the weather, Aunty Landis ensconced herself just within the opened doors of the little cabin. Here she produced an infinite number of gigantic stockings (male) from a work-bag, and proceeded to darn them. "I hope both you and your aunt are good sailors," said Fessenden. "It promises to be a bit rough before we get back." "Oh, yes. I hope it does blow. To be wet and cold, and to see the water boiling up ready to drown us--that would be living!" "You strange child! You have a philosophy all your own. Did you know that?" She nodded sagely. "Of course. I hate people who haven't. That's one reason I like you." "Thank you. I'm glad to hear you confess that there's more reasons than one. I like _you_ because--because you seem to me to be all golden. Perhaps the sun dazzles me." "Perhaps," she smiled. "You and the day are golden, but remember the song in Cymbeline: "Golden lads and girls all must As chimney sweepers come to dust." "Golden lads and girls," she repeated softly. "Oh, they can never come to dust while there are days like this to sail and sail!" Her arms, extended yearningly, as if she would have plucked the secret of youth from the tossing bay, fell to her side. "I wish we could sail forever--never to go back to the sad land." He thrilled. "So do I. Let's do it--you and I together." "And Aunty Landis?" "I'm not so sure about Aunty Landis. The stockings might give out, you know." They had left Piney Cove not long after nine. With the strong northwester behind them, they made such progress that before two o'clock they were in sight of their destination. Rincoteague Island lies on the very border-line between ocean and bay. On the eastern side, it is crowned by a straggling forest of pine and oak, and looks almost boldly toward the near waters of the Atlantic. A small hotel, and rows of bath-houses, mark it as a "resort"--a resort sustained by the excursion steamer that makes daily trips thereto from the towns of the mainland. Although aware that the _Wisp_ had been making extraordinary speed, it was not until Fessenden bore up direct for Rincoteague that he realized how the wind was freshening. He had put his helm down a little carelessly, and instantly a cupful of water took him in the back. He glanced astern, to find quite a sea racing after. "Positively it's roughing up," he said. "Will you be afraid to face a head sea going home, Betty?" "No, indeed; not with such a sailor as you, Bob White." "Good! The sloop could live through a hurricane, 'so let the wild winds blow-ow-ow.'" They stood in for Rincoteague pier. The excursion steamer had just disgorged its passengers there, and the sight of the horde convinced the party on the _Wisp_ that the inevitable fish-and-oyster dinner at the hotel was not likely to prove a thing of beauty. Accordingly, Betty took the wheel and skilfully put the sloop alongside a smaller pier--rather rotted and insecure, to be sure--on the lee or ocean side of the island. While Fessenden was making the _Wisp_ fast, Mrs. Landis and Betty explored the larder, with highly satisfactory results. Potted slices of chicken, strawberry jam, boxed crackers, pickles, and aerated waters of several sorts, furnished "eatin' stuff enough for anybody," as Mrs. Landis avowed. She herself had thought to bring half a dozen wooden picnic plates and a complement of knives, forks, and spoons. "Did you stock the _Wisp_ for a polar expedition, Bob White?" asked Betty. "Oh, all this stuff was left in her by the man I bought her from. I suppose it would have been more trouble to move the stores than they were worth. Have you everything you want? Then 'all ashore that's going ashore!'" They ate their luncheon in a sheltered hollow at the lower end of the islet. A projecting clay bank, a huge stranded log, and an overhanging holly-tree made almost a cave of it. Aunty Landis was a highly satisfactory chaperon. After luncheon, when she was not darning, she was perusing a pamphlet of Sunday School lessons. And when this was finished, she brought a leather-bound memorandum-book from the bottomless work-bag, and entered upon an intricate calculation of household accounts. Fessenden chatted with Betty. He had not yet begun to analyze the reasons for the pleasure he felt in her company, or hardly to understand that the farmer's daughter who could hold a man of his experience by her side for the better part of three days must possess extraordinary charm. "Now we are in the pirates' den," said Betty, "and that log is a treasure-chest full of--of what?" "Of doubloons and pieces of eight. I'm the pirate chief, and you are my captured bride." "Oh, goodness!" "Do you know, I made a remark something like that to Miss Yarnell the other day, and she took it quite seriously?" "Was she afraid of the pirate chief?" "She eyed me in that brooding, blazing way of hers--you remember how she looked when she tried to ride over us on the road the other day?" "Remember!" "Exactly. She eyed me in that fashion, then thanked me for the suggestion." "What did she mean?" "I haven't the least idea. Betty, what do you know about her?" The girl put her hand suddenly on his arm. "What was that? A drop of water? I do believe it's going to rain. And hear the surf! It's fairly roaring. It must be blowing hard. I wonder if the yacht is all right." The thought brought them to their feet, and out of their sheltered hollow. They found a changed world. While they ate, clouds had been gathering west and north, and now seemed to fill the whole space from bay to sky. A mile or two beyond the island, a white line advancing over the churning waters gave promise of a furious squall. Worst of all, the wind had risen until, even on their leeward side of the island, the swell was momentarily growing heavier. "By George!" said Fessenden. "It looks as if we were in for it. Betty, we'd better have a look at the _Wisp_. That rotten old wharf!" "I'll race you to it!" she cried. He overtook her in half a dozen strides, and throwing his arm about her shoulders, fairly swept her along with himself. She came no higher than his shoulders as she ran. Her eyes laughed up at him, and her shining hair brushed his lips. Aunty Landis was left hopelessly in the rear. At the old pier, the waves, running far in beneath the flooring, were breaking against the ancient piles, while the structure complained in every joint. The _Wisp_, tied stem and stern to a string-piece, was plunging furiously. "She seems to be all right," said Fessenden, "but I think I'll put an extra half-hitch in each of those lines." He still steadied Betty against the wind as he spoke. "It wouldn't be pleasant to be forced to go home in that excursion boat." Releasing his companion, reluctantly enough, he made his way out on the wharf. She promptly followed. "Go back, child. The wind will blow you away." "I'm--all--right," she gasped as he bent over the stern-line. "The rain will be here in a minute, and we'll need the rain-coats." She sprang aboard gaily. "Come back!" he ordered. "I don't believe it's safe, Betty." "Only a minute," she called. She waved a careless hand and dived into the cabin. At that instant, a wave struck the _Wisp_ on the inboard quarter and heaved her strongly outward. The stern-line held staunchly, but under the tremendous strain the string-piece gave way like the rotted punk it was, not a foot in front of Fessenden. "Betty!" he roared. "Betty!" His cry stirred the heart of the girl within the cabin, and brought her instantly onto the floor of the cockpit. Before she could realize the danger of the situation, the worst had occurred. He was already kneeling at the forward line, heaving hand over hand to haul the bow of the _Wisp_ alongside. The sloop was almost within reach when another wave struck her. The line was snatched from his fingers, and the yacht, flung to the full length of the rope, carried away the string-piece as before. The _Wisp_ was adrift! As the timber sank under his feet, Fessenden clutched at a wharf stanchion. By a miracle, he saved himself from going overboard. As if recoiling from the freedom so suddenly won, the _Wisp_ took a slight sheer toward the pier. The tide, running like a mill-race, swept her broadside past Fessenden. "Betty!" The girl, her body lithe and alert, had been steadying herself by the safety-rail of the cabin roof. Her face had whitened at the sight of Fessenden's peril, but it was only now, in response to his hoarse shout, that a sound escaped her. "Bob White!" she cried, her arms suddenly extended in piteous appeal. "Oh, Bob White!" The watery space between the wharf and the sloop was hopelessly wide, but, uttering an inarticulate and despairing oath, he took two running steps and leaped. He struck fair on his feet on the very rail of the _Wisp_, stood tottering, fought wildly for his balance--and then Betty's firm little hand plucked him safely inboard. "Thank you, Bob White," she said. There was no time to return even a smile in answer. He gripped the wheel and gave the sloop a sheer with the hope of beaching her outright. But wind and wave caught her. "Close the hatch!" he roared. As it happened, the forward hatch-cover was already in place. Betty snapped to the sliding storm-door of the cabin barely in time. A sea swept the Wisp from end to end, flattening Betty against the side of the cabin, and nearly swamping the yacht at a blow. Fessenden was glad to escape by putting the craft dead before the wind. Bare-poled as she was, the Wisp fled southeastward like a frightened thing. The rain, the clouds, and the night overtook them together. With a thrill, Fessenden felt a long, regular swell suddenly begin to lift the battling yacht. There was still enough of daylight to permit him a sight of Betty's pale little face. "Betty," he said, "don't be frightened, but I'm afraid we're clear of the Capes. This feels like the Atlantic." She made a staggering rush and reached the lockers. There she sat down beside him as he struggled with the wheel. The spray flew clear over them again and again. She laid her wet cheek an instant against his arm. "The ocean?" she said. "I hope you won't be seasick, Bob White. I know _I_ won't." "You're a trump," he said. IX Now and then the sloop yawed alarmingly as they ran before the wind. "This won't do," said Fessenden. "I must get some sail on to steady her. Do you think you're strong enough to hold the wheel, Betty?" She gripped the spokes, her hands beneath his. The quiet strength of his clasp comforted her mind no less than her body,--in a moment she nodded confidently. Leaving the helm in her charge, Fessenden literally crawled forward. Ordinarily, the jib was handled by means of the sheet led aft through a couple of small blocks to the helmsman, so that one man could both sail and steer without moving from his place. Now, however, the fierceness of the wind impelled Fessenden to extra precautions in his endeavor to make sail. He took care to wrap the sheet twice about a cleat before hoisting away, but as soon as the jib rose above the low gunwale, the wind tore it from the lower bolt-ropes, and it blew straight out, held only by the bowsprit halliard. He would have attempted to recover the ironed-out sail by reaching for it with a boat-hook--a foolhardy undertaking at any time--but Betty, divining his intention as he showed black against the whitening crest of the waves, screamed so shrilly that he desisted. There was nothing left for him to do but to make his way back to the wheel. "Child," he said, "you're wet through, and I'm afraid we've a wetter time before us. There's no use in your staying out here to get soaked every other minute. Go in the cabin, out of harm's way." "But you're being soaked, too." "I'm a man." "I'll stay with you." "No, you won't. I can't think of letting you do that. Watch your chance and get inside there. Slide the hatch-cover to, sharp, before any water gets in." Rather to his surprise, she yielded, and dexterously slipped into the cabin. Although her presence had been more comfort to him than he realized until she was gone, he bent his whole attention to keeping the _Wisp_ from broaching to, which would have meant the end. The worst of the rain-squall had passed, but the night was as black as a wolf's mouth. The wind blowing half a gale, piled up the waves behind the _Wisp_ to a height that might well have proved a menace to a craft three times her size. Thanks to her tight-closed hatches and her sea-worthiness, she shed water like a petrel, yet the towering swell of the Atlantic might crush her at any moment. If they fell an instant into the trough of the sea, they were lost. Fessenden contemplated the possibility of constructing a sea-anchor. But whatever might have been possible for an experienced seaman, his nautical knowledge was too limited for him to undertake the work. And even if he could make and successfully launch a sea-anchor, the most dangerous part of the task would follow--that long and terrible moment it would take for the sloop to swing round, head on to the sea. The waves might roll her over and over before he could even clasp Betty in his arms. The risk was too great. He breathed an inward prayer, and held the _Wisp_ resolutely before the wind. He had three dangers to face--the ever-present terror of being overtaken by the following sea, the likelihood of being dashed against a hidden coast in the black night, and the chance of being run down by some merchantman or man-o'-war, threshing through the dark. Suddenly the cabin hatch snapped open and shut again. "Betty!" "I'm going to stay with you." "Go back." "No. See, I'm wrapped up splendidly. And here are oilskins for you." Indeed, a quaint figure she made of it, in a rain-coat miles too big for her slender body, and a sou'wester hat, somewhere discovered, fairly engulfing her little head. For the first time that night, he laughed boyishly. "You dear child! You mustn't stay, though." "Put these on, Bob White. Perhaps you'll get dry underneath." Still keeping a controlling hand on the wheel, he managed with Betty's help to encase himself in the fisherman's oilskins she had found. "Now, then," he said, "you must go in." For answer, she seated herself beside him. "No, I want to stay here. I'm afraid to be alone in there--with you out here, and the dreadful black water all about." "I thought you weren't afraid of anything." "I'm going to stay." "You can't, Betty. I order you to go in." "I won't go." "Betty," he cried in despair, "it will be better for me if you're out of the way. Don't you see?" "No-o, I don't." "You'll be safer." "You know I won't. You're only trying to make me comfortable, while you are left out here in the cold and wet. Let me stay. If--if we must be drowned, I want to be near you, Bob White--please." There was no resisting this appeal. A thrill of pity went through him as he looked down at the slight form crouching under the all-too-low gunwale. She should not die if he could prevent it. "Can you see the compass?" he asked. "How are we heading?" She rubbed a little of the brine from the binnacle-glass. "Yes; now I see it. North is where that mark is, isn't it? Oh, I know--southwest by south." "What? Look again." "That's right. Sou'west by sou'." "Then the wind is shifting to the northeast. Betty, we're headed for Cape Hatteras." The dread name apparently produced no alarm in the girl's mind. "I've always wanted to be in a storm off Hatteras." "Well, you're likely to have your wish before morning, if this gale keeps up." "If we reach Cape Hatteras in the dark like this--abruptly--what will happen?" "I fancy we'll hurt Cape Hatteras's feelings." "Oh!" After a silence, he felt her hand touch his arm as if she needed comfort. "Poor little girl," he said. "Don't worry. I won't let anything hurt you." "I know. I'm--all right," "There's plenty of ocean about Hatteras," he went on, rather to reassure her than because of his belief in what he said. "We may not get near the land. Even if we do, Pamlico Sound is just behind it--there's only a sort of stretched-out island between the sound and the ocean. We might slip right through an inlet into the Sunny South." "It isn't--very likely, is it?" "It's quite possible," he maintained. Presently, to his delight as well as to his surprise, he heard a little crowing laugh. "What is it?" "Aunty Landis! Goodness! I never thought of her until this minute. What will she do?" "Go home on the excursion steamer, of course. But she'll have to stay all night at the hotel. The steamer isn't likely to risk crossing the bay during this blow." "You don't suppose she'll think we're drowned? She may be in a terrible fright over us." "Oh, I hope not." Hour after hour wore on, and still the storm drove them southward. All night Fessenden, in a way that was afterward a marvel to himself, fought a ceaseless battle with the sea and wind. His hands were numb and his feet were like ice, but he stood staunchly to his task. In spite of his urgings, renewed from time to time, Betty crouched beside him all night long. She too was cold, colder even than he, for she could not warm herself by action. Still she held her post. Perhaps she knew that her presence there was an inspiration to him as real as the sight of the flag to the fighting soldier. Toward morning the clouds broke overhead. The stars began to shine through. Then, to the relief of the _Wisp's_ crew, the wind began to fall, and about dawn the waves had ceased to be formidable. "Betty," said Fessenden joyfully, "I really believe we've pulled through." "Hurrah!" While she held the wheel, he managed to lay hold of the now flapping jib, and to set it after a fashion. This greatly steadied the sloop. Then, at last, Betty consented to listen to his persuasions to turn in in the cabin. "We're pretty well out of danger now," he declared, "Go in and rest, Betty. Take off those dripping clothes--" "Only steaming, please." "Amendment accepted! But take them off and go to bed. I'm afraid you'll be sick--and then what should I do?" "Will you promise to wake me in an hour? _You_ are the tired one. I've loafed all night." "I'll wake you when I think it's time to turn the wheel over to you. I promise you that." "I'll go to bed, then." "Good! And, Betty, light that oil range and dry your clothes by it. Now, off with you, quick!" It was full daylight, although the sun was not yet visible. For the first time in many hours their faces were plain to each other's view. Both were pale with the long night's exposure, but both were smiling. Betty lingered in the act of closing the cabin-hatch upon herself. "You'll be sure to wake me soon?" "Yes." "What a night we've had!" "Rather lively, wasn't it? I assure, I'm glad to see you this morning." "I'm glad to see _you_. Oh, very glad!" She closed the hatch gently behind her. No sound of a sliding bolt followed--she trusted him too innocently to lock the door against him. For a while he heard her moving about, then all was quiet. He pictured her tired little body cuddled under the blankets while a grateful warmth crept over her. He smiled to the gray sea at the thought. The wind and sea diminished rapidly. The sun rose out of the waste to the east, and the last of the foul weather fled before it. In an hour or so he ventured to hoist the mainsail. The sloop bore it well, and under it made swift progress toward the southwest. Sooner or later, he knew he must sight land in that direction. Indeed, it was not yet ten o'clock when a remote gray line took shape off the starboard bow. He could not repress a shout of joy: "Land! Land ho! Land!" In a moment the cabin-hatch was opened wide enough to let a sleepy voice be heard. "Did you call me, Bob White?" "I didn't mean to wake you, child, but land's in sight." "Land? Oh, that's good! But I must have been sleeping for hours. You oughtn't to have let me be so selfish." "Not at all. You can do your trick at the wheel whenever you're ready, and I'll turn in a while." "I'll be out in ten minutes--no, twenty, for I'm going to get breakfast for you." "Breakfast!" "Certainly. Do you think you can drink a cup of hot coffee?" "Jupiter Pluvius! Hot coffee? Alas, I must be mad." "You'll see," she laughed. "In twenty minutes." Indeed, it was not long before she again appeared. "I've just come to say good-morning." "Did you sleep well?" "De-li-ciously. I can only stay a minute--breakfast is cooking. You poor man, you're still in your wet clothes, while I'm as dry as toast." Her garments, down to her very shoes, spread since dawn on the racks above the range, were dry and even smoothed. Only the scarlet sash and handkerchief were missing--the salt water had ruined them. The braid of shining hair no longer hung down her back, but now encircled her head in heavy coils, a new and charming arrangement. He was vaguely conscious that it made her look strangely mature, and endowed her with a mysterious dignity. "I haven't been really wet for some time," he assured her. "If you'll take charge, I'll have a look at the chart in the locker here. Perhaps we can tell where we are." "I'm not at all sure," he announced after a brief study, "but I think we aren't so far down as Hatteras--the wind fell away very rapidly toward the last. That may be the North Carolina coast, though--Currituck Island, perhaps. You know the sounds run Currituck, Albemarle, and Pamlico." "I know the coffee must be boiled and the ham broiled by this time. Take the wheel and let the cook attend to her duties." She flatly refused to touch any breakfast until he had eaten his fill and waited upon him in spite of his protests. Never had broiled ham, hard crackers, and marmalade tasted so good. And the strong, hot coffee warmed his very soul. "You wonder!" he said, as he presented the tin cup for more. "Where did you get this gorgeous dinner-set?" "I found it among the pots and pans in the galley. There's quite an assortment your predecessor left." "Oh, that coffee! You miracle of a child!" Her eyes sparkled as she watched him swallow a second cup. "What do you think of the cook?" "I think the cook's an angel." "Have you finished? Then to bed with you." "I'm off. Just hold the _Wisp_ to the course she's on. Call me when you can make out the land distinctly." He patted her benevolently upon the shoulder and started forward. "Well, here goes the weary sea-boy to his slumbers." She waved her hand as he descended the forecastle ladder. In a little while he slid back the overhead hatch a foot or so and looked out. He was invisible to the fair helmswoman, but the coils of her hair shone just above the top of the cabin roof. "I'm almost asleep," he called. "Good-night, Betty dear." He held his breath. Would the intimacy wrought of the night's peril and companionship avail? An answer, low and very gentle, went with him to his dreams. "Good-night, Bob White--dear." X When he awoke, it seemed to him that he had slept a scant half-hour, but his watch, which had come unscathed through the wettings of the night, showed that mid-afternoon had come. The _Wisp_ rose and fell very gently, and he thought with satisfaction that the sea must be entirely calm. In the tiny bath-room of the forecastle, he revelled in a fresh-water bath. As he passed the looking-glass, he surveyed his face ruefully. In vain to lament his looming beard! A diligent search failed to reveal the razor he had hoped Danton's boatman might have left. It was only when fully dressed and engaged in smoothing down his hair as best he could that he became aware of a strange thing. There was no sound of rippling water under the _Wisp's_ bow. And then he realized that the gentle motion of the sloop could not be caused by the rise and fall of the Atlantic swell--a swell majestic even at its calmest. The _Wisp_ was not under way, but was at anchor in quiet waters! He ran up the ladder, shouting: "Betty! Betty! What's up?" For his pains, he bumped his head on the half-closed hatch-cover, and for answer to his call heard--nothing. With another cry of "Betty!" he leaped upon deck. There was no Betty. In a quiet inlet the _Wisp_ was lying alongside a float connected by a plank to a pebbly beach. A tongue of land separated the harbor from the outer ocean. At a little distance on this sandy tract appeared a straggling group of houses, and anchored near the _Wisp_ was a steam yacht, a pretty craft all white and gold. All this he took in at a glance. A second disclosed a note pinned to the hatch-cover. He had it open in short order. BOATSWAIN BOB: I couldn't bear to wake you. A man who helped me make fast the _Wisp_ says this is Currituck Sound, and the city (?) is Kitty Hawk. I've gone to get some things. Be sure your clothes are dry. NANCY LEE, A.B. Kitty Hawk was on the chart--of so much he was certain--and he guessed that it contained a shop to supply its needs. He determined to purchase some sadly needed apparel for himself. In the shop, too, he would be certain to find Betty. Still a little languid from his experiences of the night, he strolled leisurely along the sandy path. The day was clear and pleasantly warm. On his left the sun glinted upon the now kindly sea, and on his right the seagulls shrieked and fought above the waters of the sound. And presently he would see Betty. He entered the village. The few people he met greeted him with a stare of frank curiosity, a stare generally followed by a friendly nod. As he had anticipated, he soon came upon a building bearing a sign: BAZAAR. DRYGOODS AND GROCERIES. POST-OFFICE. In front of it a wooden bench extending along the sidewalk, and three or four lank loungers thereupon, furnished irrefutable proof that the centre of Kitty Hawk's business activities was at hand. He remembered that he had not had a sight of Betty for five hours, and he pushed open the door of the "Bazaar" eager to see again the roguish mouth. To his disappointment, she was not in the shop. However, the proprietor, a sandy-haired native inclining to corpulency, was prompt to supply his needs, nor was he backward in answering Fessenden's question as to whether or not he had seen a young woman in a white sailor-suit. "You-all are off the sloop 'at come in jest aftah the big yacht, I reckon. Yes, suh, yoah wife's jest been heah." "My wife!" He could have bitten his tongue off the next instant, for the man gave him a sharp, not to say suspicious, look. "Yes. The young lady's yoah wife, I reckon, suh. Her and you-all come togethah, didn't yo'?" "Yes--no--that is--" stammered Fessenden. The shopkeeper stopped in the act of wrapping the assortment of haberdashery and razors Fessenden had picked out. "It ain't my way to quawl with good money," he said, "but I'm a professin' Baptist, and I'm _obliged_ to say if yo' two folks have come sailin' round these parts 'ithout bein' lawfully married--well"--he sighed regretfully--"then, suh, you-all can't buy nothin' in my stoah." But by this time Fessenden had recovered his wits. "No, no, man," he said. "You don't understand. She's my daughter." "Oh, yoah daughtah? Then it's all right, of co'se. Yes, suh, I can see now she does favah you-all a heap." Although desirous of being convinced, his suspicions still lingered. "But you-all are a pretty young-lookin' fathah, that's a fact, suh." "Forty isn't very young," returned Fessenden mendaciously. "Which way did you say she went?" "Why, she met some of yoah friends from the big yacht. They was in aftah theyah mail. They-all went out togethah. Yoah friends beat you-all consid'abul, didn't they?" His friends on the big yacht? What was the fellow talking about? Fessenden repressed a half-uttered question. No need to reawaken the man's slumbering suspicions as to the character of himself and Betty! He settled his bill, and left the "Bazaar," bundle in hand. The shopkeeper's talk had stirred him profoundly. Betty? Good Lord! For the first time he saw how others might look upon their enforced cruise together. She was almost a child, true; but was she near enough to childhood to be beyond the breath of scandal? This was a devilish mess! He could not bear to think of himself in such a light. Far less could he patiently endure that through any fault of his--yet his fault was only his presence--her name should be blackened. What could he do? His feet lagged as he pondered, his head hanging. He knew that Aunty Landis must have borne the news of their disaster to Sandywood. What would thoughtless Polly Cresap say when she learned that he and the farmer's pretty daughter were not drowned after all? And impertinent Harry Cleborne? How would Madge Yarnell judge him? With brooding scorn, perhaps. As for Charlie Danton--Fessenden could picture all-too-clearly his bitter smile, the scar-line twitching the corner of his mouth. By God! he would suffer no sneer from Danton. He wondered if any of the villagers had conveyed to Betty, even by a look, the suspicions that accursed shopkeeper had thrust upon him! He would find her at once. His presence might act as some sort of shield for her. Conscious that some one blocked his way, he glanced up sharply. Charlie Danton stood before him--Danton, not sneering, not even smiling, but watching him very gravely. XI So near had Danton been to Fessenden's thoughts that he was able instantly to connect the Baltimorean's presence with the shopkeeper's talk of the people from the steam yacht. He was the first to speak. "Where's Betty?" "She's with my wife--on the _West Wind_." "Your wife?" "Yes. I was married two days ago." "Danton! You--married? You're joking, old man." "Not in the least. I was married last Sunday--to Madge Yarnell." "Madge Yarnell! What!" "Is Mrs. Charles Danton," said the other. Fessenden was too dumfounded to do aught but stare. His friend slipped an arm through his and turned him about. "There's room for us on the bench there. Let's talk it over. Madge and Betty are doing the same down in the sand-hills now." Fessenden yielded without a word, and they seated themselves on the bench. Danton was a man under thirty years. He was slight and pale, and had much of the abrupt manner of that ancestor who had come to Baltimore in the train of Jerome Bonaparte, and who, like his master, had found a wife there. "You're really married?" said Fessenden. "By Jove! I can't get over it. To Madge Yarnell, too. Then what in the world has become of--of--ah--" "Of a certain other lady?" appended his friend with perfect coolness. "I don't blame you for wondering about her. But never mind now. I want to tell you about my wedding. It was unique in the history of the Chesapeake, I promise you." His laugh had a ring of heartiness that surprised his listener. "Tom," he went on, "I'll be frank with you. I've been in more than one crooked path in my time, but I'm through with that sort of thing. Thank Heaven!" The other's amazement found expression. "I swear I don't know you. What's come over you?" "Love," said Danton simply. "Madge's love, and all that it means. She says she has told you of that tearing down the flag matter last year. That proved to me and to her that I owned _her_--I'd known for a long time that she owned _me_, you understand--but after that affair she sent me away, and I, in revenge, went after--I was a cad, I know. Well, I hope I'll never be again." "About your wedding, old man?" "I'm coming to that--and I'll skip the long story between. Last Saturday, after Madge met you and Betty on the road, she galloped to Sandywood Station, and sent me a reply to the wire I'd sent you." "A bit cool, that." "I've got it my pocket now. Here!" He read the bluish slip, smiling faintly the while. CHARLES DANTON The Club, Baltimore. Impossible to come, but understand. She promises to be _West Wind_ eight o'clock Sunday night, ready. "Hum! What did that mean?" "It meant that I thought I understood. I thought that you had discovered the--the Other Lady, in the farmhouse where she was hiding from me. I believed she'd told you to tell me she was ready--at last. I'd had the _Wisp_ stored for that very reason, you know, and then shifted to the _West Wind_ because it was larger and more seaworthy, in case _she_ wanted to go right across to Gibraltar." "Was it as near a thing as that?" "No matter now. The result of the telegram was that I was at Polocoke landing and aboard the _West Wind_ by eight o'clock Sunday night. I give you my word I never dreamed of a trick--who would?" "I don't see----" "You will in a moment. My skipper, Williams, met me as I came aboard. 'She's below, sir,' he said, 'and gave orders we were to put to sea just as soon as you turned up.' Faithful soul! He didn't know he'd been tricked either--doesn't know it yet, for that matter. He'd run away with the Queen of India if he thought I wanted it done. 'Right,' I told him. 'Shove off, and go full speed as soon as you're clear.' With that, I dived down into the main cabin. She wasn't there, and I looked into my stateroom. I couldn't see her there either, so I stepped to the inner stateroom--the two connect, you understand--where I thought she must be." He smiled soberly at Fessenden's interested face. "Tom," he said, "every word I'm telling you is for your soul's good. It's all the truth, but it's a parable, too--for you. Well, as I reached the doorway between the two rooms, somebody seized both my elbows from behind. By George! She's as strong as a man." "What! Not----" "Yes, Madge." "Great Scott! I begin to have a glimmer." "I had just time to see that it _was_ Madge before she pushed me inside--into the inner room--and slammed the door behind me. It locked with a spring." "She was outside?" "Yes, in my room. I was inside that." "I understand." "Precisely. I fancy I don't need to tell you much more. I was a prisoner in my own yacht, and that yacht headed full speed down the bay, my men acting upon what they thought were my own orders. A lovely girl was in my room. I was as much separated from her as if I were in the moon, but my own crew couldn't know that, and neither could the world." "She's a heroine." "She is--the most adorable in the world! She talked to me through the closed door. What she said--well, that's only for her and me. I saw at last what a mad fool I'd been. Then--then she threw herself on my mercy." "You seem to have played the man." "She'd make a man of a snake! I saw myself in my true light at last; and I understood her at last. God bless her!" "Amen!" "We ran on down to Old Point Comfort, and the chaplain at the fort married us that same night." The two men shook hands. "After we left Old Point," went on Danton, "we cruised about a bit, got mussed up by the storm, and ran in here. And then you--you and _Betty_ appeared." His emphasis brought a penetrating look from Fessenden. "You said you were telling me a parable. You don't mean--surely you can't--Betty!" "I do." "Do you dare to think----" "I don't think anything. What I say is that my case furnishes a parallel to yours." "Speak out, man! What! You mean you think I ought to marry her?" "Well, then--yes." "Good God! Marry Betty!" "Yes." Fessenden rose abruptly to his feet and walked away a few paces. He stared unseeingly across the stretch of sand to the sea beyond. A hundred images of Betty flitted before his mind's eye--images graceful and smiling, sad and gay, merry and serious, always infinitely winsome. Her voice sounded in his ear--teasing, angry, kind--always low-toned and charming. He faced Danton. "Marry her? I've been wanting to do that very thing since the first minute I saw her--only, I didn't know it." His friend's face shone with relief and pleasure. He broke into a boyish laugh. "Great!" he said. "You're the right sort, Tom. I knew it, and I told Madge so." Fessenden could not respond to the other's mood. "All very well. But what will Betty say?" "Ask her." "I intend to. But is she old enough--is she in a position--to understand?" "I tell you, yes." "And I tell you I'm very doubtful. A mere child, a country girl, ignorant of the world, ignorant, perhaps, of what marriage means! It's a hard position for me, and it may be worse--it may be horrible--for her." "Ask her," repeated Danton. "Look there!" He levelled his walking-stick. "Do you see the dunes there--the second hill? Somewhere beyond that you'll find Madge and Betty." Without another word, Fessenden pulled his cap over his eyes and strode off. He skirted the first hillock, and on its farther side came abruptly upon Madge Danton. She gave him a warm hand. Her eyes had lost their defiant look; rather, it seemed to him, they included the world in their gentle glance. "You'll find her beyond the next hill," she said. "You've talked to her--as Danton talked to me?" "Yes. She understands--her position. I know I don't need to warn you to be--careful." "No, no." He did not find Betty beyond the next hill, nor the next. But, hastening down the hollow ways, he almost stumbled over her at last--on a sunny slope above the sea. She looked up at him, her eyes as clear as crystal. "Hello, Boatswain Bob!" The greeting steadied him immeasurably. He knew that not so much what he should say in the next few minutes, as how he should say it, might determine the course of their lives. He longed with all his strength to be given a divine tact and a divine gift of speech. He threw himself on the sand at a respectful distance. "Hello, Nancy Lee!" Thanks to Kitty Hawk's "Bazaar," a scarlet ribbon again shone at Betty's throat. Her hair was as he had last seen it--coiled superbly about her head. Again he felt the air of dignity and aloofness of which the coiled hair seemed the symbol. Fessenden's eyes, quiet and tender, met her own, his glance as clear as hers. "Betty," he said, very simply, "we've been through a lot together, and I want you to marry me. Will you? Don't think I'm asking you because of any chivalrous fancy. I want you because I love you, and for nothing else in the world." His own words fired him. "Dearest, I've loved you since the first minute I saw you. You know that--in the bottom of your heart, you know that's true." Her eyes, which at first had met his unwaveringly, quailed a little. The red crept slowly into her cheeks. [Illustration: ALL THE CHIVALRY IN FESSENDEN'S NATURE STIRRED AT HER WORDS] "I'm only a--a country girl," she said. "And you're the famous Mr. Thomas Fessenden. I didn't know your real name until Madge told me, you know." "Will you marry me, Betty?" She eyed him soberly. "Madge said I _must_ say yes, if you asked me." "You poor child! Don't mind what she says. I want you to love me, if you can." "I like you thoroughly, Bob White." "Is that all?" "That's all--I'm sorry," she answered gravely. "To marry a man, and not to love him, would be--horrible." All the chivalry in Fessenden's nature stirred at her words. His clenched hands sank to the wrists in the soft sand, and his voice shook a little as he answered: "Not if--if we marry, and still remain only--friends." Her glance searched his soul. "O-oh! Can you--mean what you say?" "I give you my word of honor. Do you remember that night--good heavens! was it only last Friday?--that night I had supper at your house, and what I told you when you looked as if you were willing to say good-night in a certain way?" "I remember." "Well, I'll stick by that." She rose to her feet. "You haven't answered me yet," he protested. Her face flushed exquisitely. "There's a church in Kitty Hawk," she said. "And I believe a minister comes over from the mainland once a month. Madge says he is due--to-morrow." XII They were married in the little Kitty Hawk church at noon the next day. Before the hour of the wedding came, certain matters had been attended to. Letters had been written in time to catch the launch which would return with the minister from Kitty Hawk to the mainland. The clothing stock of the "Bazaar" had been materially reduced by the demands both Betty and Fessenden had made upon it. The _Wisp_ had been loaded with everything in the way of food, water, and utensils, that could be needed for a fortnight's cruise. "Why bother with the sloop?" Danton had demanded. "There's plenty of room on the _West Wind_. We can all go honeymooning together, eh, Madge? Over to Bermuda, if you like." To Fessenden's infinite relief, Betty had declined this well-meant offer. "No, thank you," she had said, blushing a little. "After to-night, I'll go back to the dear little _Wisp_--where I'll belong, you know. Bob White is going to take me down through the sounds, and then back through the Dismal Swamp, home." Madge and Danton, supplemented by the entire crew of the _West Wind_, were the witnesses at the wedding. It seemed to Fessenden that Betty's eyes were bluer than the sea that broke on the inlet bar, and the light in them more mysterious and wonderful. She looked a fair and innocent child. He answered the minister's questions, and even signed the marriage certificate, in a sort of daze, a daze from which he roused himself only after they had eaten the wedding breakfast on the _West Wind_, and having boarded the _Wisp_, were waving farewell to the others across the water. Betty serenely assumed command. "I'll take the wheel, Boatswain Bob," she said, "and you get up sail." He cast off from the float, and set jib, flying jib, and mainsail in a trice. As the sloop gathered headway, the helmswoman stood under the stern of the larger yacht. "Good-by, good-by, children," called Danton patronizingly. "_Bon voyage_, children," chorused Madge. "Be sure to love each other." "Good-by, old married people," retorted Fessenden. The _Wisp_ stood wing-and-wing down the sound. Fessenden lounged at his ease beside the charming captain. "Betty," he said, "has it yet occurred to you that you are really my wife?" She gave him a swift, half-frightened glance. "No-o. I haven't really had much time to think about it, you know." "Just now it came over me in a sort of wave. If you don't object, I'll call you 'dear' occasionally, simply to assure myself it's true." "Whenever you like," she returned politely. "Dear!" "Oh! That's rather--pronounced, isn't it?" "Very well pronounced. Very pleasant to pronounce, in fact." She sat down trustfully beside him, a guiding hand on the wheel. "Do you know, Bob White, I've often thought it would be delightful to sail like this with a ra-ther good-looking--comrade?" "Am I the man, may I ask?" "You are." "Thank you--dear. And do you know that for the last two or three days I've been thinking I'd give my hope of salvation to sail like this with Betty Landis?" She gave him another quick glance. "With whom?" "I mean with Betty Fessenden, of course." "O-oh!" "I'm dreaming now of sailing on and on with her. The other night I dreamed that she put 'dear' after my name, and that if we could only sail and sail long enough she might do it again." His half-closed lids hid the warmth in his eyes, but his voice shook with the passion he struggled to control. She shrank a little. "You needn't," he said. "Please don't. You can trust me absolutely. I--I was merely dreaming, you know." "I didn't mean to hurt you, Bob White--dear. Trust you? My presence here shows that I do--you know that." Her fingers touched his hair so fleetingly that he hardly dared believe she had meant it for a caress. Presently she relinquished the wheel to him and took his place among the cushions. He noticed how round her throat was, and how deliciously white. The rose-tipped chin and red mouth held him fascinated, until the glint of bayonets in the eyes warned him to control his glances. "You're the most adorable skipper I ever saw," he declared. "I've a confession to make, Boatswain." "Confess then, Nancy Lee." "My ankle wasn't hurt that day in the brook. I didn't really stumble." "What!" She nodded contritely. "No. I did it on purpose. Wasn't it perfectly shameless?" "I've had a far-away feeling that you made a miraculous recovery from that strain. But why did you pretend?" "Just as a game. I wanted to see what the--the good-looking stranger would do." "You found out." "Goodness, yes, didn't I!" They laughed together at the thought. "Madge and Charlie Danton," she went on--"do you think they're really in love? I mean, do you think their love will last?" "Don't you?" "Ye-es, I do. She has just enough _esprit de diable_ to hold him. It is 'infinite variety' that pleases him, I fancy, and Madge is twenty women in one." "You're a philosopher. By the way, where did you learn French? Do they teach that in the 'little red-roofed schoolhouse' in Maryland?" "Haven't I told you about my teacher? And I went to a very good school in Baltimore, if you please." "That reminds me that I know hardly anything about my own wife--only that her name was Betty Landis. You once told me that your mother was well-connected, Betty. Who was she?" The mainsail sheet, which she had been carelessly handling, at that moment slipped through her fingers, and the boom went flying out. He was barely able to keep the sloop from jibing. "Be careful, child," he warned. "Take a turn or two around that cleat there." "Bob White," she said, when affairs were again in order, "I've been thinking--of what you must be giving up in marrying _me_. I don't mean only your bachelor freedom, although I know that's precious to a man. But you are giving up--everything." "I'm lucky to get the chance." "Perhaps I've spoiled your career." "Nonsense!" "It may not be nonsense. You are a man of a different world from the country one you found _me_ in. It was only an hour ago we were married, but I can see already that I was perfectly mad and unutterably selfish to let you sacrifice yourself for me. A braver girl--a better girl--wouldn't have cared what silly society might say. I was wicked to marry you!" "Tut! tut!" "I'm perfectly serious--miserably serious." "Then I'll be serious, too. I admit that you and I ought to be different, but we aren't. I don't know why it should be so, dear, but we both 'belong.' We're the same sort. You must feel it as well as I." All that golden afternoon they sailed, and all the afternoon they talked. Her mind played with a hundred fancies, grave and gay, and Fessenden heard her with delight, and with ever-renewed wonder. She seemed to him a sort of Admirable Crichton, possessing heaven-sent intuition of all that was rare and charming and useful. At dusk they lowered all sail, let go the anchor, and made the sloop secure for the night. Then, with his respectful help, Betty cooked the dinner, and served it on a camp-table in the cockpit. That dinner was Olympian. A sirloin steak, deliciously broiled--"I intend to give you a _man's_ dinner," she had declared; French fried potatoes, as hot as the flames they came hissing from; coffee, as clear as amber; and fresh tea-biscuits which one was allowed to dip in Kitty Hawk honey. When the dinner things had been cleared away, they sat under the stars and watched the lights twinkle here and there from lonely cabins along-shore. Now and then Betty's fingers strayed over the guitar she had borrowed from the West Wind. The light breeze sighed an answer through the cypress and tamarack trees of the swampy cape near-by. Betty pointed dreamily shoreward. "The 'swampers' down here are a wild lot. During the war my uncle was attacked by them--on the way down to his district." "His district?" "He commanded the Eastern Military District of North Carolina, you know, and--and--" She broke off abruptly. "Oh, dear! My foot's asleep--terribly! Will you put a cushion under it for me?" "One minute," he said. "I don't quite make this out. If your uncle commanded a military district here during the war, he must have been a Federal general, a man of distinction, yet you--" "My foot's asleep, and prickles dreadfully." "Just a moment." She could feel the growing fixedness of his glance. "I--remember--this sort of thing has happened before. On the island--Rincoteague--when I asked you what you knew about Madge Yarnell, you suddenly discovered that it was raining. This morning, too, something was said about your mother, and somehow the sail got adrift at that very moment. You had hold of it. And just now your foot falls asleep in the nick of time. Betty, I don't like this sort of thing! I've had enough confidence in you to marry you--to marry you very much in the dark. Isn't it fair you should have confidence in me, a little?" She was listening with half-averted face and a smile that baffled him. As he watched her, a score of confusing recollections rushed through his mind like fiery phantoms: Madge Yarnell's recognition of the envelope received from White Cottage; her determined effort to accompany him thither the next day; her theatric assault upon them, whip in hand, on the road from Jim George's--even yet he found it hard to believe that they had narrowly escaped a tragedy! Harry Cleborne, Fessenden had then imagined, had warned him against his pursuit of an innocent country girl, and had puzzled him by obscure reference to another man, and on top of this had denied all knowledge of Betty Landis. He recalled a hundred reticences and reservations on the part of Betty, natural enough at the time, but now possessed of a disturbing significance. Her knowledge of the world; her voice and bearing; the words she had let slip of her mother, of her Baltimore friends and school, of her uncle, the Union general! What did these things mean? Light began to break upon him. Madge had not pressed upon them that day because she had discovered only him where she had expected to find Danton. Cleborne had really babbled of Danton and the Other Lady. Danton himself, in their talk on the beach at Kitty Hawk, had said that the Other had been in seclusion--hiding from his pursuit of her--in a farmhouse on the Eastern Shore. He towered over Betty in sudden fury. "What! What _is_ all this? Who are you? Who are you, I say?" The smile died from the girl's lips, and she shrank before his white face and fierce eyes. Shame and rage so choked him that his words were almost incoherent, but they were the more terrible for that. She cowered away from him to the very limits of the gunwale. "Oh, please!" she said. "Don't! Don't! Oh, please!" The tenderness he had lately felt for her came over him in a wave as he looked down at the shrinking figure. "I--I beg your pardon," he said. "I lost my head. Don't be afraid--it's all over now. I beg your pardon." Without another word or look he turned and sought his room in the forecastle. Half an hour later, as he lay staring into the darkness, he heard a muffled beat, as of a drum. Betty was playing her guitar in her room. Gradually the drum-beat increased and quickened until it grew into a continuous roll, a throbbing cadence that thrilled through and through him. The roar of the wind and the mutter of the sea were in the shattering roll of the drum. At the very height of its clamor--while he strove in vain to catch its meaning--it passed abruptly into silence. He was left staring into the dark. XIII Toward midnight, the girl lying wakeful in the after cabin heard a tap at the door. "Betty, are you awake?" "Yes." "Don't be frightened, but I think there may be a little excitement out here pretty soon." "What is it?" "Some of the 'swampers' up to a bit of thieving, I fancy." "I'll be out in a moment, Bob White." She found him, clad only in shirt and trousers, leaning against the side of the cabin, and staring shoreward. She divined his frank smile, and smiled in return. "Thieves?" she asked in a whisper. "I'm almost sure of it," he answered in the same tone. "I heard a boat bump against the side of the _Wisp_ a few minutes ago. I think they were drifting down with the tide to reconnoitre, and were swept in closer than they had expected to be." "Have you a pistol?" "On the locker there. Lucky Danton lent me one of his. You aren't afraid?" "Not--with you." "I dare say they won't come back. Listen now! See if you can make out anything to starboard. I'll watch on this side." The night was very dark. The stars were obscured by light clouds, nor was there a moon visible. Their eyes could penetrate the darkness little farther than the rails where a whitish mist hid the surface of the water. Betty gazed intently. A sidelong glance showed her Fessenden kneeling on the locker opposite her, his half-bared arms folded on his chest. His powerful form gave her a comforting sense of protection. She stared again to starboard. From the mist two great hands gripped the rail of the sloop! Then a face--the face of a negro--rose into view, a knife gripped in his teeth. So impossible, so barbaric, did the apparition seem, that for a long breath Betty stared spell-bound. Then her scream whirled Fessenden about. He crossed the cockpit at a bound, and struck savagely at the negro's jaw. The latter ducked with the skill of a trained boxer. Throwing up a hand, he caught the other by the throat, dragging him forward. Fessenden struck again, grappled with his antagonist, tottered, and plunged headforemost over the rail upon him. Both went down struggling wildly. Betty snatched up the revolver, hardly knowing what she did, and stared down upon the boiling water. Fessenden's ghastly face, his groping fingers, his throat from which stood up the handle of the recking knife! The possibility of these things strained her mind to the breaking point. A horror of what the loss of him would mean to her drew a piercing cry: "Bob White! Oh, Bob White!" As if summoned by the sound, the two men rose into view--a yard apart. Betty fired on the instant. The shot went wild, but the negro, for the first time aware that firearms were at hand, dived deep. They saw him but once again, his head a black spot in the mist as he swam frenziedly for his drifting punt. Her shaking hands helped Fessenden over the rail. "You--that dreadful knife!--you aren't hurt?" "I knocked that out of his mouth the first thing. A couple of teeth along with it! But the fellow can swim like an alligator--he would have drowned me at his leisure, if you hadn't fired. Thank you, child." He patted her shoulder. "The row must have been rather rough on you." "It doesn't matter--so long as you're safe." "It's all right. Well, that 'swamper' won't bother us any more to-night, I'll swear--so I'll get out of these wet togs. Lucky they're the flannels I borrowed from Danton." She reached both hands to his dripping shoulders. "Tom! Tom! I want to talk to you." She was laughing, yet half in tears. "Oh, it's ridiculous--it's pitiful to think we are husband and wife, and--and you don't even know my real name." He stared down at her. A slow tremor shook him. "Then you admit--that I don't?" "I know you don't, you--you silly boy! Go and change your clothes. Then come back and talk to me. Come soon!" In a wonderfully short time he rejoined her. Only his damp hair showed his late struggle with the robber, but his very quietness betrayed his emotion. She was awaiting him on the cushioned locker, a lighted reading-lamp beside her. "Sit down here," she said. "Close! You needn't be afraid of me. I--oh, I've a hundred things to say to you!" "Good. It was thoughtful of you to bring out that lamp. I can see your face better while you talk." "And I yours--you dear boy." "Betty! Be careful what you say. I've got myself pretty well in hand, but I can't stand much of that sort of thing." She laughed deliriously. "I brought the lamp to let you read something." She produced an official-looking document. "Look at this. Do you know what it is?" He peered at it. "No-o. Yes, of course. It's our marriage certificate, isn't it?" "It is. Mr. Thomas Fessenden, do you realize that you signed that document some twelve hours ago and didn't even read the name just above your own?" "Above mine? That must be _your_ name, Betty!" "Of course, silly boy. But you haven't yet seen it. You were so excited that you may have married an Abiatha Prudence or a Mary Ann, for all you know." He gave her a penetrating glance, then snatched up the lamp and held it so that its rays fell full upon the certificate. Just above his own signature was another in a feminine hand: "Roland Elizabeth Cary." He repeated it stupidly, "Roland Elizabeth Cary." She nodded, blushing hotly. "You?" "Yes--please." "Not Landis?" "She was my old nurse. I've always called her Aunty Landis." "_Roland Cary_ that they all talked about! Not a man, but _you_?" "Are you awfully disappointed? I was named after my great-uncle, General Roland Cary." "Great Scott! Polly Cresap said _Roland Cary_ was charming. Mrs. Dick Randall told me that he--no, that _Roland Cary_ was a 'dee-vil.' Cresap quite raved over--over Roland Cary. I've been as blind as an owl!" "It was wicked of me to fool you so long, but it was such a joke. All my cousins always call me Roland Cary, as if it were my only name." "Then you're Elizabeth Cary--the Miss Cary of Baltimore that people made such a fuss about when you came out last year--'the' Cary of 'the' Carys?" "I suppose I am." "I hope you'll give me credit for never believing that you were an ordinary person." "Yes, I do." "But _why_ did you do it--masquerade in the Landis farmhouse? I remember somebody said 'Roland Cary' had 'notions.'" "I did it to be near a friend--to have a chance to shelter a friend without attracting notice. A woman--the Other--the one that Charlie Danton--" "O-oh! It must have been she Cleborne saw at the window--and I thought he was warning me about you!" "I kept her out of harm's way--really in hiding. I didn't know how it would all end, but it did end perfectly." "You mean that Madge Yarnell ran away with Charlie Danton, and solved the problem?" "Not only that. The very night before _our_ elopement--yours and mine--she received a letter, a _dear_ letter, from her husband. They'd been on the point of making it up for weeks. You see, nothing _impossible_ had occurred." "I see." He had put down the lamp so suddenly that the light had flickered out. The mist was gone, and the velvety blackness stretched unbroken from shore to shore. Far down the sound, the red rim of the moon was rising from the water. "Child," he said, "for a young woman of your position you have married in a very reckless and off-hand way." "I knew you were--real. I knew I could trust you." He gave a short laugh. "Thank you. But if we're going up and down this weary world in--in this fashion, forever, I think I'll soon begin to wish that the 'swamper' had put his knife into my heart." She caught him tenderly by the chin. "Oh, Bob White! If you had never come back to me--out of that black water!" He trembled from head to foot. "Betty!" "I know--I know. Dear--will you kiss me?" "For God's sake, Betty! You don't know what you're saying. After all, we're husband and wife--a kiss between you and me can't be play any longer. It means--it must mean--everything." She leaned toward him, her eyes exquisitely tender. "I know, dear," she said. "Must I ask you again? Will--will you kiss me?" THE END. 
5370	----	RICHARD CARVEL By Winston Churchill Volume 6. XXXIV. His Grace makes Advances XXXV. In which my Lord Baltimore appears XXXVI. A Glimpse of Mr. Garrick XXXVII. The Serpentine XXXVIII. In which I am roundly brought to task XXXIX. Holland House XL. Vauxhall CHAPTER XXXIV HIS GRACE MAKES ADVANCES The next morning I began casting about as to what I should do next. There was no longer any chance of getting at the secret from Dorothy, if secret there were. Whilst I am ruminating comes a great battling at the street door, and Jack Comyn blew in like a gust of wind, rating me soundly for being a lout and a blockhead. "Zooks!" he cried, "I danced the soles off my shoes trying to get in here yesterday, and I hear you were moping all the time, and paid me no more attention than I had been a dog scratching at the door. What! and have you fallen out with my lady?" I confessed the whole matter to him. He was not to be resisted. He called to Banks for a cogue of Nantsey, and swore amazingly at what he was pleased to term the inscrutability of woman, offering up consolation by the wholesale. The incident, he said, but strengthened his conviction that Mr. Manners had appealed to Dorothy to save him. "And then," added his Lordship, facing me with absolute fierceness, "and then, Richard, why the devil did she weep? There were no tears when I made my avowal. I tell you, man, that the whole thing points but the one way. She loves you. I swear it by the rood." I could not help laughing, and he stood looking at me with such a whimsical expression that I rose and flung my arms around him. "Jack, Jack!" I cried, "what a fraud you are! Do you remember the argument you used when you had got me out of the sponging-house? Quoting you, all I had to do was to put Dorothy to the proof, and she would toss Mr. Marmaduke and his honour broadcast. Now I have confessed myself, and what is the result? Nay, your theory is gone up in vapour." "Then why," cried his Lordship, hotly, "why before refusing me did she demand to know whether you had been in love with Patty Swain? 'Sdeath! you put me in mind of a woman upon stilts--a man has always to be walking alongside her with encouragement handy. And when a proud creature such as our young lady breaks down as she hath done, 'tis clear as skylight there is something wrong. And as for Mr. Manners, Hare overheard a part of a pow-wow 'twixt him and the duke at the Bedford Arms,--and Chartersea has all but owned in some of his drunken fits that our little fop is in his power." "Then she is in love with some one else," I said. "I tell you she is not," said Comyn, still more emphatically; "and you can write that down in red in your table book. Gossip has never been able to connect her name with that of any man save yours, when she went for you in Castle Yard. And, gemini, gossip is like water, and will get in if a crack shows. When the Marquis of Wells was going to Arlington Street once every day, she sent him about his business in a fortnight." Despite Comyn's most unselfish optimism, I could see no light. And in the recklessness that so often besets youngsters of my temper, on like occasions, I went off to Newmarket next day with Mr. Fox and Lord Ossory, in his Lordship's travelling-chaise and four. I spent a very gay week trying to forget Miss Dolly. I was the loser by some three hundred pounds, in addition to what I expended and loaned to Mr. Fox. This young gentleman was then beginning to accumulate at Newmarket a most execrable stud. He lost prodigiously, but seemed in no wise disturbed thereby. I have never known a man who took his ill-luck with such a stoical nonchalance. Not so while the heat was on. As I write, a most ridiculous recollection rises of Charles dragging his Lordship and me and all who were with him to that part of the course where the race was highest, where he would act like a madman; blowing and perspiring, and whipping and swearing all at a time, and rising up and down as if the horse was throwing him. At Newmarket I had the good--or ill-fortune to meet that incorrigible rake and profligate, my Lord of March and Ruglen. For him the goddess of Chance had smiled, and he was in the most complaisant humour. I was presented to his Grace, the Duke of Grafton, whose name I had no reason to love, and invited to Wakefield Lodge. We went instead, Mr. Fox and I, to Ampthill, Lord Ossory's seat, with a merry troop. And then we had more racing; and whist and quinze and pharaoh and hazard, until I was obliged to write another draft upon Mr. Dix to settle the wails: and picquet in the travelling-chaise all the way to London. Dining at Brooks's, we encountered Fitzpatrick and Comyn and my Lord Carlisle. "Now how much has Charles borrowed of you, Mr. Carvel?" demanded Fitzpatrick, as we took our seats. "I'll lay ten guineas that Charles has him mortgaged this day month, though he owns as much land as William Penn, and is as rich as Fordyce." Comyn demanded where the devil I had been, though he knew perfectly. He was uncommonly silent during dinner, and then asked me if I had heard the news. I told him I had heard none. He took me by the sleeve, to the quiet amusement of the company, and led me aside. "Curse you, Richard," says be; "you have put me in such a temper that I vow I'll fling you over. You profess to love her, and yet you go betting to Newmarket and carousing to Ampthill when she is ill." "Ill!" I said, catching my breath. "Ay! That hurts, does it? Yes, ill, I say. She was missed at Lady Pembroke's that Friday you had the scene with her, and at Lady Ailesbury's on Saturday. On Monday morning, when I come to you for tidings, you are off watching Charles make an ass of himself at Newmarket." "And how is she now, Comyn?" I asked, catching him by the arm. "You may go yourself and see, and be cursed, Richard Carvel. She is in trouble, and you are pleasure-seeking in the country. Damme! you deserve richly to lose her." Calling for my greatcoat, and paying no heed to the jeers of the company for leaving before the toasts and the play, I fairly ran to Arlington Street. I was in a passion of remorse. Comyn had been but just. Granting, indeed, that she had refused to marry me, was that any reason why I should desert my life-long friend and playmate? A hundred little tokens of her affection for me rose to mind, and last of all that rescue from Castle Yard in the face of all Mayfair. And in that hour of darkness the conviction that something was wrong came back upon me with redoubled force. Her lack of colour, her feverish actions, and the growing slightness of her figure, all gave me a pang, as I connected them with that scene on the balcony over the Park. The house was darkened, and a coach was in front of it. "Yessir," said the footman, "Miss Manners has been quite ill. She is now some better, and Dr. James is with her. Mrs. Manners begs company will excuse her." And Mr. Marmaduke? The man said, with as near a grin as he ever got, that the marster was gone to Mrs. Cornelys's assembly. As I turned away, sick at heart, the physician, in his tie-wig and scarlet cloak, came out, and I stopped him. He was a testy man, and struck the stone an impatient blow with his staff. "'Od's life, sir. I am besieged day and night by you young gentlemen. I begin to think of sending a daily card to Almack's." "Sir, I am an old friend of Miss Manners," I replied, "having grown up with her in Maryland--" "Are you Mr. Carvel?" he demanded abruptly, taking his hat from his arm. "Yes," I answered, surprised. In the gleam of the portico lanthorn he scrutinized me for several seconds. "There are some troubles of the mind which are beyond the power of physic to remedy, Mr. Carvel," said he. "She has mentioned your name, sir, and you are to judge of my meaning. Your most obedient, sir. Good night, sir." And he got into his coach, leaving me standing where I was, bewildered. That same fear of being alone, which has driven many a man to his cups, sent me back to Brooks's for company. I found Fox and Comyn seated at a table in the corner of the drawing-room, for once not playing, but talking earnestly. Their expressions when they saw me betrayed what my own face must have been. "What is it?" cried Comyn, half rising; "is she--is she--" "No, she is better," I said. He looked relieved. "You must have frightened him badly, Jack," said Fox. I flung myself into a chair, and Fox proposed whist, something unusual for him. Comyn called for cards, and was about to go in search of a fourth, when we all three caught sight of the Duke of Chartersea in the door, surveying the room with a cold leisure. His eye paused when in line with us, and we were seized with astonishment to behold him making in our direction. "Squints!" exclaimed Mr. Fox, "now what the devil can the hound want?" "To pull your nose for sending him to market," my Lord suggested. Fox laughed coolly. "Lay you twenty he doesn't, Jack," he said. His Grace plainly had some business with us, and I hoped he was coming to force the fighting. The pieces had ceased to rattle on the round mahogany table, and every head in the room seemed turned our way, for the Covent Garden story was well known. Chartersea laid his hand on the back of our fourth chair, greeted us with some ceremony, and said something which, under the circumstances, was almost unheard of in that day: "If you stand in need of one, gentlemen, I should deem it an honour." The situation had in it enough spice for all of us. We welcomed him with alacrity. The cards were cut, and it fell to his Grace to deal, which he did very prettily, despite his heavy hands. He drew Charles Fox, and they won steadily. The conversation between deals was anywhere; on the virtue of Morello cherries for the gout, to which his Grace was already subject; on Mr. Fox's Ariel, and why he had not carried Sandwich's cup at Newmarket; on the advisability of putting three-year-olds on the track; in short, on a dozen small topics of the kind. At length, when Comyn and I had lost some fifty pounds between us, Chartersea threw down the cards. "My coach waits to-night, gentlemen," said he, with some sort of an accent that did not escape us. "It would give me the greatest pleasure and you will sup with me in Hanover Square." CHAPTER XXXV IN WHICH MY LORD BALTIMORE APPEARS His Grace's offer was accepted with a readiness he could scarce have expected, and we all left the room in the midst of a buzz of comment. We knew well that the matter was not so haphazard as it appeared, and on the way to Hanover Square Comyn more than once stepped on my toe, and I answered the pressure. Our coats and canes were taken by the duke's lackeys when we arrived. We were shown over the house. Until now --so his Grace informed us--it had not been changed since the time of the fourth duke, who, as we doubtless knew, had been an ardent supporter of the Hanoverian succession. The rooms were high-panelled and furnished in the German style, as was the fashion when the Square was built. But some were stripped and littered with scaffolding and plaster, new and costly marble mantels were replacing the wood, and an Italian of some renown was decorating the ceilings. His Grace appeared to be at some pains that the significance of these improvements should not be lost upon us; was constantly appealing to Mr. Fox's taste on this or that feature. But those fishy eyes of his were so alert that we had not even opportunity to wink. It was wholly patent, in brief, that the Duke of Chartersea meant to be married, and had brought Charles and Comyn hither with a purpose. For me he would have put himself out not an inch had he not understood that my support came from those quarters. He tempered off this exhibition by showing us a collection of pottery famous in England, that had belonged to the fifth duke, his father. Every piece of it, by the way, afterwards brought an enormous sum at auction. Supper was served in a warm little room of oak. The game was from Derresley Manor, the duke's Nottinghamshire seat, and the wine, so he told us, was some of fifty bottles of rare Chinon he had inherited. Melted rubies it was indeed, of the sort which had quickened the blood of many a royal gathering at Blois and Amboise and Chenonceaux,--the distilled peasant song of the Loire valley. In it many a careworn clown had tasted the purer happiness of the lowly. Our restraint gave way under its influence. His Grace lost for the moment his deformities, and Mr. Fox made us laugh until our sides ached again. His Lordship told many a capital yarn, and my own wit was afterwards said to be astonishing, though I can recall none of it to support the affirmation. Not a word or even a hint of Dorothy had been uttered, nor did Chartersea so much as refer to his Covent Garden experience. At length, when some half dozen of the wine was gone, and the big oak clock had struck two, the talk lapsed. It was Charles Fox, of course, who threw the spark into the powder box. "We were speaking of hunting, Chartersea," he said. "Did you ever know George Wrottlesey, of the Suffolk branch?" "No," said his Grace, very innocent. "No! 'Od's whips and spurs, I'll be sworn I never saw a man to beat him for reckless riding. He would take five bars any time, egad, and sit any colt that was ever foaled. The Wrottleseys were poor as weavers then, with the Jews coming down in the wagon from London and hanging round the hall gates. But the old squire had plenty of good hunters in the stables, and haunches on the board, and a cellar that was like the widow's cruse of oil, or barrel of meal--or whatever she had. All the old man had to do to lose a guinea was to lay it on a card. He never nicked in his life, so they say. Well, young George got after a rich tea-merchant's daughter who had come into the country near by. 'Slife! she was a saucy jade, and devilish pretty. Such a face! so Stavordale vowed, and such a neck! and such eyes! so innocent, so ravishingly innocent. But she knew cursed well George was after the bank deposit, and kept him galloping. And when he got a view, halloa, egad! she was stole away again, and no scent. "One morning George was out after the hounds with Stavordale, who told me the story, and a lot of fellows who had come over from Newmarket. He was upon Aftermath, the horse that Foley bought for five hundred pounds and was a colt then. Of course he left the field out of sight behind. He made for a gap in the park wall (faith! there was no lack of 'em), but the colt refused, and over went George and plumped into a cart of winter apples some farmer's sot was taking to Bury Saint Edmunds to market. The fall knocked the sense out of George, for he hasn't much, and Stavordale thinks he must have struck a stake as he went in. Anyway, the apples rolled over on top of him, and the drunkard on the seat never woke up, i' faith. And so they came to town. "It so chanced, egad, that the devil sent Miss Tea Merchant to Bury to buy apples. She amused herself at playing country gentlewoman while papa worked all week in the city. She saw the cart in the market, and ate three (for she had the health of a barmaid), and bid in the load, and George with it. 'Pon my soul! she did. They found his boots first. And the lady said, before all the grinning Johns and Willums, that since she had bought him she supposed she would have to keep him. And, by Gads life! she has got him yet, which is a deal stranger." Even the duke laughed. For, as Fox told it, the story was irresistible. But it came as near to being a wanton insult as a reference to his Grace's own episode might. The red came slowly back into his eye. Fox stared vacantly, as was his habit when he had done or said something especially daring. And Comyn and I waited, straining and expectant, like boys who have prodded a wild beast and stand ready for the spring. There was a metallic ring in the duke's voice as he spoke. "I have heard, Mr. Carvel, that you can ride any mount offered you." "Od's, and so he can!" cried Jack. "I'll take oath on that." "I will lay you an hundred guineas, my Lord," says his Grace, very off-hand, "that Mr. Carvel does not sit Baltimore's Pollux above twenty minutes." "Done!" says Jack, before I could draw breath. "I'll take your Grace for another hundred," calmly added Mr. Fox. "It seems to me, your Grace," I cried, angry all at once, "it seems to me that I am the one to whom you should address your wagers. I am not a jockey, to be put up at your whim, and to give you the chance to lose money." Chartersea swung around my way. "Your pardon, Mr. Carvel," said he, very coolly, very politely; "yours is the choice of the wager. And you reject it, the others must be called off." "Slife! I double it!" I said hotly, "provided the horse is alive, and will stand up." "Devilish well put, Richard!" Mr. Fox exclaimed, casting off his restraint. "I give you my word the horse is alive, sir," he answered, with a mock bow; "'twas only yesterday that he killed his groom, at Hampstead." A few moments of silence followed this revelation. It was Charles Fox who spoke first. "I make no doubt that your Grace, as a man of honour,"--he emphasized the word forcibly,--"will not refuse to ride the horse for another twenty minutes, provided Mr. Carvel is successful. And I will lay your Grace another hundred that you are thrown, or run away with." Truly, to cope with a wit like Mr. Fox's, the duke had need for a longer head. He grew livid as he perceived how neatly he had been snared in his own trap. "Done!" he cried loudly; "done, gentlemen. It only remains to hit upon time and place for the contest. I go to York to-morrow, to be back this day fortnight. And if you will do me the favour of arranging with Baltimore for the horse, I shall be obliged. I believe he intends selling it to Astley, the showman." "And are we to keep it?" asks Mr. Fox. "I am dealing with men of honour," says the duke, with a bow: "I need have no better assurance that the horse will not be ridden in the interval." "'Od so!" said Comyn, when we were out; "very handsome of him. But I would not say as much for his Grace." And Mr. Fox declared that the duke was no coward, but all other epithets known might be called him. "A very diverting evening, Richard," said he; "let's to your apartments and have a bowl, and talk it over." And thither we went. I did not sleep much that night, but 'twas of Dolly I thought rather than of Chartersea. I was abroad early, and over to inquire in Arlington Street, where I found she had passed a good night. And I sent Banks a-hooting for some violets to send her, for I knew she loved that flower. Between ten and eleven Mr. Fox and Comyn and I set out for Baltimore House. When you go to London, my dears, you will find a vast difference in the neighbourhood of Bloomsbury from what it was that May morning in 1770. Great Russell Street was all a sweet fragrance of gardens, mingling with the smell of the fields from the open country to the north. We drove past red Montagu House with its stone facings and dome, like a French hotel, and the cluster of buildings at its great gate. It had been then for over a decade the British Museum. The ground behind it was a great resort for Londoners of that day. Many a sad affair was fought there, but on that morning we saw a merry party on their way to play prisoner's base. Then we came to the gardens in front of Bedford House, which are now Bloomsbury Square. For my part I preferred this latter mansion to the French creation by its side, and admired its long and graceful lines. Its windows commanded a sweep from Holborn on the south to Highgate on the north. To the east of it, along Southampton Row, a few great houses had gone up or were building; and at the far end of that was Baltimore house, overlooking her Grace of Bedford's gardens. Beyond Lamb's Conduit Fields stretched away to the countryside. I own I had a lively curiosity to see that lordly ruler, the proprietor of our province, whose birthday we celebrated after his Majesty's. Had I not been in a great measure prepared, I should have had a revulsion indeed. When he heard that Mr. Fox and my Lord Comyn were below stairs he gave orders to show them up to his bedroom, where he received us in a night-gown embroidered with oranges. My Lord Baltimore, alas! was not much to see. He did not make the figure a ruler should as he sat in his easy chair, and whined and cursed his Swiss. He was scarce a year over forty, and he had all but run his race. Dissipation and corrosion had set their seal upon him, had stamped his yellow face with crows' feet and blotted it with pimples. But then the glimpse of a fine gentleman just out of bed of a morning, before he is made for the day, is unfair. "Morning, Charles! Howdy, Jack!" said his Lordship, apathetically. "Glad to know you, Mr. Carvel. Heard of your family. 'Slife! Wish there were more like 'em in the province." This sentiment not sitting very well upon his Lordship, I bowed, and said nothing. "By the bye," he continued, pouring out his chocolate into the dish, "I sent a damned rake of a parson out there some years gone. Handsome devil, too. Never seen his match with the women, egad. 'Od's fish--" he leered. And then added with an oath and a nod and a vile remark: "Married three times to my knowledge. Carried off dozen or so more. Some of 'em for me. Many a good night I've had with him. Drank between us one evening at Essex's gallon and half Champagne and Burgundy apiece. He got to know too much, y' know," he concluded, with a wicked wink. "Had to buy him up pack him off." "His name, Fred?" said Comyn, with a smile at me. "'Sdeath! That's it. Trouble to remember. Damned if I can think." And he repeated this remark over and over. "Allen?" said Comyn. "Yes," said Baltimore; "Allen. And egad I think he'll find hell a hotter place than me. You know him, Mr. Carvel?" "Yes," I replied. I said no more. I make no reservations when I avow I was never so disgusted in my life. But as I looked upon him, haggard and worn, with retribution so neat at hand, I had no words to protest or condemn. Baltimore gave a hollow mirthless laugh, stopped short, and looked at Charles Fox. "Curse you, Charles! I suppose you are after that little matter I owe you for quinze." "Damn the little matter!" said Fox. "Come, get you perfumed and dressed, and order up some of your Tokay while we wait. I have to go to St. Stephens. Mr. Carvel has come to buy your horse Pollux. He has bet Chartersea two hundred guineas he rides him for twenty minutes." "The devil he has!" cried his Lordship, jaded no longer. "Why, you must know, Mr. Carvel, there was no groom in my stables who would sit him until Foley made me a present of his man, Miller, who started to ride him to Hyde Park. As he came out of Great Russell Street, by gads life! the horse broke and ran out the Tottenham Court Road all the way to Hampstead. And the fiend picked out a big stone water trough and tossed Miller against it. Then they gathered up the fragments. Damme if I like to see suicide, Mr. Carvel. If Chartersea wants to kill you, let him try it in the fields behind Montagu House here." I told his Lordship that I had made the wager, and could not in honour withdraw, though the horse had killed a dozen grooms. But already he seemed to have lost interest. He gave a languid pull at the velvet tassel on his bell-rope, ordered the wine; and, being informed that his anteroom below was full of people, had them all dismissed with the message that he was engaged upon important affairs. He told Mr. Fox he had heard of the Jerusalem Chamber, and vowed he would have a like institution. He told me he wished the colony of Maryland in hell; that he was worn out with the quarrels of Governor Eden and his Assembly, and offered to lay a guinea that the Governor's agent would get to him that day,--will-he, nill-he. I did not think it worth while to argue with such a man. My Lord took three-quarters of an hour to dress, and swore he had not accomplished the feat so quickly in a year. He washed his hands and face in a silver basin, and the scent of the soap filled the room. He rated his Swiss for putting cinnamon upon his ruffles in place of attar of roses, and attempted to regale us the while with some of his choicest adventures. In more than one of these, by the way, his Grace of Chartersea figured. It was Fox who brought him up. "See here, Baltimore," he said, "I'm not squeamish. But I'm cursed if I like to hear a man who may die any time between bottles talk so." His Lordship took the rebuke with an oath, and presently hobbled down the stairs of the great and silent house to the stable court, where two grooms were in waiting with the horse. He was an animal of amazing power, about sixteen hands, and dapple gray in colour. And it required no special knowledge to see that he had a devil inside him. It gleamed wickedly out of his eye. "'Od's life, Richard!" cried Charles, "he has a Jew nose; by all the seven tribes I bid you 'ware of him." "You have but to ride him with a gold bit, Richard," said Comyn, "and he is a kitten, I'll warrant." At that moment Pollux began to rear and kick, so that it took both the 'ostlers to hold him. "Show him a sovereign," suggested Fox. "How do you feel, Richard?" "I never feared a horse yet," I said with perfect truth, "nor do I fear this one, though I know he may kill me." "I'll lay you twenty pounds you have at least one bone broken, and ten that you are killed," Baltimore puts in querulously, from the doorway. "I'll do this, my Lord," I answered. "If I ride him, he is mine. If he throws me, I give you twenty pounds for him." The gentlemen laughed, and Baltimore vowed he could sell the horse to Astley for fifty; that Pollux was the son of Renown, of the Duke of Kingston's stud, and much more. But Charles rallied him out by a reference to the debt at quinze, and an appeal to his honour as a sportsman. And swore he was discouraging one of the prettiest encounters that would take place in England for many a long day. And so the horse was sent to the stables of the White Horse Cellar, in Piccadilly, and left there at my order. CHAPTER XXXVI A GLIMPSE OF MR. GARRICK Day after day I went to Arlington Street, each time to be turned away with the same answer: that Miss Manners was a shade better, but still confined to her bed. You will scarce believe me, my dears, when I say that Mr. Marmaduke had gone at this crisis with his Grace to the York races. On the fourth morning, I think, I saw Mrs. Manners. She was much worn with the vigil she had kept, and received me with an apathy to frighten me. Her way with me had hitherto always been one of kindness and warmth. In answer to the dozen questions I showered upon her, she replied that Dorothy's malady was in no wise dangerous, so Dr. James had said, and undoubtedly arose out of the excitement of a London season. As I knew, Dorothy was of the kind that must run and run until she dropped. She had no notion of the measure of her own strength. Mrs. Manners hoped that, in a fortnight, she would be recovered sufficiently to be removed to one of the baths. "She wishes me to thank you for the flowers, Richard. She has them constantly by her. And bids me tell you how sorry she is that she is compelled to miss so much of your visit to England. Are you enjoying London, Richard? I hear that you are well liked by the best of company." I left, prodigiously cast down, and went directly to Mr. Wedgwood's, to choose the prettiest set of tea-cups and dishes I could find there. I pitied Mrs. Manners from my heart, and made every allowance for her talk with me, knowing the sorrow of her life. Here was yet another link in the chain of the Chartersea evidence. And I made no doubt that Mr. Manner's brutal desertion at such a time must be hard to bear. I continued my visits of inquiry, nearly always meeting some person of consequence, or the footman of such, come on the same errand as myself. And once I encountered the young man she had championed against his Grace at Lady Tankerville's. Rather than face the array of anxieties that beset me, I plunged recklessly into the gayeties--nay, the excesses--of Mr. Charles Fox and his associates. I paid, in truth, a very high price for my friendship with Mr. Fox. But, since it did not quite ruin me, I look back upon it as cheaply bought. To know the man well, to be the subject of his regard, was to feel an infatuation in common with the little band of worshippers which had come with him from Eton. They remained faithful to him all his days, nor adversity nor change of opinion could shake their attachment. They knew his faults, deplored them, and paid for them. And this was not beyond my comprehension, tho' many have wondered at it. Did he ask me for five hundred pounds,--which he did,--I gave it freely, and would gladly have given more, tho' I saw it all wasted in a night when the dice rolled against him. For those honoured few of whom I speak likewise knew his virtues, which were quite as large as the faults, albeit so mingled with them that all might not distinguish. I attended some of the routs and parties, to all of which, as a young colonial gentleman of wealth and family, I was made welcome. I went to a ball at Lord Stanley's, a mixture of French horns and clarionets and coloured glass lanthorns and candles in gilt vases, and young ladies pouring tea in white, and musicians in red, and draperies and flowers ad libitum. There I met Mr. Walpole, looking on very critically. He was the essence of friendliness, asked after my equerry, and said I had done well to ship him to America. At the opera, with Lord Ossory and Mr. Fitzpatrick, I talked through the round of the boxes, from Lady Pembroke's on the right to Lady Hervey's on the left, where Dolly's illness and Lady Harrington's snuffing gabble were the topics rather than Giardini's fiddling. Mr. Storer took me to Foote's dressing-room at the Haymarket, where we found the Duke of Cumberland lounging. I was presented, and thought his Royal Highness had far less dignity than the monkey-comedian we had come to see. I must not forget the visit I made to Drury Lane Playhouse with my Lords Carlisle and Grantham and Comyn. The great actor received me graciously in such a company, you may be sure. He appeared much smaller off the boards than on, and his actions and speech were quick and nervous. Gast, his hairdresser, was making him up for the character of Richard III. "'Ods!" said Mr. Garrick, "your Lordships come five minutes too late. Goldsmith is but just gone hence, fresh from his tailor, Filby, of Water Lane. The most gorgeous creature in London, gentlemen, I'll be sworn. He is even now, so he would have me know, gone by invitation to my Lord Denbigh's box, to ogle the ladies." "And have you seen your latest lampoon, Mr. Garrick?" asks Comyn, winking at me. Up leaps Mr. Garrick, so suddenly as to knock the paint-pot from Gast's hand. "Nay, your Lordship jests, surely!" he cried, his voice shaking. "Jests!" says my Lord, very serious; "do I jest, Carlisle?" And turning to Mr. Cross, the prompter, who stood by, "Fetch me the St. James's Evening Post," says he. "'Ods my life!" continues poor Garrick, almost in tears; "I have loaned Foote upwards of two thousand pounds. And last year, as your Lordship remembers, took charge of his theatre when his leg was cut off. 'Pon my soul, I cannot account for his ingratitude." "'Tis not Foote," says Carlisle, biting his lip; "I know Foote's mark." "Then Johnson," says the actor, "because I would not let him have my fine books in his dirty den to be kicked about the floor, but put my library at his disposal--" "Nay, nor Johnson. Nor yet Macklin nor Murphy." "Surely not--" cries Mr. Garrick, turning white under the rouge. The name remained unpronounced. "Ay, ay, Junius, in the Evening Post. He has fastened upon you at last," answers Comyn, taking the paper. "'Sdeath! Garrick," Carlisle puts in, very solemn, "what have you done to offend the Terrible Unknown? Talebearing to his Majesty, I'll warrant! I gave you credit for more discretion." At these words Mr. Garrick seized the chair for support, and swung heavily into it. Whereat the young lords burst into such a tempest of laughter that I could not refrain from joining them. As for Mr. Garrick, he was so pleased to have escaped that he laughed too, though with a palpable nervousness. [Note by the editor. It was not long after this that Mr. Garrick's punishment came, and for the self-same offence.] "By the bye, Garrick," Carlisle remarked slyly, when he had recovered, "Mrs. Crewe was vastly taken with the last 'vers' you left on her dressing-table." "Was she, now, my Lord?" said the great actor, delighted, but scarce over his fright. "You must know that I have writ one to my Lady Carlisle, on the occasion of her dropping her fan in Piccadilly." Whereupon he proceeded to recite it, and my Lord Carlisle, being something of a poet himself, pronounced it excellent. Mr. Garrick asked me many questions concerning American life and manners, having a play in his repertory the scene of which was laid in New York. In the midst of this we were interrupted by a dirty fellow who ran in, crying excitedly: "Sir, the Archbishop of York is getting drunk at the Bear, and swears he'll be d--d if he'll act to-night." "The archbishop may go to the devil!" snapped Mr. Garrick. "I do not know a greater rascal, except yourself." I was little short of thunderstruck. But presently Mr. Garrick added complainingly: "I paid a guinea for the archbishop, but the fellow got me three murderers to-day and the best alderman I ever clapped eyes upon. So we are square." After the play we supped with him at his new house in Adelphi Terrace, next Topham Beauclerk's. 'Twas handsomely built in the Italian style, and newly furnished throughout, for Mr. Garrick travelled now with a coach and six and four menservants, forsooth. And amongst other things he took pride in showing us that night was a handsome snuffbox which the King of Denmark had given him the year before, his Majesty's portrait set in jewels thereon. Presently the news of the trial of Lord Baltimore's horse began to be noised about, and was followed by a deluge of wagers at Brooks's and White's and elsewhere. Comyn and Fox, my chief supporters, laid large sums upon me, despite all my persuasion. But the most unpleasant part of the publicity was the rumour that the match was connected with the struggle for Miss Manners's hand. I was pressed with invitations to go into the country to ride this or that horse. His Grace the Duke of Grafton had a mount he would have me try at Wakefield Lodge, and was far from pleasant over my refusal of his invitation. I was besieged by young noblemen like Lord Derby and Lord Foley, until I was heartily sick of notoriety, and cursed the indiscretion of the person who let out the news, and my own likewise. My Lord March, who did me the honour to lay one hundred pounds upon my skill, insisted that I should make one of a party to the famous amphitheatre near Lambeth. Mr. Astley, the showman, being informed of his Lordship's intention, met us on Westminster Bridge dressed in his uniform as sergeant major of the Royal Light Dragoons and mounted on a white charger. He escorted us to one of the large boxes under the pent-house reserved for the gentry. And when the show was over and the place cleared, begged, that I would ride his Indian Chief. I refused; but March pressed me, and Comyn declared he had staked his reputation upon my horsemanship. Astley was a large man, about my build, and I donned a pair of his leather breeches and boots, and put Indian Chief to his paces around the ring. I found him no more restive, nor as much so, as Firefly. The gentlemen were good enough to clap me roundly, and Astley vowed (no doubt because of the noble patrons present) that he had never seen a better seat. We all repaired afterwards for supper to Don Saltero's Coffee House and Museum in Chelsea. And I remembered having heard my grandfather speak of the place, and tell how he had seen Sir Richard Steele there, listening to the Don scraping away at the "Merry Christ Church Bells" on his fiddle. The Don was since dead, but King James's coronation sword and King Henry VIII.'s coat of mail still hung on the walls. The remembrance of that fortnight has ever been an appalling one. Mr. Carvel had never attempted to teach me the value of money. My grandfather, indeed, held but four things essential to the conduct of life; namely, to fear God, love the King, pay your debts, and pursue your enemies. There was no one in London to advise me, Comyn being but a wild lad like myself. But my Lord Carlisle gave me a friendly warning: "Have a care, Carvel," said he, kindly, "or you will run your grandfather through, and all your relations beside. I little realized the danger of it when I first came up." (He was not above two and twenty then.) "And now I have a wife, am more crippled than I care to be, thanks to this devilish high play. Will you dine with Lady Carlisle in St. James's Place next Friday?" My heart went out to this young nobleman. Handsome he was, as a picture. And he knew better than most of your fine gentlemen how to put a check on his inclinations. As a friend he had few equals, his purse being ever at the command of those he loved. And his privations on Fox's account were already greater than many knew. I had a call, too, from Mr. Dix. I found him in my parlour one morning, cringing and smiling, and, as usual, half an hour away from his point. "I warrant you, Mr. Carvel," says he, "there are few young gentlemen not born among the elect that make the great friends you are blessed with." "I have been fortunate, Mr. Dix," I replied dryly. "Fortunate!" he cried; "good Lord, sir! I hear of you everywhere with Mr. Fox, and you have been to Astley's with my Lord March. And I have a draft from you at Ampthill." "Vastly well manoeuvred, Mr. Dix," I said, laughing at the guilty change in his pink complexion. "And hence you are here." He fidgeted, and seeing that I paid him no attention, but went on with my chocolate, he drew a paper from his pocket and opened it. "You have spent a prodigious sum, sir, for so short a time," said he, unsteadily. "'Tis very well for you, Mr. Carvel, but I have to remember that you are heir only. I am advancing you money without advices from his Worship, your grandfather. A most irregular proceeding, sir, and one likely to lead me to trouble. I know not what your allowance may be." "Nor I, Mr. Dix," I replied, unreasonably enough. "To speak truth, I have never had one. You have my Lord Comyn's signature to protect you," I went on ill-naturedly, for I had not had enough sleep. "And in case Mr. Carvel protests, which is unlikely and preposterous, you shall have ten percentum on your money until I can pay you. That should be no poor investment." He apologized. But he smoothed out the paper on his knee. "It is only right to tell you, Mr. Carvel, that you have spent one thousand eight hundred and thirty-seven odd pounds, in home money, which is worth more than your colonial. Your grandfather's balance with me was something less than one thousand five hundred, as I made him a remittance in December last. I have advanced the rest. And yesterday," he went on, resolutely for him, "yesterday I got an order for five hundred more." And he handed me the paper. I must own that the figures startled me. I laid it down with a fine show of indifference. "And so you wish me to stop drawing? Very good, Mr. Dix." He must have seen some threat implied, though I meant none. He was my very humble servant at once, and declared he had called only to let me know where I stood. Then he bowed himself out, wishing me luck with the horse he had heard of, and I lighted my pipe with his accompt. CHAPTER XXXVII THE SERPENTINE Whether it was Mr. Dix. that started me reflecting, or my Lord Carlisle's warning, or a few discreet words from young Lady Carlisle herself, I know not. At all events, I made a resolution to stop high play, and confine myself to whist and quinze and picquet. For I conceived a notion, enlarged by Mr. Fox, that I had more than once fallen into the tender clutches of the hounds. I was so reflecting the morning following Lord Carlisle's dinner, when Banks announced a footman. "Mr. Manners's man, sir," he added significantly, and handed me a little note. I seized it, and, to hide my emotion, told him to give the man his beer. The writing was Dorothy's, and some time passed after I had torn off the wrapper before I could compose myself to read it. "So, Sir, the Moment I am too ill to watch you you must needs lapse into Wilde & Flity Doings, for thus y'rs are call'd even in London. Never Mind how y'r Extravigancies are come to my Ears Sir. One Matter I have herd that I am Most Concerned about, & I pray you, my Dear Richard do not allow y'r Recklessness & Contemt for Danger to betray you into a Stil more Amazing Follie or I shall be very Miserable Indeed. I have Hopes that the Report is at Best a Rumour & you must sit down & write me that it is Sir that my Minde may be set at Rest. I fear for you Vastly & I beg you not Riske y'r Life Foolishly & this for the Sake of one who subscribes herself y'r Old Playmate & Well-Wisher Dolly. "P.S. I have writ Sir Jon Fielding to put you in the Marshallsee or New Gate until Mr. Carvel can be tolde. I am Better & hope soon to see you agen & have been informed of y'r Dayly Visitts & y'r Flowers are beside me. D. M." In about an hour and a half, Mr. Marmaduke's footman was on his way back to Arlington Street in a condition not to be lightly spoken of. During that period I had committed an hundred silly acts, and incidentally learned the letter by heart. I was much distressed to think that she had heard of the affair of the horse, and more so to surmise that the gossip which clung to it must also have reached her. But I fear I thought most of her anxiety concerning me, which reflection caused my hand to shake from very happiness. "Y'r Flowers are beside me," and, "I beg you not Riske y'r Life Foolishly," and "I shall be very Miserable Indeed" But then: "Y'r Old Plamate & Well Wisher"! Nay, she was inscrutable as ever. And my reply,--what was that to be? How I composed it in the state of mind I was in, I have no conception to this day. The chimney was clogged with papers ere (in a spelling to vie with Dolly's) I had set down my devotion, my undying devotion, to her interests. I asked forgiveness for my cruelty on that memorable morning I had last seen her. But even to allude to the bet with Chartersea was beyond my powers; and as for renouncing it, though for her sake,--that was not to be thought of. The high play I readily promised to avoid in the future, and I signed myself,--well, it matters not after seventy years. The same day, Tuesday, I received a letter from his Grace of Chartersea saying that he looked to reach London that night, but very late. He begged that Mr. Fox and Lord Comyn and I would sup with him at the Star and Garter at eleven, to fix matters for the trial on the morrow. Mr. Fox could not go, but Comyn and I went to the inn, having first attended "The Tempest" at Drury Lane with Lady Di and Mr. Beauclerk. We found his Grace awaiting us in a private room, with Captain Lewis, of the 60th Foot, who had figured as a second in the duel with young Atwater. The captain was a rake and a bully and a toadeater, of course, with a loud and profane tongue, and he had had a bottle too many in the duke's travelling-coach. There was likewise a Sir John Brooke, a country neighbour of his Grace in Nottinghamshire. Sir John apparently had no business in such company. He was a hearty, fox-hunting squire who had seen little of London; a three-bottle man who told a foul story and went asleep immediately afterwards. Much to my disappointment, Mr. Manners had gone to Arlington Street direct. I had longed for a chance to speak a little of my mind to him. This meeting, which I shall not take the time to recount, was near to ending in an open breach of negotiations. His Grace had lost money at York, and more to Lewis on the way to London. He was in one of his vicious humours. He insisted that Hyde Park should be the place of the contest. In vain did Comyn and I plead for some less public spot on account of the disagreeable advertisement the matter had received. His Grace would be damned before he would yield; and Lewis, adding a more forcible contingency, hinted that our side feared a public trial. Comyn presently shut him up. "Do you ride the horse after his Grace is thrown," says he, "and I agree to get on after and he does not kill you. 'Sdeath! I am not of the army," adds my Lord, cuttingly; "I am a seaman, and not supposed to know a stirrup from a snaffle." "'Od's blood!" yelled the captain, "you question my horsemanship, my Lord? Do I understand your Lordship to question my courage?" "After I am thrown!" cries his Grace, very ugly, and fingering the jewels on his hilt. Sir John was awakened by the noise, and turning heavily spilled the whole of a pint of port on the duke's satin waist coat and breeches. Whereat Chartersea in a rage flung the bottle at his head with a curse, which it seems was a habit with his Grace. But the servants coming in, headed by my old friend the chamberlain, they quieted down. And it was presently agreed that the horse was to be at noon in the King's Old Road, or Rotten Row (as it was then beginning to be called), in Hyde Park. I shall carry to the grave the memory of the next day. I was up betimes, and over to the White Horse Cellar to see Pollux groomed, where I found a crowd about the opening into the stable court. "The young American!" called some one, and to my astonishment and no small annoyance I was greeted with a "Huzzay for you, sir!" "My groat's on your honour!" This good-will was owing wholly to the duke's unpopularity with all classes. Inside, sporting gentlemen in hunting-frocks of red and green, and velvet visored caps, were shouldering favoured 'ostlers from the different noblemen's stables; and there was a liberal sprinkling of the characters who attended the cock mains in Drury Lane and at Newmarket. At the moment of my arrival the head 'ostler was rubbing down the stallion's flank. "Here's ten pounds to ride him, Saunders!" called one of the hunting-frocks. "Umph!" sniffed the 'ostler; "ride 'im is it, yere honour? Two hunner beast eno', an' a Portugal crown i' th' boot. Sooner take me chaunces o' Tyburn on 'Ounslow 'Eath. An' Miller waurna able to sit 'im, 'tis no for th' likes o' me to try. Th' bloody devil took th' shirt off Teddy's back this morn. I adwises th' young Buckskin t' order 's coffin." Just then he perceived me, and touched his cap, something abashed. "With submission, sir, y'r honour'll take an old man's adwise an' not go near 'im." Pollux's appearance, indeed, was not calculated to reassure me. He looked ugly to exaggeration, his ears laid back and his nostrils as big as crowns, and his teeth bared time and time. Now and anon an impatient fling of his hoof would make the grooms start away from him. Since coming to the inn he had been walked a couple of miles each day, with two men with loaded whips to control him. I was being offered a deal of counsel, when big Mr. Astley came in from Lambeth, and silenced them all. "These grooms, Mr. Carvel," he said to me, as we took a bottle in private inside, "these grooms are the very devil for superstition. And once a horse gets a bad name with them, good-by to him. Miller knew how to ride, of course, but like many another of them, was too damned over-confident. I warned him more than once for getting young horses into a fret, and I'm willing to lay a ten-pound note that he angered Pollux. 'Od's life! He is a vicious beast. So was his father, Culloden, before him. But here's luck to you, sir!" says Mr. Astley, tipping his glass; "having seen you ride, egad! I have put all the money I can afford in your favour." Before I left him he had given me several valuable hints as to the manner of managing that kind of a horse: not to auger him with the spurs unless it became plain that he meant to kill me; to try persuasion first and force afterwards; and secondly, he taught me a little trick of twisting the bit which I have since found very useful. Leaving the White Horse, I was followed into Piccadilly by the crowd, until I was forced to take refuge in a hackney chaise. The noise of the affair had got around town, and I was heartily sorry I had not taken the other and better method of trying conclusions with the duke, and slapped his face. I found Jack Comyn in Dover Street, and presently Mr. Fox came for us with his chestnuts in his chaise, Fitzpatrick with him. At Hyde Park Corner there was quite a jam of coaches, chaises, and cabriolets and beribboned phaetons, which made way for us, but kept us busy bowing as we passed among them. It seemed as if everybody of consequence that I had met in London was gathered there. One face I missed, and rejoiced that she was absent, for I had a degraded feeling like that of being the favourite in a cudgel-bout. And the thought that her name was connected with all this made my face twitch. I heard the people clapping and saw them waving in the carriages as we passed, and some stood forward before the rest in a haphazard way, without rhyme or reason. Mr. Walpole with Lady Di Beauclerk, and Mr. Storer and Mr. Price and Colonel St. John, and Lord and Lady Carlisle and Lady Ossory. These I recognized. Inside, the railing along the row was lined with people. And there stood Pollux, bridled, with a blanket thrown over his great back and chest, surrounded still by the hunting-frocks, who had followed him from the White Horse. Mixed in with these, swearing, conjecturing, and betting, were some to surprise me, whose names were connected with every track in England: the Duke of Grafton and my Lords Sandwich and March and Bolingbroke, and Sir Charles Bunbury, and young Lords Derby and Foley, who, after establishing separate names for folly on the tracks, went into partnership. My Lord Baltimore descended listlessly from his cabriolet to join the group. They all sang out when they caught sight of our party, and greeted me with a zeal to carry me off my feet. And my Lord Sandwich, having done me the honour to lay something very handsome upon me, had his chief jockey on hand to give me some final advice. I believe I was the coolest of any of them. And at that time of all others the fact came up to me with irresistible humour that I, a young colonial Whig, who had grown up to detest these people, should be rubbing noses with them. The duke put in an appearance five minutes before the hour, upon a bay gelding, and attended by Lewis and Sir John Brooke, both mounted. As a most particular evidence of the detestation in which Chartersea was held, he could find nothing in common with such notorious rakes as March and Sandwich. And it fell to me to champion these. After some discussion between Fox and Captain Lewis, March was chosen umpire. His Lordship took his post in the middle of the Row, drew forth an enamelled repeater from his waistcoat, and mouthed out the conditions of the match,--the terms, as he said, being private. "Are you ready, Mr. Carvel?" he asked. "I am, my Lord," I answered. The bells were pealing noon. "Then mount, sir," said he. The voices of the people dropped to a hum that brought to mind the long forgotten sound of the bees swarming in the garden by the Chesapeake. My breath began to come quickly. Through the sunny haze I saw the cows and deer grazing by the Serpentine, and out of the back of my eye handkerchiefs floated from the carriages banked at the gate. They took the blanket off the stallion. Stall-fed, and excited by the crowd, he looked brutal indeed. The faithful Banks, in a new suit of the Carvel livery, held the stirrup, and whispered a husky "God keep you, sir!" Suddenly I was up. The murmur was hushed, and the Park became still as a peaceful farm in Devonshire. The grooms let go of the stallion's head. He stood trembling like the throes of death. I gripped my knees as Captain Daniel had taught me, years ago, when some invisible force impelled me to look aside. From between the broad and hunching shoulders of Chartersea I met such a venomous stare as a cattle-fish might use to freeze his prey. Cattle--fish! The word kept running over my tongue. I thought of the snaky arms that had already caught Mr. Marmaduke, and were soon, perhaps, to entangle Dorothy. She had begged me not to ride, and I was risking a life which might save hers. The wind rushing in my ears and beating against my face awoke me all at once. The trees ran madly past, and the water at my right was a silver blur. The beast beneath me snorted as he rose and fell. Fainter and fainter dropped the clamour behind me, which had risen as I started, and the leaps grew longer and longer. Then my head was cleared like a steamed window-pane in a cold blast. I saw the road curve in front of me, I put all my strength into the curb, and heeling at a fearful angle was swept into the busy Kensington Road. For the first time I knew what it was to fear a horse. The stallion's neck was stretched, his shoes rang on the cobbles, and my eyes were fixed on a narrow space between carriages coming together. In a flash I understood why the duke had insisted upon Hyde Park, and that nerved me some. I saw the frightened coachmen pulling their horses this way and that, I heard the cries of the foot-passengers, and then I was through, I know not how. Once more I summoned all my power, recalled the twist Astley had spoken of, and tried it. I bent his neck for an inch of rein. Next I got another inch, and then came a taste--the smallest taste--of mastery like elixir. The motion changed with it, became rougher, and the hoof-beats a fraction less frequent. He steered like a ship with sail reduced. In and out we dodged among the wagons, and I was beginning to think I had him, when suddenly, without a move of warning, he came down rigid with his feet planted together, and only a miracle and my tight grip restrained me from shooting over his head. There he stood shaking and snorting, nor any persuasion would move him. I resorted at last to the spurs. He was up in the air in an instant, and came down across the road. Again I dug in to the rowels, and clung the tighter, and this time he landed with his head to London. A little knot of people had collected to watch me, and out stepped a strapping fellow in the King's scarlet, from the Guard's Horse near by. "Hold him, sir!" he said, tipping. "Better dismount, sir. He means murder, y'r honour." "Keep clear, curse you!" I cried, waving him off. "What time is it?" He stepped back, no doubt thinking me mad. Some one spoke up and said it was five minutes past noon. I had the grace to thank him, I believe. To my astonishment I had been gone but four minutes; they had seemed twenty. Looking about me, I found I was in the open space before old Kensington Church, over against the archway there. Once more I dug in the spurs, this time with success. Almost at a jump the beast took me into the angle of posts to the east of the churchyard gate and tore up the footpath of Church Lane, terrified men and women ahead of me taking to the kennel. He ran irregularly, now on the side of the posts, now against the bricks, and then I gave myself up. Heaven put a last expedient into my head, that I had once heard Mr. Dulany speak of. I braced myself for a pull that should have broken the stallion's jaw and released his mouth altogether. Incredible as it may seem, he jarred into a trot, and presently came down to a walk, tossing his head like fury, and sweating at every pore. I leaned over and patted him, speaking him fair, and (marvel of marvels!) when we had got to the dogs that guard the entrance of Camden House I had coaxed him around and into the street, and cantered back at easy speed to the church. Without pausing to speak to the bunch that stood at the throat of the lane, I started toward London, thankfulness and relief swelling within me. I understood the beast, and spoke to him when he danced aside at a wagon with bells or a rattling load of coals, and checked him with a word and a light hand. Before I gained the Life Guard's House I met a dozen horsemen, amongst them Banks on a mount of Mr. Fox's. They shouted when they saw me, Colonel St. John calling out that he had won another hundred that I was not dead. Sir John Brooke puffed and swore he did not begrudge his losses to see me safe, despite Captain Lewis's sourness. Storey vowed he would give a dinner in my honour, and, riding up beside me, whispered that he was damned sorry the horse was now broken, and his Grace's chance of being killed taken away. And thus escorted, I came in by the King's New Road to avoid the people running in the Row, and so down to Hyde Park Corner, and in among the chaises and the phaetons, where there was enough cheering and waving of hats and handkerchiefs to please the most exacting of successful generals. I rode up to my Lord March, and finding there was a minute yet to run I went up the Row a distance and back again amidst more huzzaing, Pollux prancing and quivering, and frothing his bit, but never once attempting to break. When I had got down, they pressed around me until I could scarce breathe, crying congratulations, Comyn embracing me openly. Mr. Fox vowed he had never seen so fine a sight, and said many impolitic things which the duke must have overheard . . . . Lady Carlisle sent me a red rose for my buttonhole by his Lordship. Mr. Warner, the lively parson with my Lord March, desired to press my hand, declaring that he had won a dozen of port upon me, which he had set his best cassock against. My Lord Sandwich offered me snuff, and invited me to Hichinbroke. Indeed, I should never be through were I to continue. But I must not forget my old acquaintance Mr. Walpole, who protested that he must get permission to present me to Princess Amelia: that her Royal Highness would not rest content now, until she had seen me. I did not then know her Highness's sporting propensity. Then my Lord March called upon the duke, who stood in the midst of an army of his toadeaters. I almost pitied him then, tho' I could not account for the feeling. I think it was because a nobleman with so great a title should be so cordially hated and despised. There were high words along the railing among the duke's supporters, Captain Lewis, in his anger, going above an inference that the stallion had been broken privately. Chartersea came forward with an indifferent swagger, as if to say as much: and, in truth, no one looked for more sport, and some were even turning away. He had scarce put foot to the stirrup, when the surprise came. Two minutes were up before he was got in the saddle, Pollux rearing and plunging and dancing in a circle, the grooms shouting and dodging, and his Grace cursing in a voice to wake the dead and Mr. Fox laughing, and making small wagers that he would never be mounted. But at last the duke was up and gripped, his face bloody red, giving vent to his fury with the spurs. Then something happened, and so quickly that it cannot be writ fast enough. Pollux bolted like a shot out of a sling, vaulted the railing as easily as you or I would hop over a stick, and galloping across the lawn and down the embankment flung his Grace into the Serpentine. Precisely, as Mr. Fox afterwards remarked, as the swine with the evil spirits ran down the slope into the sea. An indescribable bedlam of confusion followed, lords and gentlemen, tradesmen and grooms, hostlers and apprentices, all tumbling after, many crying with laughter. My Lord Sandwich's jockey pulled his Grace from the water in a most pitiable state of rage and humiliation. His side curls gone, the powder and pomatum washed from his hair, bedraggled and muddy and sputtering oaths, he made his way to Lord March, swearing by all divine that a trick was put on him, that he would ride the stallion to Land's End. His Lordship, pulling his face straight, gravely informed the duke that the match was over. With this his Grace fell flatly sullen, was pushed into a coach by Sir John and the captain, and drove rapidly off Kensington way, to avoid the people at the corner. CHAPTER XXXVIII IN WHICH I AM ROUNDLY BROUGHT TO TASK I would have gone to Arlington Street direct, but my friends had no notion of letting me escape. They carried me off to Brooks's Club, where a bowl of punch was brewed directly, and my health was drunk to three times three. Mr. Storer commanded a turtle dinner in my honour. We were not many, fortunately,--only Mr. Fox's little coterie. And it was none other than Mr. Fox who made the speech of the evening. "May I be strung as high as Haman," said he, amid a tempest of laughter, "if ever I saw half so edifying a sight as his Grace pitching into the Serpentine, unless it were his Grace dragged out again. Mr. Carvel's advent has been a Godsend to us narrow ignoramuses of this island, gentlemen. To the Englishmen of our colonies, sirs, and that we may never underrate or misunderstand them more!" "Nay, Charles," cried my Lord Comyn. "Where is our gallantry? I give you first the Englishwomen of our colonies, and in particular the pride of Maryland, who has brought back to the old country all the graces of the new,--Miss Manners." His voice was drowned by a deafening shout, and we charged our glasses to drain them brimming. And then we all went to Drury Lane to see Mrs. Clive romp through 'The Wonder' in the spirit of the "immortal Peg." She spoke an epilogue that Mr. Walpole had writ especial for her, and made some witty and sarcastic remarks directed at the gentlemen in our stagebox. We topped off a very full day by a supper at the Bedford Arms, where I must draw the certain. The next morning I was abed at an hour which the sobriety of old age makes me blush abed think of. Banks had just concluded a discreet discourse upon my accomplishment of the day before, and had left for my newspapers, when he came running back with the information that Miss Manners would see my honour that day. There was no note. Between us we made my toilet in a jiffy, and presently I was walking in at the Manners's door in an amazing hurry, and scarcely waited for a direction. But as I ran up the stairs, I heard the tinkle of the spinet, and the notes of an old, familiar tune fell upon my ears. The words rose in my head with the cadence. "Love me little, love me long, Is the burthen of my song, Love that is too hot and strong Runneth soon to waste." That simple air, already mellowed by an hundred years, had always been her favourite. She used to sing it softly to herself as we roamed the woods and fields of the Eastern Shore. Instinctively I paused at the dressing-room door. Nay, my dears, you need not cry out, such was the custom of the times. A dainty bower it was, filled with the perfume of flowers, and rosy cupids disporting on the ceiling; and china and silver and gold filigree strewn about, with my tea-cups on the table. The sunlight fell like a halo round Dorothy's head, her hands strayed over the keys, and her eyes were far away. She had not heard me. I remember her dress,--a silk with blue cornflowers on a light ground, and the flimsiest of lace caps resting on her hair. I thought her face paler; but beyond that she did not show her illness. She looked up, and perceived me, I thought, with a start. "So it is you!" she said demurely enough; "you are come at last to give an account of yourself." "Are you better, Dorothy?" I asked earnestly. "Why should you think that I have been ill?" she replied, her fingers going back to the spinet. "It is a mistake, sir. Dr. James has given me near a gross of his infamous powders, and is now exploiting another cure. I have been resting from the fatigues of London, while you have been wearing yourself out." "Dr. James himself told me your condition was serious," I said. "Of course," said she; "the worse the disease, the more remarkable the cure, the more sought after the physician. When will you get over your provincial simplicity?" I saw there was nothing to be got out of her while in this baffling humour. I wondered what devil impelled a woman to write one way and talk another. In her note to me she had confessed her illness. The words I had formed to say to her were tied on my tongue. But on the whole I congratulated myself. She knew how to step better than I, and there were many awkward things between us of late best not spoken of. But she kept me standing an unconscionable time without a word, which on the whole was cruelty, while she played over some of Dibdin's ballads. "Are you in a hurry, sir," she asked at length, turning on me with a smile, "are you in a hurry to join my Lord March or his Grace of Grafton? And have you writ Captain Clapsaddle and your Whig friends at home of your new intimacies, of Mr. Fox and my Lord Sandwich?" I was dumb. "Yes, you must be wishing to get away," she continued cruelly, picking up the newspaper. "I had forgotten this notice. When I saw it this morning I thought of you, and despaired of a glimpse of you to-day." (Reading.) "At the Three Hats, Islington, this day, the 10th of May, will be played a grand match at that ancient and much renowned manly diversion called Double Stick by a sect of chosen young men at that exercise from different parts of the West Country, for two guineas given free; those who break the most heads to bear away the prize. Before the above-mentioned diversion begins, Mr. Sampson and his young German will display alternately on one, two, and three horses, various surprising and curious feats of famous horsemanship in like manner as at the Grand Jubilee at Stratford-upon-Avon. Admittance one shilling each person.' Before you leave, Mr. Richard," she continued, with her eyes still on the sheet, "I should like to talk over one or two little matters." "Dolly--!" "Will you sit, sir?" I sat down uneasily, expecting the worst. She disappointed me, as usual. "What an unspeakable place must you keep in Dover Street! I cannot send even a footman there but what he comes back reeling." I had to laugh at this. But there was no smile out of my lady. "It took me near an hour and a half to answer your note," I replied. "And 'twas a masterpiece!" exclaimed Dolly, with withering sarcasm; "oh, a most amazing masterpiece, I'll be bound! His worship the French Ambassador is a kitten at diplomacy beside you, sir. An hour and a half, did you say, sir? Gemini, the Secretary of State and his whole corps could not have composed the like in a day." "Faith!" I cried, with feeling enough; "and if that is diplomacy, I would rather make leather breeches than be given an embassy." She fixed her eyes upon me so disconcertingly that mine fell. "There was a time," she said, with a change of tone, "there was a time when a request of mine, and it were not granted outright, would have received some attention. This is my first experience at being ignored." "I had made a wager," said I, "and could not retract with honour." "So you had made a wager! Now we are to have some news at last. How stupid of you, Richard, not to tell me before. I confess I wonder what these wits find in your company. Here am I who have seen naught but dull women for a fortnight, and you have failed to say anything amusing in a quarter of an hour. Let us hear about the wager." "Where is little to tell," I answered shortly, considerably piqued. "I bet your friend, the Duke of Chartersea, some hundreds of pounds I could ride Lord Baltimore's Pollux for twenty minutes, after which his Grace was to get on and ride twenty more." "Where did you see the duke?" Dolly interrupted, without much show of interest. I explained how we had met him at Brooks's, and had gone to his house. "You went to his house?" she repeated, raising her eyebrows a trifle; "and Comyn and Mr. Fox? And pray, how did this pretty subject come up?" I related, very badly, I fear, Fox's story of young Wrottlesey and the tea-merchant's daughter. And what does my lady do but get up and turn her back, arranging some pinks in the window. I could have sworn she was laughing, had I not known better. "Well?" "Well, that was a reference to a little pleasantry Mr. Fox had put up on him some time before. His Grace flared, but tried not to show it. He said he had heard I could do something with a horse (I believe he made it up), and Comyn gave oath that I could; and then he offered to bet Comyn that I could not ride this Pollux, who had killed his groom. That made me angry, and I told the duke I was no jockey to be put up to decide wagers, and that he must make his offers to me." "La!" said Dolly, "you fell in head over heels." "What do you mean by that?" I demanded. "Nothing," said she, biting her lip. "Come, you are as ponderous as Dr. Johnson." "Then Mr. Fox proposed that his Grace should ride after me." Here Dolly laughed in her handkerchief. "I'll be bound," said she. "Then the duke went to York," I continued hurriedly; and when he came back we met him at the Star and Garter. He insisted that the match should come off in Hyde Park. I should have preferred the open roads north of Bedford House." "Where there is no Serpentine," she interrupted, with the faintest suspicion of a twinkle about her eyes. "On, sir, on! You are as reluctant as our pump at Wilmot House in the dry season. I see you were not killed, as you richly deserved. Let us have the rest of your tale." "There is very little more to it, save that I contrived to master the beast, and his Grace--" "--Was disgraced. A vastly fine achievement, surely. But where are you to stop? You will be shaming the King next by outwalking him. Pray, how did the duke appear as he was going into the Serpentine?" "You have heard?" I exclaimed, the trick she had played me dawning upon me. "Upon my word, Richard, you are more of a simpleton than I thought you. Have you not seen your newspaper this morning?" I explained how it was that I had not. She took up the Chronicle. "'This Mr. Carvel has made no inconsiderable noise since his arrival in town, and yesterday crowned his performances by defeating publicly a noble duke at a riding match in Hyde Park, before half the quality of the kingdom. His Lordship of March and Ruglen acted as umpire.' There, sir, was I not right to beg Sir John Fielding to put you in safe keeping until your grandfather can send for you?" I made to seize the paper, but she held it from me. "'If Mr. Carvel remains long enough in England, he bids fair to share the talk of Mayfair with a certain honourable young gentleman of Brooks's and the Admiralty, whose debts and doings now furnish most of the gossip for the clubs and the card tables. Their names are both connected with this contest. 'Tis whispered that the wager upon which the match was ridden arose--'" here Dolly stopped shortly, her colour mounting, and cried out with a stamp of her foot. "You are not content to bring publicity upon yourself, who deserve it, but must needs drag innocent names into the newspapers." "What have they said?" I demanded, ready to roll every printer in London in the kennel. "Nay, you may read for yourself," said she. And, flinging the paper in my lap, left the room. They had not said much more, Heaven be praised. But I was angry and mortified as I had never been before, realizing for the first time what a botch I had made of my stay in London. In great dejection, I was picking up my hat to leave the house, when Mrs. Manners came in upon me, and insisted that I should stay for dinner. She was very white, and seemed troubled and preoccupied, and said that Mr. Manners had come back from York with a cold on his chest, but would insist upon joining the party to Vauxhall on Monday. I asked her when she was going to the baths, and suggested that the change would do her good. Indeed, she looked badly. "We are not going, Richard," she replied; "Dorothy will not hear of it. In spite of the doctor she says she is not ill, and must attend at Vauxhall, too. You are asked?" I said that Mr. Storer had included me. I am sure, from the way she looked at me, that she did not heed my answer. She appeared to hesitate on the verge of a speech, and glanced once or twice at the doors. "Richard, I suppose you are old enough to take care of yourself, tho' you seem still a child to me. I pray you will be careful, my boy," she said, with something of the affection she had always borne me, "for your grandfather's sake, I pray you will run into no more danger. I--we are your old friends, and the only ones here to advise you." She stopped, seemingly, to weigh the wisdom of what was to come next, while I leaned forward with an eagerness I could not hide. Was she to speak of the Duke of Chartersea? Alas, I was not to know. For at that moment Dorothy came back to inquire why I was not gone to the cudgelling at the Three Hats. I said I had been invited to stay to dinner. "Why, I have writ a note asking Comyn," said she. "Do you think the house will hold you both?" His Lordship came in as we were sitting down, bursting with some news, and he could hardly wait to congratulate Dolly on her recovery before he delivered it. "Why, Richard," says the dog, "what do you think some wag has done now? They believe at Brooks's 'twas that jackanapes of a parson, Dr. Warner, who was there yesterday with March." He drew a clipping from his pocket. "Listen, Miss Dolly: "On Wednesday did a carter see His Grace, the Duke of Ch-rt--s-a, As plump and helpless as a bag, A-straddle of a big-boned nag. "Lord, Sam!" the carter loudly yelled, On by this wondrous sight impelled, "We'll run and watch this noble gander Master a steed, like Alexander." But, when the carter reached the Row, His Grace had left it, long ago. Bucephalus had leaped the green, The duke was in the Serpentine. The fervent wish of all good men That he may ne'er come out again!'" Comyn's impudence took my breath, tho' the experiment interested me not a little. My lady was pleased to laugh at the doggerel, and even Mrs. Manners. Its effect upon Mr. Marmaduke was not so spontaneous. His smile was half-hearted. Indeed, the little gentleman seemed to have lost his spirits, and said so little (for him), that I was encouraged to corner him that very evening and force him to a confession. But I might have known he was not to be caught. It appeared almost as if he guessed my purpose, for as soon as ever the claret was come on, he excused himself, saying he was promised to Lady Harrington, who wanted one. Comyn and I departed early on account of Dorothy. She had denied a dozen who had left cards upon her. "Egad, Richard," said my Lord, when we had got to my lodgings, "I made him change colour, did I not? Do you know how the little fool looks to me? 'Od's life, he looks hunted, and cursed near brought to earth. We must fetch this thing to a point, Richard. And I am wondering what Chartersea's next move will be," he added thoughtfully. CHAPTER XXXIX HOLLAND HOUSE On the morrow, as I was setting out to dine at Brooks's, I received the following on a torn slip of paper: "Dear Richard, we shall have a good show to-day you may care to see." It was signed "Fox," and dated at St. Stephen's. I lost no time in riding to Westminster, where I found a flock of excited people in Parliament Street and in the Palace Yard. And on climbing the wide stone steps outside and a narrower flight within I was admitted directly into the august presence of the representatives of the English people. They were in a most prodigious and unseemly state of uproar. What a place is old St. Stephen's Chapel, over St. Mary's in the Vaults, for the great Commons of England to gather! It is scarce larger or more imposing than our own assembly room in the Stadt House in Annapolis. St. Stephen's measures but ten yards by thirty, with a narrow gallery running along each side for visitors. In one of these, by the rail, I sat down suffocated, bewildered, and deafened. And my first impression out of the confusion was of the bewigged speaker enthroned under the royal arms, sore put to restore order. On the table in front of him lay the great mace of the Restoration. Three chandeliers threw down their light upon the mob of honourable members, and I wondered what had put them into this state of uproar. Presently, with the help of a kind stranger on my right, who was occasionally making shorthand notes, I got a few bearings. That was the Treasury Bench, where Lord North sat (he was wide awake, now). And there was the Government side. He pointed out Barrington and Weymouth and Jerry Dyson and Sandwich, and Rigby in the court suit of purple velvet with the sword thrust through the pocket. I took them all in, as some of the worst enemies my country had in Britain. Then my informant seemed to hesitate, and made bold to ask my persuasion. When I told him I was a Whig, and an American, he begged the favour of my hand. "There, sir," he cried excitedly, "that stout young gentleman with the black face and eyebrows, and the blacker heart, I may say,--the one dressed in the fantastical costume called by a French name,--is Mr. Charles Fox. He has been sent by the devil himself, I believe, to ruin this country. 'Ods, sir, that devil Lord Holland begot him. He is but one and twenty, but his detestable arts have saved North's neck from Burke and Wedderburn on two occasions this year." "And what has happened to-day?" I asked, smiling. The stranger smiled, too. "Why, sir," he answered, raising his voice above the noise; "if you have been in London any length of time, you will have read the account, with comment, of the Duke of Grafton's speech in the Lords, signed Domitian. Their Lordships well know it should have been over a greater signature. This afternoon his Grace of Manchester was talking in the Upper House about the Spanish troubles, when Lord Gower arose and desired that the place might be cleared of strangers, lest some Castilian spy might lurk under the gallery. That was directed against us of the press, sir, and their Lordships knew it. 'Ad's heart, sir, there was a riot, the house servants tumbling everybody out, and Mr. Burke and Mr. Dunning in the boot, who were gone there on the business of this house to present a bill. Those gentlemen are but just back, calling upon the commons to revenge them and vindicate their honour. And my Lord North looks troubled, as you will mark, for the matter is like to go hard against his Majesty's friends. But hush, Mr. Burke is to speak." The horse fell quiet to listen, and my friend began to ply his shorthand industriously. I leaned forward with a sharp curiosity to see this great friend of America. He was dressed in a well-worn suit of brown, and I recall a decided Irish face, and a more decided Irish accent, which presently I forgot under the spell of his eloquence. I have heard it said he had many defects of delivery. He had none that day, or else I was too little experienced to note them. Afire with indignation, he told how the deputy black rod had hustled him like a vagabond or a thief, and he called the House of Lords a bear garden. He was followed by Dunning, in a still more inflammatory mood, until it seemed as if all the King's friends in the Lower House must desert their confederates in the Upper. No less important a retainer than Mr. Onslow moved a policy of retaliation, and those that were left began to act like the Egyptians when they felt the Red Sea under them. They nodded and whispered in their consternation. It was then that Mr. Fox got calmly up before the pack of frightened mercenaries and argued (God save the mark!) for moderation. He had the ear of the house in a second, and he spoke with all the confidence--this youngster who had just reached his majority--he had used with me before his intimates. I gaped with astonishment and admiration. The Lords, said he, had plainly meant no insult to this honourable house, nor yet to the honourable members. They had aimed at the common enemies of man, the printers. And for this their heat was more than pardonable. My friend at my side stopped his writing to swear under his breath. "Look at 'em!" he cried; "they are turning already. He could argue Swedenborg into popery!" The deserters were coming back to the ranks, indeed, and North and Dyson and Weymouth had ceased to look haggard, and were wreathed in smiles. In vain did Mr. Burke harangue them in polished phrase. It was a language North and Company did not understand, and cared not to learn. Their young champion spoke the more worldly and cynical tongue of White's and Brooks's, with its shorter sentences and absence of formality. And even as the devil can quote Scripture to his purpose, Mr. Fox quoted history and the classics, with plenty more that was not above the heads of the booted and spurred country squires. And thus, for the third time, he earned the gratitude of his gracious Majesty. "Well, Richard," said he, slipping his arm through mine as we came out into Parliament Street, "I promised you some sport. Have you enjoyed it?" I was forced to admit that I had. "Let us to the 'Thatched House,' and have supper privately," he suggested. "I do not feel like a company to-night." We walked on for some time in silence. Presently he said: "You must not leave us, Richard. You may go home to see your grandfather die, and when you come back I will see about getting you a little borough for what my father paid for mine. And you shall marry Dorothy, and perchance return in ten years as governor of a principality. That is, after we've ruined you at the club. How does that prospect sit?" I wondered at the mood he was in, that made him choose me rather than the adulation and applause he was sure to receive at Brooks's for the part he had played that night. After we had satisfied our hunger,--for neither of us had dined,--and poured out a bottle of claret, he looked up at me quizzically. "I have not heard you congratulate me," he said. "Nor will you," I replied, laughing. "I like you the better for it, Richard. 'Twas a damned poor performance, and that's truth." "I thought the performance remarkable," I said honestly. "Oh, but it was not," he answered scornfully. "The moment that dun-coloured Irishman gets up, the whole government pack begins to whine and shiver. There are men I went to school with I fear more than Burke. But you don't like to see the champion of America come off second best. Is that what you're thinking?" "No. But I was wondering why you have devoted your talents to the devil," I said, amazed at my boldness. He glanced at me, and half laughed again. "You are cursed frank," said he; "damned frank." "But you invited it." "Yes," he replied, "so I did. Give me a man who is honest. Fill up again," said he; "and spit out all you would like to say, Richard." "Then," said I, "why do you waste your time and your breath in defending a crew of political brigands and placemen, and a king who knows not the meaning of the word gratitude, and who has no use for a man of ability? You have honoured me with your friendship, Charles Fox, and I may take the liberty to add that you seem to love power more than spoils. You have originality. You are honest enough to think and act upon your own impulses. And pardon me if I say you have very little chance on that side of the house where you have put yourself." "You seem to have picked up a trifle since you came into England," he said. "A damned shrewd estimate, I'll be sworn. And for a colonial! But, as for power," he added a little doggedly, "I have it in plenty, and the kind I like. The King and North hate and fear me already more than Wilkes." "And with more cause," I replied warmly. "His Majesty perhaps knows that you understand him better, and foresees the time when a man of your character will give him cause to fear indeed." He did not answer that, but called for a reckoning; and taking my arm again, we walked out past the sleeping houses. "Have you ever thought much of the men we have in the colonies?" I asked. "No," he replied; "Chatham stands for 'em, and I hate Chatham on my father's account. That is reason enough for me." "You should come back to America with me," I said. "And when you had rested awhile at Carvel Hall, I would ride with you through the length of the provinces from Massachusetts to North Carolina. You will see little besides hard-working, self-respecting Englishmen, loyal to a king who deserves loyalty as little as Louis of France. But with their eyes open, and despite the course he has taken. They are men whose measure of resolution is not guessed at." He was silent again until we had got into Piccadilly and opposite his lodgings. "Are they all like you?" he demanded. "Who?" said I. For I had forgotten my words. "The Americans." "The greater part feel as I do." "I suppose you are for bed," he remarked abruptly. "The night is not yet begun," I answered, repeating his favourite words, and pointing at the glint of the sun on the windows. "What do you say to a drive behind those chestnuts of mine, for a breath of air? I have just got my new cabriolet Selwyn ordered in Paris." Soon we were rattling over the stones in Piccadilly, wrapped in greatcoats, for the morning wind was cold. We saw the Earl of March and Ruglen getting out of a chair before his house, opposite the Green Park, and he stopped swearing at the chairmen to wave at us. "Hello, March!" Mr. Fox said affably, "you're drunk." His Lordship smiled, bowed graciously if unsteadily to me, and did not appear to resent the pleasantry. Then he sighed. "What a pair of cubs it is," said he; "I wish to God I was young again. I hear you astonished the world again last night, Charles." We left him being assisted into his residence by a sleepy footman, paid our toll at Hyde Park Corner, and rolled onward toward Kensington, Fox laughing as we passed the empty park at the thought of what had so lately occurred there. After the close night of St. Stephen's, nature seemed doubly beautiful. The sun slanted over the water in the gardens in bars of green and gold. The bright new leaves were on the trees, and the morning dew had brought with it the smell of the living earth. We passed the stream of market wagons lumbering along, pulled by sturdy, patient farm-horses, driven by smocked countrymen, who touched their caps to the fine gentlemen of the court end of town; who shook their heads and exchanged deep tones over the whims of quality, unaccountable as the weather. But one big-chested fellow arrested his salute, a scowl came over his face, and he shouted back to the wagoner whose horses were munching his hay: "Hi, Jeems, keep down yere hands. Mr. Fox is noo friend of we." This brought a hard smile on Mr. Fox's face. "I believe, Richard," he said, "I have become more detested than any man in Parliament." "And justly," I replied; "for you have fought all that is good in you." "I was mobbed once, in Parliament Street. I thought they would kill me. Have you ever been mobbed, Richard?" he asked indifferently. "Never, I thank Heaven," I answered fervently. "I think I would rather be mobbed than indulge in any amusement I know of," he continued. "Than confound Wedderburn, or drive a measure against Burke,--which is no bad sport, my word on't. I would rather be mobbed than have my horse win at Newmarket. There is a keen pleasure you wot not of, my lad, in listening to Billingsgate and Spitalfields howl maledictions upon you. And no sensation I know of is equal to that of the moment when the mud and sticks and oranges are coming through the windows of your coach, when the dirty weavers are clutching at your ruffles and shaking their filthy fists under your nose." "It is, at any rate, strictly an aristocratic pleasure," I assented, laughing. So we came to Holland House. Its wide fields of sprouting corn, its woods and pastures and orchards in blossom, were smiling that morning, as though Leviathan, the town, were not rolling onward to swallow them. Lord Holland had bought the place from the Warwicks, with all its associations and memories. The capped towers and quaint facades and projecting windows were plain to be seen from where we halted in the shaded park, and to the south was that Kensington Road we had left, over which all the glory and royalty of England at one time or another had rolled. Under these majestic oaks and cedars Cromwell and Ireton had stood while the beaten Royalists lashed their horses on to Brentford. Nor did I forget that the renowned Addison had lived here after his unhappy marriage with Lady Warwick, and had often ridden hence to Button's Coffee House in town, where my grandfather had had his dinner with Dean Swift. We sat gazing at the building, which was bathed in the early sun, at the deer and sheep grazing in the park, at the changing colours of the young leaves as the breeze swayed them. The market wagons had almost ceased now, and there was little to break the stillness. "You love the place?" I said. He started, as though I had awakened him out of a sleep. And he was no longer the Fox of the clubs, the cynical, the reckless. He was no longer the best-dressed man in St. James's Street, or the aggressive youngster of St. Stephen's. "Love it!" he cried. "Ay, Richard, and few guess how well. You will not laugh when I tell you that my happiest days have been passed here, when I was but a chit, in the long room where Addison used to walk up and down composing his Spectators: or trotting after my father through these woods and gardens. A kinder parent does not breathe than he. Well I remember how he tossed me in his arms under that tree when I had thrashed another lad for speaking ill of him. He called me his knight. In all my life he has never broken faith with me. When they were blasting down a wall where those palings now stand, he promised me I should see it done, and had it rebuilt and blown down again because I had missed the sight. All he ever exacted of me was that I should treat him as an elder brother. He had his own notion of the world I was going into, and prepared me accordingly. He took me from Eton to Spa, where I learned gaming instead of Greek, and gave me so much a night to risk at play." I looked at him in astonishment. To say that I thought these relations strange would have been a waste of words. "To be sure," Charles continued, "I was bound to learn, and could acquire no younger." He flicked the glossy red backs of his horses with his whip. "You are thinking it an extraordinary education, I know," he added rather sadly. "I hav a-told you this--God knows why! Yes, because I like you damnably, and you would have heard worse elsewhere, both of him and of me. I fear you have listened to the world's opinion of Lord Holland." Indeed, I had heard a deal of that nobleman's peculations of the public funds. But in this he was no worse than the bulk of his colleagues. His desertion of William Pitt I found hard to forgive. "The best father in the world, Richard!" cried Charles. "If his former friends could but look into his kind heart, and see him in his home, they would not have turned their backs upon him. I do not mean such scoundrels as Rigby. And now my father is in exile half the year in Nice, and the other half at King's Gate. The King and Jack Bute used him for a tool, and then cast him out. You wonder why I am of the King's party?" said he, with something sinister in his smile; "I will tell you. When I got my borough I cared not a fig for parties or principles. I had only the one definite ambition, to revenge Lord Holland. Nay," he exclaimed, stopping my protest, "I was not too young to know rottenness as well as another. The times are rotten in England. You may have virtue in America, amongst a people which is fresh from a struggle with the earth and its savages. We have cursed little at home, in faith. The King, with his barley water and rising at six, and shivering in chapel, and his middle-class table, is rottener than the rest. The money he saves in his damned beggarly court goes to buy men's souls. His word is good with none. For my part I prefer a man who is drunk six days out of the seven to one who takes his pleasure so. And I am not so great a fool that I cannot distinguish justice from injustice. I know the wrongs of the colonies, which you yourself have put as clear as I wish to hear, despite Mr. Burke and his eloquence. [My grandfather has made a note here, which in justice should be added, that he was not deceived by Mr. Fox's partiality.--D. C. C.] And perhaps, Richard," he concluded, with a last lingering look at the old pile as he turned his horses, "perhaps some day, I shall remember what you told us at Brooks's." It was thus, boyishly, that Mr. Fox chose to take me into his confidence, an honour which I shall remember with a thrill to my dying day. So did he reveal to me the impulses of his early life, hidden forever from his detractors. How little does the censure of this world count, which cannot see the heart behind the embroidered waistcoat! When Charles Fox began his career he was a thoughtless lad, but steadfast to such principles as he had formed for himself. They were not many, but, compared to those of the arena which he entered, they were noble. He strove to serve his friends, to lift the name of a father from whom he had received nothing but kindness, however misguided. And when he saw at length the error of his ways, what a mighty blow did he strike for the right! "Here is a man," said Dr. Johnson, many years afterwards, "who has divided his kingdom with Caesar; so that it was a doubt whether the nation should be ruled by the sceptre of George the Third or the tongue of Fox." CHAPTER XL VAUXHALL Matters had come to a pretty pickle indeed. I was openly warned at Brooks's and elsewhere to beware of the duke, who was said upon various authority to be sulking in Hanover Square, his rage all the more dangerous because it was smouldering. I saw Dolly only casually before the party to Vauxhall. Needless to say, she flew in the face of Dr. James's authority, and went everywhere. She was at Lady Bunbury's drum, whither I had gone in another fruitless chase after Mr. Marmaduke. Dr. Warner's verse was the laughter of the company. And, greatly to my annoyance,--in the circumstances,--I was made a hero of, and showered with three times as many invitations as I could accept. The whole story got abroad, even to the awakening of the duke in Covent Garden. And that clownish Mr. Foote, of the Haymarket, had added some lines to a silly popular song entitled 'The Sights o' Lunnun', with which I was hailed at Mrs. Betty's fruit-stall in St. James's Street. Here is one of the verses: "In Maryland, he hunts the Fox From dewy Morn till Day grows dim; At Home he finds a Paradox, From Noon till Dawn the Fox hunts him." Charles Fox laughed when he heard it. But he was serious when he came to speak of Chartersea, and bade me look out for assassination. I had Banks follow me abroad at night with a brace of pistols under his coat, albeit I feared nothing save that I should not have an opportunity to meet the duke in a fair fight. And I resolved at all hazards to run Mr. Marmaduke down with despatch, if I had to waylay him. Mr. Storer, who was forever giving parties, was responsible for this one at Vauxhall. We went in three coaches, and besides Dorothy and Mr. Marmaduke, the company included Lord and Lady Carlisle, Sir Charles and Lady Sarah Bunbury, Lady Ossory and Lady Julia Howard, two Miss Stanleys and Miss Poole, and Comyn, and Hare, and Price, and Fitzpatrick, the latter feeling very glum over a sum he had dropped that afternoon to Lord Harrington. Fox had been called to St. Stephen's on more printer's business. Dolly was in glowing pink, as I loved best to see her, and looked divine. Comyn and I were in Mr. Manners's coach. The evening was fine and warm, and my lady in very lively spirits. As we rattled over Westminster Bridge, the music of the Vauxhall band came "throbbing through the still night," and the sky was bright with the reflection of the lights. It was the fashion with the quality to go late; and so eleven o'clock had struck before we had pulled up between Vauxhall stairs, crowded with watermen and rough mudlarks, and the very ordinary-looking house which forms the entrance of the great garden. Leaving the servants outside, single-file we trailed through the dark passage guarded by the wicketgate. "Prepare to be ravished, Richard," said my lady, with fine sarcasm. "You were yourself born in the colonies, miss," I retorted. "I confess to a thrill, and will not pretend that I have seen such sights often enough to be sated." "La!" exclaimed Lady Sarah, who had overheard; "I vow this is refreshing. Behold a new heaven and a new earth, Mr. Carvel?" Indeed, much to the amusement of the company, I took no pains to hide my enthusiasm at the brilliancy of the scene which burst upon me. A great orchestra rose in the midst of a stately grove lined on all four sides with supper-boxes of brave colours, which ran in straight tiers or swept around in circles. These were filled with people of all sorts and conditions, supping and making merry. Other people were sauntering under the trees, keeping step with the music. Lamps of white and blue and red and green hung like luminous fruit from the branches, or clustered in stars and crescents upon the buildings. "Why, Richard, you are as bad as Farmer Colin." "'O Patty! Soft in feature, I've been at dear Vauxhall; No paradise is sweeter, Not that they Eden call.'" whispered Dolly, paraphrasing. At that instant came hurrying Mr. Tom Tyers, who was one of the brothers, proprietors of the gardens. He was a very lively young fellow who seemed to know everybody, and he desired to know if we would walk about a little before being shown to the boxes reserved for us. "They are on the right side, Mr. Tyers?" demanded Mr. Storer. "Oh, to be sure, sir. Your man was most particular to stipulate the pink and blue flowered brocades, next the Prince of Wales's." "But you must have the band stop that piece, Mr. Tyers," cried Lady Sarah. "I declare, it is too much for my nerves. Let them play Dibbin's Ephesian Matron." "As your Ladyship wishes," responded the obliging Mr. Tyers, and sent off an uniformed warder to the band-master. As he led us into the Rotunda, my Lady Dolly, being in one of her whimsical humours, began to recite in the manner of the guide-book, to the vast diversion of our party and the honest citizens gaping at us. "This, my lords, ladies, and gentlemen," says the minx, "is that marvellous Rotunda commonly known as the 'umbrella,' where the music plays on wet nights, and where we have our masquerades and ridottos. Their Royal Highnesses are very commonly seen here on such occasions. As you see, it is decorated with mirrors and scenes and busts, and with gilded festoons. That picture was painted by the famous Hogarth. The organ in the orchestra cost--you must supply the figure, Mr. Tyers,--and the ceiling is at least two hundred feet high. Gentlemen from the colonies and the country take notice." By this time we were surrounded. Mr. Marmaduke was scandalized and crushed, but Mr. Tyers, used to the vagaries of his fashionable patrons, was wholly convulsed. "Faith, Miss Manners, and you would consent to do this two nights more, we should have to open another gate," he declared. Followed by the mob, which it seems was part of the excitement, he led us out of the building into the Grand Walk; and offered to turn on the waterfall and mill, which (so Lady Sarah explained to me) the farmers and merchants fell down and worshipped every night at nine, to the tinkling of bells. She told Mr. Tyers there was diversion enough without "tin cascades." When we got to the Grand Cross Walk he pointed out the black "Wilderness" of tall elms and cedars looming ahead of us. And--so we came to the South Walk, with its three triumphal arches framing a noble view of architecture at the far end. Our gentlemen sauntered ahead, with their spy-glasses, staring the citizens' pretty daughters out of countenance, and making cynical remarks. "Why, egad!" I heard Sir Charles say, "the wig-makers have no cause to petition his Majesty for work. I'll be sworn the false hair this good staymaker has on cost a guinea." A remark which caused the staymaker (if such he was) such huge discomfort that he made off with his wife in the opposite direction, to the time of jeers and cock-crows from the bevy of Vauxhall bucks walking abreast. "You must show us the famous 'dark walks,' Mr. Tyers," says Dorothy. "Surely you will not care to see those, Miss Manners." "O lud, of course you must," chimed in the Miss Stanleys; "there is no spice in these flaps and flies." He led us accordingly into Druid's Walk, overarched with elms, and dark as the shades, our gentlemen singing, "'Ods! Lovers will contrive,'" in chorus, the ladies exclaiming and drawing together. Then I felt a soft, restraining hold on my arm, and fell back instinctively, vibrating to the touch. "Could you not see that I have been trying to get a word with you for ever so long?" "I trust you to find a way, Dolly, if you but wish," I replied, admiring her stratagem. "I am serious to-night." Indeed, her voice betrayed as much. How well I recall those rich and low tones! "I said I wished you shut up in the Marshalsea, and I meant it. I have been worrying about you." "You make me very happy," said I; which was no lie. "Richard, you are every bit as reckless and indifferent of danger as they say your father was. And I am afraid--" "Of what?" I asked quickly. "You once mentioned a name to me--" "Yes?" I was breathing deep. "I have forgiven you," she said gently. "I never meant to have referred to that incident more. You will understand whom I mean. You must know that he is a dangerous man, and a treacherous. Oh!" she exclaimed, "I have been in hourly terror ever since you rode against him in Hyde Park. There! I have said it." The tense sweetness of that moment none will ever know. "But you have more reason to fear him than I, Dorothy." "Hush!" she whispered, catching her breath; "what are you saying?" "That he has more cause to fear me than I to dread him." She came a little closer. "You stayed in London for me, Richard. Why did you? There was no need," she exclaimed; "there was no need, do you hear? Oh, I shall never forgive Comyn for his meddling! I am sure 'twas he who told you some ridiculous story. He had no foundation for it." "Dorothy," I demanded, my voice shaking with earnestness, "will you tell me honestly there is no foundation for the report that the duke is intriguing to marry you?" That question was not answered, and regret came the instant it had left my lips--regret and conviction both. Dorothy joined Lady Carlisle before our absence had been noted, and began to banter Fitzpatrick upon his losings. We were in the lighted Grove again, and sitting down to a supper of Vauxhall fare: transparent slices of ham (which had been a Vauxhall joke for ages), and chickens and cheese cakes and champagne and claret, and arrack punch. Mr. Tyers extended the concert in our favour. Mrs. Weichsell and the beautiful Baddeley trilled sentimental ballads which our ladies chose; and Mr. Vernon, the celebrated tenor, sang Cupid's Recruiting Sergeant so happily that Storer sent him a bottle of champagne. After which we amused ourselves with catches until the space between our boxes and the orchestra was filled. In the midst of this Comyn came quietly in from the other box and took a seat beside me. "Chartersea is here to-night," said he. I started. "How do you know?" "Tyers told me he turned up half an hour since. Tom asked his Grace to join our party," his Lordship laughed. "Duke said no--he was to be here only half an hour, and Tom did not push him. He told me as a joke, and thinks Chartersea came to meet some petite." "Any one with him?" I asked. "Yes. Tall, dark man, one eye cast,--that's Lewis. They have come on some dirty work, Richard. Watch little Marmaduke. He has been fidgety as a cat all night." "That's true," said I. Looking up, I caught Dorothy's eyes upon us, her lips parted, uneasiness and apprehension plain upon her face. Comyn dropped his voice still lower. "I believe she suspects something," he said, rising. "Chartersea is gone off toward the Wilderness, so Tom says. You must not let little Marmaduke see him. If Manners gets up to go, I will tune up Black-eked Susan, and do you follow on some pretext. If you are not back in a reasonable time, I'll after you." He had been gone scant three minutes before I heard his clear voice singing, "in the Downs", and up I got, with a precipitation far from politic, and stepped out of the box. Our company stared in surprise. But Dorothy rose clear from her chair. The terror I saw stamped upon her face haunts me yet, and I heard her call my name. I waited for nothing. Gaining the Grand Walk, I saw Mr. Marmaduke's insignificant figure dodging fearfully among the roughs, whose hour it was. He traversed the Cross Walk, and twenty yards farther on dived into an opening in the high hedge bounding the Wilderness. Before he had made six paces I had him by the shoulder, and he let out a shriek of fright like a woman's. "It is I, Richard Carvel, Mr. Manners," I said shortly. I could not keep out the contempt from my tone. "I beg a word with you." In his condition then words were impossible. His teeth rattled again, and he trembled like a hare caught alive. I kept my hold of him, and employed the time until he should be more composed peering into the darkness. For all I knew Chartersea might be within ear-shot. But I could see nothing but black trunks of trees. "What is it, Richard?" "You are going to meet Chartersea," I said. He must have seen the futility of a lie, or else was scared out of all contrivance. "Yes," he said weakly. "You have allowed it to become the talk of London that this filthy nobleman is blackmailing you for your daughter," I went on, without wasting words. "Tell me, is it, or is it not, true?" As he did not answer, I retained a handful of the grained silk on his shoulder as a measure of precaution. "Is this so?" I repeated. "You must know, I suppose," he said, under his breath, and with a note of sullenness. "I must," I said firmly. "The knowledge is the weapon need, for I, too, am going to meet Chartersea." He ceased quivering all at once. "You are going to meet him!" he cried, in another voice. "Yes, yes, it is so,--it is so. I will tell you all." "Keep it to yourself, Mr. Manners," I replied, with repugnance, "I have heard all I wish. Where is he?" I demanded. "Hold the path until you come to him. And God bless--" I shook my head. "No, not that! Do you go back to the company and make some excuse for me. Do not alarm them. And if you get the chance, tell Lord Comyn where to come." I waited until I saw him under the lights of the Grand Walk, and fairly running. Then I swung on my heel. I was of two minds whether to wait for Comyn, by far the wiser course. The unthinking recklessness I had inherited drove me on. CHAPTER XLI THE WILDERNESS My eyes had become accustomed to the darkness, and presently I made out a bench ahead, with two black figures starting from it. One I should have known on the banks of the Styx. From each came a separate oath as I stopped abreast them, and called the duke by name. "Mr. Carvel!" he cried; "what the devil do you here, sir?" "I am come to keep an appointment for Mr. Manners," I said. "May I speak to your Grace alone?" He made a peculiar sound by sucking in his breath, meant for a sneering laugh. "No," says he, "damned if you shall! I have nothing in common with you, sir. So love for Miss Manners has driven you mad, my young upstart. And he is not the first, Lewis." "Nor the last, by G--," says the captain. "I have a score to settle with you, d--n you!" cried Chartersea. "That is why I am here, your Grace," I replied; "only you have twisted the words. There has been foul play enough. I have come to tell you," I cried, boiling with anger, "I have come to tell you there has been foul play enough with a weakling that cannot protect himself, and to put an end to your blackmail." In the place of an oath, a hoarse laugh of derision came out of him. But I was too angry then to note its significance. I slapped his face--nay, boxed it so that my palm stung. I heard his sword scraping out of the scabbard, and drew mine, stepping back to distance at the same instant. Then, with something of a shudder, I remembered young Atwater, and a 380 brace of other instances of his villany. I looked for the captain. He was gone. Our blades, the duke's and mine, came together with a ring, and I felt the strength of his wrist behind his, and of his short, powerful arm. The steel sung with our quick changes from 'quarte' to 'tierce'. 'Twas all by the feeling, without light to go by, and hatred between us left little space for skill. Our lunges were furious. 'Twas not long before I felt his point at my chest, but his reach was scant. All at once the music swelled up voices and laughter were wafted faintly from the pleasure world of lights beyond. But my head was filled, to the exclusion of all else, with a hatred and fury. And (God forgive me!) from between my teeth came a prayer that if I might kill this monster, I would die willingly. Suddenly, as I pressed him, he shifted ground, and there was Lewis standing within range of my eye. His hands were nowhere--they were behind his back! God alone knows why he had not murdered me. To keep Chartersea between him and me I swung another quarter. The duke seemed to see my game, struggled against it, tried to rush in under my guard, made a vicious lunge that would have ended me then and there had he not slipped. We were both panting like wild beasts. When next I raised my eyes Lewis had faded into the darkness. Then I felt my head as wet as from a plunge, the water running on my brow, and my back twitching. Every second I thought the sting of his sword was between my ribs. But to forsake the duke would have been the maddest of follies. In that moment of agony came footsteps beating on the path, and by tacit consent our swords were still. We listened. "Richard! Richard Carvel!" For the second time in my life I thanked Heaven for that brave and loyal English heart. I called back, but my throat was dry and choked. "So they are at their d--d assassins' tricks again! You need have no fear of one murderer." With that their steels rang out behind me, like broadswords, Lewis wasting his breath in curses and blasphemies. I began to push Chartersea with all my might, and the wonder of it was that we did not fight with our fingers on each other's necks. His attacks, too, redoubled. Twice I felt the stings of his point, once in the hand, and once in the body, but I minded them as little as pinpricks. I was sure I had touched him, too. I heard him blowing distressedly. The casks of wine he had drunk in his short life were telling now, and his thrusts grew weaker. That fiercest of all joys--of killing an enemy--was in me, when I heard a cry that rang in my ears for many a year afterward, and the thud of a body on the ground. "I have done for him, your Grace," says Lewis, with an oath; and added immediately, "I think I hear people." Before I had reached my Lord the captain repeated this, and excitedly begged the duke, I believe, to fly. Chartersea hissed out that he would not move a step until he had finished me, and as I bent over the body his point popped through my coat, and the pain shot under my shoulder. I staggered, and fell. A second of silence ensued, when the duke said with a laugh that was a cackle: "He won't marry her, d--n him!" (panting). "He had me cursed near killed, Lewis. Best give him another for luck." I felt his heavy hand on the sword, and it tearing out of me. Next came the single word "Dover," and they were gone. I had not lost my senses, and was on my knees again immediately, ripping open Comyn's waistcoat with my left hand, and murmuring his name in an agony of sorrow. I was searching under his shirt, wet with blood, when I became aware of voices at my side. "A duel! A murder! Call the warders! Warders, ho!" "A surgeon!" I cried. "A surgeon first of all!" Some one had wrenched a lamp from the Grand Walk and held it, flickering in the wind, before his Lordship's face. Guided by its light, more people came running through the wood, then the warders with lanthorns, headed by Mr. Tyers, and on top of him Mr. Fitzpatrick and my Lord Carlisle. We carried poor Jack to the house at the gate, and closed the doors against the crowd. By the grace of Heaven Sir Charles Blicke was walking in the gardens that night, and, battering at the door, was admitted along with the constable and the watch. Assisted by a young apothecary, Sir Charles washed and dressed the wound, which was in the left groin, and to our anxious questions replied that there was a chance of recovery. "But you, too, are hurt, sir," he said, turning his clear eyes upon me. Indeed, the blood had been dripping from my hand and arm during the whole of the operation, and I began to be weak from the loss of it. By great good fortune Chartersea's thrust, which he thought had ended my life, passed under my armpit from behind and, stitching the skin, lodged deep in my right nipple. This wound the surgeon bound carefully, and likewise two smaller ones. The constable was for carrying me to the Marshalsea. And so I was forced to tell that I had quarrelled with Chartersea; and the watch, going out to the scene of the fight, discovered the duke's sword which he had pulled out of me, and Lewis's laced hat; and also a trail of blood leading from the spot. Mr. Tyers testified that he had seen Chartersea that night, and Lord Carlisle and Fitzpatrick to the grudge the duke bore me. I was given my liberty. Comyn was taken to his house in Brook Street, Grosvenor Square, in Sir Charles's coach, whither I insisted upon preceding him. 'Twas on the way there that Fitzpatrick told me Dorothy had fainted when she heard the alarm--a piece of news which added to my anxiety. We called up the dowager countess, Comyn's mother, and Carlisle broke the news to her, mercifully lightening me of a share of the blame. Her Ladyship received the tidings with great fortitude; and instead of the torrent of reproaches I looked for, and deserved, she implored me to go home and care for my injuries lest I get the fever. I believe that I burst into tears. His Lordship was carried up the stairs with never a word or a groan from his lips, and his heart beating out slowly. We reached my lodgings as the watchman was crying: "Past two o'clock, and a windy morning!" Mr. Fitzpatrick stayed with me that night. And the next morning, save for the soreness of the cuts I had got, I found myself well as ever. I was again to thank the robustness of my health. Despite the protests of Banks and Fitzpatrick, and of Mr. Fox (who arrived early, not having been to bed at all), I jumped into a chaise and drove to Brook Street. There I had the good fortune to get the greatest load from my mind. Comyn was resting so much easier that the surgeon had left, and her Ladyship retired two hours since. The day was misting and dark, but so vast was my relief that I imagined the sun was out as I rattled toward Arlington Street. If only Dolly were not ill again from the shock, I should be happy indeed. She must have heard, ere then, that I was not killed; and I had still better news to tell her than that of Lord Comyn's condition. Mr. Fox, who got every rumour that ran, had shouted after me that the duke and Lewis were set out for France. How he knew I had not waited to inquire. But the report tallied with my own surmise, for they had used the word "Dover" when they left us for dead in the Wilderness. I dismissed my chaise at the door. "Mr. Manners waits on you, sir, in the drawing-room," said the footman. "Your honour is here sooner than he looked for," he added gratuitously. "Sooner than he looked for?" "Yes, sir. James is gone to you but quarter of an hour since with a message, sir." I was puzzled. "And Miss Manners? Is she well?" The man smiled. "Very well, sir, thank your honour." To add to my surprise, Mr. Marmaduke was pacing the drawing-room in a yellow night-gown. He met me with an expression I failed to fathom, and then my eye was held by a letter in his hand. He cleared his throat. "Good morning, Richard," said he, very serious,--very pompous, I thought. "I am pleased to see that you are so well out of the deplorable affair of last night." I had not looked for gratitude. In truth, I had done nothing for him, and Chartersea might have exposed him a highwayman for all I cared,--I had fought for Dolly. But this attitude astonished me. I was about to make a tart reply, and then thought better of it. "Walter, a decanter of wine for Mr. Carvel," says he to the footman. Then to me: "I am rejoiced to hear that Lord Comyn is out of danger." I merely stared at him. "Will you sit?" he continued. "To speak truth, the Annapolis packet came in last night with news for you. Knowing that you have not had time to hear from Maryland, I sent for you." My brain was in such a state that for the moment I took no meaning from this introduction. I was conscious only of indignation against him for sending for me, when for all he knew I might have been unable to leave my bed. Suddenly I jumped from the chair. "You have heard from Maryland?" I cried. "Is Mr. Carvel dead? Oh, tell me, is Mr. Carvel dead?" And I clutched his arm to make him wince. He nodded, and turned away. "My dear old friend is no more," he said. "Your grandfather passed away on the seventh of last month." I sank into a chair and bowed my face, a flood of recollections overwhelming me, a thousand kindnesses of my grandfather coming to mind. One comfort alone stood forth, even had I gone home with John Paul, I had missed him. But that he should have died alone with Grafton brought the tears brimming to my eyes. I had thought to be there to receive his last words and blessing, to watch over him, and to Smooth his pillow. Who had he else in the world to bear him affection on his death-bed? The imagination of that scene drove me mad. Mr. Manners aroused me by a touch, and I looked up quickly. So quickly that I surprised the trace of a smile about his weak mouth. Were I to die to-morrow, I would swear to this on the Evangels. Nor was it the smile which compels itself upon the weak in serious moments. Nay, there was in it something malicious. And Mr. Manners could not even act. "There is more, Richard," he was saying; "there is worse to come. Can you bear it?" His words and look roused me from my sorrow. I have ever been short of temper with those I disliked, and (alas!) with my friends also. And now all my pent-up wrath against this little man broke forth. I divined his meaning, and forgot that he was Dorothy's father. "Worse?" I shouted, while he gave back in his alarm. "Do you mean that Grafton has got possession of the estate? Is that what you mean, sir?" "Yes," he gasped, "yes. I pray you be calm." "And you call that worse than losing my dearest friend on earth?" I cried. There must have been an infinite scorn in my voice. "Then your standards and mine are different, Mr. Manners. Your ways and mine are different, and I thank God for it. You have played more than one double part with me. You looked me in the face and denied me, and left me to go to a prison. I shall not repeat my grandfather's kindnesses to you, sir. Though you may not recall them, I do. And if your treatment of me was known in Maryland, you would be drummed out of the colony even as Mr. Hood was, and hung in effigy" "As God hears me, Richard--" "Do not add perjury to it," I said. "And have no uneasiness that I shall publish you. Your wife and daughter have saved you before,--they will save you now." I paused, struck speechless by a suspicion that suddenly flashed into my head. A glance at the contemptible form cowering within the folds of the flowered gown clinched it to a conviction. In two strides I had seized him by the skin over his ribs, and he shrieked with pain and fright. "You--you snake!" I cried, in uncontrollable anger. "You well knew Dorothy's spirit, which she has not got from you, and you lied to her. Yes, lied, I say. To force her to marry Chartersea you made her believe that your precious honour was in danger. And you lied to me last night, and sent me in the dark to fight two of the most treacherous villains in England. You wish they had killed me. The plot was between you and his Grace. You, who have not a cat's courage, commit an indiscretion! You never made one in your life, Tell me," I cried, shaking him until his teeth smote together, "was it not put up between you?" "Let me go! Let me go, and I will tell!" he wailed in the agony of my grip. I tightened it the more. "You shall confess it first," I said, from between my teeth. Scarce had his lips formed the word yes, when I had flung him half across the room. He tripped on his gown, and fell sprawling on his hands. So the servant found us when he came back with the tray. The lackey went out again hastily. "My God!" I exclaimed, in bitterness and disgust; "you are a father, and would sell both your daughter and your honour for a title, and to the filthiest wretch in the kingdom?" Without bestowing upon him another look, I turned on my heel and left the room. I had set my foot on the stair, when I heard the rustle of a dress, and the low voice which I knew so well calling my name. "Richard." There at my side was Dorothy, even taller in her paleness, with sorrow and agitation in her blue eyes. "Richard, I have heard all.--I listened. Are you going away without a word for me?" Her breath came fast, and mine, as she laid a hand upon my arm. "Richard, I do not care whether you are poor. What am I saying?" she cried wildly. "Am I false to my own father? Richard, what have you done?" And then, while I stood dazed, she tore open her gown, and drawing forth a little gold locket, pressed it in my palm. "The flowers you gave me on your birthday,--the lilies of the valley, do you remember? They are here, Richard. I have worn them upon my heart ever since." I raised the locket to my lips. "I shall treasure it for your sake, Dorothy," I said, "for the sake of the old days. God keep you!" For a moment I looked into the depths of her eyes. Then she was gone, and I went down the stairs alone. Outside, the rain fell unheeded on my new coat. My steps bent southward, past Whitehall, where the martyr Charles had met death so nobly: past the stairs to the river, where she had tripped with me so gayly not a month since. Death was in my soul that day,--death and love, which is the mystery of life. God guided me into the great Abbey near by, where I fell on my knees before Him and before England's dead. He had raised them and cast them down, even as He was casting me, that I might come to know the glory of His holy name. 
46367	----	TALBOT'S ANGLES [Illustration: "I AM AS PROUD AS CAN BE OF YOU." FRONTISPIECE (_Page 147_).] _TALBOT'S ANGLES_ _BY AMY E. BLANCHARD_ _Author of "A Journey of Joy," "Wits' End," "The Glad Lady," etc._ [Illustration] _BOSTON DANA ESTES & COMPANY PUBLISHERS_ _Copyright, 1911_, BY DANA ESTES & COMPANY _All rights reserved_ Printed by THE COLONIAL PRESS: C.H. Simonds & Co., Boston, U.S.A. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. AT END OF DAY 9 II. A CLINGING VINE 21 III. LEAVING THE NEST 35 IV. DEPARTED DAYS 48 V. THE ALARM 61 VI. AN INQUISITIVE NEIGHBOR 75 VII. WAS IT CURIOSITY? 89 VIII. A DISCLOSURE 105 IX. THE LETTERS ON THE TRUNK 118 X. PURSUING CLUES 132 XI. A NEWSPAPER 145 XII. A BRACE OF DUCKS 157 XIII. AN ANCESTRAL PILGRIMAGE 170 XIV. TWO BUGGIES 185 XV. A DISTINCT SENSATION 199 XVI. BEGONE, DULL CARE 213 XVII. AS WATER UNTO WINE 228 XVIII. THE DELIBERATE CONSCIENCE 245 XIX. OF WHAT AVAIL? 262 XX. "THE SPRING HAS COME" 277 ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE "I AM AS PROUD AS CAN BE OF YOU." (_Page 147_) _Frontispiece_ SCOLDING AWAY "JES LAK AN OLE BLUE JAY," DECLARED JAKE. 38 "DON'T SHOOT!" 71 "BUT YOU MUST NOT CALL ME COUSIN!" 115 "YOU DON'T IMAGINE HE HAS FALLEN IN LOVE WITH GRACE, DO YOU?" 164 "HE HAS GIVEN ME THE DEAREST RING." 225 "HER GAZE FELL ON THE TWO." 289 TALBOT'S ANGLES CHAPTER I THE END OF A DAY The sun was very low in the west and the evening colors were staining the creek whose quiet waters ran between flat lands to be carried out to the river further on, which, in its turn, found the broader bay. The arms of one or two ancient windmills, which had been moving lazily in the breeze, made a few rotations and then stopped, showing themselves dark objects against a glowing sky. An old church, embowered by tall trees, caught some of the evening glow upon its ancient brick walls, and in the dank long grass gray headstones glimmered out discovering the graveyard. Beyond the church the sparkling creek murmured gently. A few turkey-buzzards cast weird shadows as they circled slowly overhead or dropped with slanting wing to perch upon the chimneys of a long low house which stood not many rods from the weather-stained church. One reached the church by way of a green lane, and along this lane was now coming Linda Talbot, a girl above medium height whose dark hair made her fine fair skin look the fairer by contrast. Her eyes were downcast so that one could not discern their depth of violet blue, but one could note the long black lashes, the well-shaped brows and the rounded chin. Just now her lips were compressed so the lines of her mouth could not be determined upon. She walked slowly, never once raising her eyes toward the sparkling creek and the sunset sky. But once beyond the gate opening from the lane, she stood and looked around, taking in the view which included the windmills raising protesting arms, the fields where lately, corn had been stacked, the long low brown house. Upon this last her eyes lingered long and lovingly, observing the quaint lines, the low sloping roof, the small-paned windows, the chimneys at each end, the porch running the length of the building, each detail so familiar, so dearly loved, and now passing from her. She gave her head a little quick shake as if to scatter the thoughts assailing her, then she moved more quickly toward the house, but passing around to the kitchen rather than entering by way of the porch. An old colored woman was picking crabs at a table near the window. "Gwine give yuh some crab cakes fo' suppah, Miss Lindy," she announced, looking up. "Dark ketch me fo' I git 'em done I specs, dat no 'count Jake so long gittin' 'em hyar. He de no countines' niggah evah I did see. Thinks he ain't got nothin' to do but set 'roun' rollin' his eyes at de gals." "Get me an apron, Mammy," said Linda, "and I'll help you." "Go 'long, Miss Lindy. 'Tain't no need o' dat." "But I'd like to," persisted the girl feeling relief at not immediately being obliged to seek other society than that of the old colored woman to whom she had brought her troubles from babyhood. Enveloped in a huge gingham apron, she sat down to her task, but was so much more silent than was her wont that the old woman from time to time, raised her eyes to watch her furtively. Presently she could stand it no longer. "Wha' de matter, honey?" she asked solicitously. "Yuh got sumpin mo' on yo' min' dat honin' fo' Mars Martin." Linda dropped crab and fork into the dish of crab meat, rested her arms on the table and hid her face in them that Phebe should not see the tears she could no longer keep back. "Dere, honey, dere baby," crooned Phebe. "Tell yo' ole Mammy all about it. Wha' she been a doin' to Mammy's honey chile?" Linda lifted her tearful eyes. "Oh, Mammy, I can't stand it. I must go." Phebe's hands shook. "What yuh mean, chile?" she asked with a tremor in her voice. "I mean I must earn my own living. Phebe, I shall have to. Oh, Mammy, you know I cannot blame my brother, but if he had only left a little, just a little for my very own. If he had not made the conditions so hard." "Tell Mammy agin jes' how yuh stan's, honey," said Phebe soberly. "It's this way, Mammy. The place is left to Grace and me. As long as she chooses to make it her home I am to live here. If Grace marries she forfeits her right to it, but while she remains a widow she has a claim to the whole farm, the crops, everything. I am permitted only a place to sleep and enough to eat, and if she elects not to stay here, what am I to do? I cannot keep up an establishment on nothing, can I? Oh, Mammy, I did try, you know I did, while Martin lived, I tried to be patient and good. It hurt more than anyone knew when he brought home a silly pretty girl to take my place, to show a petty jealousy of me. You know how I used to delight in saving that I might buy something for Christmas or birthdays that he particularly wanted. Every little possession meant some sacrifice, and when, one by one, all the little treasured things that I had scrimped and saved to get for him, when they were shoved out of sight and something took their place that she had bought, I never said a word though it did hurt. We were such comrades, Mart and I, and I was only a school girl when I began to keep house for him and he came to me with all his confidences. We used to talk over the crops, the investments, this, that, the other thing, and it seemed as if it must always be so until--" "Yas, honey, yas, I knows." Phebe spoke soothingly. "She was jealous of every little thing," Linda went on. "She was very sweet and appealing, always calling me 'dear little sister' to Mart and gradually weaning him from me and my interests, subtly poisoning his mind--No, not that exactly, but making him believe he was such a wonderful brother to give me a home, to support me. She never ceased to praise him for what she told him was his great unselfishness. She never ceased to put me in the light of a dependent who had no real right to what he gave. It used to be share and share alike, Mammy, and Mart used to be the one to praise me for making a cheerful home. He used to say that he would work day and night rather than have me go out into the world to make my living, but, Mammy--to-day--Grace said I ought to do it, and I must, for she is going to the city for the winter." "Law, honey! Law, honey! Mah li'l baby!" groaned Mammy. "Yo' ma an' pa'll riz up in dere grabes ef yuh does dat. Ain't it yo' home 'fore it hers? Ain't yo' gran'daddy an' you gre't-gran'-daddy live hyar? Ain't yuh de one dat has de mostes' right?" "Yes, Mammy, dear, in the ordinary order of things it would be so, but you know the place was mortgaged up to the last dollar and it was Mart who lifted the mortgage and made the farm all his before father died. According to the law I have no part nor parcel in it except what he chose to leave me. Poor dear Mart, he was so blind, he thought never was such a wife as Grace; he couldn't see that she worked steadily, cleverly, cunningly all the time to build a barrier between us, to chain him fast, to make him see through her eyes, to make me appear a poor, weak incapable creature who ought to be left in her guardianship. Well, she succeeded; my darling brother, whose thought was always for me, made his will in such a way as to render me homeless." "Lord, have mercy," groaned Mammy, rocking back and forth, the crabs unheeded in their pan. "Oh, he was innocent enough, poor dear," Linda went on quickly. "He couldn't see anything but that it would be a fine thing for us two to live together like loving sisters always. I would be Grace's right hand; she would be my kind elder sister. That is the way it looked to him. He couldn't see through her little deceits. How could he know that her smiles covered a jealous, grasping nature? How could he know that six months after he left us she would practically turn me out-of-doors, that she would tell me I could not expect anything more than food and shelter for part of the year, and that she intended to spend her winters with her family and only her summers here?" "Ain't it de troof?" ejaculated Mammy. Having for the first time poured forth her grievances to a sympathetic ear, Linda was not disposed to stop the torrent which gave her relief. "She told me that it was for my sake as well as her own, and that she thought I would be much happier if I were to make myself entirely independent, all with that solicitous manner as if she lay awake nights thinking of my welfare. Oh, no one but you, Mammy, who have seen it, could realize the thousand little pin pricks that I have endured." "Yas, honey, I knows; Mammy knows," responded the old woman gravely. "But lemme tell yuh right now, ef yuh leaves de ole place, I leaves it." "Oh, no, Mammy," Linda spoke in alarm, "Master Mart wouldn't like you to do that." "I ain't thinkin' so much about Marster Mart as I is o' my baby, an' huccome she goes away. I ain't thinkin' so much o' him as I am o' mah ole mistis, yo' grandma. Yuh reckon she think I 'bleedged to stay? No, ma'am, dat she don't. 'Sides, honey, I reckons by dis time de angels done cl'ar yo' brudder's eyes o' de wool what been pull over dem dese two ye'rs pas', an' I reckons he a-sayin' to his own daddy an' ma', de ole place ain't de same nohow, an' po' li'l sis she need her ole Mammy Phebe, wharever she go!" At these words, Linda quite broke down again, but this time she hid her face on Phebe's shoulder and was patted gently with many soothing words of, "Dere, honey, dere now, baby, don' cry; de good Lord gwine look arfter yuh." After a few minutes Linda raised her head to say, "Grace's sister is coming down to help her close the house. They mean to leave before Christmas and Phillips will manage the place. I haven't told you yet what I mean to do. I had a letter to-day from Mr. Willis and he thinks I can have a position in one of the schools, for one of the teachers is going to be married and he will do all he can to get me her place." "Dat up in town?" "Yes, it will be in the primary department, and I shall have a class of little boys." "Humph!" Mammy expressed her disdain. "Whar yuh gwine live?" "I shall have to board somewhere, of course." The old woman's face fell. "I hopes I ain't live to see mah ole mistis' gran'child bo'din' in a common bo'din' house, 'thout no lady to give her countenance an' make it proper fo' her beaux to come an' see her. No, ma'am, I hopes I ain't live to see dat." "But, Mammy, what can I do? I haven't any very near relatives down here, you know, and none nearly related anywhere, certainly not near enough for me to invite myself to their homes. I can't afford a chaperone, and besides I am sure I am well enough known in town to be treated with respect wherever I may happen to live." "I ain't say yuh isn't, but what I do say is dat it ain't fittin' an' proper fo' one of de fambly to go off to bo'd thes anywhar lak common folks." "Then please to tell me what I am to do. Pshaw! Mammy, it's nonsense to talk as if I were a princess. We've got to face facts--plain, every-day facts. I must make my living, and I am lucky to be able to do it in a nice, ladylike way, in my own town and among my own friends." Mammy began to pick at the crabs again, working away sullenly. She knew these were facts, but she rebelled against the existence of them. She thought seriously over the situation for some minutes. "If yuh goes, I goes," at last she reiterated. "Miss Ri Hill she tell me laughin' like, mo' times dan one, 'When yuh wants a place, Phebe, mah kitchen ready fo' yuh.' She ain't think I uvver leave yuh-alls, but I knows she tek me ef she kin git me." "Miss Ri Hill! Why, Mammy, that is an inspiration. She is the very one. Perhaps she will take me in, too," cried Linda. "Praise de Lord! Ain't it de troof now? Co'se she tek yuh. 'Tain' nobody think mo' o' yuh dan Miss Ri. She yo' ma's bridesmaid, an' yuh always gre't fav'ite o' hers. Dat mek it cl'ar as day. She yuh-alls kin' an' she stan' fo' yuh lak home folks. When yuh gwine, Miss Lindy?" "Oh, pretty soon, I think." Just here the door opened and a high-pitched, rather sweet, but sentimentally pathetic voice said, "Phebe, have you forgotten that it is nearly supper time? Linda, dear, is that you? I wouldn't hinder Phebe just now. I was wondering where you were. I saw you walking about so energetically and am so glad you can take pleasure in outside things, for of course I couldn't expect you to appreciate my loneliness, a young girl like you is always so buoyant." A plaintive sigh followed, as Grace Talbot turned to go. She was a fair, plump young woman with an appealing expression, a baby mouth and wide-open eyes in which it was her effort to maintain a look of childish innocence. "Do try to have supper promptly, Phebe," she said as she reached the door. "Of course, I don't care for myself, as I eat very little, but Miss Linda must be hungry after her walk." Phebe gave a suggestive shrug and muttered something under her breath about "snakes in the grass," while Linda, with a sad little smile of deprecation, followed her sister-in-law through the irregular rooms, up a step here, down there, till the parlor was reached. Here an open fire was burning dully, for, though it was early fall, the evenings were chill even in this latitude, and Grace was a person who loved warmth. Creature comforts meant much to her, a certain chair, a special seat at table, a footstool, a cushion at her back, these she had made necessities, and had demanded them in the way which would most appeal to her husband, while later, for the sake of harmony, Linda had followed his precedent. Grace now sank into her chair by the fire, put her head back against the cushion and closed her eyes. "Linda, dear," she said, "would you mind seeing if there is more wood? One gets so chilly when one's vitality is low, and I am actually shivering." Silently Linda went to the wood box, brought a log, stirred the fire and started a cheerful blaze, then sat down in a dim corner, resting elbows on knees, chin in hands. "Where were you walking?" asked Grace presently, stretching herself like some sleek animal in the warmth of the fire. "I went to the graveyard," replied Linda slowly. Grace shivered slightly. "What strong nerves you have. I simply cannot bear to do such things; I am so sensitive. I cannot endure those reminders of my loss. You are so different, but, of course, all natures are not the same. I saw you talking to Phillips. I am glad to know that you can still take an interest in the place, but as for me it is too sad to talk over those things which were always a concern of my dear husband's. I cannot face details yet. My sorrow consumes all my thoughts and outside matters have no place in them. I suppose," she added in a weary voice, "everything is going on all right or you would tell me." "Everything is right so far as I can judge," returned Linda; "but I would advise you to rouse yourself to take an interest soon, Grace, for I shall not be here." "Are you really going soon?" asked Grace, opening her eyes. It was Linda's impulse to say, "I hope so," but she refrained. "I think so," she answered. "I will tell you just when after I have definite information." "Please don't be so secretive," said Grace a little sharply. "You must consider that I have my own arrangements to make and that it is due me to know your plans as soon as they are made." "I will tell you as soon as they are settled," returned Linda stoutly. Here Phebe came in to announce supper and the conversation ended. CHAPTER II THE CLINGING VINE When, two years earlier, Martin Talbot brought his wife to the old family homestead of Talbot's Angles, Linda determined to make the best of the situation. If it was for Martin's happiness to marry the pretty, rather underbred, wholly self-centered Grace Johnson, his sister would not be the one to offer disillusionment. Grace was from the city, dressed well, had dependent little ways which appealed to just such a manly person as Martin. She made much of him, demanded his presence continually, cooed to him persuasively when he would be gone, pouted if he stayed too long, wept if he chided her for being a baby, but under her apparent softness there was obstinacy, and the set purpose of a jealous nature. Between Linda and her brother there had always been good comradeship, but not much over-demonstration of affection. Each felt that the other was to be depended upon, that in moments of stress, or in emergency there would be no holding back, and consequently Martin expected nothing less than that Linda should accept a new sister-in-law serenely, should make no protests. In fact, he was so deeply in love that, as is the way of mankind, he could not conceive that anyone should not be charmed to become the housemate of such a lovable creature as he assumed Grace to be, one so warm-hearted, so enchantingly solicitous, so sweetly womanish, and, though he did not exactly underrate Linda, he grew to smile at Grace's little whispers of disparagement. Linda was so cold, so undemonstrative; Linda was so thoughtless of dear Martin. Why, she had never remarked that he was late for dinner. Wasn't it just like Linda to go off by herself to church instead of walking with them? How unappreciative sisters could be of a brother's sacrifices. Not every brother would have supported his sister so uncomplainingly all these years, but dear Martin was such an unselfish darling, he never once thought of its being a sacrifice, and that a less unselfish man would expect his sister to take care of herself. Martin was so chivalrous, and so on. Therefore, Linda's days of devotion, her constant proofs of affection told in acts rather than in reiterated words, her hours of poring over accounts that she might economize as closely as possible in order that the mortgage might the sooner be paid, her long consultations with Mammy, and her continual mending, patching, turning, contriving, all were forgotten or taken for granted as a just return for her support. That she had driven to town and back again, seven miles each way, during the last years of her school life, that she might still be companion and housekeeper for her brother, seemed no great matter from Grace's point of view, though in those days themselves there had been many a protest against the necessitated late hours that were the result of her many tasks, and "What should I do without my little sister?" was the daily question. There was no lack of employment for Linda's hands, even after Grace came, for though very tenacious of her prerogative as mistress of the house, Grace did nothing but assume a great air of being the busy housekeeper, and such work as was not done by Phebe, fell to Linda's share. Martin saw nothing of this, for Grace would bustle in with a show of having been much occupied, would throw herself into a chair with a pretence of fatigue, cast her eyes innocently at Martin, and say, "Oh, I am so tired. Housekeeping in the country is so difficult, but I love doing it for you, dear. Can't you stay home with your little Gracie this afternoon?" And Martin would stay nine times out of ten, with not the slightest perception of the fact that a surface sentimentality which stands in the way of the advancement or profit of another is worth nothing by the side of the year in, year out thought and activity in those little things which, in the end, show a far deeper affection than any clamor for a person's presence or any foolish and unmeaning words of praise. Linda's pride constrained her to keep all these things to herself, and not even from her old Mammy would she allow criticism of her brother and his wife. Mammy, be it said, was ready enough to grumble at the new order of things to Linda herself, but it was not till the burden was too heavy to bear longer in silence that Linda poured forth the grievances to which no one could listen so sympathetically as Mammy. Indeed, no one could have been a safer listener, for Mammy's pride in the family was as great as Linda's own, and she would have died rather than have noised its trouble abroad. Before the next Sunday, Linda had made her arrangements to leave her old home, and Grace's eldest sister, Lauretta, had arrived. Lauretta was a colorless, well-meaning person, a little shaky in her English, inclined to overdress, with no pretension to good looks, and admiring her younger sister the more because of her own lack of beauty. Being less of the spoiled darling, she was less vain and selfish, less wilful and obstinate, but was ready to reflect Grace's opinions, as born of a superior mind, so she quite approved of Linda's departure and prepared to fit into her place as soon as might be, assuming the responsibilities of housekeeping with perfect good will. Of Phebe's departure nothing more had been said, and when Linda questioned the old woman the only answer she received was: "Ain't a-sayin' nuffin." However, when Linda went into the kitchen one morning and remarked, "I'm going up to town to see Miss Ri Hill, Phebe," she was answered by, "I was thes a-thinkin' I'd go up mahse'f, Miss Lindy." "How were you going?" "Well, honey, I kin walk, I reckon." "You will do no such thing. I intended to go up in the buggy, but I think I can get Jake to drive, and you can go along in the surrey. Have you said anything to Miss Grace about going?" "No, I ain't, an I ain't a-gwineter. I been hyar befo' she was bo'n, an' she nuvver hire me nohow. I ain't got no call to say nuffin. When I goes, I goes." Linda was silent for a moment. "But, Mammy," she said presently, "I don't feel that it is exactly right for you to do that way. If you go to town with me to see about a place, I am responsible in a measure." "No, yuh ain't. Who say I cain't go see Miss Ri? I ain't a-gwine bag an' baggage. Ef I doesn't go with yuh, I goes on Shanks's mare." "But who will get dinner to-day?" "I reckon I kin git Popsy to come in an' git it." "Well, go along and find out, for I want to get off pretty soon." Mammy put a discarded felt hat of Martin Talbot's upon her head, and an old table-cover over her shoulders, then sallied forth down the road in search of the woman whose little cabin was one of a number belonging to a negro settlement not far off. Trips to town were so infrequent upon Phebe's part, and she demanded so few afternoons out, that what she wanted was generally conceded her, and though Grace pouted and said she didn't see why both Linda and Phebe should be away at the same time, Lauretta smoothed her down by saying: "Oh, never mind, Gracie dear, I have no doubt the other servant will do very well, and we'll have a nice cosey day together. I can see to everything, and it will give me a good chance to poke around. Old Phebe is such a martinet, she won't allow me inside the kitchen when she is here." "She certainly is a regular tyrant," admitted Grace, "but no one can cook better, and I am glad to keep her, for down here it is hard to get competent servants; they are all more or less independent." "Her being away to-day won't make much difference to you and I," replied Lauretta, with careful attention to her pronoun. She was always very particular never to say you and me. "I'm not a bad cook myself, and we can try some of our own home recipes. For my part, I should think you would get rather tired of oysters and Maryland biscuits." "I do," returned Grace plaintively. "Linda doesn't always consider me in ordering. Dear Martin didn't seem to notice that until I called his attention to it." "I don't see why you didn't take up all the housekeeping at the very first," responded Lauretta. "Oh, I was so unused to it, and these Eastern Shore ways were so unfamiliar. Linda understood them much better than I. Besides, it would have taken up so much of the time I might want to be with Martin." She sighed deeply and wiped a furtive tear before going on: "Then, too," she continued, "I didn't want to neglect my friends, and it does take time to write letters. Everyone always said I was such a good correspondent, and when anyone is in trouble, that my letters are so sympathetic." Lauretta changed the subject. Even in her sisterly eyes Grace was almost too eager a correspondent. "Why has Linda gone to town?" she asked. "To do some shopping? I suppose she will need some additions to her wardrobe now she is in mourning and is going to town to live." "Oh, dear no; she is not going to do any shopping for herself. She has all she needs for the present. I gave her some things, and she will soon be earning money for herself. No; she has gone to see about a boarding place, she told me, and she has some errands for me. I think it so much better to give her occupation just now. She is rather a restless person, and she will be much happier than she could be brooding by herself. You know, Lauretta dear, Linda is not so very companionable. She hasn't the nice, confidential way with me that I have with my sisters." "But she isn't your sister," returned Lauretta bluntly. "Alas, no. Dear Martin hoped we would be congenial, but you can see it is impossible. I wouldn't acknowledge this to everyone, Lauretta; but I always feel that she holds herself superior. I have seen a look sometimes that made me want to box her ears." Lauretta kept silence a moment before she said: "The Talbots are of excellent family, Grace." "And we are not, you mean. That is between ourselves. I am sure I try to impress everyone with the belief that we are," which was too true, "and though our grandparents may have been plain people, Lauretta, in the beginning, they did have plenty of means at the last; we have enough of their solid silver to prove that fact," and indeed Grace's display of solid silver on the sideboard at Talbot's Angles was not allowed to go unnoticed and was her most cherished possession, one of which she made much capital. "There they go," said Lauretta, looking from the small-paned windows to see the carriage turn from the driveway into the road. "I may be wrong, but it does seem to me rather like turning Linda out of house and home, Grace, doesn't it?" "Oh, dear, no; you are quite mistaken. I haven't a doubt but she would much rather live in town. I don't credit her with any real sentiment. She was as calm and self-possessed as possible when Martin died, while I went from one fit of hysterics into another. She can do things which would upset me completely. Oh, you needn't waste your sympathies upon Linda; it is I who am the real sufferer." "You poor dear," murmured Lauretta. "I am glad you have decided not to spend your winters in this lonely place; it would be too much for one of your sensitive nature." This was balm to Grace, and she cast a pathetic look at the sister, murmuring: "It is so sweet to be understood." Meanwhile over the flat, shell road Mammy and Linda were travelling toward the town. Once in a while a thread of blue creek appeared in the distance beyond fields of farmlands, or a white house glimmered out from its setting of tall trees, the masts of a sailing vessel behind it giving one the feeling that he was looking at a floating farm, or that in some mysterious way a vessel had been tossed up far inland, so intersected was the land with little creeks and inlets. Linda knew every step of the way; to Phebe it was less familiar, and the excitement of going up to town was an unusual one. She hugged herself in her ample shawl and directed, criticised and advised Jake the entire distance. Up through the shaded streets of the town they continued until they stopped before a gate leading to an old red house which faced the sapphire river. Here lived Miss Maria Hill. Her cheery self came out on the porch to meet them. "Of all things, Verlinda Talbot!" she cried. "And Phebe, too. Well, this is a surprise. Come right in. You are going to stay to dinner and we will have a good old-fashioned talk." She never failed to call Linda by the quaint name which had been given to various daughters of the Talbot family for many generations. "Go right out into the kitchen, Phebe," continued Miss Ri, "and if you can put any energy into that lazy Randy's heels, I'll be thankful. When are you going to make up your mind to come and live with me, Phebe?" she asked, laughing at the never-failing joke. But this time Phebe's answer, instead of being: "When de dead ducks eat up all de mud, Miss Ri," was: "Whenever yuh likes to have me, Miss Ri." Miss Maria stopped short in surprise. She looked from one to another. "You don't mean it!" she cried. "Yas'm, I means it; dat is, ef acco'din' to de ques', yu teks Miss Lindy, too." Miss Ri turned her gaze on Linda. "What does all this mean?" she asked. "Come on in, Phebe--no, you mustn't go into the kitchen just yet; we must thrash this out first." She led the way into a cheerful living-room, against whose ancient walls stood solid pieces of shining mahogany. Time-stained pictures, one or two portraits, old engravings, a couple of silhouettes looked down at the group. "Sit right down here, Verlinda dear. There's a chair for you, Phebe. Now let us hear all about it." Miss Ri drew up a chair and enfolded one of Linda's black-gloved hands in hers. "What does it all mean?" "It means just this, Miss Ri," said Linda; "Grace is preparing to leave Talbot's Angles and is going to the city for the winter. I cannot stay there alone, even if I had the means to keep up the house, and as it is to be closed, I am thrown on my own resources. Mr. Willis has been good enough to interest himself in getting me a position in one of the schools, and I have come up to town to find a boarding place. I have passed my examinations and am to have Miss Patterson's position, for you know she is going to be married this fall. And now, Miss Ri, Phebe thinks that maybe you would be so good as to take me in." "Ef yuh teks her, yuh gits me," broke in Phebe with an air of finality. "It's a bargain," cried Miss Maria. "Have I been speaking for Phebe all these years to be deprived of her now on account of so slight a thing as Verlinda Talbot? No, indeed. I shall be delighted to have you as my guest, my dear. While as for you, Phebe, go right into the kitchen and stir up that lazy Randy with a poker, or anything else you can find. Thank goodness, I shall not have to keep her long. Go along, Phebe." Thus adjured, Phebe departed, ducking her head and chuckling; she dearly liked the errand. "It must be as a paying guest, you understand," said Linda, when Phebe had left them. "Paying nonsense! Isn't my house big enough for plump me, skinny you, and fat Phebe? You see how I discriminate between my size and Phebe's?" "Then if I am not to be a real boarder, I can't come," said Linda firmly. "And I shall lose Phebe! Verlinda Talbot, you are right-down mean. All right, then, come any way you like, and the sooner, the better. We'll fix it somehow; just make yourself easy on that score. My! I never looked for such luck; a young companion and a good cook at one and the same time. I'll get your room ready right away. I don't suppose you could stay now?" Linda smiled. "Not to-day. I haven't a very extensive wardrobe, but such as it is, I must get it together; but I shall come within the next ten days. It is so very good of you to take me in, Miss Ri. Joking aside, I am most grateful. It makes the giving up of my own home less of a dread." "Bless your heart, you dear child; I will try to make you comfortable. I have always wanted someone to mother, but I never expected the Lord would send me Verlinda Talbot. I am not going to ask any questions now, but some day we'll get at the root of the matter. Meantime let it rest. How is Grace bearing up?" Linda hesitated. "Of course, she misses Martin terribly, but I think she is well; she has a good appetite." Miss Ri smiled. "I don't doubt it. Has her sister come?" "Yes." "A nice sort of somebody, is she?" "Yes, quite harmless, really good-hearted, I think, but rather dull. However, though she may bore one, she has no affectations. She is devoted to Grace, and I think will be of great use to her." Miss Ri nodded understandingly. "Take off your things, dear," she said gently. "You are going to stay to dinner, you know, and then we will choose a room for you." She missed the color from the girl's face and noted the heavy shadows under the violet eyes, when Linda removed her hat. "Poor darling," she said to herself, "only time can help her. Grief sits heavily on her heart." She turned to a curious old cupboard in one corner of the room. "You must have some of my home-made wine," she said, "and then we will pick out the room. Would you like one looking out on the river or on the road?" "Oh, a river room, if I may," replied Linda eagerly. "Very well; so be it. I'll show you both and you can take your choice; or no, better still, I will fix up the one I am sure you will prefer, for it will look cosier than it does now, and you will have a better impression of it." She poured out some amber-hued wine from an old decanter. "Here, drink this," she said, "and I will join you in a health. Here's to many happy days under my roof, Verlinda, and may you never regret coming to your old friend, Maria Hill." Just then Phebe's black face appeared at the door. "Miss Ri," she said, "I cain't stan' pokin' 'roun' arfter that fool nigger. I is gwine to set de table, ef yuh'll show me whar de things is, please, ma'am." Miss Ri finished her glass with a "Here's to Phebe!" and Linda followed her to the dining-room. CHAPTER III LEAVING THE NEST In this quiet little corner of Maryland's eastern shore, if life lacked the bustle and stir of more widely-known localities, it did not lack interest for its residents, while at the same time it provided a certain easy content which is missed in places more densely populated, or of more stirring affairs.... To Linda Talbot the days had come and gone in careless fashion up to the time of her brother's death, for even his marriage did not rob her of friendships, and of concern in the small neighborhood doings, especially in matters relating to the little church, which, because it stood upon Talbot ground, had always been considered the special care of those dwelling at Talbot's Angles. The church was very old and it had required many bazars, many efforts at subscription, many appeals to keep it in repair, and now it showed its antiquity in moss-grown walls, mouldy woodwork, falling plaster and weather-stained casements. On this last Sunday, when she should perform her weekly duty of placing flowers upon the altar, Linda clipped her choicest white chrysanthemums from the bushes and early in the day took them to the church, making her way through dankly green paths overgrown with woodbine, that she might reach the enclosure where dead and gone Talbots of many generations were buried. Upon a newly-sodded grave she laid her fairest blossoms, and stood for a moment with heaving breast and quivering lips, then she went on to the church, pushing open the creaking door which led into the still, dimly-lighted, musty-smelling place. "There must be more air and sun," she said, setting wide the door and forcing open a window that the sunlight might pour in. Then she busied herself with placing the flowers in their vases. This done, she sat down in the old family pew, her thoughts travelling back to the days when it had been scarce large enough for them all, father, mother, grandmother, two brothers, three sisters, and now all resting in the quiet churchyard, herself the youngest of them all, the only one left. She ran her hand lovingly along the corner of the pew where her mother had been wont to sit; she touched with her lips the spot where Martin's forehead had so often rested as he knelt by her side. Next she knelt, herself, for a few minutes; then, without looking back, she left the church, to return later to the one service of the day, letting Grace and Lauretta follow. Even sorrow possessed certain elements of satisfaction to Grace when she was made a conspicuous object of sympathy. She could not have mourned in silence, if she had tried, and the gratification of hearing someone say as she passed: "Poor, dear Mrs. Talbot, how pathetic she looks," was true balm to her grief. She always went regularly to church, swept in late in all her swathing of crape, to take her place in the Talbot pew, and as certain suggestive looks were cast her, she returned them with a plaintive droop of the eye, and a mournful turn of the head, as if she would say: "Yes, here I am in all my woe. Pity me who will, and I shall be grateful." Linda, on the contrary, stole into a back seat just before the service began and stole out again as soon as it was over. She could not yet face sympathy and commiseration. Especially on this last Sunday did she feel uncertain of herself and wished heartily that the day were over, for Grace could not and would not be set aside for any matter of packing, and reproached the girl for her coldness and indifference toward her "own brother's wife," from whom she was about to be parted, so that Linda must fain sit and listen to commonplaces till Grace settled herself for a nap, and then she escaped to her room. There had promised to be a stormy time over Phebe's leave-taking, but as both Linda and Lauretta brought arguments to bear upon the matter, Grace was at last made to admit that, after giving a week's notice, Phebe could not be expected to lose the opportunity of taking a good place when Grace herself should so soon cease to need her. At first there was an effort at temporizing, and then Grace tried to exact a promise that Phebe would return in the summer, but the old woman would give her no satisfaction, and she was obliged to make the best of it. There was a great bustle and stir the next morning, more because of Phebe's departure than because of Linda's, for Phebe was here, there, everywhere giving orders and scolding away "Jes' lak a ole bluejay," declared Jake. She was so importantly funny that Popsy, who was to fill her place, and Jake, who had long known her ways, grinned and snickered so continually, that after all, Linda's departure was not the heart-breaking thing she had fancied it would be, and even the drive to town was deprived of melancholy on account of the lively chatter which Jake and Phebe kept up and which was too droll not to bring a smile from one listening. "Of course, you will come back for the summer holidays," Grace had said at parting, with the air of one who knows her duty and intends to do it. "Of course, you remember that it was dear Martin's wish that you would make the place your home whenever I might be here." [Illustration: SCOLDING AWAY "JES LAK AN OLE BLUE JAY." DECLARED JAKE.] But Linda had made no reply except a faint "I don't know what I shall do next summer." That season was too far off to be making plans for it now when the winter must be gone through, a winter whose unknown ways she would be compelled to learn. But Miss Ri's welcome was so warm that there was little room left for the sadness of parting after the cheery greeting. "Welcome home, dear child. Come right upstairs. Your room is all ready. That's it, Phebe. Fetch along the bags. I've fixed you up a place over the kitchen. It is a new experience for me to have a cook who doesn't want to go home nights. Right through the kitchen and up the back stairs. You'll find your way. Come, Verlinda, let me have your umbrella or something. I can take that bag." "Indeed, no. I'm not going to have you waiting on me, Miss Ri." "Just this once. I'm so proud of having a young lass to look after that you'll have to let me have my way for this first day. There, how do you like it?" She threw open the door of the spotless room, whose windows, though small, were many, and revealed a view of the sparkling blue river, the harbor near by and, on the opposite shores, stretches of green farmlands. The room itself was long and low. It held an old-fashioned four-poster bed with snowy valance, a handsomely-carved mahogany bureau, a spindle-legged table with leaf set up against the wall, a desk which was opened to show many pigeon-holes and small drawers. A low, soft couch, chairs of an antique pattern, and a wood stove completed the furniture. White curtains were at the windows, and on the high mantel were one or two quaint ornaments. "Now, my dear," said Miss Ri, "this is your sanctum. You can switch the furniture around any way that you prefer, tack up pictures, put your own belongings where you choose, and if there is anything you don't like, it shall be removed." "It is a darling room," returned Linda gratefully. "I can't imagine how one could want to change a single thing." "Then we'll have your trunk up; there will be room for one at least in this closet," Miss Ri told her, flinging open a door to disclose further accommodations. "Here's your washstand, you see, and there will be room for some of your frocks on these hooks; the rest can go in the clothes-press on the other side of the room and you can have another bureau, if you like. The trunks could go up in the attic, if that would suit better; but we will let that work out as it will later. Now, make yourself comfortable, and I'll go look after Phebe. Come down when you are ready." Left to herself, Linda sank down in a chair by the window, for a moment overcome by the thought that she had cut loose from all the ties which bound her to the dear old home. But in a moment her courage returned. "What nonsense," she murmured. "Was ever a girl so lucky? Here I am with my living assured and with dear Miss Ri to coddle me; with this darling room; and, last of all, with my own old Mammy at hand. I am a perfect ingrate to want more." She turned her eyes from a survey of the room to a survey of the outside. Along the river's brink stood some little houses, where the oystermen lived; nearer, was a long building, where the oyster-packing went on. Every now and then, through the open window, came a sound of cheerful singing from the shuckers at work. Tall-masted sail-boats dipped and curtseyed upon the sapphire waters. Across the river a line of shore was misty-green in the autumn light; closer at hand a grassy slope, over which tall trees cast their shadows, stretched down to the river. One or two little row-boats tethered to a stake, near a small boat-house, rocked gently as the tiny wavelets leaped up on the sandy brink. Vines clambered to the very windows of her room, amongst their leaves birds were twittering. The trees about the place were many, and from one of them a scarlet tanager was shrilling out his inviting call. "It is next best to being at home," Linda told herself, "and to get next best is a rare thing. I will unpack at my leisure, for perhaps I'd better see how Mammy is faring." She found Miss Ri in the sitting-room and Phebe already busy in the kitchen. Miss Ri was looking over some photograph prints. She handed one to Linda. "Tell me what you think of it," she said. "Fine!" exclaimed Linda. "I didn't know you were an expert photographer, Miss Ri." "I'm not. Don't give me credit for them. Sit down and I'll tell you how I happen to have them. One day, not long ago, I was potting some of my plants for the winter, when a young man came in the gate. I had never seen him before and thought he must be a book-agent or some sort of trader in dustless dusters or patent flat-irons, though he was much too nice-looking for that kind of business. Well, he walked up to me and said, 'Don't you want me to take some photographs of your house and grounds? This is certainly the most picturesque place I have seen about here.'" "Of course, that pleased you, and so--" "Yes, that is it exactly, and so he took a lot of views, interiors and exteriors, and I think they are pretty good. He didn't overcharge, and if he had done it, I should be disposed to forgive him. He stayed all the morning--" "And I'll venture to say you asked him to dinner." Miss Ri laughed. "Well, yes, I did; for who wouldn't have almost anyone rather than eat alone? He did stay and told me his story, which was a most interesting one." "I hope he didn't go off with his pockets full of your old silver." "My dear, he is a gentleman." "Oh, is he? And goes around taking photographs? This is interesting, Miss Ri. Tell me some more." "Well, it seems that he has come down here to look up some property that belonged to his great-grandfather and which he should have inherited by all rights; but, unfortunately, his trunk, with all the papers he needs, has gone astray, and, what is more, he was robbed of his pocketbook; so now, while he is waiting to find the trunk and until his next quarter's money comes in, he finds himself, as they express it, 'momentarily embarrassed'; but, having his camera with him and being a good amateur photographer, he is turning his gifts to account, that he may at least pay his board." "It seems to me it would have been more to the purpose, if he had been robbed of the camera instead of the pocket-book. He strikes me as a very careless young man to lose both his trunk and his purse." "He didn't lose the pocket-book; it was stolen; he is sure of that; and as for the trunk, it was sent by a local expressman to the steamboat, and so far has not been traced." "A very clever story," Linda went on. "I am only surprised that you didn't offer to take him in here until the missing articles are found." "I did think of it," returned Miss Ri with a twinkle in her eye, "and if you hadn't been coming, I might have done it; but I was afraid he might prove too susceptible or that--" "I might," returned Linda, laughing. "You certainly are considerate, Miss Ri. Where is our paragon, now?" "Oh, I sent him to Parthy Turner's, and they are both having a mighty nice time of it. She has turned him over to Berk Matthews, and he is doing what he can for him." "And do you believe there really was a great-grandfather?" "Oh, dear, yes; I am convinced of it. The young man has shown us his credentials, and I have no doubt but that in time he can find enough proof to substantiate what he has told us about his claim. If only the trunk could be found, he says he thinks it would be a very simple thing to establish his rights." "And am I not to see this mysterious stranger? I suppose he comes here sometimes to report." "If you are very good, I may let you see him through the crack of the door; but he is not for you. I have picked out someone else." "Oh, you have? So you are a confessed matchmaker, Miss Ri? May I know the name of my knight?" "No, you may not; that would be enough to make you turn your back on him at once. It is entirely my secret." "And the picked out person doesn't know he is picked out?" "Not a bit of it; he hasn't the faintest suspicion. How good that dinner does smell. Phebe is the only thing I wanted that I didn't have, and now I have her." "Do you really mean, Miss Ri, that you get everything you want in this world?" "Why, yes; at least of late years it has been so. I found out the secret from Thoreau some ten or more years ago." "A precious secret, I should say." "A very simple one. It is easy enough to get what one wants, when one makes it a rule to want only what he can get. If you think you haven't enough for your wants, all you have to do is to reduce your wants." "I'm afraid my philosophy isn't sufficient for such a state of things," said Linda with a sigh. "Why isn't it? Now, let's face the question. What do you want that you can't get?" Linda was silent before she said tremulously, "My brother." "Ah, my dear, that is all wrong. Don't you believe that you have your brother still? If he were in Europe, in China, in India, wouldn't you still have him? Even if he were in some unreachable place like the South Pole, he would still be your brother, and now because he has gone a little further away, is he not yours just the same?" "Oh, Miss Ri, sometimes I am afraid I doubt it." "But I know it, for there was One who said, 'If it were _not_ so, I would have told you.' Even the greatest scoffer among us must admit that our Lord was one who did speak the truth; that is what comforts." Linda laid her cheek against the other woman's hand. "That does comfort," she said. "I never saw it that way before. Is it that, Miss Ri, that keeps you almost always so bright and happy? You who have lost all your nearest and dearest, too? You so seldom get worried or blue." "Yes, I suppose it is that and another reason," returned Miss Ri, unwilling to continue so serious a talk. "And what is the other?" "I try to make it a rule never to get mad with fools," replied Miss Ri with a laugh. "Of course, I don't always succeed, but the trying helps a lot." Just here Phebe's head appeared at the door. "Miss Ri, I cain't find no tater-masher. What I gwine do?" "Oh, dear me; let me see. Oh, yes, I remember; Randy threw it at black Wally the other day when he was pestering her. She didn't hit him and I reckon she never troubled herself to pick up the potato-masher; you'll find it somewhere about the back yard. Randy certainly has a temper, for all she is so slow in other ways. Come along, Verlinda; I promised to show you that old wine-cooler we were talking about the other day. I found it down cellar, when the men were clearing out the trash; I've had it done over, and it isn't bad." She led the way to the living-room, which, rich in old mahogany, displayed an added treasure in the quaint wine-cooler, in which the bottles could lie slanting, around the central receptacle for ice. "It is a beautiful piece of wood," commented Linda, "and it is certainly curious enough. I do love this room, with all this beautiful old furniture. How do you manage to keep it so beautifully polished?" "Give it a rub up once in a while; and, you see, between whiles there is no one to abuse the things, so they keep bright. Let us see about the potato-masher; Phebe's found it, I declare. I venture to say it won't lie out of doors for a week, while she's here." CHAPTER IV "DEPARTED DAYS" Miss Parthy Turner's back garden was separated from Miss Maria Hill's by a fence in which a gate was cut that the two might sociably jog back and forth without going around the block. One of Linda's windows overlooked these gardens, where apple-trees disputed right of way with lilac bushes and grape-vines, and where, just now, late roses were cast in the shade by the more brilliant chrysanthemums. Miss Parthy, it may be said, was of a more practical turn than her neighbor in that she gave over to vegetables a larger part of her garden space, so that there were still discernible rows of cabbages, slowly-ripening pumpkins, high-poled beans, and a few late tomatoes. The morning after her arrival, Linda noticed in the garden, beyond the dividing line, a young man walking about with an evident eye to the quality of the apples shining redly above his head. She regarded this person with some curiosity, conjecturing that he was the mysterious stranger who had taken the photographs for Miss Ri. "He doesn't look like a fake," she told herself. "I suppose his story may be true. By the way, Miss Ri didn't tell me his name nor where he hails from." However, her thoughts did not long dwell upon the stranger, for this was to be her initial morning at school, and she was looking forward to it with dismay and dread. She scarce tasted her breakfast and looked so pale and anxious, that Miss Ri's heart ached for her. Mammy, too, was most solicitous, but knew no better way to express her sympathy than by urging hot cakes upon the girl with such persistence that at last, to please her, Linda managed to eat one. In spite of fears, the morning went more smoothly than she had anticipated, for Miss Patterson remained to coach her and she became familiarized with the routine, at least. Her pupils were little boys, none too docile, and naturally a new teacher was a target for tricks, if so she did not show her mettle. Under Miss Patterson's watchful eye there was no chance for mutiny, and Linda went home with some of her qualms allayed. She had passed her examinations creditably enough and felt that she could cope with the mere matters of teaching, but the disciplining of a room full of mischievous urchins was quite another question, and the next morning her heart misgave her when she met the rows of upturned faces, some expressing mock meekness, some defiant bravado, some open mirth. Courageously as she met the situation, it was a trying morning. If her back was turned for but an instant, there were subdued snickers; if she made a statement, it was questioned; if she censured, there were black looks and whispers of disapproval. At last one offender, sneaking on his hands and knees to the desk of another boy, was captured and marched off to the principal, a last resort, as poor Linda's nerves could stand no more. She was near to crying, her voice trembled and her heart beat fast. She scarcely knew how she went through the rest of the morning, for, though her summary act had quelled open rebellion, she was not at ease and keenly felt the undercurrent of criticism. She did not realize that the boys were trying her spirit, and she went home discouraged and exhausted, a sense of defeat overcoming her. As she was entering the gate, she met someone coming out, a young man, rather heavily built, with a keen, clever face, rather than a handsome one. "Ah, Miss Linda," he exclaimed, holding out his hand, "I've just been hearing about you." "From Miss Ri, of course. Well, what has she been telling you?" "It wouldn't do to say. How is the school going?" "The school in general seems to be going very well; as to my part of it, the least said, the better." "Really? What's the trouble?" "I don't know exactly. I suppose that I am the trouble, perhaps; Miss Patterson seemed to get along well enough." "Boys or girls do you have?" "Boys; little wretches from eight to ten, such sinners, not a saint among them." "Would you have even one saint? I wouldn't, for he couldn't be a truly normal, healthy boy. But I am keeping you standing and I know you are ready for your dinner. I'll walk back to the house with you, and you can tell me the particular kinds of sin that have annoyed you. I was a boy myself once, you know." He walked by her side to the house. Miss Ri, seeing them coming, was at the door to meet them. "I thought I sent you home once, Berk Matthews," she said. "So you did, but I took this way of going. Don't imagine for a moment that my return involves an invitation to dinner, Miss Ri." "That is an excellent thing, for I don't intend to extend one." "Could you believe that she would so fail in hospitality?" said the young man, turning to Linda. "I am mortified, Miss Ri, not because of the dinner, but that you should go back on the reputation of an Eastern Shore hostess. Isn't it a world-wide theory that we of the Eastern Shore never turn a guest from the door when there is the faintest possibility of his accepting a bid to a meal? Alas, that you should be the first to establish a precedent that will change the world's opinion of us." Miss Ri laughed. "You would think I was a client for the other side and that he was using his wiles to get me fined, at least. Come along in, if you must; I can guarantee you better fare than you will get at the Jackson House, I am bound to say." "That sounds alluring, but my feelings are hurt because I had to hint for an invitation." "Could anything so obvious be dignified by the name of a hint? Very well, go along and cut off your nose to spite your face, if you like; you will be the loser." "Not very complimentary, is she?" said Mr. Matthews, laughing. "I believe I will come now, just to show you that I am not to be badgered." "Then don't stand there keeping us from our dinner. It is all ready, and I don't want it spoiled." Thus adjured, the young man followed the others into the dining-room, where Phebe was just setting forth the meal. "Well, and how did it go to-day, Verlinda?" asked Miss Ri, when they had seated themselves. "Don't ask her anything till after dinner," put in Mr. Matthews. "Things will assume an entirely different aspect when she has had something to eat. Just now the shooting of the young idea is not a pleasant process to contemplate, in the eyes of Miss Linda. We'll talk about something else. Where did you get these oysters, Miss Ri? I never tasted such a pie." "Of course you didn't, for you never ate one made by such a cook. The oysters came from the usual place, but I'm in high feather, Berk, for I have the best cook in town. I have Linda's Phebe." "You don't want another boarder?" "Not I. Linda is adopted; she is not to be classed with common boarders, and I certainly don't want to spoil my ideal household by taking in a--" "Mere man," interrupted Berkley. "Very well, I will find an excuse to come in every day about meal time. What are you going to have for supper?" "Cold cornbread, dried apples and chipped beef," replied Miss Ri with gravity. "That's mean. Well, I'll come around with the papers to-morrow." "We're going to have the remains of the chipped beef and dried apples for dinner." "Then I'll come about supper time; they can't last over three meals." "You don't know the surviving qualities of those articles of diet; they may last a week with proper care." "I'll come and find out. I can go in the back way and ask Phebe, or I might bribe her to throw the stuff over the fence to Miss Parthy's chickens." "Don't you be up to any of your lawyer's tricks, Berk Matthews. I warn you, not a meal in my house shall you eat, if I hear of any shenannyging on your part." "I'll be good then, but I'd like a piece of that pie, a nice big piece." While all this nonsense was going on, Linda kept silence. She was really hungry and the light foolish talk was a relief, as the others intended it should be. In consequence, she went back to school in better spirits and the afternoon passed more satisfactorily. True to his threat, Berkley Matthews did appear with some papers just before supper time, but refused to stay, telling Miss Ri with great glee that Miss Parthy had invited him to her house and that she was going to cook the supper herself, while he and her other guest, Wyatt Jeffreys, were going to help. "Wyatt Jeffreys, Wyatt Jeffreys," repeated Linda. "That name sounds very familiar. I wonder where I have heard it. Where is he from, Miss Ri?" "From Connecticut, I believe. Any more light on the case, Berk?" "No. Nothing can be done till he shows up his papers, and they seem to be lost irrevocably. It's pretty hard on the poor chap, if there is really anything in the claim. Good-by, Miss Linda. I must be going, Miss Ri; you can't wheedle me into staying this time." "Wheedle you!" cried Miss Ri in pretended indignation. "I can scarcely get rid of such a persistent beggar. Go along and don't come back." "I'll have to," cried he. "You must sign those papers at once, this very evening." "I'll bring them to your office to-morrow morning," Miss Ri called after him, but he only waved his hand with a parting "Shan't be there," and Miss Ri turned to Linda, laughing. "We always have it back and forth this way. He attends to my business, you know, and runs in often. Now that his mother and sister have left town, he boards at the hotel, and likes the home feeling of coming here to a meal. Nice boy, Berk is." Linda had known Berkley Matthews all her life. As a little stocky boy he had come to play with her in Miss Ri's garden on some of the occasions when she was brought from Talbot's Angles to spend the day. Later he had gone to boarding-school, then to college, and she had seen little of him during late years. "He'll be back," said Miss Ri nodding, "just to get the better of me. But to tell you the truth, Verlinda, he certainly is a comfort, for he looks out for my interest every time. I wouldn't have a house nor a field left by this time, if it had depended upon my kin folks. Don't be an old maid, Verlinda. When their very nearest and dearest are gone, old maids seem to be regarded, by the world in general, as things so detached as to have no rights whatever; their possessions appear to be regarded as so many threads hanging from them; whoever comes along in need of a needleful, makes a grab, possesses himself of such a length and makes off with it, never stopping to see that it leaves a gaping rent behind." Linda laughed. Miss Ri's grievances were not many, but were generally those caused by her stepbrother's family, who lived not far away and made raids upon her whenever they came to town. "Oh, well, you may laugh," Miss Ri went on, "but it is quite true. Why, only the last time Becky was here she carried off a little mirror that had belonged to my great-grandmother." "Why did you let her have it? Your great-grandmother was no relation of hers." "I know that; but she talked so much, I had to let her take it to get rid of the incessant buzzing. You know what a talker Becky is." "But you like Mrs. Becky; I've often heard you say so." "Oh, yes, I like her well enough. She is entertaining when she is talking about other people's affairs and not mine," remarked Miss Ri with a droll smile. "That is the way it generally is, I suppose. Well, anyhow, Berk Matthews keeps my business together, and I'm sure I am satisfied to have him run in when he chooses, if only to keep me in a good humor." "I thought you were always so, and that you never got mad with fools." "I don't; but Becky is no fool, my dear." They turned into the big drawing-room, a room charming enough in itself, without the addition of the fine old Chippendale chairs and tables, the carved davenport, the big inlaid piano, and the portraits representing beauties of a departed time. Linda knew them all. The beautiful girl in white, holding a rose, was Miss Ri's grandmother, for whom she was named and who was a famous belle in her day. The gentleman in red hunting-coat was a great-grandfather and his wife the lady with powdered hair and robed in blue satin. The man with the sword was another great-grandfather, and so on. One must go up a step to reach the embrasured windows which looked riverward, but at the others, which faced the lawn, hung heavy damask curtains. Linda had always liked the smaller windows, and when she was a little child had preferred to play on the platform before them to going anywhere else. There was such a sense of security in being thus raised above the floor. She liked, too, the little writing-room and the tiny boudoir which led from the larger room, though these were closed, except in summer, as so large a house was hard to heat comfortably. A freshly-burning fire in the fireplace sent glancing lights over the tall candlesticks and sought out the brightest spots on the old picture-frames. It picked out the brass beading on the yellow-keyed piano, and flickered across Chinese curios on the spindle-legged tables. Miss Ri's grandfather had been an admiral in the navy and many were the treasures which were tucked away here, out of sight there, or more happily, brought forth to take the place of some more modern gift which had come to grief in the hands of careless servants. "It is a dear old room," said Linda, sitting down at the piano and touching softly the yellowed keys, which gave forth a tinkling response. "I ought to have a new piano," said Miss Ri, "and now you have come, it will be an excuse to get one. I'll see what I can do next time I go to town. I remember that you have a nice voice." "Nothing to boast of." "Not very powerful, perhaps, but sweet and true. I wish you'd sing for me, Verlinda, if you are not too tired." "I will, if you will first play for me some of those things I used to love when I was a child. You would play till I grew drowsy, and then you would carry me off to bed." "Oh, my dear, I don't play nowadays, and on that old tinkling piano." "But it is just because it is the old piano that I want the old tunes." "Then pick out what you like, and I will try." Linda turned over a pile of music to find such obsolete titles as "Twilight Dews," "Departed Days," "Showers of Pearl," and the like. She selected one and set it on the rack. "Here is one I used to like the best," she said. "It suggested all sorts of things to my childish mind; deep woods, fairy calls, growling giants; I don't know what all." "'Departed Days.' Very fitly named, isn't it? for it is at least fifteen years ago, and it was an old thing then. Well, I will try; but you mustn't criticise when I stumble." She sat down to the piano, a stout, fresh-colored, grey-haired woman with a large mouth, whose sweet expression betokened the kindly nature better than did the humorous twinkling eyes. She played with little style, but sympathetically, though the thin tinkling notes might have jarred upon the ears of one who had no tender associations with the commonplace melody. To Linda it was a voice from out of her long-ago, and she listened with a wistful smile till suddenly the door opened and the music ended with a false chord. Miss Ri shut the piano with a bang, and turned to greet the young man who entered. CHAPTER V THE ALARM "Have I interrupted a musicale?" asked Berkley jauntily. "You are just in time to hear Verlinda sing," responded Miss Ri with ready tact and in order to cover her own confusion. "Ah, that's good," cried he, though "Oh, Miss Ri," came in protest from Linda. "Didn't you promise to sing for me, if I played for you?" queried Miss Ri. "Yes,--but--only for you." "Now, Miss Linda," Berkley expostulated, "haven't I known you as long as Miss Ri has?" "Not quite," Linda answered. "But does the matter of a few months or even years, when you were yet in a state of infantile bewilderment, make any difference?" "It makes all the difference," Linda was positive. "Oh, come, come," spoke up Miss Ri, "that is all nonsense. You don't make any bones of singing in the church choir, Verlinda." "Oh, but then I have the support of other voices." "Well, you can have the support of Berk's voice; I am sure it is big enough." "Oh, but I don't sing anything but college songs," the young man declared. "Such a very modest pair," laughed Miss Ri. "Well, who was blushing like a sixteen-older when I came in? Tell me that," said Berkley triumphantly. And Miss Ri was perforce to acknowledge that she was as bad as the rest, but the controversy was finally ended by Linda's consenting to sing one song if Berkley would do the same. She chose a quaint old English ballad as being in keeping with the clinking piano, and then Berkley sang a rollicking college song to a monotonous accompaniment which, however, was nearly drowned by his big baritone. By the time this was ended the ice was broken and they warmed up to the occasion. They dragged forth some of Miss Ri's old music-books to find such sentimental songs of a former day as pleased their fancy. Over some of these they made merry; over others they paused. "My mother used to sing that," Berkley would say. "So did my mother," Linda would answer, and then would follow: "She Wore a Wreath of Roses," "Flow Gently, Sweet Afton," "Cast That Shadow from Thy Brow," or some other forgotten ballad. "Oh, here is 'The Knight of the Raven Black Plume,'" cried Linda, as she turned the discolored pages of one of the old books. "How I used to love that; it is so romantic. Listen," and she began, "A lady looked forth from her lattice." So they went from one thing to another till Berkley, looking at his watch exclaimed, "I'm keeping you all up, and Miss Ri, we haven't seen to those papers. That music is a treasure-trove, Miss Linda. We must get at the other books sometime, but we'll take some Friday night when you can sleep late the next morning." Linda's face shadowed. "Why remind me of such things? I had nearly forgotten that there were matters like school-rooms and abandoned little wretches of boys." "Don't be so hard on the little chaps. I was one once, as I reminded you, and I have some sympathy with them caged up in a school-room. Just get the point of contact and you will be all right." "Ah, but there's the rub," returned Linda ruefully. "I am not used to boys, and any sort of contact, pointed or otherwise, doesn't appeal to me." "You must just bully them into good behavior," put in Miss Ri. "Here, Berk, you be the little boy and I'll be the school-marm. Verlinda needs an object lesson." Then followed a scene so funny that Linda laughed till she cried. "Where are those papers?" inquired Miss Ri suddenly putting an end to the nonsense. "Bring them into the sitting-room, Berk, and we will get them done with. I'm going up to town to-morrow, and we may as well finish up this business before I go." "One of your mysterious errands, Miss Ri?" said Berkley smiling. "Never mind what it is; that is none of your concern. You don't suppose because you collect my rents, and look after my leases that you must know every time I buy a paper of hairpins." "You don't have to go up to the city for those, you see. It is my private opinion, Miss Linda, that she makes a semi-annual visit to a fortune-teller or some one of that ilk. I notice she is more than ordinarily keen when she gets back after one of these trips." "Come along, come along," interrupted Miss Ri. "You'll stand here talking all night. I declare you are as bad as Becky Hill." "Oh, yes, I'm coming, Miss Ri. Do you know Mrs. Hill, Miss Linda? and did you ever hear what her sister, Mrs. Phil Reed says of her?" "I know Mrs. Hill, yes, indeed, but I never heard the speech. What was it?" "You know what a talker Mrs. Becky is. Mrs. Reed refers to it in this way. 'Becky, dear child, is so sympathetic, so interested in others that she exhausts herself by giving out so much to her friends.'" "I should say it was the friends who were exhausted," returned Linda. But here Miss Ri suddenly turned out the lights leaving them to grope their way to the sitting-room where the papers were signed and then Berkley was, as Miss Ri termed it, driven out. The steamboat which left at six o'clock every evening bore Miss Ri away on its next trip. It was an all night journey down the river and up the bay, and therefore, Miss Ri would not return till the morning of the second day when the boat arrived on its voyage from the city. "If you are afraid to sleep in the house with no one but Phebe, get some one to come and stay with you," charged Miss Ri. "Bertie Bryan will come, I am sure." "I shall not be in the least afraid," declared Linda. "Phebe and I have often stayed in the house alone at Talbot's Angles." "Nevertheless, I would rather you did have someone. I'll send Phebe over to the Bryans with a note." This she did in spite of Linda's protest that it was not necessary, and after Linda had returned from seeing Miss Ri on her way, Bertie arrived. She was a nice wholesome girl who had been a schoolmate of Linda's and had spent many a day with her at Talbot's Angles. She was not exactly a beauty, but a lovely complexion and sweet innocent eyes helped out the charm of frank good nature and unaffected geniality. "It certainly is good to see you in town, Linda," she said as she greeted her friend. "Why didn't you send me word you were here? I would have been over long ago." "I wanted to gather my wits together first. I am experimenting, you see, and I didn't know how my experiment might turn out. I was afraid I might have to slink off again ignominiously after the first week." "But, as this is the second week and you are not slinking, I surmise it is all right." "Not exactly all right, but I manage to keep from having hysterics, and am getting my youngsters in hand better." "I heard Miss Adams say this morning that you were getting on very well for one who had never had any experience." "That is the most encouraging thing I have heard yet. I have been wondering what my principal really did think, and to have that much praise is worth a great deal," said Linda gratefully. "Now don't let us talk shop. Tell me what is going on in town." "Don't you hear every bit of town news from Miss Ri? What she can't tell you Miss Parthy can." "I haven't seen much of Miss Parthy. The hobnobbing between those two generally goes on while I am at school. Have you met the mysterious stranger, Bertie?" "Yes, indeed, and he is quite an acquisition, or would be if he could find his trunk. Have you met him?" Linda smiled. "No, Miss Ri is afraid I shall fall in love with him, I think, and has stipulated that he is only to call at such hours as I am at school." "What nonsense. Is she making a recluse of you?" "Oh, no. Berk Matthews is allowed, or rather he comes without being allowed, being a favorite and liable to take his own way. Tell me more of the man without a trunk." "Sounds rather ghastly, doesn't it? Well, he is like almost any other nice young man, has good manners, speaks correctly, makes himself agreeable when the opportunity is afforded. It is rumored that his affairs are in better shape, and that money orders and checks and things have come in, so he is no longer a mere travelling photographer." "I wonder he stays here now that he has the means to get away." "Oh, but he came prepared to stay. At least his object was to look up this property. He has been up to the city once or twice and is still hoping to recover the trunk which he thinks must be in Baltimore still. In the meantime he is very reticent about his case, won't talk of it to anyone, so nobody seems to know exactly what he does claim." "The name is very familiar," remarked Linda thoughtfully. "I can't think where I have heard it." "There is some sort of romantic tale about him, Miss Parthy says. She seems to know more than anyone." "He can't be a duke or a prince in disguise," said Linda. "He might be, for he was educated abroad, I have heard." "Wyatt Jeffreys--Jeffreys--I can't get the name located. I suppose it will come to me sometime." The girls had a quiet chatty evening alone, and started upstairs betimes. To Bertie was given a room opening out of Linda's, and with many a good-night they at last settled down to sleep. From her first nap Linda, after a while, was awakened by the low murmur of voices beneath her window. She listened with beating heart. No, there was no mistake. Should she arouse Bertie? She listened for a few moments and then heard a sound as of someone trying a shutter. Next a door-knob rattled slightly. Though frightened enough Linda was no coward, and as she sat up in bed listening, her brain worked rapidly. It would be better to arouse Bertie than to go prowling around alone, and have her friend doubly alarmed. Together they would go down stairs and perhaps could scare off the would-be burglars. Slipping on some clothing she cautiously went to Bertie's door, candle in hand. Flashing the light before her friend's closed eyes she succeeded in awaking without alarming her. "What's the matter, Linda?" asked Bertie sitting up and rubbing her eyes. "Are you ill? It isn't morning, is it?" "No, I'm not ill. Don't be scared, Bertie, but get up and put on some clothes quickly. I am sure I heard someone trying to get into the house." "But what can we do?" asked Bertie in a shaking voice. "We mustn't go down, Linda; we mustn't. Let's lock the doors and let them take what they want." "I don't believe they have really broken in yet, and I am going to try to scare them away. I wish I had a pistol; I left mine in the country, not supposing I should need it here." "I'm sure we left everything safely locked and barred; you know we tried every door and window." "Yes, I know. It wouldn't be any sneak thief, of course. I have a plan. Come into my room and let's peep out the window." They extinguished the candle and crept to Linda's window, already raised. There was no one in sight. "Now we'll go to Miss Ri's room," whispered Linda. Tiptoeing across the hall they went into this room at the front of the house and gently raised a window here. "I believe I hear someone on the porch," whispered Linda, drawing in her head. "Someone is at the front door. Come on down. They are not inside yet; that is a comfort." "Oh, but do you think we ought to go?" asked Bertie in trepidation. "Suppose they should get in and shoot us." "No, they are still outside, I am sure." The rooms below were dark and silent, windows and shutters tightly closed. The girls listened at the front door. Yes, surely there was a very low murmur of voices. Linda crept into the dining-room, Bertie holding tightly to her sleeve. "What are you going to do?" asked Bertie fearfully. "I'll show you. Don't be scared, and don't hold on to me." "But what are you going to do?" "I'm going to blow up some paper bags. You take this one and blow into it while I open the window. As soon as it is up burst your bag, and I'll get mine ready. Say when you are ready." [Illustration: "DON'T SHOOT!"] "Ready!" whispered Bertie and up went the window, back shot the bolt and upon the silence of the night sounded a loud report quickly followed by a second. "Hallo!" cried a surprised voice. "Here, Miss Linda, don't shoot." The girls who had drawn back from the window clutched one another, but felt an immense relief. There were footsteps on the porch and presently two figures appeared before the open window. "Hallo, in there," called someone. "It's only I, Berk Matthews, Miss Linda." The two girls approached the window. "What in the world are you doing prowling around here at this time of night, trying our bolts and bars?" asked Linda, indignantly. "You scared us nearly to death." "And don't you reckon you gave us a good scare. It is lucky you don't see one of us weltering in gore, Linda Talbot. Just like a girl to be reckless with fire-arms." Bertie stifled a giggle and pinched Linda's arm. "It would serve you right to welter," Linda replied severely. "What right had you to try to frighten us, I demand?" "We didn't intend to, but I promised Miss Ri faithfully that I would make a point of coming around here after you had gone to bed to see if by any chance some door or window had been left insecure." "Well, you might have told us what you were going to do," returned Linda somewhat mollified. "I couldn't," returned Berkley meekly, "for I haven't seen you since, and--Do you happen to know Mr. Jeffreys? Here, Jeffreys, I want to present you to Miss Talbot and--who is with you, Linda?" "Bertie Bryan." "And Miss Bryan. It is rather dark to tell which from t'other, but I would like especially to warn you against Miss Talbot. She carries a pistol and in her hot rage against us may still yearn for prey." "It was Bertie who fired the first shot," declared Linda with a gravity which brought a giggle from Bertie. "Don't tell what it was," whispered Linda to her. "Oh," said Mr. Jeffreys, "I have met Miss Bryan, so it will not be difficult to identify her when she is brought up with intent to kill." "Well, whatever happens to-morrow, we mustn't keep these ladies from their slumbers now," said Berkley. "I'm awfully sorry, girls, really I am, that we frightened you. We tried not to make any noise. Let's be friends. We will forgive you for the shooting if you will forgive us for the scare." "But," said Linda, "the laugh is entirely on our side, for--it wasn't a pistol. Please shut in the shutters, Berk, and I'll fasten them inside." "It wasn't a pistol? Then what in the world was it?" Berkley paused in the act of closing the shutters. "Paper bags!" returned Linda pulling the shutters together with a bang and closing the window, while upon the quiet of the night rang out a hearty peal of laughter from the two outside. "It's lucky I didn't use a bottle of ammonia to throw in their faces," remarked Linda as the girls climbed the stairs. "That was my first thought, but the bags were handy in my washstand drawer." "It was an awfully good joke," replied Bertie, "and I wouldn't have missed it, scared as I was at first. I was dreadfully afraid of burglars getting in and chloroforming us." "Did you ever hear of the girl who slept with her head at the foot of her bed and who was roused by feeling something cold on her toes? A burglar was chloroforming them, and she let him do it, then when he was out of the room she jumped up, locked her door and gave the alarm." Bertie laughed. "There is no fear of burglars now, I think, when we have two self-appointed watchmen." "It does give us a safer feeling," acknowledged Linda. "So we can rest in peace," returned Bertie going to her room. There was no disturbing of slumbers the next night, for the young men made noise enough to arouse the girls, who, in fact, had not gone to bed when stentorian voices called to them, "Here we are. Get out your ammunition. We're ready to stand fire." The girls looked down from above. "Anyone who is scared at a bag of wind would be sure to run from a flash in the pan," called Bertie. "We won't test your courage to-night, Berk." "Did you find everything all right?" asked Linda. "All's well," answered Berkley. "Thank you, watchmen," returned Linda, and then the window was closed and the young men tramped off softly singing: "Good-night, ladies." CHAPTER VI AN INQUISITIVE NEIGHBOR Miss Ri returned in due time. The girls were at breakfast when she came in bearing a small package which she laid on the table, a merry twinkle in her eye. "Well, girls," she exclaimed, "so nobody has carried you off, I see." The girls laughed. "No one has, although--" began Linda. "Don't tell me anything has happened," exclaimed Miss Ri. "Now isn't that just the way? I might stay at home a thousand years and nothing would happen. Tell me about it. I'm glad it's Saturday, Verlinda, so you don't have to hurry. Just touch the bell for Phebe to bring in some hot coffee. I don't take meals on the boat when I know what I can get at home. Those rolls look delicious." "Did you have a good trip, Miss Ri?" asked Bertie. "Never had such a stupid one. I didn't get a good state-room going up, and what with the men talking in the cabin outside my door all night, and the calves bleating in their stalls below, I did not get a wink of sleep, and there never was such a stupid sale." "Sale? Oh, you went to a sale? Of what?" Bertie was interested. "Oh, just things--all kinds of things," returned Miss Ri vaguely. Then, turning her attention to her breakfast she said, "Go on now, and tell me all that has been going on." The girls delivered themselves of the news of their adventure with supposed burglars to the great entertainment of Miss Ri, and then a message coming to Bertie from her mother, she departed while Miss Ri finished her breakfast. "I've almost as good a tale to tell myself," remarked that lady as she folded her napkin. "I think I shall have to tell you, Linda, but you must promise not to repeat it. I couldn't have told it to Bertie for she would never rest till she had passed it on. However, I can trust you, and you mustn't hint of it to Bertie of all people." Linda gave the required promise, Miss Ri picked up her wraps and the small bundle, and proposed they should go into the sitting-room where the sun was shining brightly. They settled themselves comfortably and Miss Ri proceeded to unfold her secret. "Berk was entirely too keen when he said I had a special purpose in going to town periodically," she began. "I have a harmless little fad, Verlinda; it is nothing more nor less than the buying of "old horse" if you know what that is." "I'm sure I don't," Linda confessed. "It's the stuff that collects at the express office; it may have been sent to a wrong address, or in some way has failed of being delivered. When it has accumulated for so many months they sell it at auction to the highest bidder. I have had some rare fun over it for it is much on the principle of a grab-bag at a fair. Of course I never venture a large sum and I generally go early enough to look around and make up my mind just what I will bid on. Once I had a whole barrel of glass ware knocked down to me; another time I was fortunate enough to get a whole case of canned goods of all sorts. This time--" she shook her head as denying her good luck. "I saw this neat little package which looked as if it might contain something very nice; it had such a compact orderly appearance, so I bid on it, only up to fifty cents, Verlinda, and when I came out of the place to take the car I couldn't forbear from tearing the paper in order to peep in. I saw a nice wooden box, and I said to myself, 'Here is something worth while.' I had some errands to do before boat time so didn't examine further until I was in my state-room, then I opened the box and what do you think I found?" "I can't imagine." Linda's curiosity was aroused. She looked interestedly at the small parcel. "I found a bottle," Miss Ri chuckled, "a bottle of what is evidently nice, home-made cough syrup, sent by some well-meaning mother to her son who had left the address to which it was sent. As I haven't an idea of the ingredients I don't dare pass it along to anyone else. I was tempted to chuck it in the river, but I thought I would bring it home to you." She made great form of presenting it to Linda who took it laughing. "I'll give it to Phebe," declared the girl. "She'd love to take it when she has a 'mis'ry in her chist.'" "Don't you do it," cried Miss Ri in alarm. "It might make her really ill, and then who would cook for us? Give it right back to me." She possessed herself of the bottle, trotted back to the dining-room where she emptied the contents into the slop-bowl, returning to the sitting-room with the empty bottle in her hand. "You can have the bottle," she said, "and the nice wooden box. I don't want to keep any reminder of my folly." "And you have sworn off?" Miss Ri laughed. "Not exactly. At least I've sworn off before, but I am always seized with the craze as soon as I see the advertisement in the paper. Once I was cheated out of a dollar by getting a box of decayed fruit, and another time I got a parcel of old clothes that I gave to Randy after making her boil them to get rid of any lingering microbes. This is the third time I have been bamboozled, but very likely next time I will draw a prize. Goodness, Verlinda, if here doesn't come Grace and her sister. Do you suppose they are off for the city to-night?" "I think it is very probable," returned Linda as she followed Miss Ri to the door. Even though she did not admire Grace Talbot, Miss Ri could not be anything but graciously hospitable, and was ready to greet the visitors heartily as they came up on the porch. "Well, Mrs. Talbot," she exclaimed, "come right in. This is your sister, isn't it? How are you, Miss Johnson. It is lucky you chose Saturday when Linda is at home. You'll stay to dinner, of course. Here, let me take those bags. Are you on your way to the city?" "Yes," returned Grace, "we're leaving for the winter. Howdy, Linda." She viewed her sister-in-law critically, finding her paler and thinner, but keeping the discovery to herself. Lauretta, however, spoke her thought. "I don't believe town agrees with you as well as country, Linda. You look a little peaked." "That comes from being shut up in a school-room," Miss Ri hastened to say; "it is trying work." "She will get used to it in time," Grace replied. "Why, there is Miss Sally Price about as sturdy and rosy as anyone I know, and she's been teaching twenty-five years. What lovely old tables you have, Miss Ri. They remind me of grandmother's, don't they you, Lauretta? Dear grandmother, she was such a very particular old dame and would have her mahogany and silver always shining. I remember how she would say to her butler, 'James, that service is not as bright as it should be.'" Grace's imitation of her various forbears always conveyed the idea that they were most haughty and severe personages who never spoke except with military peremptoriness. She was constantly referring to grandmother Johnson, or great-uncle Blair or someone utterly irrelevant to the topic of the moment, and as entirely uninteresting to her audience. "Did you leave everything all right at the farm?" asked Linda, hastening to change the subject. She knew that great-uncle Blair would be paraded next, if the slightest opportunity was allowed. "Everything is as it should be," returned Grace high-and-mightily. "You didn't suppose for an instant, Linda, that I would leave anything at loose ends. Of course, it has been most arduous work for Lauretta and I, but we have the satisfaction of knowing that we have not neglected anything. I am completely fagged out, and feel that a rest is essential." Miss Ri's eye travelled from Grace's plump proportions to Linda's slight figure. "Well," she said bluntly, "work evidently agrees with you, for I never saw you looking better." Grace bit her lip and searched her mind for a fitting retort but could only say piously, "One must bear up for the sake of others. The world cannot see behind the scenes, my dear Miss Hill, and that a smile may hide a breaking heart." "Come up and see my room," proposed Linda, anxious to prevent what promised to be a passage at arms between Miss Ri and Grace. "Come, Lauretta, I want you to see the view from my windows." And so she managed to get them away before there were any hurt feelings. After this matters passed off well enough, although great-uncle Blair was dragged in more than once at the dinner table, and grandmother Johnson's haughty attitude toward underlings was again reproduced for the benefit of all. Miss Ri chafed under the affectations, but was too polite to show it, though when the door at last closed upon her guests she turned to Linda. "I'm glad enough they are not your blood kin, Verlinda Talbot. I hope Heaven will give me patience always to behave with politeness when Grace Talbot is around. A daily dose of her would be too much for my Christian forbearance. I wonder you stood her so long, and what Martin was thinking of to be blinded by a superficial, shallow, underbred creature like that is beyond me." "Grace has her good points," said Linda with an effort to be loyal. "I think she was genuinely fond of Martin." "You mean she was fond of his fondness for her. There is a lot of difference, my dear. The idea of her trying to parade her ancestors before me. Why, old John Blair was the plainest of the plain, a decent, humble sort of man who accumulated a tidy little sum which his sister Eliza Johnson inherited; the Johnsons hadn't a picayune; I know all about them. I have heard my grandfather speak of John Blair and his sister a dozen times. They lived down in East Baltimore and he had a little carpenter shop. Grandfather used to tell a funny story of how Blair brought him in a bill in which he had spelled tacks, t-a-x. 'That isn't the way to spell tacks, John,' said grandfather. John scratched his head and looked at the bill. 'Well, Mr. Hill,' he said; 'if t-a-x don't spell tacks, what do it spell?' He was a good honest man enough, and afterward became a builder, but he never put on any airs, as why should he? You may talk a great deal about your grandfather, and make much display of your family silver, my dear, but if you don't speak correct English the ancestors don't count for much. Evidently Grace thinks solid silver is vastly more important than correct speech." "You certainly are put out of humor this time, Miss Ri." "Oh, such people exasperate me beyond words. 'Major Forbes sent tickets to Lauretta and I.' To I, forsooth. 'Mrs. General So-and-So invited Grace and I to tea.' Invited I, did she?" "It seems there is a necessity for a schoolmarm in the family," remarked Linda. "Yes, but the unfortunate part of it is that they haven't a ghost of an idea that they do need one. Well, let them go up to the city, to their Major Forbes and their Mrs. Generals, I say, and I hope to goodness Grace will marry her major and good luck to him." "Oh, Miss Ri." "I can't help it. Let me rave for awhile. I shall feel better afterward. Did you ever know such a talker as she is? She is as bad as Becky, and did you hear Lauretta? 'Poor dear Grace does so draw upon her vitality.' Oh, dear me, what fools we mortals be." "And you are the one who never gets mad with fools." "I don't, as a rule, but when a person is as many kinds of a fool as Grace is I can't grapple with all the varieties at one sitting. There now, I have finished my tirade. I won't abuse your in-laws any more. Let us hope they have passed out of our lives. Now let us talk about something pleasant. How do you like Mr. Jeffreys?" "Is he something pleasant? I really haven't had a chance to decide. We met in the dark and we didn't exchange a dozen words. Bertie likes him." Miss Ri sat looking out of the window, drumming on the arms of her chair with her strong capable fingers. "I wish I knew," she murmured; "I wish I knew. Has Berk been here?" she asked presently. "If you call his nocturnal prowlings visits, he has." "Oh, I don't mean those, but, of course, he wouldn't come. I must see him. I think I'd better call him up, although he is pretty sure to look in upon us this evening." After the strain consequent upon Grace's visit, Linda felt that even Miss Ri's cheerful chatter was more than she could stand, so she sought an opportune moment to escape to the lawn and from there to wander down the box-bordered walks to the foot of the garden. The chickens in Miss Parthy's premises on the other side of the fence, were discoursing in their accustomed manner before going to roost, making contented little sounds as someone threw them handfuls of grain. Once in a while would come a discordant "Caw! Caw!" as an over-greedy rooster would set upon one less aggressive. It all sounded very homelike and Linda wondered how matters were going with the familiar flocks she had left at home. Grace's coming, her talk of affairs at the farm had made a great wave of homesickness come over the girl as she approached the fence to look at Miss Parthy's chickens. These, she discovered, were being fed with careful hand by some other than Miss Parthy. A young man with crisp auburn hair, which was cropped close. He had a good figure, and rather a serious expression. His eyes, much the color of his hair, were turned quickly upon Linda as her face appeared above the fence. "Good-evening, Miss Talbot," he said. "Good-evening, Mr. Jeffreys," she returned. "How is it you are taking Miss Parthy's tasks upon yourself?" "Oh, I begged leave to do it. I like it. Don't you think chickens are very amusing? They are as different in character as people, and give me as much amusement as a crowd of human beings. Look at that ridiculous little hen; she reminds me of a girl scared by a mouse the way she jumps every time I throw down a handful of food." "Don't you think," said Linda mockingly, "that it is more reasonable to be afraid of creepy things like mice than to be frightened out of your wits by a paper bag?" "You have me there," returned the young man. "That was certainly one on us. I hope you have not been disturbed since." "Oh, no, and now my natural protector has returned, I shall feel perfectly safe. You know Miss Ri, I believe." "Oh, yes. She is a most interesting character. She doesn't run from mice, I fancy." "No, and neither do I." "Really? Then you are a rarity whom I am fortunate in meeting. I understand, Miss Talbot, that your home is some distance from this town." "My home was some distance, about seven miles away." "On Broad Creek? Do the Talbots come from that neighborhood?" "Yes, they are old settlers. We hold the original land grant from Lord Baltimore." "That is interesting. Did you ever happen to know of a Madison Talbot who lived--let me see--about 1812 or thereabouts?" "Why, yes. That was the name of my great-grandfather." "It was?" "Why do you ask?" inquired Linda curiously. "Oh, because I have heard the name. My grandfather has mentioned him. I believe he knew him, and coming down to this unexplored region, I am naturally reminded of anyone who might have been connected with what I have heard of it." "Unexplored? Do you mean by yourself?" "Well, yes, and by some others. I doubt if the majority of those one meets could locate this special town, for instance." "Anyone who knows anything must have heard of it," said Linda with innocent conviction. "Oh, I am not disparaging it. In some respects it is the nicest place I ever saw. Tell me something about your home there on Broad Creek." Linda's eyes grew wistful. "It is the dearest spot on earth. The house is old and low and queer, with rambling rooms that go up a step here, down one there. The water is always in sight, and through the trees you can see the old church; it is on our ground, you know, and there is an old windmill on the place. I should hate to have that old windmill taken away. I used to watch its long arms go around and around when I was a child, and I made up all sorts of tales about it." "How many acres are there?" Mr. Jeffreys asked the practical question suddenly. "About two or three hundred. There was another farm. It all belonged to the same estate originally, or at least there were two farms, and ours is the older. My brother brought it up wonderfully, and it is in very good condition now. My father was in ill health for years and when he died his affairs were in a sad state; the farm was not making anything till my brother took hold of it." "And it is yours?" Linda wondered at the question. She colored with both indignation and confusion. "It is my home," she replied with dignity, "and it is the dearest spot on earth to me." Having made this answer she turned from the fence and resumed her walk while Mr. Jeffreys gave one wide flourish with his pan of screenings and then walked thoughtfully back to the house where Miss Parthy waited supper. CHAPTER VII WAS IT CURIOSITY? "Don't talk to me about the curiosity of women," said Linda coming upon Miss Ri after her return walk. "The new importation at Miss Parthy's is certainly the most inquisitive person it has ever been my lot to meet. I was prepared to like him from what Bertie told me, but I never met a man who could ask such personal questions upon such short acquaintance." "Why, Linda, I never thought he could be called exactly rude. Perhaps he doesn't pay one those little courteous attentions that we are used to down here, though he is polite enough as I remember. Parthy and I have wondered whether he could be an adventurer, or whether he were a visionary sort of person or what, but we have come to the conclusion that he is neither." "I shouldn't be at all surprised if he were an adventurer and that he has come down here to hunt up some unsuspecting damsel with property of her own whom he could beguile into marrying him." "Why, my child, did he ask you to marry him?" "Oh, dear no, I hope not, since my first real conversation with him has just taken place, but he wanted to know all about Talbot's Angles, how much land there was and all that, and he wound up by inquiring if it belonged to me." "That does look somewhat suspicious, though it does not show much tact, if his object is really what you surmise. A real adventurer would make his inquiries of someone else. I wouldn't judge him too severely. He says he is looking up an old claim, you know, and it may lie near your place. I would wait and see what happens." "Tell me, Miss Ri, did he bring any sort of credentials with him?" "Yes, I think so, at least he gave Berk a business card and said he was well known by the insurance company by whom he had been employed in Hartford, and that he had friends there who could vouch for him, and he said he had a number of letters in his trunk." "Oh, says, says; it's easy enough to say. I don't believe he ever had a trunk, and I believe his story is made out of whole cloth." "Why, Verlinda, dear, I never knew you so bitter. Do give the lad a chance to prove himself." "I thought you didn't want me to know him. You know you said you weren't going to have him come when I was at home." "Oh, well, I didn't mean that exactly; I only wanted to provide against your flying off into a sentimental attitude, but now you have gone to the other extreme; I don't want that either. Parthy says there never was a more considerate man, and that he is not any trouble at all. Of course, he hasn't the little thoughtful ways that Berk has; he doesn't always stand with his hat off when he is talking to me in the street, and he doesn't rise to his feet every time I leave my chair, and stand till I am seated. He has allowed my handkerchief to lie till I chose to pick it up myself, and doesn't always spring to open the door for me; in those things he differs from Berk, but he is certainly quiet and dignified. There comes Berk now, Verlinda; I knew he'd be along about supper time." Berkley's broad shoulders were seen over the rows of chrysanthemums and scarlet salvia as he took a leisurely passage up the gravelled walk. He waved a hand in greeting. "I knew I wasn't too late because I saw you both from the street." "And of course you hurried before that?" questioned Miss Ri. "Yes, I always make it a point to hurry if there is a chance of being late to supper, but I never hurry when there is no need to. I don't wish to squander my vital energies, you see. What's for supper, Miss Ri?" "You haven't been invited to take it with us, yet." "I don't have to be. Once, many a year ago, you said, 'Berk, drop in whenever you feel like it,' and I have piously enshrined that saying upon the tablets of my memory. Once invited, always invited, you see, so I repeat my anxious query: what's for supper?" "I am sure I don't know. Linda did the ordering this morning for I wasn't here." "Tell me, Linda." Berkley had dropped formalities since the evening of song. Linda shook her head. "As if I could be expected to remember things that occurred this morning before breakfast; so many things have happened since then." "Things have happened in this blessed sleepy old place? That is news. I didn't know anything could happen in Sandbridge." "Oh, they might not be important to you, but they are to me." "Then, of course, they are important to me." "A very nice speech, sir. Well, in the first place, Miss Ri has returned, as you see. Then Grace and Lauretta were here and have just departed for the city." "For good?" "Let us hope it is for good only," put in Miss Ri. "Sh! Sh!" warned Linda. "That wasn't pretty, Miss Ri. Then I have been talking over the fence to your friend, Mr. Jeffreys, and he has aroused my antagonism to a degree." "He has?" Berkley looked surprised. "I don't see why or how he could do that." "Wait till she tells you, Berk," Miss Ri spoke up. "I am going in to tell Phebe to set another place at table. If I am to have guests thrust upon me whether I invite them or not, I must be decent enough to see that they have plates to eat from." She left the two to saunter on to the house while she entered the path which led to the kitchen. Linda recounted her tale to which Berk listened attentively. "What do you think of a man who would put such questions to a perfect stranger?" queried Linda. Berkley knit his brows. "Looks like one of two things; either unqualified curiosity or a deeper purpose, that of finding out all about the farm on account of personal interest in it." "But what nonsense. You don't mean he thinks _that's_ the place to which he lays claim? Why, we've held the grant for hundreds of years." "We don't know what he thinks; I am not saying what are the facts; I am only trying to account for his interest." "Miss Ri thought he might be interested because his claim may perhaps touch our property somewhere, and that there may be some question of the dividing line." "That could very well be. At all events, I don't believe it was idle curiosity. I'll sound him a little if I can, but he is a reticent sort of fellow, and as dumb as an oyster about that matter, though there is really no use in his talking till he gets his papers, which, poor fellow, it's mighty unlikely he'll ever find." "I'd hate a prying neighbor," remarked Linda. "You're not liable to have one from present indications. If I had time I'd really like to look into some of the old titles, and see just how the property in the vicinity of Talbot's Angles has come down to the present owners. I know about a good many, as it is. Your brother sold off Talbot's Addition, didn't he?" "Yes. You know my father had mortgaged it up to the hilt, and then Mart sold it in order to get rid of the interest and to have something to put into the home place. He thought he would rather hold one unencumbered place and have some money to improve it than to struggle along with two places." "Good judgment, too. If I am not mistaken there was still more property belonging to the Talbot family originally. Wasn't Timber Neck theirs at one time?" "I believe so, though it was so long ago that I don't remember hearing much about it." "I see. Well, here we are, and I think there must be crab cakes from the odor." "So there are; I remember now. I knew Miss Ri was fond of them and no one can make them as well as Phebe." The supper set forth on the big round table displayed the crab cakes, brown and toothsome, the inevitable beaten biscuits on one side, and what Phebe called "a pone of bread" on the other. There were, too, some thin slices of cold ham, fried potatoes and a salad, while the side table held some delectable cakes, and a creamy dessert in the preparation of which Phebe was famous. No one had ever been able to get her exact recipe, for "A little pinch" of this, "a sprinkling" of that, and "what I thinks is right" of the other was too indefinite for most housekeepers. Many had, indeed, ventured after hearing the ingredients but all had failed. "This is a supper fit for a king," said Berkley, sitting down after a satisfied survey of the table. "You might have just such every day," returned Miss Ri. "Please to tell me how. Do you mean I could induce Phebe to accept the place of head cook at the hotel?" "Heaven forbid. No, bat, of course not." "Why bat?" "You are so blind, just like most conceited young men who might have homes of their own if they chose." "Please, Miss Ri, don't be severe. You haven't the right idea at all. Don't you know it is my lack of conceit which prevents my harboring the belief that I could induce anyone to help me to make a home?" "I don't know anything of the kind. I know it is your selfish love of ease and your desire to shirk responsibility." "Listen to her, Linda. She will drive me to asking the first girl I meet if she will marry me. You might do it, by the way, and then we might take our revenge by luring Phebe away from her. Of course, Phebe would follow you. I wonder I never thought of that before." "You are a flippant, senseless trifler," cried Miss Ri with more heat than would appear necessary. "I won't have you talking so of serious subjects." "So it is a serious subject to your mind?" Berkley laughed gleefully. But Miss Ri maintained a dignified silence during which Berkley made little asides to Linda till finally Miss Ri said placidly, "I told Linda not long ago that I never got mad with fools, and," she added with a gleam of fun in her eyes, "I'm not going to begin to do it now." "You have the best of me as usual, Miss Ri," laughed Berkley, "although I might get back at you, if one good turn deserves another. By the way, Linda, did you ever hear the way old Aaron Hopkins interprets that?" "No, I believe not." "Someone sent him a barrel of apples last year, and he told me the other day that he expected the same person would send another this year. 'He sent 'em last year,' said the old fellow, 'and you know 'one good turn deserves another.' He is a rare old bird, is Aaron." "He certainly is," returned Linda. "I think it is too funny that he named his boat the _Mary haha_. He told me he thought that _Minnehaha_ was a nice name for young folks to use, 'but for an old fellow like me it ain't dignified,' he said." "Tell Berk what he said to your brother when he came back from college," urged Miss Ri. "Oh, yes, that was funny, too. You know Mart had been away for three years, and he met old Aaron down by the creek one day. I doubt if Aaron has ever been further than Sandbridge in his life. He greeted Mart like one long lost. 'Well, well,' he said, 'so you've got back. Been away a right smart of a time, haven't you?' 'Three years,' Mart told him. 'Where ye been?' 'To New Jersey.' 'That's right fur, ain't it?' 'Some distance.' 'Beyand Pennsylvany, I reckon. Well, well, how on airth could you stand it?' 'Why, it's a pretty good place, why shouldn't I stand it, Aaron?' said Mart. 'But it's so durned fur from the creek,' replied Aaron." "Pretty good," cried Berkley. "A true Eastern shoreman is Aaron, wants nothing better than his boat and the creek. Good for him." They lingered at table talking of this and that till presently there came a ring at the door. Phebe lumbered out to open. She was unsurpassed as a cook, but only her extreme politeness excused the awkwardness of her manner as waitress. "It's dat Mr. Jeffs," she said in a stage whisper when she returned. "He ask fo' de ladies." "Then you will have to come, Linda," said Miss Ri, "and you, too, Berk." "Of course, I'll come," replied the young man. "You don't imagine I am going to stay here by myself while you two make eyes at an interloper." And he followed the two to the drawing-room into which Phebe had ushered the visitor. The young man sitting there arose and came forward, and after shaking hands with Miss Ri he said, "I believe you have not formally presented me to your niece, Miss Hill, though I was so unceremonious as to talk to her over the fence this evening." "You mean Linda. She is not my niece; I wish she were. How would it do for me to adopt you as one, Verlinda? I'd love to have you call me Aunt Ri." "Then I'll do it," returned the girl with enthusiasm. "Then, Mr. Jeffreys, allow me to present you to my adopted niece, Miss Verlinda Talbot, and beware how you talk to her over the fence. I am a very fierce duenna." The young man smiled a little deprecatingly, not quite understanding whether this was meant seriously or not, and wondering if he were being censured for his lack of ceremony. "I presented Mr. Jeffreys quite properly myself," spoke up Berkley. "To be sure, it was in the dark and he wasn't within gun-shot. I haven't recovered from my scare yet, have you, Jeffreys? Next time you go to town, Miss Ri, I am going with you, for I don't mean to be left behind to the tender mercies of anyone as bloodthirsty as Linda." They all laughed, and the visitor looked at the two young people interestedly. Evidently they were on excellent terms. He wondered if by any chance an engagement existed between them, but when later Bertie Bryan came in, and he saw that Berk treated her with the same air of good comradeship, he concluded that it was simply the informality of old acquaintance, though he wondered a little at it. In his part of the country not even the excuse of lifelong association could set a young man so at his ease with one of the opposite sex, and he was quite sure that he could not play openly at making love to two girls at once. However, they spent a merry time, Linda, under the genial influence of her friends, was livelier than usual, and however much she may have resented Mr. Jeffreys' inquisitiveness earlier in the day, on further acquaintance she lost sight of anything but his charm of manner and his art of making himself agreeable. After the young men had seen Bertie to her home, they walked down the shadowy street together. "Haven't heard anything of those papers yet, I suppose," Berkley said to his companion. "Nothing at all." "Too bad. Are you going to give it up?" "Not quite yet. I thought I'd allow myself six months. I have a bit of an income which comes in regularly, and one doesn't have to spend much in a place like this. Once my papers are found, I think my chances are good." Then abruptly, "You've known Miss Talbot a long time, I suppose, Matthews." "Nearly all my life. At least we were youngsters together; but I was at college for some years, and I didn't see her between whiles. She was grown up when I came back." "Then you probably know all about her home, Talbot's Angles, do they call it?" "Yes, certainly. Everyone about here knows it, for it is one of the few places that has remained in the family since its first occupation." Then suddenly, "Good heavens, man, you don't mean that's the place you are thinking to claim? I can tell you it's not worth your while. The Talbots have the original land grant and always have had it, and--why, it's an impossibility." His companion was silent for a moment. "You know, I am not talking yet. If I find the papers are lost irrevocably, I shall go away with only a very pleasant memory of the kindness and hospitality of Sandbridge." Berkley in turn was silenced, but after parting from his companion at Miss Parthy's door, he went down the street saying to himself, "I'll search that title the very first chance I get. I am as sure as anyone could be that it is all right. Let me see, Miss Ri would know about the forbears; I'll ask her." He stopped under a street lamp and looked at his watch. "It isn't so very late, and she is a regular owl. I'll try it." Instead of continuing his way to the hotel, he turned the corner which led to Miss Ri's home. Stopping at the gate, he peered in. Yes, there was a light in the sitting-room, and from some unseen window above was reflected a beam upon the surface of the gently-flowing river. "She is up and Linda has gone to her room," he told himself. "Just as I thought." He stepped quickly inside the ground and went toward the house. One window of the sitting-room was partly open, for the night was mild. He could see Miss Ri sitting by her lamp, a book in her hand. "Miss Ri," he called softly. She came to the window. "Of all prowling tomcats," she began. "What are you back here for?" "I forgot something. May I come in?" "Linda has gone to bed." "I didn't come to see Linda." "Oh, you didn't. Well, I'll let you in, but you ought to know better than to come sneaking around a body's garden at this time of night." "You see, I've gotten into the habit of it," Berkley told her. "I've done it for two nights running and I can't sleep till I've made the rounds." "Silly!" exclaimed Miss Ri. But she came around to open the door for him. "Now, what is it you want?" she asked. "I've no midnight suppers secreted anywhere." "Is thy servant a dog, that he comes merely to be fed?" "I've had my suspicions at times," returned Miss Ri. "Come in, but don't talk loud, so as to waken Linda; the child needs all the sleep she can get. Now, go on; tell me what you want." "I want you to tell me exactly who Linda's forbears were; that is, on the Talbot side. Her father was James, I know." "Yes, and his father was Martin. He had a brother, but he died early; there were only the two sons, but there was a daughter, I believe." "And their father was?" "Let me see--Monroe? No, Madison; that's it, Madison Talbot, and his father was James again. I can't give you the collaterals so far back." "Humph! Well, I reckon that will do." "What in the world are you up to? Are you making a family tree for Linda?" "No; but I have some curiosity upon the subject of old titles, and as it may come in my way, I thought I would look up Talbot's Angles." "There's no use in doing that. Linda has the original land grant in her possession. Poor child, she clings to that, and I am glad she can. I wish to goodness you'd marry Grace, Berk Matthews, so Verlinda could get her rights." "I'd do a good deal for a pretty girl, but I couldn't bring myself up to the scratch of marrying Grace Talbot. Now, if it were Linda herself, that might be a different matter." "You'd get a treasure," avowed Miss Ri, shaking her head wisely. "She doesn't have to air her family silver in order to make people forget her mistakes in English." "True, O wisest of women." "There's another way out of it, Berk; the place reverts to Verlinda in the event of Grace's death." "Do you mean I shall poison her or use a dagger, Lady Macbeth?" "You great goose, of course I don't mean either such horrible thing. I was only letting my thoughts run on the possibilities of the case. I'm not quite so degenerate as to wish for anyone's death, but I haven't found out yet why you were looking into the family procession of names." "Oh, just a mere matter of legal curiosity, as I said. I come across them once in a while, and I wanted to get them straight in my mind. James, son of Martin, son of Madison, son of James; that's it, isn't it?" He checked them off on his fingers. "That's it." "Well, good-night, Miss Ri. I won't keep you any longer from that fascinating book at which you've been casting stealthy glances ever since I came in. Don't get up; I can let myself out." Miss Ri did not immediately return to the book. "Now, what is he driving at?" she said to herself. "It's all poppycock about his interest in the names because he wants to get them straight in his mind. He's not so interested in Verlinda as all that, worse luck. I wish he were." She gave a little sigh and, adjusting her glasses, returned to the page before her. CHAPTER VIII A DISCLOSURE "The old horse is neighing again," said Miss Ri, whimsically, one morning a little later. "I must go to town, Verlinda." The girl looked up from some papers over which she was working. The two were sitting at the big table before an open fire, for it had suddenly turned colder. The room was very cosey, with warm touches of color found in the table-cover of red, in the yellow chrysanthemums by the window, and in the deep tones of the furniture. Linda looked frailer and thinner than when her life at the farm admitted of more open-air employment and less indoor. She did her work conscientiously, even thankfully, but hardly lovingly, and in consequence it was a constant strain upon her vitality. "What were you saying, Aunt Ri?" she asked, her thoughts vaguely lingering with her work, while yet she was conscious of Miss Ri's remark. "I said the old horse was neighing again. There is another sale this week, a different express company this time, and I feel the call of the unknown. I think I'll go up by train, and then you will be alone but one night. Bertie enjoyed herself so much last time, that I am sure she will like to come again, if you want her. Bertie is a nice child, not an overstock of brains in some directions, but plenty of hard sense in others." "Do you suppose it will be cough medicine this time?" asked Linda, making little spirals on the edge of her paper with her pencil. "Heaven forfend! No, I'm going to bid on the biggest thing there, if it be a hogshead. I saw one man get a stuffed double-headed calf, and another the parts of some machine whose other belonging had evidently gone elsewhere. I shall try to avoid such things. I wish you could go with me, Verlinda; it is such fun." Miss Ri's eyes twinkled, as her hands busied themselves with some knitting she had taken up. "I'd like to go," admitted Linda wistfully, "but it isn't a holiday, and I mustn't play truant. Good luck to you, Aunt Ri." She returned to her work, while Miss Ri knitted on for a while. "Shall you be working long?" asked the latter presently. "I must make such an early start, that I think I'll go up, if you will put out the lights and see to the fire." "I have considerably more to do," Linda answered, turning over her papers. "I'll put out the lights, Aunt Ri." "Don't sit up too late," charged the other, stuffing her knitting into a gay, flowery bag. "Good-night, child. I'll be off before you are up. Just order anything you like, and don't bother about anything." She dropped a kiss upon the shining dark hair, and went her way, stopping to try the front door. For half an hour Linda worked steadily, then she stacked her papers with a sigh, arose and drew a chair before the fire, whose charred logs were burning dully. She gave a poke to the smouldering ends, which sent up a spurt of sparks and caused the flame to burn brightly. With chin in hands, the girl sat for some time gazing into the fire which, after this final effort, was fast reducing itself to gray ashes and red embers. The old clock in the hall struck eleven slowly and solemnly. Miss Ri's quick tread on the floor above had ceased long before. The tick-tock of the clock and the crackle of the consuming wood were the only sounds. Linda returned to the table, picked up a bit of paper and began to write, at first rapidly, then with pauses for thought, frequent re-readings and many erasures. She occupied herself thus till the clock again struck deliberately but insistently. Linda lifted her head and counted. "Midnight," she exclaimed, "and I am still up. I wonder if it is worth it." She stopped to read once more the page she had finally written, then, tucking the paper into her blouse, she gathered up the rest, found a candle in one of the dignified old candlesticks, put out the lamp and tip-toed to her room. The sun was shining brightly on the river when she awakened next morning. Miss Ri had gone long before. Linda had been dimly conscious of her stirring about, but had slept on, realizing vaguely that it was early. Her first movement was to sit up in bed, abstract a paper from under her pillow, and read it over. "I wondered how it would sound by daylight," she said to herself. "I think it isn't so bad, and it was such a joy to do it after those stupid papers. I wonder, I wonder if it is worth while." She tucked the paper away in her desk, feeling more blithe and content than for many a day. How blue the river was, how picturesque the tall-masted ships, how good the tang of the autumn air, laden with the odor of leaf-wine. Even the turkey-buzzards, sailing over the chimney-tops, gave individuality to the scene. It was a beautiful world, even though she must be shut up in a school-room all day with a parcel of restless urchins. She went down-stairs humming a tune, to the delight of Phebe, who waited below. "Dat soun' lak ole times, honey chile," she said. "I ain't hyar dem little hummy tunes dis long while. I always use say to mahse'f, 'Dar come mah honey chile. I knows her by dat little song o' hers, same as I knows de bees by dere hummin' an' de robin by he whistle.' Come along, chile, fo' yo' breakfus spile." She bustled back to the kitchen, and Linda entered the dining-room, warm from the fire in the wood stove and cheery by reason of the scarlet flowers with which Phebe had adorned the table. There was an odor of freshly-baked bread, of bacon, of coffee. "I believe I'm hungry," said Linda. Phebe's face beamed. "Dat soun' lak sumpin," she declared. "Jes' wait till I fetches in dem hot rolls. Dey pipin' hot right out o' de oben. I say hongry," she murmured to herself, as she went clumsily on her errand. The day went well enough. On her way home from school, Linda stopped to ask Bertie to spend the night with her. But Bertie was off to a birthday dance in the country, which meant she would not be back till the next morning. She was "so sorry." If she had "only known," and all that. "But, of course, you can get someone else," she concluded by saying. "Oh, I don't mind staying alone, if it comes to that," Linda told her. "You stay too much alone, Linda." "And I, who am surrounded all day by such a regiment of boys." "Oh, they don't count; I mean girls of your own age. How are you getting along, Linda, by the way?" "Oh, well enough," responded Linda doubtfully. "The more successful I am, the more it takes it out of me, however, and I am afraid I shall really never love teaching. Even though you may succeed in an undertaking, if you don't really love it, you tire more easily than if you did something much harder, but which you really loved." "I suppose that may be true. Well, Linda, I hope you will not always be a teacher." "I hope not," responded Linda frankly. "I wish you would come over oftener, and would go around more with the girls. They would all love to have you." Linda shook her head gravely. "That is very nice for you to say, but I couldn't do it--yet." "Well, be sure you don't stay by yourself to-night," Bertie charged her. Linda promised, and started off to fulfil the intention. Miss Parthy, from her porch, called to her as she went by. "When's Ri coming back?" she asked, over the heads of her three dogs, who occupied the porch with her. "Not till to-morrow morning." "You'd better come over here and sleep," Miss Parthy advised her. "I have an extra room, you know." "And leave dear old Mammy to her lonesome? No, I think I'd better not, Miss Parthy; thank you. I'll get someone to stay." "You can have one of the dogs," offered Miss Parthy quite seriously. "They are better than any watchman." Linda thanked her, but the thought of Brownie's tail thumping on the floor outside her door, or of Pickett's sharp bark, or Flora's plaintive whine, decided her. "I think I'd rather have a human girl, thank you, Miss Parthy, and even if I find no one, it will be all right; I have stayed with only Mammy in the house dozens of times." She continued her way, stopping at the house of this or that friend, but all were bound for the birthday party, and after two or three attempts she gave it up. Rather than put any more of the good-hearted girls to the pain of refusing, she would stay alone. More than one had offered to give up the dance, and this she could not allow another to propose. After all, it would not be bad, though Mammy should drop to sleep early, for there would be the cheerful fire and another bit of paper to cover with the lines which had been haunting her all day. She turned toward home again, with thoughtful tread, traversing the long street between rows of flaming maples or golden gum trees, whose offerings of scarlet and yellow fluttered to her feet at every step. There was the first hint of winter in the air, but the grass was green in the gardens and in the still unfrosted vines birds chattered and scolded, disputing right of way. At the corner she met Mr. Jeffreys, who joined her. "Bound for a walk?" he asked. "May I go with you?" As a girl will, who does not despise the society of a companionable man, she tacitly accepted his escort, and they went on down the street toward the river, where the red and yellow of trees appeared to have drifted to the sky, to be reflected in the waters below. "Miss Talbot," said the young man, when they had wandered to where houses were few and scattered, "I have a confession to make." Linda looked at him in surprise. He was rather a reticent person, though courteous and not altogether diffident. "To me?" she exclaimed. "To you first, because--well, I will tell you that I, too, can claim kinship with the Talbot family. My great-grandfather and yours were brothers. Did you ever hear of Lovina Talbot?" "Why, yes. Let me see; what have I heard? It will come back to me after a while. That branch of the Talbots left here years ago." "Yes, just after the War of 1812. My great-grandfather, Cyrus, went to Western Pennsylvania. His only daughter, Lovina, was my grandmother. She married against his wishes, and then he married a second time--a Scotch-Irish girl of his neighborhood--and the families seem to have known little of one another after that. My father, Charles Jeffreys, was Lovina's son. He settled in Hartford, Connecticut. And now you have my pedigree." "Why, then we are really blood relations. No wonder you were interested in the old Talbot place. Why--" she paused, hesitated, flushed up--"then it must be some of the Talbot property you are looking up." "That is it; but I don't exactly know which it is, and without proof I can make no claim, as I have often said." Linda ran over in her mind the various pieces of property which she was aware of having belonged to the original grants. "There was a good deal of it," she said. "Some of it was sold before my father's time, and he parted with more, so now all we have is the old homestead farm. I should like to know," she continued musingly, "which place you think it really is. I suppose it must be Timber Neck, for that was the first which passed out of our hands." "I cannot tell, for I don't know exactly." "Why didn't you make yourself known before? Didn't you know it would have made a difference to me--to us all, if you belonged, even remotely, to one of the old families?" "Yes, I did, I suppose; but for that very reason I was slow to confess it. I came here under rather awkward circumstances. For a time I was in a position to be looked upon with suspicion, to be considered a mere adventurer. I may be yet," he continued, with a smile and a side glance at the girl, "even if I do pay my board bills and my laundress." "Oh, we don't think that of you; we are quite sure you are genuine," Linda hastened to assure him. "You have only my word. You don't know who my father was." "You just told me he was Charles Jeffreys." "Yes, but--" He did not finish the sentence. "I thought it was due you to know something of myself and my errand." "I am glad to know it." "Thank you. That is very good of you. Do you mind if I ask that you do not repeat what I have been telling you?" "Not even to Miss Ri?" Mr. Jeffreys considered the question. "I think Miss Hill should certainly know, for she was my first friend; and Mr. Matthews, too, perhaps. I will tell them and ask them to respect my secret for the present. When I can come among you as one who has a right to claim ancestry with one of your Eastern Shore families, that will be a different thing." [Illustration: "BUT YOU MUST NOT CALL ME COUSIN," SAID LINDA.] Linda would like to have asked for more of his personal history and, as if reading her thought, he went on: "I have not had a wildly-adventurous life; it has been respectably commonplace. I had a fair education, partly in Europe; but I am not college-bred. My father was a gentleman, but not over-successful in business. He left only a life insurance for my mother, enough for her needs, if used with care. My mother died two years ago, and I have neither brother nor sister." Linda's sympathy went out. "Neither have I brother nor sister," she returned softly. "I can understand just how lonely you must be. But you know you have discovered a cousin, and you may consider it a real relationship." The young man cast her a grateful look. "That makes me feel much less of an alien. I am afraid an outsider would not meet with such graciousness up our way." "But you must not call me cousin," said Linda, "or we shall have your secret public property, and that will never do." Her sweet eyes were very tenderly bright, and the gentle curve of her lips suggested a smile. "She is much prettier than I thought," the young man told himself. "She has always looked so pale and unresponsive, I thought she lacked animation; but when one sees--I beg your pardon," he was roused by Linda's speaking. "Oh, yes; it is getting on to supper time, I am afraid. Perhaps we'd better turn back." They returned by the river walk, parting at Miss Ri's gate. "Good-night, cousin," said Linda, "and good luck to you." The walk had stirred her blood, the talk had roused a new and romantic interest in her companion, and the same song which Phebe had heard in the morning was on her lips as she entered the house. Phebe was on the watch for her. "Ain't nobody comin' to eat suppah with yuh?" she inquired. "No; the girls are all off to a dance in the country. I don't need anyone, Mammy. You and I have been alone many a time before this, and it will seem like old times." Mammy looked at her critically. "Yuh sholy is beginnin' to git some roses in yo' cheeks," she said. "Whar yuh been?" "Just around town a little, and then I took a walk by the river." "By yose'f? Who dat come to de gate wi' yuh?" "You prying old Mammy. I believe you could see even around the corner. That was Mr. Jeffreys." "Dat bo'ds wi' Miss Parthy an' feeds de chickens?" "That is the one." "Humph!" Mammy's tones expressed contempt. Who was he to be gallanting her young lady around town? But she knew better than to follow up her expressive ejaculation with any spoken comment, and went in without another word. It was a quiet, cosey evening that Linda spent. It being Friday, there were no lessons to be considered for the morrow, and so she smiled over her own scribbling or smiled into the fire when pleasant thoughts possessed her. At the end of the evening, there was a carefully-copied contribution, which was ready to go to a weekly paper; but so precious was it, that it must not be trusted to remain on the sitting-room table, but must be carried upstairs until, with her own hand, she could take it to the postoffice. As she went to her window to draw down the shades, a handful of pebbles clicked against the pane. She raised the sash and looked out. "I'm making the rounds," said a voice from below. "Good-night." And through the dimness she saw Wyatt Jeffreys' tall figure tramping around the corner of the house. "That is nice of him," she said to herself. "Poor fellow, I hope he does recognize that I don't mean to be offish. I am sure he is proving his own cousinly consideration." CHAPTER IX THE LETTERS ON THE TRUNK Miss Ri arrived betimes that Saturday morning. She was in high glee and declared she had made the luckiest bid yet, for her "old horse" proved to be a box of books. "Not bad ones, either," she declared, "and those I have duplicates of, I can give away at Christmas. The box was certainly well worth the two dollars I paid for it." "New books, are they?" Linda inquired. "Quite new, and it looks as if they had been selected for someone's library. We'll have a good time looking them over when they get here. Here's something else for your consideration, Linda: Berk Matthews went with me. He is the greatest one to tease. I met him on the street and couldn't get rid of him. I didn't want him to go to the sale, but the more I tried to shake him off, the more determined he was to stay with me, and finally I had to let him go along. Well, he became interested, too. Oh, I have a joke on him. He bought a trunk." "A trunk?" "Yes, a nice little compact trunk, which he says will be just the thing for him to take when he goes off with Judge Baker. It has the letters J. S. D. on it, which Berk declares mean 'Judge Some Day,' and he doesn't mean to change them. He is a nonsensical creature." "What is in the trunk?" "Oh, he hadn't opened it; for, of course, he had no key. He was in a hurry to see his mother and sister, and didn't want to bother with the trunk then. He is going to stay over till Sunday. That is a good son, Verlinda. I wish you could see the beautiful little desk he bought for his mother's birthday. I went with him to pick it out. It is on account of the birthday that he went up to the city. I am firmly convinced that he will not marry until he can give his mother just as much as he gives his wife." "That would be expecting a little too much, wouldn't it?" "Not from Berk's present point of view. Nothing is too good for that mother of his, and when Margaret was married, well, no girl in town could have had a better outfit. I don't believe Berk has had even a new necktie since." "Then I'll crochet him one for a Christmas gift," said Linda smiling. "What color would you suggest?" "A dull blue would be becoming to his style of beauty." "Not much beauty there." "Not exactly beauty, maybe, but Berk looks every inch a man." "And not any superfluous inches, unless you measure his shoulders and take him in square measure." "Well, Verlinda, you must admit he has a fine, honest face." "So has Brownie, Miss Parthy's setter." "That is just like a foolish girl. I'll venture to say you think Mr. Jeffreys much better looking." "Far handsomer. By the way--no, I'll not tell you; I'll let him do that." "You rouse my curiosity. Tell me." "I don't need to, for here comes the young man himself." Mr. Jeffreys was seen coming up between the borders of box which led from Miss Parthy's back fence to Miss Ri's back door. He skirted the chrysanthemum beds, and came around to the front door, Miss Ri watching him the while. "Berk would have bolted in through the kitchen," she commented. "I don't suppose anything would induce Mr. Jeffreys to be seen coming in the back door. I am surprised that he did as much as to come in through the garden." She went to the door to meet him. Conscious of his lack of ceremony, Mr. Jeffreys began to apologize at once. "I hope you will pardon my taking the short cut, Miss Hill; but I promised Miss Turner that I would deliver this note into your hands before the ink had time to dry." "I should be much less inclined to forgive you, if you had taken the long way around," replied Miss Ri. "Come in, Mr. Jeffreys, and let us see what this weighty matter is." He followed her into the sitting-room, where Linda was watering some house-plants lately brought in. "Here, Verlinda, you entertain Mr. Jeffreys while I answer this note," said Miss Ri. "It's about a church meeting, and Parthy thinks I don't know, or haven't made up my mind to go, or something. I shall have to relieve her mind." Mr. Jeffreys drew near to Linda at the window. "I hope you slept without fear of robbers," he said. She looked up smiling. "Oh, yes. I felt very safe after your examination of bolts and bars." She went on with her task, nipping off a dead leaf here, straightening a bent twig there. "They don't look very well, yet," she said. "It takes plants some time to become used to a change of habitation." "Like some people," he returned. She gave him an understanding nod. "Yes, but just as surely they will thrive under proper treatment." Miss Ri left her desk and came toward them. "I'm not going to ask you to deliver this, Mr. Jeffreys, for I want to send Parthy a lemon pie that Phebe has just baked, and I'd never trust a man to carry a lemon pie. Just sit down and I'll be back in a moment." "Are you going to tell her?" asked Linda, when the door had closed after Miss Ri. "Maybe. It will depend. I won't force the information." "Get her to tell you about her trip to town; she is so funny about it." "Miss Hill, you are to tell me about your trip to town," began Mr. Jeffreys when Miss Ri returned. "I shall not do it," she declared. "What do you mean, Verlinda Talbot, by trying to get me to tell my secrets?" "Maybe if you do, Mr. Jeffreys will tell you one of his." "In that case, we must make a compact. Can you keep a secret, Mr. Jeffreys?" "I have kept my own, so far." "But another's is quite a different matter." "I will keep yours, if you will keep mine." "Then it is a bargain. Well, then, I have a fad for buying 'old horse.' You don't know what 'old horse' is? It's the stuff the express companies collect in the course of some months. If persons refuse to pay expressage, if the address is wrong, if it has been torn off, you see how it would be, they have a sale, an auction. I enjoy the fun of buying 'a pig in a poke.' Sometimes it turns out a nice fat pig and sometimes it doesn't." "And this time?" "It was a nice fat one. I became the possessor of a box of really good and desirable books. Perhaps I shouldn't be so ready to tell, if Berk Matthews hadn't been along; but I'm quite sure he will think it too good a story on me not to tell it. But I have one on him, too. He bid for a trunk, and it was knocked down to him." "A trunk? You know I am interested in stray trunks. If mine had been sent by express, I'd be very keen about it." "How was yours sent?" "A local expressman was to take it to the steamer and I was unable to identify him when the trunk didn't turn up. I had his claim check, but that was in the pocket-book of which I was robbed--so you see--There was a tag on the trunk, but that might have been torn off. Well, let's hear about Mr. Matthew's trunk. It's rather interesting, this, and may give me a clue to mine." "My dear young man, I fear a dishonest driver is what is wrong in your direction, or your trunk may have been stolen from the wagon, or have fallen off. However, that is an old subject, isn't it? Mr. Matthews' is a neat little steamer trunk, of rather an old fashion. Of course, he has no key, and had no time to get a locksmith, so we don't know the contents." "Mine was a small steamer trunk, not of a new fashion. It had been my mother's; but, being small and in good condition, I used it for myself, old as it was. It had her initials on it, for she had it before she was married." Miss Ri leaned forward and asked earnestly: "What were they?" "J. S. D. Julia Somers Darby was her maiden name." Miss Ri looked at him excitedly. "J. S. D.? My dear man, those are the very initials on Berk's trunk." It was Mr. Jeffreys' turn to look agitated. "Miss Hill, are you sure? Do you think--?" he began. "Miss Hill, could it be possible that it is my trunk? Will you tell me all the details? Where is this place that you found it? Perhaps, though, I'd best see Matthews." "But he has not yet come back." "True; I had forgotten that." "I can tell you where the place is," continued Miss Ri, "if it will do any good," and she proceeded to describe the locality, Mr. Jeffreys listening intently. "It is well worth looking into," he decided. "I don't suppose there is any chance of my catching Mr. Matthews in town before he leaves?" "There is no boat up to-night, you know." "That is so. I did not remember that this was Saturday." "Moreover, if you were to take the train, very likely he would have left by the time you could reach the city. Better possess your soul in patience, Mr. Jeffreys, and wait till he gets back." "I have been patient for some time," he responded quietly. "To be sure, you have; so that twenty-four hours longer will not seem impossible. It certainly is a curious coincidence, though doubtless there are other steamer trunks bearing the initials J. S. D." "Yes, I admit that; and how mine could have found its way to the express office is another puzzle." "I shouldn't bother much about the how, if you discover that it really did reach there." There was a pause for a moment, then Linda said: "You haven't told Aunt Ri your secret yet, cousin." Miss Ri wheeled around in her chair. "Cousin! What are you talking about, Verlinda Talbot?" "Our great-grandfathers were brothers, Miss Hill," said Mr. Jeffreys. "It doesn't give a very near relationship, I admit, but there it is and we are of the same blood." "Well, I am astonished. Tell me all about it, right away. Your great-grandfather on the Talbot side, is it, Verlinda? Yours was Madison, and who was yours, Mr. Jeffreys?" "Cyrus, whose daughter Lovina married Wyatt Jeffreys, after whom I am named. My grandfather that was, you see." "And that is why the name always sounded so familiar," exclaimed Linda. "I am sure I have heard my grandmother speak of him, for you see, Lovina would be her husband's first cousin. Go on, please, Mr. Jeffreys." "Very well. After the War of 1812, Cyrus Talbot removed to Western Pennsylvania. I believe his house was burned during that war, and he, like many others, was seized with the spirit of emigration to the West." "The old house at Talbot's Addition was burned, you remember," cried Linda, turning to Miss Ri, "though I don't know just when." She turned again to Mr. Jeffreys. "Lovina married a young Englishman," he continued. "In those days the feeling was very bitter against the English, and her father refused to see her; but after his death an old box of papers came into her possession, and they were found to be his. He had married a second time, but there were no children by this marriage. By his will, Cyrus Talbot left most of his property in Western Pennsylvania to his wife, but a clause of the will read: 'The remainder of my property to my daughter Lovina.' A little farm in that part of the country to which he emigrated was supposed to be all that came to Lovina, but the old papers show, we believe, that he still had a claim to estates here in Maryland. Lovina went to England after her marriage, and the papers were left with some of the neighbors, though she seems to have had possession of them afterward, for there was a memorandum giving the name and address of the persons in whose care it was eventually left. This memorandum my father found after her death, and when he came to this country later on, he hunted up the box and told me several times that there might be something in those papers if one had time or would take the trouble to look them over. He settled in Hartford and died there. My father left a life insurance which was sufficient for my mother's needs and which has descended to me now that she is gone. I have not studied a profession, but had a clerkship, which seemed to promise little future, and after thinking over the situation, I determined to make a break, come down here and see if there were really anything to be done about that property." He concluded his story. Miss Ri sat drumming on the arms of her chair, as was her habit when thinking deeply. Linda, no less preoccupied, sat with eyes fixed upon the plants in the window. It was she who broke the silence. "It must be Talbot's Addition," she decided; "but, oh, what a snarl for the lawyers." "It certainly will be," agreed Miss Ri, with a little laugh. "My dear man, I am thinking the game will not be worth the candle. However, we shall see. If Berk takes up your case, you may be sure of honest dealing, at least. He little knows what his purchase has brought about." Yet it was not at the end of twenty-four hours that Wyatt Jeffreys received the assurance he hoped for, though he sought the Jackson House immediately upon the arrival of the morning boat. Mr. Matthews was not there. Had he arrived? Oh, yes; he came in on the train the night before, but went off again with Judge Baker first thing in the morning. When would he be back? Not for some time. He took a trunk with him, and would be making the circuit with the judge. Therefore Wyatt Jeffreys turned disappointedly away. He went directly to Miss Ri, who observed him walking so dejectedly up the gravelled path, that she went out on the porch to meet him. "Wasn't it your trunk?" she began. "I had worked myself quite into the belief that it must be, so I am not ready for a disappointment." "It is not exactly disappointment, but only hope deferred," was the reply. "Mr. Matthews came last night, but went off early this morning with Judge Baker." "Pshaw! that is trying, isn't it? However, we must make the best of it. Perhaps he didn't take the trunk." "He took _a_ trunk." "I wonder if he started from the Jackson House or his office? We might make a tour of investigation. Just wait till I look to one or two things, and then we'll see what can be done." She did not keep him waiting long, and together they went first to the square brick building, with its white columns, which was designated the Jackson House. Its porch was occupied by various persons who, with chairs tipped back, were smoking sociably. In the lobby were gathered others who, less inclined for outdoor air, were taking a morning cigar there. Miss Ri interviewed the clerk, porter, and chambermaid to gather the information that Mr. Matthews had come in on the train with a trunk, which came up on the bus with him and which the porter afterward carried to his office; the same trunk it was which he took with him that morning. "Now we'll go to his office," decided Miss Ri as they left the hotel. "I am wondering what he did with the papers. There is probably a youngster in charge of the office, who can tell us something." The office was just across the street. Here they learned that Mr. Matthews had come in that morning in a great rush to gather up what he should need for the trip. "He was here last night, too, Miss Ri," said the lad, a fresh-faced youngster of seventeen or so. "He told me he had to do some work, and he came to my house and got the key." "Do you know if he took any papers from his trunk to leave behind?" inquired Miss Ri. "I don't know; but if he did, they would be in the little room upstairs. I can see. Were there some papers of yours, Miss Ri? Perhaps I could find them, if you will tell me what they are." "There were some papers belonging to a particular case which I wanted to get at," she explained. The lad hesitated when she asked, "Could we go up to the little room?" "It's not in very good order," he told her. "It's where Mr. Matthews keeps odds and ends." "We shall not mind the disorder," Miss Ri told him. So he led the way up a narrow stairway to a little attic room with a small dusty-paned window at each end. The room held a motley collection of things: saddles and bridles, a shooting outfit, two or three old hats hung on the wall, one or two boxes of books and pamphlets were shoved under some rough shelves. The boy dragged out a large valise stuffed so full that its sides gaped. It was locked, but from one end hung a cravat, which Mr. Jeffreys drew out, slowly examining it, Miss Ri regarding him questioningly. "It looks very like one of mine," he said; "but I don't lay claim to a particular brand of tie." He turned over the heavy valise, shaking it from side to side. From the bulging crevice fell a card upon which was printed, "Wyatt B. Jeffreys, Hartford Fire Insurance Co." The young man held it out silently to Miss Ri, who gasped, "Of all things! That settles it." CHAPTER X PURSUING CLUES "When do you expect Mr. Matthews?" Miss Ri asked the boy, who was watching them curiously. "Oh, not for a week or more. He told me to hold down the office till he came, so I'm keeping the lid on the best I know how. I don't see any papers marked for you, Miss Ri." He looked around on the shelves at some dusty collections. "No? Well, never mind; we can see about it later. Suppose we slip that card and necktie back, Mr. Jeffreys? Thank you, Billy, for letting us come up." Everyone in town was known to Miss Ri, as she was known to everyone. Once out in the street, Miss Ri gave voice to her conjectures. "Of course, Mr. Jeffreys, we can be positive now, don't you think?" "One might suppose so, only that I have been thinking I may have given Matthews one of my cards which I chanced to have with me, and he has stuffed it into his valise along with other things which may have no connection with me whatever. I can't exactly believe it is proof positive." "But the cravat?" "Almost anyone might have a blue spotted tie like that. No, Miss Hill; I can't say I think it wise to jump at the conclusion." "Oh, dear me, the masculine mind does work more deliberately than ours, doesn't it? At all events, I think it is something to go on, if not absolute proof. Let me see; first the trunk with the same initials, next the cravat, then the card. One doesn't expect to meet three such coincidences and gain no result, does one? Eliminate two, and you still have one pretty good proof, I should say. What are you going to do next, pending Berk's return? You surely don't mean to sit down and twiddle your thumbs?" "No, hardly. I think I will go up to the city and interview the express people. If this is really my trunk, it may be superfluous to make the trip, but it will give me something to do, and may bring about some satisfactory conclusion." "It isn't a bad move," returned Miss Ri. "You know the date, I suppose, and no doubt they have some record." "That is what I am hoping for. If I only knew the number, which they must have marked on the trunk, it would help." "How would it do to follow up Berk? You could probably find out where the judge is going; it may be his family can tell. Suppose we stop by and see what Mrs. Baker can tell us?" But the Baker family were all in the city and that clue was dropped. Then the two returned to Miss Ri's and bethought themselves of getting Berkley on the telephone, but this, too, failed. He had been to the hotel, in a certain little town, which they called up, but had departed. Where was he going next? "Couldn't say." "That clips off one thread," said Miss Ri, putting down the receiver. "You'd better go to town, after all. It will keep you occupied, and it is always a relief to be doing something, when one must wait. You'd get there quicker by taking the train, but the boat is cheaper, and I don't know that you would gain anything by starting earlier, for it would be too late to accomplish anything if you did get in this evening. You'll report progress, of course, when you get back?" "Surely." Miss Ri watched him depart, and then sat for a long time pondering over the situation. Why should she interest herself in a stranger? And supposing it were so that he found his papers and proved his claim, mightn't that mean loss to Linda; or if not to her, to someone they all had known as a neighbor? It might possibly be Talbot's Angles. No, that couldn't be, thought Miss Ri, for everyone knows it belonged to Jim Talbot and his father before him. Well, it is all very puzzling, and Linda may yet have her chance. Grace is just the silly kind of pretty woman to attract some blind bat of a man. There comes my girlie; I must tell her all the news. "It's the greatest comfort in the world to have someone in the house I can gossip to," she said as Linda entered. "I don't know what I did before you came." "Stepped out the back way to Miss Parthy." "Yes, that is just what I did; but fond as I am of Parthy Turner, there are subjects I would rather not discuss with her, to say nothing of the plague of finding a man in the way whenever I go over there nowadays. Tired, are you?" "Not so very. If I am half the comfort to you that you are to me, Aunt Ri, I am very glad." "So we are mutually satisfied; that is good. Lie down there on the sofa till dinner is ready, and I'll tell you what I've been doing." Linda obeyed, and Miss Ri gave an account of the pursuit of clues, ending up with, "Now, what do you think of it?" "I think it is very remarkable, to say the least, and I am inclined to believe with you that the trunk Berk bought is really Mr. Jeffreys'. Aunt Ri, do you suppose Berk could have found that out? I don't see why he shouldn't have made the discovery as soon as he opened it, in which case I think he ought to have notified Mr. Jeffreys at once." "My dear, I don't for a moment think that of Berk. He is too honest and straightforward, and besides, what would be his object?" "I don't know; yet, if he removed the papers, how could he help seeing whose they were? They must have been marked in some way to identify them." "I don't believe he noticed them at all." "Wouldn't you have done so?" "I am a woman, and a woman always notices details more quickly than a man. Don't be suspicious, Verlinda." "I'm not; but I can't help conjecturing." "It isn't worth while to do even that till the two come back. We will nab Berk as soon as he gets here and have it settled. I don't know when anything so exciting has occurred in this town, and to think it concerns you, too. We mustn't let it get out, or the whole place will be agog. That young man is right to keep his affairs to himself." But in spite of Miss Ri's intention to nab Berkley Matthews as soon as he returned, that opportunity was not accorded her, for though she called up his office daily, he arrived one evening and was off again the next day, unfortunately making his call at Miss Ri's when neither she nor Linda was at home. Mrs. Becky Hill had come to town and had carried off Miss Ri, willy-nilly, to look at a horse which Mrs. Becky thought of buying. When Miss Ri returned from the five-mile drive, Phebe met her at the door, saying, "Mr. Matthews done been hyar whilst yuh away, Miss Ri. He lef' a note on de table in de settin'-room." Miss Ri was reading the note when Linda came in. "Now isn't this hard luck?" exclaimed the older woman. "Becky came in this afternoon and nothing would do but I must be dragged off to Hillside to see about a horse she has an idea of buying. She wanted my advice, as if I were a horse-dealer and spent my time looking in horses' mouths to count their teeth." "Didn't you have a pleasant drive? It is a lovely day," returned Linda. "Oh, it was pleasant enough; I really enjoyed it, but it made me miss Berk Matthews. Here's a note from him saying he was sorry not to find us at home and that he is going off duck-shooting down the bay. Isn't that provoking?" "It surely is. Does he say anything about the trunk?" "Not a syllable." "Nor when he will be back?" "Not a word. Here read for yourself." Linda took the hastily-scribbled note, written in the rather cramped, lawyer-like handwriting which she had come to know as Berkley's: "Sorry not to see you. Am off for some duck-shooting. I will bring a brace to you and we'll eat them together, allowing Linda the bones to pick. "In haste, "BERK." That was all. "It sounds very like Berk," said Linda, "and it doesn't seem possible that he could be keeping away on purpose. Mr. Jeffreys will be very much disappointed, I am afraid." "Of course, it is not on purpose. What an idea, Verlinda! All the men go duck-shooting this time of year; it's about all the amusement they get in this part of the world. You wouldn't deprive him of it?" "Yes, I would; for I don't like even ducks to be killed. However, I suppose it is inevitable." "Of course it is inevitable while ducks fly over the waters of the bay. For my part, I like to see the lads go off in their shooting clothes, with their dogs and their guns. Ducks can't live forever, and if we don't eat them, something else will." "If they were all killed outright, I shouldn't care so much; for, of course, they are intended for food, but I can't bear to think of their only being wounded and of their suffering, perhaps, for days." "You have too tender a heart, Verlinda, for a girl who has been brought up in a hunting community." "Perhaps that is the very reason; because I have seen something of what it means to the poor ducks. Have you seen Mr. Jeffreys? He was to have returned this morning." "No, I haven't seen him. I'll call up Parthy and find out if he has returned. If he has, I'll ask her to send him over." "Do you want to do that?" "Why not?" Linda did not give any reason, and Miss Ri went to the 'phone. Mr. Jeffreys himself answered it, and promised to come over immediately. He was met by the question: "What report?" "Not much of any account. I went to see the express people," he told them, "and they admitted that there were such things as drunken drivers who might hand over orders to others who, in turn, would maybe deliver a trunk to the wrong place; that had sometimes happened. And if the trunk were not marked, or if the tag were torn, there would be little chance of its reaching the proper owner, unless he held the express company's receipt. So I came away with nothing more than a warning not to trust any but the regular expressmen, and that is about all the satisfaction I could get." "Too bad!" declared Miss Ri. "And now, I suppose you know Berk is off duck-shooting, and that is another delay for you." "Yes, I heard about that. I went to the hotel, but couldn't very well ask to be allowed to break into his room, where the trunk probably is; and Billy would think me a most suspicious character, if I asked for a second view of the valise. I am beginning to think that, after all, we have made a mistake, and that he has not my property at all, or he surely would have notified me." "It does look that way, and it is very provoking to be kept in suspense. I will tell you what I will do. If you can't get into Berk's room, I can. I know the proprietor of the Jackson House, and his wife, as well; so I am sure I can manage. I'll make an effort this very afternoon. Berk won't mind when I tell him and he learns it was in a good cause. I will bring away a pile of stockings to mend, and that will be an excellent excuse. I can make a strict examination of the trunk and bring you an accurate description, so if there are any identifying marks, I can tell you. How will that do?" "Miss Hill, you are a miracle of ingenuity. That is a great scheme." Miss Ri looked up at the clock. "It isn't so late. I believe I will go now. No time like the present. You can stay here with Linda till I get back. I won't be long." "Isn't she wonderful?" said Mr. Jeffreys, looking after the stout figure admiringly. "She is so direct, and so initiative. A woman like that is a friend worth having. I liked her from the moment I saw her out in this old garden." Linda warmed to the praise of her friend. She was somewhat annoyed at Berkley's readiness to allow other matters to interfere with his visits to the house, and with his attention to Mr. Jeffreys' affairs. She felt sorry for the young man who, like herself, was lonely and bereft. She was too tender-hearted not to show sympathy for anyone so unfortunate, and she was very gentle in her manner toward him, so the two sat there talking of those personal things which draw those with similar interests together, and Miss Ri's absence seemed a very short one. She came in flushed and panting from a rapid walk, a bundle of stockings, done up in newspaper, under her arm, and in her hand a bit of paper which she laid triumphantly on the table. It was getting dark, and she called for lights, as she threw aside her wraps. "Find the matches, Verlinda, and get Mr. Jeffreys to light the gas. I really think I have found something worth while." While Linda was searching for the matches, Mr. Jeffreys had taken the bit of paper to the window and was examining it by the waning light. He came back to take the matches from Linda's hand and to say, "Miss Hill, I really think you have brought me proof positive." "Wait till we get a light," she returned. Another moment furnished this, and then, under the lighted chandelier, he showed them the paper, a piece of a tag from which more than half had been torn. That remaining showed but four letters, though they were enough. "You see here," said Mr. Jeffreys, "on this first line was W. B. Jeffreys. The W. B., in my handwriting, remains. On the second line was Sandbridge, of which the S alone is left. The third line showed Md., and you see not quite all of the M. I would swear to it in any court." "Which will not be necessary, as no doubt you have the trunk key and can describe the contents." "Tell us how you managed, Aunt Ri," urged Linda. "Well, first I hunted up Mrs. Beall, told her I wanted to get some of Berk's socks to mend in order to surprise him; so she told the chambermaid to open his room for me. I hunted out the holey socks and then I turned my attention to the trunk. There it sat with its J. S. D. as plain as day. It was locked and, of course, I couldn't get at the inside; but on one of the handles I saw this piece of tag hanging, so I took it off and brought it away. Of course, I examined it and came to my own conclusions, which were the same as yours, Mr. Jeffreys. So now, let me congratulate you. Since there seems no doubt but that you have found your trunk, the waiting for Berk will not be so trying." "I congratulate you, too," added Linda, holding out her hand. "Thank you," replied the young man, taking Miss Ri's proffered hand rather than Linda's, and then turning somewhat confusedly to examine again the piece of paper. But, as if to make up for this seeming rudeness, for the next few days he was rarely absent from the house when Linda was there. He was at the gate when she started forth to school; he was at the corner to join her when she came home. Supper was scarcely over before his step was heard upon the porch, and if there was no open love-making, there was at least a sufficient show of interest to make the girl feel that no word of hers passed unnoticed. "I believe the man is falling in love with you," averred Miss Ri bluntly, when he left them one evening; "if he is not already there." Linda flushed, but replied steadily: "You must remember that I am a relative, and naturally he turns to me for sympathy and advice. The poor fellow has neither mother nor sister, and, of course--" "Take care, Verlinda. That 'poor fellow' sounds very dangerous. You know what pity is akin to." But Linda did not reply. She turned out the light by the piano, busied herself in straightening the room, and then, kissing Miss Ri good-night, went directly upstairs. She stood a long time before her mirror, thoughtfully gazing at the reflection she saw there, and after she had turned out her light, she went to the window which opened upon the back garden, looking across to where a twinkling beam shone out from Miss Parthy's house. "It is rather nice to have a new cousin," she said to herself, as she drew down the shade again and turned to open a window further away from her bed. On the other side of the entry, Miss Ri, in her room, was frowning and saying savagely to herself: "Maria Hill, you are an idiot. It is just like you to be carried away by some new excitement, never looking far enough ahead to discover what it is all leading to. I say you are an idiot, and you are not the only one, if the truth were known." CHAPTER XI A NEWSPAPER Linda, though spontaneous enough in ordinary matters like most Southern girls, was reticent when it came to those things which touched her most nearly. She was but fifteen when her mother died; her sisters, older than herself, had passed out of her life before she had really known them well. The elder had married and had died within a year, the younger, Linda remembered only as a delicate girl, who was too frail to go so far as town to school, and who one day was covered with flowers and was borne to the little churchyard. So at the very time Linda had needed someone to whom to give her confidences she had only her older brother, Martin, a busy man, and one who could hardly sympathize with her youthful fancies, her flights of imagination, however kind he might be. Therefore because she must have some outlet for her fanciful thoughts she began to scribble, for her own pleasure at first, later with the hope that she might one day write something worth publishing. It was not till she had taken up her abode with Miss Ri that she did timidly send forth some little verses, very doubtful of their finding a place in the columns of the newspaper to which she sent them. Time went on and she had heard nothing of her small venture, but one Saturday morning, having gone to the school-house for some book she needed, she stopped at the postoffice for the mail, forestalling the postman who could deliver it later. On the threshold she met Berk Matthews. "Why, hallo, Linda," he exclaimed. "Haven't seen you for a month of Sundays." "And whose fault is that, I'd like to know," she answered. "Whose fault? Why, the ducks, of course. I didn't have any luck and am going out again. By the way when did you turn poet?" Linda paled, flushed, looked down nervously, shuffled the letters and papers she held. "What do you mean?" she asked at last. "There's only one Verlinda Talbot, isn't there? Unless someone has borrowed your very pretty and unusual name. Look at this." He thrust his hand into his coat pocket and drew forth a paper, opened the sheet and pointed out the following: THE MARCHING PINES Up from the hill-slope and over the ridge An army is coming of marching pines. The cloud-shadows lurking, lie low on the bridge Wrought out by the moonbeams in delicate lines. They march from the meadow land over the snow With bayonets pointed, a solid phalanx, Save where, on their outlying edges, they show A few timid stragglers who've broken the ranks. And down in the field, set in orderly rows Are wigwams, one sees by the light of the moon. Hark! Hark! Does a war-whoop discover the foes? From out of the marsh comes the laugh of a loon. Verlinda Talbot. "Here, let me take your things," said the young man gently as he perceived by her shaking hands and changing color that she was agitated. He watched her read the lines through and as she raised sweet questioning eyes, he bit his lip and drew in his breath quickly and sharply. "I like it, Linda," he said as she folded the paper and handed it back to him. "How did you manage to do it? I am as proud as can be of you." "Are you really, Berk? That is very nice of you. To think you saw it before I did. Why I didn't even know they were going to print it." "You didn't? Then I'm the discoverer. I'm proud of that, too. Very likely you will find a copy of the paper in your mail. Are they paying you well for it?" "Oh, no, I don't think they pay at all. I don't expect that. I am paid sufficiently by seeing it in print this time. Perhaps--some day--if I keep on--" "You will be a great writer." "Oh, never that, but I may be able to write something worth while. I long to." "And give up teaching? You don't like teaching." "I don't believe I do very much." "Yet I hear good accounts of you." "Really, Berk?" "Certainly I do. Mr. Willis told me you were very satisfactory, and had broken in your class so they trotted along without a break." "I think we do get along better," Linda acknowledged a little dubiously, "and I believe the small boys do begin to like me more than they did, at least some of them do." "All of them will in time, I am sure." "You're a nice encouraging friend, Berk. Is this where we part?" "Yes, I have an appointment with Judge Morris this morning. Good-by. Tell Miss Ri I'll be around soon." He gave the budget into her hands, raised his hat and entered the little one-storied building at the side of whose door were signs denoting the calling of those whose offices were within, lawyers all, two judges among them. The trees over-arching the long street had lost most of their leaves, but the river was as blue as ever, and the gardens still held late blooms. A tall cosmos peeped over the fence of one, chrysanthemums made a brave showing in another. A few courageous nasturtiums started brilliantly from amid their yellowing leaves, scarlet salvia shot out myriads of little tongues of flame before almost every house. The streets were quite full of people this Saturday morning. Country vehicles, mud-stained, and in many cases rickety and drawn by shabby mules, jostled more pretentious teams. Lolling darkies singing some monotonous camp-meeting hymn, drove their brick carts to a new building which was going up near by. Dogs were seen everywhere, some at the heels of the young men who, in hunting attire, were making ready to start out for a day's shooting, some lying on the porches ready to bark at any passer-by, some sportively chasing one another up and down the street, playfully catching at the long silky ear of a companion, or rolling him over and over, then off again in hot chase. One or two thrust their cold noses into Linda's hand as she passed them, and with wagging tail received her caress and "Nice doggie" as something not only expected but deserved. The air was soft, sweet and languorous, for Indian summer was here and the days still held suggestions of the earlier season. Linda turned in at the gate leading to Miss Ri's house, and pushing her feet through the drift of crisp leaves which covered the gravelled walk, enjoyed the exhilaration of the hour. She was buoyant, hopeful, really happy. Life was opening up wonderful possibilities. The music of the spheres was hers. She read the spirit of the universe in each dancing leaf, in each scarlet flower-flame. Seeing Phebe at the back of the house she ran around to her. The old woman raised herself ponderously from where she was spreading her dish-towels on the grass. "Do you like it here? Are you happy, Mammy?" asked Linda. "Jes listen to de chile," exclaimed Mammy. "Is I happy? I done got 'ligion long ago, honey, and I ain't back-slid fo' many a ye'r. Co'se I is happy. I ain't shoutin' but I ain't mo'nin', an' I hopes I ain't lak dese young things dat hollers hallelujah at nights and steals from de madam in de mawnin'. Co'se I is happy long as mah baby ain't down in de mouf. Yuh sutt'nly looks peart, honey, an' bless mah Lord an' Marster dat I kin say it. Whar all yo' beaux, honey chile?" Linda laughed. "Oh, they'll be around after a while." Mammy chuckled and Linda entering by the back door, after some searching, at last found Miss Ri upstairs looking over the house linen. "Well, Verlinda, you have a fine color," said the lady looking up. "It does you good to get out into the fresh air. Any news up town?" "I met Berk." "You did? What did he say about the trunk?" Linda stopped in the act of tearing the wrapper from a newspaper she held. "Aunt Ri, I declare I never said a word to him about it. Never once did it enter my mind." "Verlinda Talbot! I can scarce believe that. What were you talking about to make you forget it?" Linda finished freeing the paper from its wrapper. Her eyes were downcast, and the flush lingered in her cheeks; a smile played around her lips. "This," she answered holding out the paper on which her verses were printed. Miss Ri adjusted her spectacles, read the lines, laid the paper aside and took the girl's hands in hers. "You dear, sentimental child," she said, "I am proud of you." "That is what Berk said," returned Linda with a little pleased smile. "Did he? Well, he may be. Why, my dear, we shall all be proud of you, the whole town. We must have you in the club; you will be an ornament to it." Linda fairly laughed at this. "One meagre little set of verses will not give more than a rushlight's beam," she answered, "even in Sandbridge, Aunt Ri. But maybe I shall be a real shining light some day. Anyhow it is great fun." "Of course it is to those who can do it. I couldn't to save me." "And, you see, in the excitement of the discovery, the reason of my forgetting the trunk. Please don't tell Mr. Jeffreys that I have seen Berk; he will think me a very indifferent cousin if he knows." "What did Berk have to say besides mentioning that he was proud of you?" "He said he had no luck shooting and that he was going out again. I imagine he has been pretty busy, but he said I was to tell you he'd be around soon." "Ducks or no ducks?" "The ducks weren't mentioned." "Well, he'd better come if he knows what is good for him. Here is your other swain heading this way. Go down and see him and keep the trunk out of the conversation when I am around or I might forget myself and tell on you. I think you'd better take him off somewhere if you want to be quite safe. It's a fine day to be out of doors." "We can sit on the porch or go out on the river," responded Linda as she left the room. She felt a little diffident about showing her newspaper to her visitor, but, reflecting that Miss Ri would be sure to speak of it, she decided to have the matter over with, and at once displayed her verses. If Mr. Jeffreys did not openly express the same appreciation that Berkley had done he was at least as effusive as Linda expected, being at no time a person who showed ardent enthusiasm. His call was not a long one, for Linda felt a little ill at ease, condemning herself for having forgotten a thing so important to him, and in consequence she was not able to talk of his affairs with the same show of interest, a fact which he, however, attributed to her excitement over the printing of her verses. As the two walked to the gate together they saw Berkley drive by with a friend. Both men were equipped for hunting, and from between Berkley's knees looked out the intelligent face of a fine brown setter who was all a-quiver with the prospect in view. Mr. Jeffreys gave a sudden call after the buggy, but checked himself directly, turning to Linda with an air of apology. "I should not have done that, but I was carried away by my interest in seeing Mr. Matthews. I didn't know he was in town." "He is going off with Elmer Dawson, evidently," rejoined Linda, looking after the buggy. "And there is no telling when he will return. The fates are against me, Miss Linda." "You certainly are having a lesson in patience," Linda admitted. "Never mind, Mr. Jeffreys, the case won't suffer by reason of delay. Why don't you write a note to Mr. Matthews?" she asked suddenly catching at the idea. "Tell him you think he has happened upon your trunk, describe it, and ask him to let you see it. You must remember his attention has not been called to it yet, and he hasn't a notion that you are in a state of suspense." "Unless he has examined the contents." "Which he may or may not have done. At all events, you will have the satisfaction of knowing that you have brought the subject to his notice. He seems such a difficult person to get at these days that it might be as well to write." "Thank you for the suggestion; it might not be a bad idea. I will go home and think it over." He lifted his hat and Linda watched him thoughtfully walking down the street. "If Berk does know it is pretty mean of him," she said to herself, and she voiced the opinion to Miss Ri when she went indoors. "It is mighty mean if he really knows it, and it almost seems as if he must," agreed Miss Ri. "One might almost think he was doing it on purpose, if it were not really a serious matter. Berk is something of a tease, you know. I'll call him up to-night and tell him to come and get his socks. He doesn't deserve to have me mend them, the rascal." But Mr. Matthews was not at the hotel, came the news over the 'phone that evening. Neither did he appear on Sunday. On Monday it was learned that he had returned but was at Court when Mr. Jeffreys tried to see him. The day went by and there was no response to the note Mr. Jeffreys mentioned having written. "It begins to look very queer," said Miss Ri soberly when Monday had passed and no Berkley appeared. "I'm beginning to lose faith, Linda, and that is something I have never done before where Berk was concerned. He can't want to steal such a paltry thing as a trunk." "Perhaps to his legal mind it is his own property since he bought it," remarked Linda in excuse. "But there are the papers." "True, there are the papers. He has no right to them. Dear me, my head fairly buzzes with trying to account for it. I wish we had never heard of Wyatt Jeffreys and his old trunk. Why did he come here to disturb our peace?" "It certainly is queer for Berk to act so," continued Miss Ri, "and the queerest part of the whole business to me is that he has not been near us for two weeks." "He did come, you remember, that day you went to the country with Mrs. Becky." "Yes, I had forgotten that." "And he was as nice and friendly as could be the day I met him at the postoffice." "But he hasn't sent us those ducks," contended Miss Ri. CHAPTER XII A BRACE OF DUCKS The very next morning after this talk Wyatt Jeffreys met Berkley Matthews on the street just outside the Jackson House. "Hallo," cried the latter. "Just have your note. I've been staying with John Emory, and we've been off ducking so I didn't get my mail till this morning. It certainly would be a good joke if I had captured your trunk. Suppose you come and have a look at it, and if you identify it, of course you shall have it without delay. Come up to my room." As Mr. Jeffreys followed the springing step all suspicion fled. Once in the room the trunk was easily recognized. "There were some papers," said Mr. Jeffreys. "Oh, yes, they are over at my office. I had to get a locksmith to open the trunk for me, and he had to put on a new lock, as you see. I took out the clothing over here, sent the trunk across the way, dumped out the papers in a valise without looking at them, and there they are. You can get them any time." "I'd like you to go over them with me when you have time, Matthews." "Very well. Just now I am a little rushed, but we can take it up later when I get this case through I am now at work upon. In the meantime I will see that you get the trunk and the rest of the things. I'll try to get them off this afternoon. I am certainly glad I happened to take a fancy to your trunk, but what a queer coincidence it is. I never associated it with you at all. Those initials, J. S. D. would have misled me in any event. I told Miss Ri they stood for Judge Some Day, and I think they are about the only part of the trunk I feel loth to give up." Mr. Jeffreys smiled. It was like a sentimental Southerner, he thought. Then, after some discussion about cost of transportation and all that, the matter was settled to the satisfaction of both. With the delivery of the trunk came the ducks, not inside the trunk, of course, for that contained everything which was in it at the time of Berkley's first possession, everything except the papers. The trunk was brought to Miss Parthy's by an old colored man picturesquely antique both as regarded his costume and himself. Uncle Moke everyone called him, his real name of Moses having fallen into disuse so long before that no one remembered it. He was general factotum around town and a trusty messenger. He had delivered his first charge at Miss Parthy's door, and then was ready for Miss Ri. Nothing pleased him more than such an errand. "Evenin' Miss Ri," said the old fellow with many a bow and scrape, his ragged hat in his hand. "Mr. Berk Matthews' compliments, Miss Ri, an' dese yer ducks, Miss. He say he hopes yuh-alls have 'em fo' suppah, an' he be 'long 'bout seben fo' to he'p yuh-alls eat 'em," the last with a little chuckle of pleasure at delivering such a message. "Very well, Uncle Moke," returned Miss Ri, taking the ducks. "Whether I have them for supper or not is my look out, you tell Mr. Berk." "Dey nice fat ducks," remarked Uncle Moke with the privilege of an old acquaintance. "I see they are." "Yuh got some cu'ant jelly, is yuh, Miss Ri? Ef yuh ain't mah ole woman got a little she kin spare yuh." "I know Aunt Welcome's jelly is good, Uncle Moke, but I reckon I have enough for some time to come. How is your wife?" "She thes tollable, Miss Ri." "And you?" "I thes tollable. I has mis'ry in mah j'ints f'om de rheumatiz dese col' days. I kin skeerce tote de rale heavy trunks. Dat one I thes now taken to Miss Parthy's fo' de strange young man wa'n't de heavy kin'." "Did you take a trunk to Miss Parthy's for Mr. Jeffreys?" "Yas'm. Mr. Berk he done sont it f'om de hotel. Little weenchy trunk, kinder old-fashion." "Um-hm," said Miss Ri, nodding her head. "So that's done. Have you good warm flannels, Uncle Moke?" Miss Ri looked him over, perceiving the shabbiness of his attire, ragged shirt, threadbare trousers. "I ain't had time to buy no winter flannins yet, Miss Ri," responded the old man with a pride that forbade giving the real reason. "Well, you stop by to-morrow," said Miss Ri. "I shouldn't in the least wonder if there were some things in the house that you could wear, and there is no use to buy anything when I'd be glad to get rid of some underwear that I have on hand." "Thanky, ma'am, thanky." The bowing and scraping were continued to a degree. "I sholy is obleedged to yuh, Miss Ri. It save me a lot o' bother. I nuvver was no han' at buyin' flannins, and Welky she don' git about much." Miss Ri watched him stiffly mount his creaking wagon drawn by a scrubby mule, then she went in with the ducks. "Well," she announced, "here they are at last. Don't let me forget, Verlinda, to hunt up some things for Uncle Moke, and if I haven't anything I must buy some. The poor old soul hasn't enough to keep him warm. I don't suppose he makes a great deal these days, for the younger and stronger men are employed where he used to be. He is not able to carry heavy burdens. By the way, the trunk seems to have been delivered, too. Aren't you curious to hear the report. Berk, the impudent boy, sent word he was coming over to help eat the ducks, and wouldn't we please to have them for supper to-night. Isn't that just like him? He does not deserve to be treated decently after the way he has neglected us, but I suppose we shall have to be nice to him as long as he has sent us the ducks." She went on to the kitchen to see Phebe about supper of which she was ready enough to make a true feast. True to his promise, Berkley arrived promptly for supper. "You renegade," cried Miss Ri. "We were beginning to think all manner of evil about you." "You were? I didn't expect that of you. What have I done?" "You have neglected us abominably." "It does look that way, but I really couldn't help it. I had a tough week of it off with Judge Baker, and then to limber up my brain I took a little outing with some of the boys. We all went down to John Emory's little shack. Didn't I send you the first fruits of my chase? I hope Unc' Moke understood he was to leave the ducks here, and that he didn't take them to Miss Parthy's." "They came safely enough, and our thanks are ready. We accept your excuses since they seem moderately reasonable, don't we, Verlinda?" She smiled her response and came forward to greet the young man. "And how goes the school? Does the verse-making continue?" he asked looking down with interest showing in his eyes. "The school hasn't finished me yet, and the verses," she blushed a little, "go spasmodically. I haven't sent out any more effusions." "You must do it. Aren't we proud of her, Miss Ri? Oh, did you hear that the trunk had been found, and that mine was the great mind that happened to realize its value?" "It was accident, pure accident," cried Miss Ri. "Your great mind had nothing to do with it. You have sent it back to the owner?" "Yes, worse luck. I wanted to keep it on account of the letters upon it. Now I have nothing to cheer me in my despondent moments. It was quite a fillip to my ambitions to see those letters. I don't know where I shall get another mascot." "What of the papers?" asked Linda. "Oh, we haven't come to those yet; they are at my office, and there they will stay till Jeffreys and I can look them over. Ducks ready? Good! May I escort you, Miss Ri. Will you take my other arm, Linda?" They marched solemnly to the dining-room. For some reason Berkley was suddenly subdued and was so long in taking the initiative in the carving of the ducks that Miss Ri spoke up. "Where are your thoughts, Berk?" Then he picked up the wrong knife and fork in confusion and laughed a little nervously. But though the ducks were done to a turn, and everything was as it should be, Berkley was distrait and ill at ease all the evening, though he stayed quite as late as usual and went off with a jest. The door had no sooner closed behind him than Miss Ri turned to Linda to say. "I can't think what is the matter with Berk. Did it strike you that he was embarrassed and unlike himself." "I did think so, but put away the thought as coming from my own vain imaginings. What do you suppose is the matter?" "I should say it was one of two things; either he is in love or there is something in those papers that is bothering him. I wonder if, after all, it was his mother whom he was so eager to see in the city. I'm beginning to get suspicious." "But about the papers; what could be in them?" "That is just what I don't know, but I'm going to find out. I have a deal of thinking to do, Verlinda, my dear. Go to bed and let me puzzle out a few things. Berk said he had seen Grace Talbot, didn't he?" Linda paused, her foot on the stair. "Yes, he spoke of her, said she was looking unusually well." Then a little laugh rippled out. "You don't imagine he has fallen in love with Grace, do you?" "Some men are fools enough to do anything," returned Miss Ri crossly. "Then, of course, you don't get mad with such," vouchsafed Linda. Then she turned, a slim graceful figure in trailing black, and came swiftly up to Miss Ri. "You dear old thing," she said, "you mustn't get notions in your head like that; it doesn't make any difference; nothing makes very much difference. Suppose he should marry Grace, then I'd have Talbot's Angles." "And I'd lose you," returned Miss Ri ruefully. "Are you sleepy? No? Come in then, and let's talk over people and things." "Let's leave out Berkley and Grace." "Very well, we'll talk of your new cousin. By the way, if Berk has examined those papers he must know the relationship. Possibly that is just what is the matter." "I don't think so, besides, I had the impression that he had not looked at them. But we weren't going to talk of Berk, you know. Tell me plainly, what do you think of my new cousin?" [Illustration: "YOU DON'T IMAGINE HE HAS FALLEN IN LOVE WITH GRACE, DO YOU?"] "I think he is an out and out Yankee. Clever enough in some directions, rather whimsical, deadly afraid you will find out what he is thinking about, frightfully cautious of showing his feelings, with a conscience which worries him because his inclination isn't always to follow it exactly, wherein he differs from another who follows his impulses, and whose impulses are always generous ones. Your Mr. Jeffreys sits down and pros and cons for hours. Someone, whose name we don't mention, plunges out, impelled by an unselfish motive, and does the thing that the other deliberates over. Yet I won't say the cousin doesn't do fine honorable things once he makes up his mind it is right. Very likely he rises to his heights by a different process, and doesn't ever make the mistake of over zeal, of going at too brisk a pace like the unmentioned sometimes does. What the latter does is with his whole heart. I think he might almost perjure himself for one he loved; I know he would cheerfully die in the same cause." Linda, leaning with elbows on table, thoughtfully tapped one hand with an ivory paper-cutter. "You are analytical, Aunt Ri, but probably you are right. Yet, after all if a man, through evolutions of reasoning, reaches a point where his conscience bids him do a noble deed, isn't he just as much to be approved as he who rushes out, never asking for reasons, and does a like noble thing? And isn't he more to be approved than the man who sacrifices his integrity, or does a wrong thing for love's sake?" "Oh, yes, I don't doubt it though it depends largely upon one's view of the case. For my part I admire the spontaneous, intrepid man more than the deliberate one, but that is a matter of preference." "Which do you think would be the easier to live with?" Linda balanced the paper-cutter on the tips of her fingers. "Wouldn't the impetuous man be more difficult, more trying, for the very reason of his impetuosity?" "Yes, but he'd be vastly more entertaining, to my mind, because of his uncertainty." "In perjuring himself, for example?" "Oh, we needn't go so far as that, Verlinda. A really good man would never go so far unless--" "Unless?" "He felt the cause for which he criminated himself was a greater thing than his own state of well-being. I can imagine certain men who would sacrifice their immortal welfare for the sake of a sacred cause." "And you think Berkley Matthews is like that?" "No, I don't say so? I won't go so far in my estimate of him, though I do say there are few things he wouldn't do for one he loved. But you remember we were not to mention him." "We don't appear to be doing much else. We are comparing him all the time with Mr. Jeffreys whether we mention his name or not. I agree with you in thinking Berk is capable of fine things, but so I believe is Mr. Jeffreys." "Berk has the tenderest of hearts," continued Miss Ri, "and he has thoughtful little ways that please an elderly woman like myself. I could but notice the difference when I was walking with Mr. Jeffreys. Did he help me over a gutter, or up a steep curb? Not he. Not that I wanted help, but it was the outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace that I missed. Berk watches out for your every step, makes way for you, as it were. If he wore a Sir Walter Raleigh cloak it would be mud from end to end so readily would he spread it for a woman's feet to tread on. He may not have the tall and graceful figure of your cousin, but he can bow like a courtier, and will stand with his head uncovered in any weather rather than wear his hat in a lady's presence." "I have noticed all those things," admitted Linda. "So far, in your opinion, his side of the scales tip far, far below my cousin's, but then one must make allowances for your partiality. You've known Berk since he was born. Perhaps Mr. Jeffreys' mother may have had just so good an opinion of him." "Being his mother she probably had. What have you to put in his side of the scales?" "Oh, good looks, a very dignified bearing, and a perfectly well-trained conscience which wouldn't run away with him." "You know I don't call that so desirable a quality as the impulsive generosity." "But I do, so if you leave your impulsive generosity in the scales, I must have the well-trained conscience." "Very well. Go on." "Then, there's your mud-spattered cloak which I will balance with--let me see--" "You can't find anything to equal that," cried Miss Ri triumphantly. "Oh, yes, I can. There is a certain beautiful dignity and a certain indescribable charm; I don't know exactly wherein it lies, but it is there. Bertie Bryan has discovered it, too, and very probably it has not escaped you." "I don't see it at all." "There we are again, so you will have to take the courtesy and I'll have the dignity and charm. I haven't a doubt but if we knew Mr. Jeffreys better we should find a host of other things." "He is not sympathetic in the way Berk is." The paper-cutter was at work again. "No-o," Linda admitted, "he doesn't seem to be, but perhaps he really is, inside." "Then I don't see what use it is to anyone. Berk shows that quality in his eyes. He has dear eyes, I think." Linda neither affirmed nor denied though she suddenly remembered the eager, tender look bestowed upon her that day in the postoffice when she gave back the newspaper after reading her little poem in it. "We certainly have discussed those two long enough," she said lightly. "How their ears must burn. What next, Aunt Ri?" "I've been thinking I'd like to get some facts for you from some other source than Wyatt Jeffreys. There's our old family lawyer, Judge Goldsborough, who was your family's lawyer as well. He retired from active life long ago, and is a very old man now, but I believe he could tell us things. He knew your grandfather and all that. Some day we will go to see him. We'll make it an ancestral pilgrimage. He lives up in the next county where his son has a fine estate. On the way we can take in that old church where my grandparents were married; they were Roman Catholics, you see, and I have always wanted to see that old church. How do you like the idea of such a trip?" "Immensely. You are very clever to have thought of it, Aunt Ri." "Then some Saturday we will go. The judge will be delighted to see you, and me, too, I am not too modest to say. He is a dear old man and, though his memory is not what it was, the way back things are those he remembers the best. Now go to bed. We've talked long enough. Go to bed." CHAPTER XIII AN ANCESTRAL PILGRIMAGE Miss Ri was not one to be dilatory when an idea once took possession of her, and she therefore began planning at once for the trip to "Mary's Delight," where Judge Goldsborough lived. It was a roundabout journey involving several changes, if one went all the way by rail to the nearest station, but was not nearly so far if one drove from Sandbridge to the point where a train could be had which would go direct to the little village of Mackenzie. Miss Ri finally decided upon the latter course, naturally choosing a Saturday as being the day when Linda could most easily leave. It was not a matter to be made secret, and Berkley was consulted as to the best method of getting to the desired point. "You'd better take the train from Boxford to Mackenzie," he told them. "Of course you must drive from here to Boxford, and you would better send word ahead to Mackenzie to have some sort of vehicle ready for you there to take you to 'Mary's Delight,' unless you prefer to let the Goldsboroughs know you are coming." Miss Ri shook her head. "I think I'll let that go, and trust to luck, for it might be a bad day which would prevent our going, and I don't want them to make preparations, as they might do; besides we want to stop at the old church, and I should prefer a hired team if we are to do that." "Very well, then, suppose I drop a line to Mackenzie, to the postmaster there, he knows me, and I'll tell him two ladies are coming from Sandbridge. He will do all he can for you. You can go right to the postoffice, and then it will be plain sailing." "You are a good thoughtful boy, Berk, to smooth our way so nicely," Miss Ri told him. "By the way," she added, "aren't you feeling well these days? You seem so serious. Anything wrong?" The young man flushed up and turned over some papers on his desk. They were in his office where Miss Ri had stopped to consult him. "I'm all right," he replied in reply. "Working a little hard, maybe. I must, you know, if I want to get ahead." "And that is why you don't drop in so often," returned Miss Ri. Then after waiting a moment for the answer which did not come, she went on. "Well, you know you are always welcome, Berk. I may bamboozle you, but you know it is all talk. Come when you can and thank you very much for straightening out this route. I did not want to go around the other way and be all day getting there, spending half the time waiting at stations to make connections." "I find the most direct way is generally the best," he told her. "When you want to go across country you'd better drive instead of depending upon trains. Good luck to you, Miss Ri." And he turned to his desk as she went out. Saturday furnished all that anyone could ask in the way of weather. It was almost too warm for the season, and a few clouds piled up in the west, but it could not be a finer day, as everyone declared with satisfaction, and the two travellers sat down to their morning meal in happy anticipation of what was before them. "We're going to have a lovely time, Verlinda," remarked Miss Ri. "The judge will have some good tales for us, I know. I am sure he will be interested to know you are a great-niece of the Verlinda Talbot he used to know, and, if report speaks the truth, with whom he was much in love, but like the gallant gentleman he was, when she married someone else he made no sign though he was hard hit, and he was always a devoted friend to her and to your grandfather. His son Dick isn't unlike him. He has a nice wife and half a dozen children, some of whom are grown up by now." She was silent for a little while and then she said, with half a laugh and half a sigh, "I didn't expect to be visiting Dick Goldsborough's house in my old age." Linda looked up from the coffee she was sipping. "That sounds very much as if there were a story, a romance hidden in your remark." Miss Ri gave a little comfortable laugh. "Well, there was something like it once." "Oh, Aunt Ri, and you never told me. Were you--were you engaged to Mr. Dick Goldsborough?" "No-o. You see there were two of us, Julia Emory and I, and it seemed hard for him to make up his mind which he liked best--but finally--he did." "Oh, dear Aunt Ri! And he married the other girl? Did it--were you--" "Oh, yes, I was dreadfully cut up for a time, I can frankly say. The first year I thought I'd die and wanted to; the second I was not averse to living, though in a sort of twilight world; the third I was quite glad to live; the fourth I wondered how I could ever have been such a sentimental goose, and the fifth I thanked the Lord that I had escaped." "Oh, Aunt Ri, Aunt Ri, you are dreadful." "It is a fact, I can assure you, and I have been thankful ever since, not that Dick isn't a fine man, for he is, but, dear me, he would never have suited me, as I came to find out, and he suits Julia to a T. They are as happy as two clams at high tide." "Then that is why you never married." "It probably had something to do with it, for during the two or three years when I was wearing the willow came other chances which I didn't take, and when I had reached the stage of thanking the Lord for my escape my patient suitors had become impatient and had danced off to those who, in their opinions, had better taste. But, Verlinda, bear this truth in mind; I am still thanking the Lord. Come, if you have finished we'll be off. I see Nichols has sent around the man with the surrey; he is waiting outside." The ride to Boxford over level shell roads would have been pleasant enough with a less companionable person than Miss Ri, but she who knew every house along the way had innumerable stories to tell, humorous, pathetic, romantic, and the time seemed very short before they reached the station from which they were to start on the second and more commonplace stage of their journey which ended at Mackenzie. This was a small settlement which appeared to consist of the station, a country store, and a few houses straggling along an unpaved street which stretched out into the country road, leading on and on indefinitely. There were few people in sight; a half dozen darkies lounged around the station, inside which the telegraph operator clicked away at his transmitter industriously, some children played in the street further up, but no one else was to be seen. "Where do you suppose the postoffice is?" asked Miss Ri, looking around. "At the store in all probability," replied Linda. "We'll go over and see." But, contrary to their expectation, they found the postoffice was not there but at the second house up the street. They could read the sign outside, they were told. Its location known, the place was easy enough to find; a small white house, like any other of its type. The door was ajar and the travellers entered to find themselves in a square enclosure, a door to their left, and in front of them a box-like structure with a sort of window cut in it. Before the window hung a calico curtain. From behind this curtain presently appeared the head of a man. "Good morning, ladies," the voice came with pleasant eagerness; "you're the ladies from Sandbridge? Mr. Matthews wrote to me about you. Will you just walk into the front room there, and take seats while I am sorting the mail. I'll be with you as soon as it is distributed." Linda opened the only door in sight, and the two entered a plainly furnished room, which, however, provided two comfortable chairs, and in these they seated themselves to wait the postmaster's leisure. They were mistaken if they thought their arrival was the unimportant matter it would seem to be, for, as the villagers began to come in, each made some excuse to enter the room, the first leaving the door ajar so the visitors could distinctly hear the postmaster, as he handed out the mail, importantly informing his friends: "The ladies from Sandbridge have come." So one after another made some pretext for seeing the strangers. "Where can I get a match?" one would inquire. "Oh, I've opened the wrong door," the next would say, while the third showed his ardent curiosity simply and honestly by merely standing in the doorway and beaming on the two ladies. Once or twice a salutation was offered, though more often it was not. The finale occurred when two little girls, with hair slicked tightly back and braided in flaxen pigtails, appeared, each holding the hand of a little boy with as shining a face as her own. Each little girl grasped a large red apple, in one hand, taking frequent succulent bites as she stared with round china-blue eyes at the strangers. The little roly-poly boy stared quite as fixedly, but at the first question addressed, the three fled, though Miss Ri and Linda could hear them shrilly reporting their experiences to someone in the next room. In due time the postmaster appeared. "You wanted a fix, ladies, I believe. I meant to have gotten Jo Wilson's, but he's gone to his wife's brother's funeral. Maybe I can get Tom Skinner's; I'll see. I reckon a buggy will do, and you can drive yourselves. Going to the old church, I hear." "I don't think we can drive," spoke up Miss Ri. "We don't know the road, in the first place, and in the second I don't care to drive a strange horse." The man looked quite taken aback; he had not counted on these complications. "Now, that's too bad," he said. "I just depended on Jo, you see, but funerals won't wait. I'll look around and find out what we can do." He departed, leaving the two to be peeped at over the window-sill by three pairs of china-blue eyes. Evidently the children's curiosity was not yet satisfied. "I feel as if I belonged to a menagerie," laughed Linda, "and as if they'd be feeding me peanuts next." Miss Ri laughed and beckoned to the children who incontinently took to their heels. After some time the postmaster returned saying he had been able to get a buggy and a boy to drive it. He hoped the ladies wouldn't mind sitting three on a seat; the boy wasn't so very big. It was the best he could do; he hoped they would be comfortable and if it hadn't been for Jo Wilson's wife's brother all would have been well. If Linda had been of Miss Ri's proportions they would have found it a tight squeeze, but the boy, as reported, was not very big, and they assured the postmaster that they could manage. The lad evidently had been gathered in hastily from the fields to don his Sunday best, and to make such ablutions as consisted in clearing a circular expanse in the center of his face, and then wiping his wet hands on his hair which was still moist from the application. With many charges to the boy and with many anxious queries as to the comfort of the strangers, the postmaster at last sped them on their way, and before many miles were covered the old church appeared dully through the trees. It had a decayed, unkempt aspect even at a distance, and a nearer view showed it set amidst riots of thorny bushes, and old trees, which had never been trimmed. In what probably had been the priest's quarters in bygone days, they found an old woman who lived there as care-taker. She hobbled to the door to open to their knock, showing one foot swathed in bandages. She was as unkempt as the rest of it, but was both surprised and pleased to see visitors, and was ready to display to them remnants of tawdry hangings, shrines from which the paint was scaling, and in the dingy church, a company of dusty saints who looked out dimly from altar and niche, bedecked with once garish but now faded and discolored artificial flowers. Miss Ri gazed around with an expression half contemptuous, half pitying. "And this is where my grandparents worshipped. Poor dears, I hope it was better in their day." "Oh, it was a fine church once," spoke up their guide, "but very few comes to it now, and there's a service only once a month." They were glad to escape out into the sunlight. The old woman led the way back to her own quarters, discoursing all the time upon her ailments and asking for remedies. Being thirsty after the drive Linda begged for a glass of water, but when a brass thimble was fished out of a murky tumbler before it was filled, she concluded that nothing would induce her to drink it, and finally she made the excuse of speaking to the boy outside, when she found an opportunity of emptying the glass upon the grass. This turning aside to visit the church had occupied some time, and it was noon when they reached "Mary's Delight," a beautiful old place bordering upon one of the many salt rivers which pierce Maryland's eastern shore. A tall, grey-haired man met them at the gate to open to them. "Howdy, Dick Goldsborough," cried Miss Ri. "Of all things, Maria Hill," he responded. "Get right out. Well, this is a surprise. This your niece?" "An adopted one. This is Betty Dorsey's daughter, Verlinda Talbot." "Is that so? You are doubly welcome, Miss Talbot, for your father's as well as your mother's sake. I declare, Maria, this does take me back to old times. Come right in and I'll see about your horse. Where did you drive from?" "We came up from Mackenzie. I wanted to see the old church, and the little boy has been our driver." "Well, we can send him back and you shall return in a more comfortable way when you are ready to go. The boy must have some dinner. Just drive around to the stable, my boy, and one of the men will fix you up. You are going to make us a good visit, I hope, Maria. Father will be perfectly charmed to see you, and so will Julia." They were ushered into a fine hall with a noble staircase rising on either side to the floor above. On one side the hall was a large room with a great fireplace now filled with crackling logs, in spite of the mildness of the day. Before the fire sat an old white-haired man who rose at the entrance of visitors. "Here's a surprise for you, Father," said the younger man, raising his voice slightly. "Here is an old friend and the daughter of another. Miss Ri Hill and Jim Talbot's daughter have come to see us." The old gentleman's fine face brightened as he held out a slender frail hand. "My dears, I am delighted, pleased beyond measure to see you. Won't you come to the fire after your drive?" "It is very mild out, Judge; we won't come too near," Miss Ri told him. He waited till they were seated and then took his old place, looking at first one then the other. Linda thought him charming with a nobly intellectual head, hair white and fine as floss, waving thickly around a face full of strength and sweetness, eyes both wise and kind, still showing brilliancy. The rather high and prominent nose was saved from coarseness by delicate nostrils, the mouth had not lost its shapeliness nor the chin its firmness. Before Linda had time for many words with the judge Mrs. Goldsborough entered to welcome them warmly and to carry them upstairs to lay aside their wraps. A white-curtained room exhibiting the beauty lent by handsome old furniture and exquisite neatness was placed at their disposal. The windows on one side looked out on the river, on the other was obtained a view of fields and garden. A little negro boy chasing chickens was the liveliest object in sight. It was quite necessary that chickens be caught for a company dinner, as Linda well knew. The children were all at school, Mrs. Goldsborough told them, all but the eldest daughter who was in Baltimore where an aunt would chaperon her in this her débutante season. The younger children had a governess at home, the two older boys were at St. John's in Annapolis. Mrs. Goldsborough, a very neat, still rather pretty woman, was graciousness itself, and would fain have carried Miss Ri off for a long talk, but that she must be down-stairs to oversee the rather inefficient servants which the country supplied. So the visitors were handed over to the judge and his son. Miss Ri was not long in bringing the conversation around to where she wanted it, and began her queries on the subject of the Talbot estates, giving the judge her reasons for asking. With the intricacies of a conjectural case in view the judge threw up his head like an old war horse and declared his opinion. "Any flaw in the title to Jim Talbot's property? Of course not. He was the eldest son as his father and grandfather were before him. The home plantation was always left to the eldest son. Madison Talbot bought Addition from his brother Cyrus when he went west, I am sure of that. Talbot's Addition was what Cyrus inherited from his father, while Madison had the Angles. Oh, I can't make any mistake there. Anyone who claims the Angles can't have a shred of proof. I've a lot of papers somewhere; I'll get them out, Maria, and you shall hear from me. Dick, don't let me forget that. I think the papers are in the old secretary in my office, but I am not sure; they may have been moved. Who is this young man, Maria, who says he is the great grandson of Cyrus Talbot? Let me see. Hm!" He put the tips of his delicate fingers together and bent his gaze on the fire. "Cyrus had a son who was killed in the War of 1812, I remember that, but this son was unmarried. There was a daughter who went away with him." "Lovina, wasn't it?" "Yes, that was the name. I remember all that. You can't get me confused when it comes to those old matters, Maria; it is what happened yesterday that I forget. I'll look up those papers, however, and we will see if there is any sort of complication. Dinner, did you say, Julia? Maria, allow me. Dick, will you take out Miss Talbot?" And in this stately and formal manner they were conducted to the dining-room where was spread such a meal as one rarely sees except in just such a house in just such a locality. A great platter of fried chicken stood at one end of the table, a home-cured ham at the other, oysters, numerous vegetables smothered in rich cream, homemade jellies, pickles and sauces, the ever-present beaten biscuits, corn bread, wheat bread, all were there, and at the last a dainty dessert served with thick cream and pound cake. The judge entertained them with many a tale of the days when he was young, when Martin Talbot, Senior, and he were chums, when old Admiral Hill used to sail over to Sandbridge from Annapolis to spend a holiday in his old home and to stir the boys' young blood with his sea stories. It was after dinner that Miss Ri had a chance to talk to the old man in confidence and to tell him of Linda's misfortunes while he frowned and shook his head and spoke of men who disgraced themselves and their families by marrying beneath them, and at last he became so scornful of "John Blair's people," that Miss Ri was glad Linda was not at hand to hear. She was with the children and their pretty young governess out in the little school-house where the day's lessons were had, and it was only when she was sent for that she realized how happy a time she was having. CHAPTER XIV TWO BUGGIES It was with difficulty that the two visitors were able to take their leave that afternoon, and only the promise to come again and stay longer gave them liberty to go without hurting the feelings of these old friends. The little lad from Mackenzie had been dismissed long before, and it was Mr. Dick Goldsborough himself who insisted upon setting them upon their way. The dear old judge stood on the porch to wave a last farewell and to repeat his promise to look into the matter of Talbot plantations. Linda wondered how it must seem to Miss Ri to be driving behind the horses of her former lover, himself holding the reins. She tried to place herself in a like position but when she attempted to replace Mr. Goldsborough in her mind with some other, two quite different persons would appear, and she could decide on neither. Instead of going around by the old church they took the shorter way to the village which brought them to the borders of a stream where Mr. Goldsborough left them to be ferried across, thus saving some miles of travel. It was a very usual way of getting about in that part of the country where waterways were so numerous. From the old church at Talbot's Angles one could watch many of the congregation approaching in boats from the opposite shore of the creek, and when, before an approaching gale the tide would rise to cover the road, the little boats would be rowed in through the gateway half way up the path that they might land their passengers. It was therefore no novelty to be transported to the upper end of the village by means of the little boat, though it involved a walk down the long street to the lower end. Miss Ri looked at her watch as they started on this walk. "It is earlier than I thought," she remarked. "The days are getting so short one cannot realize the time. The train doesn't leave till seven, and we have over an hour to spare. What shall we do with ourselves?" "We don't want to go to the postoffice to be stared at," returned Linda, "so perhaps we'd better entertain one another as best we can at the station; it seemed rather a horrid little place, but what better can we do?" However, this experiment was spared them, for they had not gone more than half way to their destination when they were pleasantly accosted by a man who was coming from the other direction. "I believe you are the ladies who came from Sandbridge on the train this morning," he began. "I am Mr. Brown, the agent of the railroad, and as such I feel that I must extend you such hospitality as we have to offer. Our accommodations at the station are rather poor, and you have a long wait before you, for I suppose you take the seven o'clock train." "Yes, we intended to," Miss Ri told him. "Then I beg that you will make yourselves comfortable at my house. It is only a step away. I am sure you will find it a better place to wait than the station." He was so evidently anxious for the good repute of the village, and was so earnestly sincere in his invitation that there was but one thing to do, and that to accept. Mr. Brown conducted them up on the porch of a neat little house, opened the door and ushered them into an orderly sitting-room where he saw that they were provided with the most comfortable of the chairs and then he settled himself to entertain them. But a very few remarks had been exchanged before he sprang to his feet with a shocked expression on his face. "Ladies," he exclaimed, "I am entirely forgetting that you will not be able to get any supper before you reach home, and that it will be then very late. What was I thinking of? We have only just finished our own meal, and--Excuse me, but I must speak to Mrs. Brown," and before they could utter a word of protest he rushed from the room. "Do you suppose he has gone to fetch the keys of the city?" whispered Linda. "What are we to do, Aunt Ri? We can't run, for there is nowhere that we can escape, and--" She was interrupted by the entrance of their host with his wife, who, though somewhat less importunate, was nevertheless quite determined that the strangers should not leave the town without being properly fed, and this in spite of Miss Ri's protest that they had brought some fruit and biscuits with them, and that they really needed nothing more. Mr. Brown waved all such suggestions aside. Therefore, seeing that it would be less rude to accept the proffered hospitality they followed Mrs. Brown to the small dining-room where a dainty little meal was soon spread for them, served by Mrs. Brown and her sister, Miss Weedon. The rain, which the gathering clouds in the west had threatened that morning, and which had begun to drop before they entered the house, was coming down in torrents by the time the meal was over, and was accompanied by heavy rolls of thunder and vivid lightning. At each resounding peal and sharp flash the hostess and her sister would disappear within the recesses of a darkened room somewhere beyond, issuing only when there was a lull in the storm. "It is rather unusual to have so heavy a thunderstorm this late in the season," Miss Ri was remarking when from the station someone came in haste to say that lightning had struck the building and would Mr. Brown come at once. He hurried off, though not without the parting assurance that he would soon return, leaving his wife and Miss Weedon divided between the responsibility of remaining with their guests and their desire to escape to the darkened room. The storm, however, seemed to have spent its fury in hurling a final bolt at the station, and the timid women had the hardihood to remain in the outer room while only sullen mutterings once in a while reached them. Miss Ri and Linda did their best to reassure them, but in the face of the fact that lightning had struck so near, this was not easy to do. It was getting on toward train time, and though the station was but a short walk the two visitors wondered how they were to reach it without umbrellas, but in spite of the confusion occasioned by the lightning shock, they were not forgotten by good Mr. Brown, who, true to his feeling of responsibility as agent, appeared with umbrellas at the proper moment, and bore them off with the manner of one who would furnish a band of music if he could. He was faithful to the last, piloting them to seats in the car, telling the conductor to look after them, and at the last expressing regret at the coming of the storm as if he were in some way accountable for it. He came to the car window to urge them to come again when it should be made more agreeable for them, then as the train began to move off, he stood, hat in hand till darkness hid him from sight. "That is what I call a true Maryland gentleman," said Miss Ri. "Did you ever meet such beautiful hospitality, and isn't it worth while to find out that it has not entirely disappeared from the land?" "I wouldn't have missed it for anything," declared Linda. "It has been a wonderful trip, Aunt Ri, from beginning to end." "And the end is not yet," responded Miss Ri with prophetic vision. "I don't see what more could happen," rejoined Linda. What could happen was made very obvious as they stepped from the train at Boxford, for they had hardly alighted before Berkley Matthews rushed up to them. "Here you are," he cried, as if it were quite to be expected that he would meet them. "It has been a pretty bad storm and I didn't know whether you would venture or not, but I thought I'd be on the safe side. Now--" But he had not finished his sentence when another figure loomed up in the doorway of the dimly lighted waiting-room, and who should come forward but Wyatt Jeffreys. The two men looked at one another and each gave a little embarrassed laugh. "I didn't know you were here, Jeffreys," said Berkley. "Nor did I know you were," was the reply. "How long since you came?" "Oh, half an hour or so. When did you get in?" "Just at this moment. I suppose I don't know the road quite as well as you do." "Linda, will you give me the pleasure of taking you to Sandbridge in my buggy," broke in Berkley with visible haste. Miss Ri chuckled. "Go with him, Linda, and I'll give Mr. Jeffreys the inestimable privilege of taking me, that is, if he intends going back to-night. Perhaps you were going on by train, Mr. Jeffreys?" "Oh, no, I came up--I came up," he was not so ready to announce his purpose as Berkley. "I thought you ladies might not be provided against the storm," he continued, "and it seemed to me that I might perhaps be of use in some way." "And you were quite right," Miss Ri returned. "It saves me the bother of hunting up a team from the stables, or of deciding upon the other alternative of spending the night in Boxford, something I would much prefer not to do. Where is your buggy? I know the road perfectly." So Mr. Jeffreys was forced to hide whatever disappointment he might feel while Berkley bore off Linda to where his buggy, well provided with rain-proof covers, stood under shelter of the station's shed. Well protected from the weather Linda and her escort drove off hidden behind the oilcloth curtains on which the rain pattered steadily. The lights of the buggy sent long beams over the wet shell road, the air had a mingled odor of salt marsh and moist, fallen autumn leaves. From the clouds rolling off overhead, once in a while rumbled muffled peals of thunder. Berk's horse responded to his master's slightest word, and on a worse night and over worse roads could be depended upon, so Berkley assured his companion. "So you've been to see the old judge," said the young man by way of beginning conversation. "Isn't he a fine old fellow?" "He is the dearest old man I ever saw," returned Linda enthusiastically. "He has such a beautiful head, and if one wanted to meet the very pattern of an old time courtly gentleman he would have to go no further than Judge Goldsborough." "I quite agree with you, and I wish I could ever hope to become anything like him, but nature has not endowed me with his fine presence nor with his brains." "But you can hope to be J. S. D., you know." "I don't know. The some day seems a very far cry, just now." He was silent a moment before he asked: "What did the judge have to say to you, Linda?" "Miss Ri asked him about the Talbot estates and he appeared quite sure that there could be no complications as regards Talbot's Angles, at least. He said he had some old papers which might give him some points about the other places." "He ought to know if anyone does," returned Berkley. "Suppose there should be complications, Linda, and suppose it should be Talbot's Angles that Jeffreys lays claim to, and that he proved a legitimate claim, what then?" "I'd not be much worse off than I am now." "Oh, yes, you would. There is the chance of your sister-in-law marrying again." "Which I don't think she is liable to do. I don't know that I would mind Mr. Jeffreys' having it any more than I do that Grace should. He, at least, is of the Talbot blood." "There is something in that. I wish it were all yours; I can't bear the idea of your wearing yourself out teaching, Linda." The words came with caressing concern. "I am more fortunate than most. Think of my having a home with Miss Ri, and among my own people. I suppose it actually isn't so much that the teaching is difficult as that I am so constituted that I can't really love it. It is a great thing to make one's living in the way one likes best; that seems to me to be half the battle." "And what is it you like best?" "To scribble." "Have you sent out any more of your work?" "No, but I intend to." "And I hope you will finally meet such success that you can give yourself up to that kind of work. I agree with you that one ought to discover what are his best powers and make the best use of them he possibly can; if he would be happy." "You are happy in your work, Berk, aren't you?" "Yes, I love it, thank fortune, and I am beginning to see glimpses of a future." "That is good," returned Linda with satisfaction. "You deserve success, Berk." "No more than others." "Much more than most others. Was ever a better son, or brother, if it comes to that?" "Oh, nonsense, it is no sacrifice to do things for those you love; in fact, I've been rather selfish in pleasing myself, indulging my love of bestowing. It is really no credit to give because one enjoys it." "Then there is no such thing as unselfishness in the world." "Oh, yes, there is; when one does a thing he doesn't like, or gives up something he really wants very much; that is my idea of unselfishness." "Then am I or am I not to consider that you have performed a selfish act in coming all the way to Boxford for me in all this rain?" asked Linda laughing. There may have been a little coquetry in the question, but she was hardly prepared for the seriousness of the reply. "It was purely and entirely selfish on my part. It was the one thing I wanted most to do, and I would go much further and through a thousand greater difficulties for you. In fact, there is nothing I wouldn't do to make you happy, Linda Talbot." "There's chivalry for you," returned Linda, determined to take the answer as lightly as possible. The warmth but not the earnestness had gone out of his tones when he made the next remark: "I wish I could make it possible for you to stop teaching, Linda." "Marry Grace off and get back Talbot's Angles for me, and I will stop," she replied in a matter-of-fact tone. "Then would you go down there to live?" "No, I'd still let Phillips have the place, but I would go down there often, and it would bring me enough to live on. I could persuade Miss Ri to spend part of the year there, maybe, and--oh, wouldn't it be lovely?" Berkley did not reply, but spoke to his horse, "Go on there, Jerry." They had been driving so slowly that the other buggy had passed them though Berkley's was the fleeter horse. But now they sped along over the hard wet road, silence between them. Linda's imagination was busy picturing the delights of having the old homestead for her very own, and was fancying days spent there with Miss Ri and Mammy, for of course Mammy would go. She was roused by hearing Berkley say in a hard dispassionate voice, "Then your dearest wish on earth is to possess Talbot's Angles." "I really think it is. I don't suppose it is very nice of me to feel so about what belongs to another, but I confess to you, Berk, that I can't help counting a little on Grace's marrying again." "That is perfectly natural, and it isn't half so bad as wishing her dead, though some might think so," he added. Then after a moment's silence: "Linda, I was selfish to carry you off this way without giving you any choice in the matter. Perhaps you would rather have gone with Jeffreys. It isn't too late to change now, if you say so. We can easily overtake his buggy." "At the eleventh hour? No, I thank you, not after I am comfortably settled and safe from the rain. You have tucked me in so well, Berk. I don't believe Mr. Jeffreys could have done it half so well, but probably he has not had the experience you have. I might enjoy variety of companionship, but my bodily comfort is worth more to me." Linda was very skilful in giving non-committal replies it seemed. Berkley drew a little sigh; whether of relief or disappointment Linda could not determine. They had nearly overtaken the other two by now and soon had passed them, reaching home before the others. Berkley refused to come in; spite of inducements in the shape of hot coffee and sandwiches. Mr. Jeffreys, however, was not averse to joining in a late supper, and taking his horse around to shelter, he returned to the house while Berkley bade all good-night and drove off in the rain. Anyone noticing the little office opposite the Jackson House would have seen a light there burning nearly all night, and could he have looked in he would have observed a young man whose earnest eyes were bent upon pages of yellow manuscript. These absorbed him so closely that the clock in the church tower struck three before he aroused himself. Even then he did not leave the place, but sat with elbows on desk and head in hands for another hour. Then, turning out the light and locking the door he crossed the street to the hotel where the watchman, snoring in his chair, paid no heed to the quiet entrance of this late guest. Long before this Linda had said good-night to her departing relative, but the words which haunted her before she dropped asleep were not his unemotional and polite phrases, but the words spoken softly, caressingly yet with subdued fire: "There is nothing I would not do to make you happy, Linda Talbot." Was there a confession? Dared she understand it so? CHAPTER XV A DISTINCT SENSATION For two days the storm continued, increasing to a gale which whipped the waters of the placid river to a yellow angry flood, and beat the few remaining leaves from their clasp on the trees. During this time Linda and Miss Ri kept indoors as closely as they could, their chief visitor being Mr. Jeffreys. Miss Parthy, to be sure, paddled up the walk to the back door in all the rain, and Bertie Bryan's rosy face peeped in at them one afternoon, but Berkley did not come near, and no one guessed his reason for staying away. How great a struggle had been going on in the young man's mind none associated with him imagined. Since that night when it was disclosed to him through the papers which Mr. Jeffreys had left in his care, that there was a possibility of Linda's losing her chance to inherit Talbot's Angles, he had fought his giants; one his love for the girl, the other the temptation to withhold the more important papers. He need not destroy them; he would only set them aside, and tell Jeffreys there was not sufficient evidence to warrant a legal claim. At last, however, when he must really face the issue, he laughed at such an idea, and realized that there was but one thing for him to do. He would give up Linda to his rival. Why should Jeffreys not possess the property as well as Grace? So, perhaps, would Linda be given her dearest wish. That day at the postoffice it had been revealed to him what his feeling for the girl really meant, and from that moment his love had grown stronger, deeper, fuller. On that rainy night he had nearly spoken of his feeling for her. Had she spoken less lightly he might have done so, even though at that time his cursory glance at the papers had given him some belief in the justice of Jeffreys' claim. But he had recognized that the girl herself was still heart free, and therefore, though there might be a chance for him he must keep away, must make excuses not to see her. He must assume a great air of one too absorbed in business to spare time for visiting his friends. He could manage all that. But first he must pave the way. He would go and tell them all that to Jeffreys would probably fall the old homestead, and he would say: "Better into the hands of an honest and honorable man, the descendant of the old stock, than to Grace Talbot." He would praise this future owner, and would plant the seeds which should blossom into regard and affection. Jeffreys was a good fellow, a little stiff, maybe, but a man of strict morality and--the fight was bitter--he would make her a good husband. He shrank from making the revelation which should first suggest to Linda that it was really Talbot's Angles to which the papers referred. He could see her startled look, her fluttering hands, the color coming and going in her cheeks. He bit his lip fiercely and tramped up and down his small office savagely. Why should this ordeal be his to meet? He would turn it over to some other, Miss Ri, perhaps. "I can't do it," he cried aloud. "I'll fling the whole dog-goned pack of papers into the river first." Her dearest wish! He stopped short. Could he supply it? Was he able to buy Talbot's Angles supposing it were for sale? What nonsense. He laughed mirthlessly. "I am a pretty sort of duffer," he exclaimed. "What am I thinking of?" He jammed his hat upon his head, slammed the door behind him and strode down the street, passing Uncle Moke without a word and with such a set look on his face as caused the old man to mumble, "Mr. Berk sholy is riled. Look lak he gwine 'res' some o' dese bank robbers, or sumpin." Berkley's step never faltered as he marched on with head up, as one going to battle. His savage peal of the door-bell brought Miss Ri in haste. Her face cleared when she saw who it was. "Well, Berk," she exclaimed, "what a mighty pull you did give, to be sure. Come in, come in and help us celebrate. We've a great piece of news for you." He entered the room, where Linda sat, her face all alight, and some distance away, Mr. Jeffreys, with a queer strained expression in his eyes, but a forced smile upon his lips. On the table stood a tray with glasses filled with some of Miss Ri's famous homemade wine. "Here comes another to help us celebrate," cried Miss Ri. "Get another glass, Verlinda." She filled it, when brought, from the heavy old decanter and, holding her own glass aloft, she exclaimed: "Here's to the next owner of Talbot's Angles!" Berkley's hand shook so that his glass overflowed and a few drops were spilled. His eyes met those of the other man. Neither spoke, nor did either touch the wine. "You don't understand my toast," cried Miss Ri, looking from one to the other. "Grace Talbot is going to marry Major Forbes, and Linda will have her heart's desire." "Of course, I'll drink to Linda, if that is what you mean," said Berkley, recovering himself and tossing off the contents of the glass, while Mr. Jeffreys echoed: "Of course, we'll drink to Miss Linda." Berkley sat down, his head in a whirl. This put an entirely different face on the matter. He would have to think it over. This was no time to force conclusions. He scarcely heard Linda's eager account of the letter she had that day received from her sister-in-law. "It was so like Grace," she told him. "Major Forbes was such an old friend--" "Quite old," put in Miss Ri. "He must be sixty, if he's a day." "And she was such a dependent creature," Linda went on. "It seemed only proper that these two starved hearts should be united. She hoped Linda would not think she had been precipitate, but it had been eight months since poor Martin--not darling Martin any more--" Linda commented sadly, "and she would, of course, wait for the full year to pass. She felt that dear Linda would be pleased, not only because of Grace's happiness, but because it would benefit her. She must not think that little Grace was unmindful of that part of it. She had it in mind to do what she could for Martin's sister and, though it was a sacrifice to give up her home to Linda, it was done cheerfully. Linda must feel assured of that." "Now, isn't it like that woman to take such an attitude," sneered Miss Ri. "Give it up? She can't help herself, as I see it." "Major Forbes is abundantly able to keep me in the style to which I have been accustomed," Linda read--another sneer from Miss Ri--"and I am sure I shall be happier than living a lonely and forlorn widowhood," and so on and so on. As Linda's soft slow tones ceased, Berkley roused himself to say, "I only dropped in for a minute. I am terribly busy these days. I must run right back to the office." He did not look at Mr. Jeffreys, but shook hands with Miss Ri. "Sorry I can't stay," he said nervously. "I'll come again as soon as I get time, Miss Ri." Linda followed him to the door. "Aren't you glad, Berk?" she asked wistfully. He looked past her down the street. "Glad? Of course, I'm glad," he said, then he ran down the steps, Linda looking after him with a quivering lip. She returned to find that Mr. Jeffreys, too, had gone. "By the side door," explained Miss Ri. Linda went over to the fireplace and put her foot on the fender, her back to Miss Ri, that the latter might not see the tears which filled her eyes. "They weren't a bit glad, either of them," she said presently. "I thought Berk would be, anyhow. Don't you think he acted queerly, Aunt Ri?" "I think they both did; but it may have been that they were completely bowled over with surprise. You know we could scarcely believe it at first, ourselves, and men are much slower to grasp things than women. They were dumbfounded, that was all and, no doubt, Berk is busy. I hope he is. So much the better for him, my dear." Linda made no response. She was not aware that Berkley had gone back to his office to wage another battle. What a turn of fate, to be sure, and now what was to be done? It would be Linda, Linda who was to be deprived of her own, and his must be the hand to deal the blow. Those papers! He struck them with his clenched fist, as he stood over his desk, and if a smothered oath escaped him, it is to be hoped the recording angel failed to register it against him. "There is one thing certain," he told himself; "if the thing is to be carried on, I'll throw up the case. I'll be hanged if I have anything to do with it." He picked up a letter which he had laid aside, sat down, and began to read it over. It was from Cyrus Talbot to his brother Madison, and it read: "You say that your property Addition has not suffered as much as some others, but that on account of hard times, you do not feel it possible at this time to rebuild the house burnt some months ago; therefore, since evil times have befallen you by reason of the ravages of war, I am quite willing that you should continue to occupy the house at Talbot's Angles; but as soon as peace visits our land, I would esteem it a favor, if you would find someone to take the plantation itself, paying me a yearly rental, which shall be fixed as circumstances allow. My own affairs here continue to prosper, and I do not think I shall return to Maryland, having found me a wife whose relatives live in close proximity and are a God-fearing and industrious people. I shall be glad to hear from you as occasion permits, and subscribe myself "Your aff. brother, "CYRUS." This letter appeared never to have been sent, but there were others bearing upon the subject from Madison to his brother. It seemed from them that Madison was able to find a tenant for the Angles, but in time he proved unsatisfactory, as there were many reports of his thriftlessness, and at the time of Cyrus's death the place lay idle. That this place was Talbot's Angles appeared evident from references to certain fields lying next the old church, and in an account of some disaster befalling the old windmill in a heavy storm. There were, too, old receipts and bills which identified the property and proved that, at least during the life of Cyrus Talbot, it had been in his possession, whatever may have happened afterward. Owing to the fact that many deeds and records had been destroyed during the War of 1812 and later during the Civil War, when neglect and indifference caused many legal papers to be lost, it promised to be a difficult thing to trace the ownership through succeeding years, unless further proof could be found. At last Berkley happened upon a letter dated much later, a letter from Linda's own father to Charles Jeffreys. It said: "I have looked into the matter you bring to my notice, and I find that you are right in most of your surmises; but, as the place lay idle and neglected for a number of years, tenantless and abandoned, it was in no condition to bring in any return when I took it in hand. I have spent a good deal on it, and if you are willing to consider this outlay as rental for the time being, I shall be glad to be considered as your tenant, otherwise I must give up the place. Since the slaves were freed, labor is difficult to get, and I cannot afford to bring up so neglected a place at my own expense and pay rent besides. We have continued to live in the old house, which has been kept in good repair. Later on, we may be able to come to a different arrangement; but at present it seems to me it would be to your better advantage if you allow matters to remain as they are. If you take the property into your own hands, much money will have to be spent on it before it can bring you any appreciable return." "Twenty-five years ago," mused Berkley. "I wonder if Martin knew, or whether a different arrangement was at last made. I imagine not and that the place was allowed to remain in James Talbot's hands in return for what he might do for it. That is the latest information to be had, that I can see, and there is really nothing more to be found out from these papers." He rested his head on his hand and remained lost in deep thought. For all Miss Ri's decided announcement that he might even perjure himself for one he loved, that was something Berkley Matthews would never do. No, there was no help for it; facts were facts, and he must let them be known. Could he ever expect to win Linda's love and respect, if he had won her by such unworthy means? Would he not always be playing a false part, and would not the result fail of good to him and to her? No, a dishonorable transaction, no matter what its motive, would never do to base true love upon. Let things take their course, and let the best man win. It might be, after all, that she would not marry Jeffreys, in spite of his prospects. But this hope he dared not cherish. He pressed his hand over his eyes, as if he would shut out too bright a vision, and just then the door of his office opened and in walked Mr. Jeffreys. Berkley turned sharply at the sudden entrance. "Ah," he exclaimed, "you are just the man I was thinking of. I've been going over these papers again, Jeffreys, and so far as I can judge, it looks like a pretty good case. Sit down and we'll talk it over." Jeffreys drew up a chair. Berkley wheeled around and the two sat facing one another. "Of course," Berkley began, "you realize that the property referred to is Miss Talbot's old home, Talbot's Angles." Mr. Jeffreys looked down. "Yes, I inferred so, although at first I was uncertain, not knowing as much as I do now." "The records will have to be searched, of course, and we can find out who has been paying taxes and all that, you understand. I don't know that I shall have time to attend to it myself; I am pretty busy just now." "That is too bad; I depended on you, Matthews." "I know you did, but--" Wyatt Jeffreys leaned forward. "Is it only because you are busy? Is that the only reason?" Berkley did not answer at once; then he parried the question. "What other reason could there be?" "Your interest in Miss Talbot. I realize, Matthews, that I have come down here a perfect stranger to deprive a very lovely young woman of her property, and that you should in all reason feel antagonistic is not to be wondered at. I think you have known for some time that it was her property that I claimed." "I have known it only since I made a closer examination of these papers." "Very well; that does not alter the fact that you have been uniformly kind and considerate so far as I was concerned, and therefore I feel that I can speak as man to man." He paused. "Unless you have a prior claim, there is no need of Miss Talbot's losing her property if--" "She will take you with it," Berkley filled the pause. "I understand." The crucial moment had come. Berkley suddenly swung his chair around, his face, turned from the other, was white and set, but he said steadily, "That would certainly be the best way out of the difficulty. I have no prior claim, Jeffreys, and I wish you success." He swung himself back again and held out his hand. The other took it in a firm grip. "That is good of you, Matthews. I appreciate your kindness more than I can say." There was silence, broken by Mr. Jeffreys, who went on: "If it is only the matter of delay then, Matthews, I can wait your good pleasure, if you will take up my case." Berkley gave himself time before he answered. Why shouldn't he take the case? What odds, now, what Linda thought? He had relinquished all rights to her consideration. If he did not hunt up the evidence, someone else would, and she be no better off. If he must disregard her, he could at least be true to Jeffreys. "I'll not go back on my word. I'll take it," he said shortly. "I've kept a busy man too long," said Jeffreys rising, "but I hope some day I can show my appreciation of what you are doing for me, in more ways than one," he added with a smile. He held out his hand. Berkley took it mechanically, saying, "Good-night." "Good-evening," returned Mr. Jeffreys, and he went out. It was not late, though growing dark, but to Berkley it had become darkest night. Never, till that moment, had he realized how strong a hold upon him his affection for Linda had taken. She was so sweet, so gentle, one whose presence always brought calm and peace, yet she could be very droll and merry, very bright and entertaining, with a blessed grace of humor. With all her poetic fancy there was the domestic side, too, which had made her the successful housekeeper when yet but a school girl. And how dainty she always was, how womanly her little frills and simple ornaments. Even the way her dark hair grew around her pretty low forehead, and was worn parted above it, made her distinctive from other girls, whose monstrous puffs and braids gave them a top-heavy look. What a woman for a man to come home to after a day of stress. She, who had striven for her daily bread, how well she would understand what a man's battle of life meant. His first impulse was to throw everything to the winds, to snatch up his hat and rush off to her, beg her to listen to him, tell her he would work for her, live for her, die for her. He stood for a moment, trembling with intensity of feeling, then he sat heavily down again. "I can't do it," he whispered. "I must think of her, of what is best for her." Moments passed. The street lamps shone out, footsteps echoed and reëchoed. Some boys went by singing. In the darkness Berkley sat very quietly, only once in a while he whispered, "Oh, God! oh, God!" as one who has found his Gethsemane. The hours wore on, the street grew very quiet, the rumbling of wagons, the tread of passers-by ceased. Lights in the lower stories of the houses began to be extinguished, while those above showed in first one room and then another. Berkley finally arose, stumbled uncertainly across the street and up to his room, where he threw himself across his bed, face down, and lay there all night wrestling with himself. CHAPTER XVI "BEGONE, DULL CARE" The days slipped by till the Christmas holidays were at hand. Linda was busy with her school. Miss Ri occupied herself with the hundred things which kept her interests alive. Her clubs, church meetings, visits to sick neighbors, public and private charities, all filled her days to overflowing. Mr. Jeffreys called regularly, so it came to be an understood thing that he would appear either afternoon or evening. Berkley visited the house seldom, and rarely when Linda was at home. He would run in once in a while, asserting that he was too busy to stay and had only dropped in to say "Howdy." He would question Miss Ri about her affairs, but before she could turn her queries upon him, he would be off. After that one bitter fight, he had himself well in hand, and the fact that he worked far into the night and was fast gaining a reputation for industry and exactness, not only bore out his statements, but caused him to stand well with the older lawyers. "That's a young man who will make his mark," said Judge Baker to Miss Ri one morning when he met her on the street--Berkley had just passed them with a swift bow--"though I am afraid he is working too hard." "I'll have to haul him over the coals," returned Miss Ri. "You know he is a great favorite of mine, Judge." "So I have observed. Give him a little motherly advice, Miss Ri. He needs it. He mustn't be burning the candle at both ends; but I prophecy, that if he continues to exhibit the keenness and skill he is developing, he will be judge some day." The words returned to Miss Ri as she walked down street, and her thoughts went back to the trunk and then to the papers. There had been no news from Judge Goldsborough, and there appeared to be an absolute lull. Mr. Jeffreys had announced that Berkley was going to take up the case as soon as he had time, and so it stood. If Linda missed Berkley, she did not say so, and never commented upon his sins of omission. She accepted Mr. Jeffreys' constant attention as a matter of course, was chagrined only when he refused to tell her about his claim, for he always set aside the question with, "We cannot tell definitely as yet." "He is such a cautious, deliberate person," complained the girl one day to Miss Ri. "I wish he would show a little more spontaneity." "I thought you admired his beautiful dignity and reserve." "Oh, I do; except when I want my curiosity satisfied," laughed Linda. "I don't doubt but that he says what he really means, which is more than can be believed of some persons I know." Miss Ri gave her a sharp, quick look, but made no comment. Her crochet needle moved swiftly in and out the meshes of white wool she held. "Verlinda," she said presently, "how would you like to go up to the city for your holiday? I invite you as my guest. We can get someone to stay here in the house to keep Phebe satisfied, and we'll have a real rollicking time going to the theatre, shopping, seeing our friends, and giddy-gadding generally. What do you say to it?" "Oh, Aunt Ri, it would be perfectly delightful, but--" "But what?" "Won't it be very expensive?" "It won't be too expensive. I've just had a dividend I didn't expect, and I can't think of a pleasanter way of spending it. I hate to go poking around by myself, and I don't know anyone whom it would be more real joy to have with me." "Not Miss Parthy?" "Oh, Parthy's an old stick when it comes to the city. She isn't young enough," Miss Ri laughed comfortably. Linda sat bending over an embroidered piece she was doing for Grace's Christmas. There was a reminiscent look on her face. This would be her first Christmas since Martin died. It would be hard not to spend the day as usual in the old home, and harder still not to hear the voice of him who had always made Christmas a happy day for her. Yet, after all, it would be less lonely with Miss Ri, for had not the dear woman made this a true home for her? It was like her to plan this outing, that the girl might not yearn too deeply for past joys. There would not be the old church to decorate, as in the years gone by, but on Christmas Eve she could take wreaths to the churchyard. Her thoughts were far away when Miss Ri's voice roused her. "Well, shall we go?" "If you really think you would enjoy having me," answered Linda, coming back to the present. "I think you are a darling to ask me." "Of course I'd enjoy having you. We can have our Christmas here--Phebe would be broken-hearted if we didn't allow her to cook our Christmas dinner--and then we'll pack up our duds and go. I don't know that I can take you to any big functions, but we can have a mighty good time, I truly believe. We ought to have someone to dine with us on Christmas Day to make it more festive. I'd ask Berk, but he wouldn't miss spending the day with his mother for worlds. We might have Parthy and Mr. Jeffreys. Parthy hasn't any too good a woman in the kitchen, and it would suit all around; give her a rest and please the cook." So it was arranged, and Linda looked forward quite joyously to the ten days in the city. Never before had such a treat been hers; a few days at a time had been the utmost of her stay. She had gone to her brother's wedding, a showy affair in which she had little heart, and had several times remained with a friend over Sunday, but this was a very different affair. Phebe, on being consulted as to whom she would prefer to look after while the two were absent, gave an unqualified vote for Mr. Berk. "He so jokey, Miss Ri," she said, "an' he do look at my wittles lak he can't wait. Den he a gem'man. I laks to wait on a rale gem'man, one o' de ole fambly kin'. Mr. Jeffs he a gem'man, too, I specs, but he don' know nuffin how to talk to us niggers. He so solemn, lak ole owl, or fo' all de worl' lak a preacher. He tas'es dis an' he tas'es dat lak he dunno whe'r he gwine lak it or no. Mr. Berk he shake he haid an' say, 'Um-um, dat sholy look good.' Mr. Jeffs ack lak he feard somebody think he enjyin' hisse'f, but Mr. Berk thes pitch in an enjy hisse'f 'thout carin' what anybody think." Miss Ri laughed and, upon the occasion of her next walk down town, stopped at Berk's office to ask if he would take possession and sleep nights at her house during the holidays. He responded with alacrity, promising to behave himself, but begging that he might be allowed to take his meals at the hotel. "And disappoint Phebe? Never!" cried Miss Ri. "She is counting upon feeding you up. I told her you were getting thin and pale because they didn't give you enough to eat at the Jackson House, and she is fairly aching to provide for you. She will have to cook for herself, and why not for you? Besides, you are her choice of the whole townful, so you should feel flattered." "I do," returned Berkley, "and very grateful to both you and her. I'll come, Miss Ri. When do you start?" "The day after Christmas. You'll be back by then?" "Oh, yes, I'll be back. I shall go to town only for the day, and must be here for various reasons as soon as practicable." "Then that is settled. Merry Christmas, Berk. I wish you could dine with us, but I know your mother's mind, and I wouldn't even suggest such a thing." Miss Ri's box of books provided several gifts for outsiders, but for Linda was a special gift obtained, a fine soft evening cloak, something she did not possess, and which she would need during her holiday visit. From the new cousin came a handsome set of books and a box of flowers, the latter for both ladies. A very ornate, wholly impossible scarf of coarse texture arrived from Grace for her sister-in-law. "It just looks like her," commented Miss Ri. "You can always tell underbred people by the presents they give. No lady would look twice at a thing like that. Why didn't she send you one plain fine handkerchief, if she didn't want to spend her money for something handsome? It would at least have shown some refined taste." "I don't believe she knows any better," returned Linda, by way of excuse. "Exactly," replied Miss Ri. From Berk came merely an unostentatious little card for Linda, though for Miss Ri arrived a fine potted plant. "I'll allow you to look at it," remarked the recipient with a little laugh. Not even a card found its way from Linda to Berkley, though in her upper drawer lay a half-finished blue silk tie. She had stopped working on it long before. Mr. Jeffreys saw them off on a cold twenty-sixth of December. That same evening Berkley arrived to take possession of the room Miss Ri had told Phebe to make ready for him. Phebe, with her head tied up in a new kerchief, and with an immaculate expanse of white apron, was ready to receive him, to show him upstairs and to wait upon him hand and foot. She adored Linda, had great respect for Miss Ri, but "a rale young gem'man" awakened all the love of service within her, and if he had done the justice she expected to the meal she served, he would probably have died of indigestion that very night, and the close of this chapter would mark the end of this tale. However, whether from lack of appetite or for other reasons, he ate with discretion, and then retired to the sitting-room, where he worked over a budget of papers till near midnight. With candle in hand, he then went upstairs. As he passed through the upper hall he perceived the door of a room open. He tip-toed up to it, stood for a moment on the sill, then entered softly and with the expression of one approaching a sanctuary. Phebe had removed all suggestion of disorder, but she could not remove the subtle reminders of a girlish presence, which were suggested by the pictures on the wall, the books on the table, by the little slippers peeping from under the foot of the lounge. An end of ribbon fluttered out from behind the door of the small wash-closet, which stood partly open. Berkley gently lifted the satiny end and laid it against his cheek, then to his lips. After this, he tip-toed out again, closing the door softly behind him. He had this once entered a holy of holies, but he must not be tempted again. Meanwhile Miss Ri and Linda were settled at their hotel and were making plans for the next day. "I suppose I must go to see Grace," remarked Linda. "Oh, not right away," was Miss Ri's reply. "Wait till the memory of that scarf becomes a little more vague, then you will be able to thank her for it with some similitude of warmth. In the case of that gift, it is one of the instances when 'absence makes the heart grow fonder.' No, I have planned what we are to do to-morrow. In the morning we will go shopping; in the afternoon we will stay at home and receive calls; in the evening we will go to the theatre." "Oh, but, Aunt Ri, I haven't been going anywhere." "High time you did. I don't want you to do anything that might distress you, Verlinda, but I think a good play or two will do you a world of good. We will look at the paper and see what is going on. We must hear some good music. Perhaps there are to be some good concerts at the Peabody; we will find out. I don't believe in persons making a selfish indulgence of a sorrow. I am sure no one more than Martin would like you to have a pleasant, cheerful time. You need it, and we ought to do what is best for us." "Very well," Linda acquiesced. "I am in your hands, Aunt Ri. I will do as you say." Miss Ri looked pleased. "That is what I do like about you, Verlinda; you are always so sweetly reasonable. Come, let's go down to supper." It was rather a pleasant sensation to be one of the company which occupied the dining-room, and Linda enjoyed looking about her quite as much as she did the partaking of the excellent meal. They had just finished, when suddenly she caught sight of a party at one of the tables across the room. "Aunt Ri, Aunt Ri," she said, turning toward her companion. "Who do you think is over there, just across from us, a little to your rear? You'll have to turn your head--the Goldsboroughs. Mrs. Goldsborough, the governess, the two little girls, and an older one. She must be the débutante." Miss Ri turned her head, but by this time the little girls had caught sight of them and were smiling and nodding. "They've evidently come up for the holidays," said Miss Ri. "That Miss Carroll is quite a pretty girl, isn't she?" "Yes, I thought so when we met her the other day at 'Mary's Delight,' It was nice of them to bring her, wasn't it? She told me that she was very happy with the Goldsboroughs, that the children were dears, and that she was quite like a daughter in the house." "Julia would make her feel so. She is one of the kindest-hearted women in the world, and not the least of a snob. They are coming over to speak to us." The two groups met half way, and walked to the reception room together. Freddy, the eldest daughter, was bound for a theatre party and must hurry away. "She was named Fredericka, for her grandfather," Mrs. Goldsborough explained. The other little girls, Julia and Mary, sat one each side of Linda, on the sofa; Miss Carroll drew up a stool opposite, while Mrs. Goldsborough and Miss Ri settled themselves further away for a good talk. There were ever so many things going on in the city, the girls told Linda. One of their cousins was to have a tea, another had asked them to a box party, a third to a small dance. "We won't be out for two or three years yet," said Mary; "but we shall have just as good a time as Fred, if she is a débutante." Then there was much talk of this and that one who had come out that season; of Fred's engagements and the attention she was having, the twittering chat which young girls like. Miss Carroll smiled indulgently at the little chatterers, but once or twice gave Linda a look, as much as to say, "We know what it is worth." However, Linda enjoyed this glimpse into a frivolous world and went upstairs with Miss Ri without a thought to sadden her. There was a morning's shopping, luncheon at a quaint little place on Charles Street, a return to the hotel, an afternoon with the friends who had been notified of their arrival and who called promptly, then the theatre, and Linda's first day in the city was so full that she dropped to sleep with never a thought of Sandbridge and the friends there who might be missing her. The next day Miss Ri reluctantly consented to a call on Grace. The house where the Johnsons lived was in a new, rather than a fashionable part of the city. The room into which the maid showed them was pretentiously furnished, crowded with ornaments, ugly though expensive, the walls lined with poor pictures in gaudy frames. Money value, rather than good taste, was the keynote of the establishment, it was easily seen. After keeping them waiting for some time, Grace swept in wearing a new gown tinkling with jets and redolent with sachet. She made many apologies for having kept them waiting. "Such a surprise. So sorry I couldn't have known." She had been up so late the night before, and the rest of it. Were they up for a shopping expedition? There were so many good bargains after the holidays. [Illustration: "HE HAS GIVEN ME THE DEAREST RING."] She lifted her eyebrows and viewed Linda with surprise when told why they had come, where they were staying, and how long they intended to remain. She could not quite understand why Miss Ri should have invited anyone so uninteresting as she conceived her sister-in-law to be. Yet she did not voice her opinion, but only said gushingly, "Oh, then you'll be able to meet the dear Major. I do so want you to know him, Miss Hill, and you, too, Linda. Of course, the engagement cannot be announced except to the family, but he has given me the dearest ring, which I do not wear in public, naturally." She stretched out her plump hand and displayed the solitaire with much satisfaction. There was some talk upon trifling matters, then Grace, turning to Linda, said, "Oh, by the way, what about that Mr. Jeffreys? I had a note from Mr. Matthews a few days ago, and he tells me there is a claimant for Talbot's Angles, and that he is going to law about it. Mr. Matthews asked me if I knew of any old papers which might be in the house down there. I told him Mr. Phillips had the key and he would go with him to see what could be found. It would be sad, would it not, Miss Hill, if, after my effort to do what would seem best for Linda, the property should pass into other hands?" "Talbot's Angles? Are you sure it is Talbot's Angles?" asked Linda. "We have always thought it must be Addition, or even Timber Neck." "No, I am quite sure it is the Angles. Of course, that is the most valuable of the three places now, though the Major says none of them are worth so very much; but then he has such large ideas. The amount at which we value the place would be a mere bagatelle to him." The call was short. Miss Ri could not stand much of Grace, but they were urged to come soon again and to come in the evening, when the dear Major would be there. Grace was invited to have tea with the two at their hotel, an invitation which she accepted eagerly, and then the callers left. "Aunt Ri," began Linda as soon as they had turned from the house, "did you dream it was Talbot's Angles?" "Why, yes, dear; I half suspected it all the time." "Why?" "From the way those two, Berk and Mr. Jeffreys, acted." "And that is why you wanted to consult Judge Goldsborough?" "Yes, that was why." "But he says there is not a shred of proof." "He said so at first. Later, he was not so sure but there might be complications." "I understand." Linda was silent for some time; then she spoke again, following out her thoughts: "Aunt Ri, do you think that is why Berk has avoided me? Do you think he has known all this time?" Miss Ri hesitated before she made answer. "It may be that, Verlinda." Linda gave a little sigh. "I am sorry he had to feel that way about it. I wouldn't have blamed him, for he was not to blame, was he? He couldn't help it." "Not unless he chose to be disloyal to Mr. Jeffreys and dishonorable altogether." "And that he could never be. We know that, don't we, Aunt Ri? Shall we see his sister and mother, do you think?" "I am sure we shall. I wrote to Mrs. Matthews that we were coming." No more was said on the subject just then; but, in thinking it over in the seclusion of her room, it dawned upon Miss Ri that Linda was much more concerned for Berkley's part in the transaction than in her own loss of the property. "Well," she exclaimed, sitting down to face the situation, "this is a revelation. How on earth is it going to end now, I'd like to know." CHAPTER XVII AS WATER UNTO WINE The time passed as gaily as Miss Ri meant it should: in receiving and returning calls, in a little sight-seeing, in shopping, lunching, dining, a moderate amount of theatre-going. There was a visit to the old low-roofed, grey-shingled market one Saturday evening, when the Goldsborough girls, with their governess, begged Miss Ri and Linda to join them in a frolic. "We want to buy taffy," they said, "and see the funny people. Do go with us; it will be so jolly." The expedition was quite to Miss Ri's taste and, that Linda might have the experience, she urged the going. A merry time they all had of it, pushing their way from one end of the long market-house to the other, and then parading up and down outside, where the country people, with their wagons, exhibited their wares on tables improvised from a couple of barrels with boards laid across. A little of anything that might be salable was offered, from bunches of dried herbs to fat turkeys. "It hasn't changed a particle since I was a little girl," declared Miss Ri. "My uncle used to take me to market with him before breakfast on summer mornings, and would buy me a glass of ice cream from that very stand," she designated one with a bee-hive on its sign. "I wonder how I could eat such a thing so early in the morning, though then I thought it a great treat. On Saturday evenings in winter he always brought home a parcel of taffy, which tasted exactly as this does which we have bought to-night. And my aunt, I can see her now with a colored boy walking behind her carrying a huge basket, while she had a tiny one in which to bring home special dainties." "That custom isn't altogether done away with yet," Miss Carroll told her. "Some of the good old housekeepers still cling to their little baskets." "And a good thing, too," asserted Miss Ri. One afternoon, Grace brought her Major to call, and they found him to be a stout, elderly man, rather florid, a little consequential, but quite genial and polite, and evidently very proud of his young fiancée. "He's not so bad," commented Miss Ri, "although he is not of our stripe. I was sure he could not be a West Point man, and he isn't. He served in the Spanish War for a short time, he told me. However, I don't doubt that it is going to be a perfectly satisfactory marriage. He likes flattery, and Grace is an adept in bestowing it." Mrs. Matthews and her daughter, Margaret Edmondson, were among the very first to call and to offer an invitation to luncheon. "We shall not make a stranger of you any more than of Maria," said Mrs. Matthews, taking Linda's hands in hers. "I remember you so well as a little bit of a girl, of whom Berkley was always ready to make a playmate when you came to town. My first recollection of you is when I brought Berkie over at Miss Ri's request. You were no more than three and he was perhaps six or seven. You looked at him for a long time with those big blue eyes of yours, and then you said, 'Boy, take me to see the chickens.' You liked to peep through the fence at Miss Parthy's fowls, but were not allowed to go that far alone, you were such a little thing. From that day Berkie was always asking when Miss Ri's little girl was coming back, for you left that same evening." Miss Ri looked at Linda. Her face was flushed and her eyes downcast. "I shouldn't be surprised," put in Margaret, "if Berk were wishing now that Miss Ri's little girl would come back." Linda withdrew her hand from Mrs. Matthews' clasp and turned from the gentle face, whose eyes were searching hers. "Oh, you are mistaken, Mrs. Edmondson," she said hurriedly. "Berk and I very seldom see one another; in fact, I have not laid eyes on him for weeks." "He's working too hard," said Mrs. Matthews, turning to Miss Ri. "I thought he looked thin and careworn when he was last here. I wish you all would advise him not to overwork. He values your advice very highly, Maria." "We all think he is working too hard," returned Miss Ri, "but if he listens to anyone, it will be his mother. I never knew a more devoted son." "He is indeed," replied Mrs. Matthews. "Maria, I hate to have him in that comfortless hotel; he was always such a home boy." "Come, Mother, come," broke in Mrs. Edmondson. "Miss Ri, if you get mother started on the subject of Berk, she will stand and talk all day. We shall expect you both on Thursday. Take the car to Cold Spring Lane and you will not have far to walk." The callers departed and though Linda said little of them, Miss Ri noticed that she made no protest against the trip to the pretty suburb where they lived. She had not been so ready on other occasions. Mrs. Edmondson, proud of her pretty new house, was ready to show off its conveniences and comforts, and to discourse upon the delights of living in a place which was not city and yet was accessible to all that one desired, for it was not half an hour by trolley to the center of the town. Her husband, a young business man, was making his way rapidly, Mrs. Matthews told Miss Ri with pride. "And he is a good son to me," she added, "so I shall never want for a home while I have three children. Margie insists that I shall never leave her; but, unless Berkley marries, I think I should make a home for him. I can't have him living in a hotel all his life." Then followed anecdotes of Berkley, of this act of self-denial, that evidence of devotion. "You know, Maria, that he is exactly like his father. The Doctor always thought of himself last." "Mother, dear," interrupted Margaret, "they didn't come to hear Berk eulogized, but to see your pretty room. Come, Linda, let us leave them. Miss Ri is almost as bad as she is when it comes to Berk." She put her arm around Linda and drew her away, whispering, "Mother thinks I am jealous, but I am not a bit; I only don't want her to get the notion that she must leave me and go back to Sandbridge. After all Berk has done for us, I think he ought to have his chance to get ahead, and the very least I can do is to try to make mother happy here with me. Herbert agrees with me. I wish Berk had a home of his own, and then mother would be satisfied." The two younger women went off to view other parts of the house, while their elders talked of those things nearest their hearts. They were old friends and had much in common. Margaret was a sweet womanly person, not a beauty, but fresh and fair and good to look upon, with the same honest grey eyes as her brother's, and the same sturdy frankness of manner. Linda thought her a trifle expansive, till she realized that herself was anything but a stranger, in spite of the fact that she had not met these two since she was a little girl. "I am glad I wasn't brought up within hail of the monument," said Margaret as she exhibited her spick and span kitchen. "I should hate to be deprived of the privileges of my own kitchen, and I shouldn't like to believe I must live on certain streets or be a Pariah. There is too much of that feeling in this blessed old city, and I must say our Cavalier ancestors did give us pleasure-loving natures as an inheritance. Half the girls I know are pretty and sweet and amiable, but they never read anything but trash, think of nothing but wearing pretty clothes and of having a good time. However, I think they do make good wives and mothers when it comes to settling down. Someone said to me the other day, that Southern girls married only for love and that poverty came in at the door to mock them for being so silly as to think any marriage was better than none; that they didn't mind love flying out of the window half so much as they did going to their graves unmarried. There may be some truth in that, but I think they are generally pretty contented and are satisfied to take life as it comes." Margaret was a great chatterer, and was delighted to get Linda to herself, to air her own views and to learn of Linda's. "Aren't you glad, Linda," she went on, "that you are making a place for yourself in the world? Berk has often said that you were quite different from most of the girls he knew, and that he wished we could be good friends. He says you can talk of other things than dress and gossip, and that you are quite domestic. Are you domestic?" "Why"--Linda paused to consider--"yes, I think I am. I like to keep house. I did for my brother, you know; yet I like a good time and pretty clothes as much as anyone." "Of course. So do I. But you care for other things, too. Berk thinks you are so wonderful to write so well, and to get along so successfully with your teaching." Linda made a little grimace. "Berk is very kind to say so, but that is something for which I do not feel myself fitted and which I really do not enjoy." "So much the more credit for doing it well. Linda, you must come to the Club while you are here. I know you would enjoy it. Mother and I both belong. There is another and more fashionable literary club, but we like ours much the best. The real workers are members of it, not the make-believes. It meets every Tuesday afternoon. We must arrange for you to go with us, and Miss Ri must come, too." Here the elder women entered, and Miss Ri reminded Linda that they were to go to a tea on their way home, so they departed, Linda and Margaret parting like old friends. The tea was a quiet little affair which Linda had promised Miss Ri to attend, as it was at the house of one of the latter's particular friends, and here they lingered till dinner time. As they were going to their rooms a card was handed them. Miss Ri raised her lorgnette to read the name. "Mr. Jeffreys has been here," she exclaimed. "The gen'l'man say he be back this evenin'," the elevator boy told them. "Humph!" Miss Ri looked at Linda. "Were we going anywhere to-night?" "No. You remember that we said we would be going all day and that we'd better stay in and rest." "Then rest shall I, and you can see the young man. Now, no protests; I am not going down one step. I can trust you to go unchaperoned this once, I should think. I don't feel like talking to him. I have been talking all day." Therefore Linda went down alone when the young man was announced, to find him sitting in a little alcove, waiting for her. He was in correct evening dress and looked well. Linda had never seen him so carefully attired and could but acknowledge that there was a certain elegance in the tall, dignified figure, and that he looked quite as distinguished as any man she had met. She, herself, was all in white, Miss Ri having persuaded her that such a dress was as appropriate as her frocks of black. She looked very charming, thought the young man, who rose to meet her, and his manner was slightly more genial than usual. "It seems a very long time since I saw you, Miss Linda," he said. "Only a week," returned Linda, seating herself on a low divan, her skirts making soft billows around her. "You have enjoyed yourself and the time has passed very quickly, I presume." "Very quickly. We have had a delightful week. And you?" "There have been festivities in Sandbridge from which you were missed." "And to which, probably, I should not have gone. No piece of news of any importance?" "One which will interest you and which I came to tell you of." He hesitated so long that Linda, to help him out, began, "And the news is--" "About my claim." He hesitated, as if finding it very hard to go on. "Oh, I think I can anticipate what you have to say," rejoined Linda easily. "My sister-in-law has told me that it is Talbot's Angles to which your papers refer. Is that true?" "It is." "And have you established your facts?" Linda asked the question steadily. "Not perfectly; although the past week has given us some extra proof in the papers found at the house itself. Among them we found some receipts given by Cyrus Talbot to the tenant for rent. They read: 'Received from John Briggs one quarter's rent for Talbot's Angles,' so much, and are signed by Cyrus Talbot." "By 'us' you mean Mr. Matthews and yourself?" "Yes, it is through his efforts that we are able to get so much evidence as we have." "I see." There was silence for a moment. Linda sat perfectly still and, except that she nervously played with a ring on her finger, appeared unmoved. Mr. Jeffreys watched her for a moment, then he leaned forward. "Miss Linda," he began, "I know how you must feel, and it pains me beyond expression to bring you news that must be disappointing to you, but--" he halted in his precise speech, "but you need not lose your old home, if you will take the claimant with it." Linda lifted startled eyes. The young man went on: "I have thought the matter over and while I could not consider it expedient to live on the place, I would not sell it unless you wished, and would always, under any circumstances, reserve the house, that you might still consider it your home." Linda laughed a little wildly. "It seems that is always the way of it. I am merely to consider it my home in every case." He drew nearer and took her hand. "Then, will you accept it as I offer it? With myself? I would try to make you happy. I think if I had the stimulus of your companionship, I could succeed. We could make our home in Hartford, and you could return to Maryland when it pleased you each year. I have just received an offer from an insurance company. They wish to send me to England on business, and on my return they give me the promise of such a position as will insure me a future." "It is in Hartford?" "Yes; and it is a lovely city, you know." "Where, as in Sandbridge, they are always ready to welcome strangers cordially? I think I have heard how very spontaneous they are up there, quite expansive and eager to make newcomers feel at home." She spoke with sarcastic emphasis. "Of course, my friends would welcome you," returned Mr. Jeffreys a little stiffly. "Dear Miss Linda," he continued more fervently, "don't get the idea that there are no warm hearts in the North because you have heard of some cold ones. Once you know the people, none could be better friends. I would try to make you happy. Will you believe me when I say that you are the first woman I have ever wished to make my wife?" "Yes, I believe you." She smiled a little. "Please think it over. I would rather not have my answer now. I know there is much to bewilder you, and I would rather you did not give me an impulsive reply. I will not pursue the subject. I will come to-morrow. I would much rather wait." "Thank you for your consideration," returned Linda. "I will think it over, Mr. Jeffreys. It is only right that I should. Must you go?" "I think so. May I come to-morrow afternoon? At what hour?" "About five. We have an engagement in the evening." He arose, took her hand, pressed it gently and said earnestly, "I beg that you will remember that it would be my dearest wish to make you my wife under any circumstances." "I will remember," returned Linda. "Please give my regards to Miss Hill," continued Mr. Jeffreys, taking up his hat. "I owe her a debt of thanks for giving me this opportunity of seeing you alone." And he bowed himself out. There were but few persons in the large drawing-room, and they had been quite sequestered in their little alcove. Linda returned to her seat, and lingered there, thinking, thinking. Presently she smiled and whispered to herself, "He never once said he loved, never once. 'As moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine,'" she murmured musingly. So he would marry her and take her to his city, where there would be no Aunt Ri, no warm-hearted neighbors to welcome her with cordial emphasis, as there would be when she went back to Sandbridge. Nevermore the flat, level roads, the little salt rivers, the simple every-day intercourse of friend with friend, the easy-going unambitious way of living, the smiling content. Instead, the eager struggle for greater ostentation and luxury, which she saw even in the city where she now was; the cold, calculating stares from utter strangers, when she went among them, interest lacking, affection wanting. But on the other hand, she would come back to her old home every year, and it would be truly hers. But how hard it would be to go from it again! And after a while she would be coming less and less frequently. She would grow reticent and unapproachable. Repression would silently work the change in her. She would have the opportunity of pouring out her thoughts on paper, to be sure, but--so she would at home. "No, no, no," she cried; "I'd rather a thousand times teach my restless boys for the remainder of my life. I don't love him, and that is exactly what is wrong. Where he lives has nothing to do with it. Goodbye, Talbot's Angles. You were never mine, and you never will be now." She went to her room, tip-toeing gently that Miss Ri might not hear her in the adjoining one. She slipped quietly into a chair near the window and gave herself up to her thoughts. She must not let Miss Ri think her caller had remained so short a time, and the dear woman must not be told of what had occurred. When she heard a stirring around in the next room, she knocked on the door, which was quickly opened to her. "Well, child, has your young man gone?" came the query. "What did he have to say?" "He told me the same thing Grace did about Talbot's Angles." "He did? The wretch!... Linda, why did we ever treat him so well? He doesn't deserve it." "Why, Aunt Ri, he can't help being the great-grandson of Cyrus Talbot." "He could help coming down here and stirring up all this fuss." "He sent his regards to you." "I don't want them. What else did he say?" "It appears that they have some new evidence, found in the paper which Grace directed them to. Some old receipts which seem to establish the fact that Cyrus Talbot really did have the right to rent the place to a certain John Briggs. I don't know how these receipts came into the possession of our branch of the family, but probably Briggs gave them to our great-grandfather to keep safely. At all events, Berkley Matthews and Mr. Jeffreys have worked it all out." "I don't see how Berkley could have the conscience. It is outrageous for him to be party to a scheme for defrauding an orphan girl." "Oh, Aunt Ri, you mustn't say it is defrauding; it is just legal rights. We may have been defrauding them." "We'll see whether it is so or not. Judge Goldsborough was so sure; but then I suppose all these things were not known to him. I wish we could hear from him and learn what he has discovered in the papers he holds." "We shall, in good time. Meanwhile, what difference does it make? I am used to having the place belong to someone else, and I am growing content to spend my days in teaching. I shall even be glad to get back to my boys." Miss Ri swung around sharply and took the girl's face between her hands. "Verlinda, Verlinda," she said, "I wish I could turn a search-light on that heart of yours?" "Why, Aunt Ri?" "Oh, because, because, a woman's reason." Then she put her arms around the girl and hugged her close to her ample night-dress. "You are a darling child. Teach as long as you like; it will be so much the better for me than seeing you go off to Hartford." Linda felt the color rise to her face. "How do you know that opportunity will ever be afforded me?" she asked lightly. "If it hasn't been, it will. How did that miserable usurper look?" "Very handsome; in quite correct evening dress, which suited him perfectly. Aunt Ri, it would be a privilege to sit opposite such a fine-looking man three times a day for the rest of my life." "It would, would it? and have to use a knife to dissect him before you could find out what he really felt about anything? And even then you wouldn't discover a thing in his veins but ice-water." Linda laughed. "You can be the most vehement person for one who pretends to be so mild and serene. I notice that where those you love are concerned, you are anything but mild, bless your dear heart. Don't be scared, Aunt Ri; I'll never leave Sandbridge, never. I'll never leave the dear old Eastern Shore for anyone. No, indeed." "Who is vehement now, Verlinda Talbot? I verily believe that man has proposed to you. I am convinced of it. Oh, my dear, maybe after all you ought to consider him, for that would settle it all. You could live in the old home and be happy ever after, only, Verlinda, Verlinda, what would become of Berk?" Linda gave a little smothered cry and Miss Ri felt the slender figure quivering, though quite steadily came the words, "We can't take Berk into consideration, Aunt Ri; he is fighting with all his might for Mr. Jeffreys, and so far as I am concerned, he doesn't think of me at all--in any direction." "I don't believe it," returned Miss Ri. "I admit he is an enigma, but I don't believe a word of his not thinking of you. I've talked to his mother," she added triumphantly. After that not a word would she say on the subject, but sent Linda off to bed, and if the girl needed anything to fix her decision regarding Mr. Jeffreys, it is possible that Miss Ri's last words helped to the conclusion. CHAPTER XVIII THE DELIBERATE CONSCIENCE In spite of having already made up her mind when she left Miss Ri, Linda conscientiously devoted an hour's serious thought to the subject of Wyatt Jeffreys; for she told herself that it was only fair to him. She took down her hair, wrapped herself in a dressing-gown, and gave herself up to contemplation. "It wouldn't be so hard," she thought, drawing her brows together, "if he had determined to live at Talbot's Angles, for I should at least have my old home." "And see Berkley Matthews whenever you went to town," something whispered. "Oh, well," the argument came as if in reply, "would that be any worse than it will be now when I have to stay in town and run the risk of meeting him at any time?" "But now there is a little hope," again came the inward voice. "There isn't! there isn't!" Linda contradicted. "I can't believe there is. Look how he has acted: avoiding me openly, sending me only a little trifling card at Christmas, taking up this case which defies my rights. Tell me such a thing? It is not so." "But Miss Ri has talked to his mother. Margaret herself told you that Berk never wearied of sounding your praises." "That is all a blind. He doesn't care; he couldn't, and act as he is doing." She resolutely shut her ears to the voice of the charmer and turned her attention to the other claimant to regard. He had many fine qualities, but comparisons would crop up. Mr. Jeffreys had praised her work and had congratulated her upon appearing in print; but it was more on account of the recognition, than because of what she wrote. Berk, on the other hand, perceived the spirit rather than the commercial value. She had shown both men other little writings; Berk had commented upon the thought, the originality of some fancy; Mr. Jeffreys had praised the metre, or the quality which would make it marketable. "There is the difference," thought Linda; "Mr. Jeffreys does not lack intellectual perception but Berk has a spiritual one. I saw deep into that one day when I was talking to him about Martin. He may be flippant and boyish on the surface, but back of it all there is that in his soul which can penetrate behind the stars. If he loved anyone he would not care for her looks, her position, her wealth, or for anything but just her individual self. Mr. Jeffreys would weigh the qualities which go to make a satisfactory wife. It was his dearest wish. I was the first, he would try to make me happy; all that, and not a word of his feelings toward me. His heart did not speak, his deliberate conscience did, for I don't doubt he has one, and it makes him uncomfortable when he thinks of wresting Talbot's Angles from me. Well, my good man, keep your conscience. You have done your duty and there is an end of it. Go back to where you belong." She pondered awhile longer and then took out her writing-materials. "I'll have this ready when he comes," she said to herself. "In case Aunt Ri is at hand and I do not have a chance to speak to him privately." She wrote the note, addressed the envelope and sealed it with an emphasis which had an air of finality about it, and then she went to bed. What her dreams were she did not tell, but no doubt Queen Mab galloped through her brain. Prompt to the minute, Mr. Jeffreys arrived. Miss Ri and Linda, hurrying back from a call, found him there, and as fate would have it Miss Ri sat down for a chat. She would like to have the gossip of the town from Mr. Jeffreys. How was Parthy and how were the dogs, and what was going on? Had he seen Berk? and all the rest of it. The young man, whatever may have been his impatience, answered quietly and politely, giving at length certain little details which he knew would interest Miss Ri, and for this he deserved more credit than he received. After half an hour he asked if Linda would take a walk with him, but Miss Ri objected, saying that Linda was tired and that she was going out to dinner and must not be late, which hint started the young man off, though not before he had given the girl a deprecating, inquiring look. She responded by handing him the little note she had written the night before. "Here is what you asked me for," she said, the color rising to her cheeks and a little regret to her heart when she realized that she was dealing him a blow. He looked at her searchingly, but she dropped her eyes, and he was obliged to go without receiving a spark of satisfaction. As girls will be, in such cases, Linda was a little hard on the man whom she had just refused. She gave him less credit than he deserved, for he was honestly and fervently in love with her, though having lived in an atmosphere of repression, and where it was considered almost a crime to show a redundance of affection, he had betrayed little of what he really felt, but it is a comment upon his eagerness to state that he wasted no time in finding out the contents of the note she gave him. It was brief, but to the point, and was enough to send the young man back to Sandbridge on the evening boat which he had barely time to catch. He felt rather badly treated, for in her sweet sympathetic manner he had read a deeper concern than existed. Now he realized that it was nothing more than she would show anyone thrown upon her generosity, or at the most, presenting a claim to kinship of blood. He credited her with magnanimity in yielding up Talbot's Angles without showing resentment, and he valued her invariable attention to his confidences, as he reported the various ups and downs of his affairs, but in his heart of hearts he charged her with a little coquetry, failing to understand her spontaneous sympathy as a man of her own locality would have done. He had the wisdom to believe that her decision was final, yet he lingered in Sandbridge till her return, giving himself up to brooding over his troubles more pessimistically, if less passionately than a more impulsive man would have done, and his cheerful little remarks to Miss Parthy, clipped off with the usual polite intonation, gave her no evidence that he was most unhappy. But one day he walked into Berkley's office. Berkley looked up from the litter of legal documents crowding his desk. "Well, Jeffreys, old man, how goes it? Been up to town, I hear. When did you get back?" "Several days ago," was the answer. "I did not stay long." "Sit down and tell me about it." Mr. Jeffreys took the vacant chair, but ignored the invitation to "tell about it." "I came in to say that I am thinking of returning to Hartford," he began. "I suppose you can continue to push my business without my presence." "Why, yes, I imagine so. You could run down if necessary. I don't suppose you mean to stay away very long in any event." "I should probably not return except in case of necessity." He paused, then said with an effort, "You were good enough, Matthews, to encourage me in my addresses to Miss Talbot so I think it is due you to say that she has refused me." "My dear man!" Berk leaned forward and laid his hand on the other's knee. "You mustn't give up so easily. You know a woman's No isn't always final." "I believe this to be. You wouldn't accuse Miss Linda of being an undecided character. "No, I must confess I wouldn't. She is very gentle but she generally knows her own mind pretty thoroughly. Jeffreys, my dear fellow, I am sorry. I don't wonder you are cut up and are thinking of leaving us. It would be a desperately hard fight to stay and be obliged to see her every now and then. For a man to lose a girl like Linda Talbot is pretty tough lines. I shouldn't want my worst enemy to go through such a purgatory." "You speak feelingly," returned Mr. Jeffreys with a little bitter smile. Then his better manhood asserting itself, "Matthews, you know you love her yourself." Berkley tossed up his head proudly. "What if I do? I am not ashamed of it." "And you deliberately gave me the chance of winning her if I could. Why?" Berkley made savage dabs with his pen upon the blotting pad before him, thereby injuring the pen hopelessly and doing the blotter no good. He suddenly threw the pen aside. "What sort of chump would I be if I hadn't done it? Her happiness was the first thing to be considered, not mine. I knew she wanted Talbot's Angles more than anything in the world, and that ought to have made it dead easy for a man who really loved a girl in the right way." "And you have been doing everything in your power to win the property for me. You have been loyal to both of us. Shake hands, Berkley Matthews, you are far and away a better man than I am, but I will not be outdone. Do you think I have no pride? I may have a deliberate conscience, as Miss Talbot herself once told me, but I hope it is as well developed as yours. I'll fight it out and then we shall see. What right had I to expect that I could throw a sop to my conscience by asking her to marry me? I see it all now. You love her; so do I, and I will prove it to you both." "Do you suppose I doubted the truth of your feeling for her?" cried Berkley. "That would be a poor compliment to her. I think you are too easily downed, Jeffreys. Cheer up. Take another chance. Wait awhile. Do your best to better your chances. Unbend a little. Be more free and easy. Make her dependent upon you for encouragement and sympathy. Oh, there are a thousand ways." Jeffreys regarded him with a half smile. "You mean I must substitute a Southern temperament for a Northern one. That is easier said than done. The day of miracles is past." "You've not known her so very long," Berkley persisted in his argument. "I've seen her almost every day, sometimes twice a day for three months. I have known young ladies for years whom I seem to know less well. Certainly there has been no bar to our becoming well acquainted." "Well, I wouldn't give up this early in the game," Berk continued his pleading. "You think there is a chance for me, do you? I can tell you there is not," replied Mr. Jeffreys with emphasis. Berkley accompanied him to the street where they stood talking a few minutes longer. A horse and buggy were there in waiting for Berkley. "I promised John Emory to go with him to sign a deed," he said, "and he left his buggy. I am to pick him up further along. Can I take you anywhere, first, Jeffreys?" "No, thank you. I have no special errand. I'm not a man of business just now, you remember." Berkley took his place in the vehicle, was about to gather up the reins when around the corner dashed an automobile. The horse threw up his head, gave a sudden plunge, and in another second would have swung the buggy directly in the path of the rushing car, but that Jeffreys sprang forward and seized the horse's head to jerk him to one side, but this was not done before the car grazed him sufficiently to send him to the ground, close to the horse's hoofs. Without stopping the car sped on. By this time Berkley had grabbed the reins and had spoken commandingly to the horse which fortunately, stood still. Several by-standers sprang to Jeffreys' aid and dragged him from his precarious position. Berkley threw the reins to Billy, who had run out at the sound of this commotion, and leaped to where Jeffreys now stood. "Are you hurt, old man?" he asked as Jeffreys limped to the sidewalk. "Come right into the office." He dismissed the little crowd which had gathered and assisted Jeffreys inside. The latter shook himself. "I'm not actually hurt," he answered "only a little bruised, I think, and slightly shaken up." "You were within an ace of being killed, man," said Berkley gravely. "And you risked your life for me. I am not going to forget that, Jeffreys." The young man smiled. "It evens up matters a little," he returned, "though we are not quits yet. I haven't lost sight of that fact." "Doesn't saving a man's life come about as near settling any existing score as a thing could?" asked Berkley. "Oh, we won't strain a point so far as to say it was saving your life. You might not have been hurt at all, and it merely happened that I was the first to grab the bridle. There were others ready to do it if I had not." "Bah!" cried Berkley. "That's all wrong argument; if the horse had not been there; if the car had not come along; we could go on indefinitely with conjecturing, but what we face is a visible truth. You risked your life and limbs for me, and that is the exact statement of the case. Thank you, is a very feeble way to say what I feel." "I'm quite all right now," returned the other, setting aside further discussion. "If you will let me have a brush or something to get rid of this dust on my clothes, I'll be as good as ever. That's it, thanks," for Berkley was vigorously applying a whisk broom to his dusty coat and trousers. He refused further aid, insisting that there was no need of any assistance in getting home. He would rather walk; it would be good for him. So Berkley was perforce to see him leave, and himself reëntered the buggy, and drove off to keep his appointment. He was very grateful to and infinitely sorry for his rival, but there was an undercurrent of joy singing through his heart. She had refused him, bless her, and she would return home that very day. He took out a note received from Miss Ri the day before, saying that they would arrive by the morning's boat. He reread the lines. "It isn't decent of me; it really isn't," he exclaimed, stuffing the note back into his pocket. "It's like dancing on another man's grave, and after what he has just done for me, too. What right have I to be glad anyway? It is losing her the comfort of living again in her old home, and, dickens take it, how do I know that I am any better off? Simmer down, Berkley Matthews; it won't do for you to go galloping off with an idea before you have all the facts in the case. At least you will have the grace to keep quiet while the other fellow is around." And he altered his train of thought with the determination of one who has learned the art of concentration under difficulties. He had restrained himself from rushing off to the boat to meet the returning travellers, but, after his return to his office, Miss Ri called him up and imperiously demanded his presence to dinner, and he accepted without a word of protest. "You're looking better," remarked Miss Ri, after they had shaken hands. "I knew Phebe would be as good for you as untold bottles of tonic. Come right in. Linda is waiting in the dining-room." And there Linda was. Berkley wondered if she could hear the thumping of his heart. Here was her hand in his. What a wonderful fact! She was there before him,--free--as possible for him as for any other. He longed to ask if she were the least little bit glad to see him, but he didn't; all he said was: "Glad to see you back, Linda. I hear you have been having a great time." "Who told you?" she asked with a sudden bright smile. "Mother wrote me a long letter. I'll tell you about it another time. I suppose you were sorry to come away." "No, not at all, though we had a lovely time. If you want a thoroughly skilled designer of good times you must employ Aunt Ri. "I think the trip did much for me in many ways. One must get off from things to acquire a really true perspective, you know, and now I am so happy to be here again, to see the dear blue river, and this blessedly stupid town and all that. There is no place like it, Berk." What pure joy to hear her speak like that. Berkley wished she would go on forever, but she was waiting for some response, he suddenly realized. "That is the way I like to hear you talk," he said quite honestly. "I've noticed myself, that when I have been away for any length of time I am always glad to get back to the simple life." "Very simple with such a dinner," laughed Linda. "Phebe has prepared all this in honor of our home-coming." "It seemed a pity that you should not be here to share it," spoke up Miss Ri. "There was no need to send you back to husks this very first day." "I came near not being here at all," he answered. Then he recounted the episode of the morning, sparing no praise of Mr. Jeffreys, but looking at Miss Ri rather than at Linda as he told the tale over which his hearers were much excited. Fain as he was to linger after dinner, he would not allow himself such a luxury, but rushed off almost immediately, saying he must get back to work. Miss Ri watched him with tender eyes as he hurried down the path. "It is good to get him back," she said turning from the window. "I don't know what I should have done if anything serious had happened to him. He is looking very well, I think. That troubled, anxious expression has left his face. I think the poor boy must have been under some great strain. If you go off with that waxen image to Hartford I'll adopt Berk as sure as you live." "Oh, Aunt Ri," expostulated Linda, "you know he is no tailor's dummy, but a very fine-looking man, and just think of what a heroic thing he has just done. There was no deliberation then, but the quick sacrifice of himself at the critical moment. Berk might have been killed but for him. I don't see how you can talk so about my brave cousin." "Cousin is it? Well, so long as he remains only that I have no complaint to make of him. I suppose now we shall have to have more respect for him than ever." Linda had to laugh at the aggrieved tone. "_I_ certainly have," she answered emphatically. "I think he was perfectly splendid." "Berk, or any other half way decent man would have done the same thing under like circumstances," argued Miss Ri. "I don't see that it was anything for him to crow over." "I think it was decidedly." Linda stood her ground. "Well, we won't quarrel over it," continued Miss Ri. "Let's change the subject. I was just thinking, Linda, that I have discovered something since I have had you here with me, though, by the way, one does that all through life; some truth, some moral of living is suddenly revealed at a given stage. Life is nothing more than a series of revelations." "And what has been revealed to you, wisest of Aunt Ris." Linda came over and took her friend's face between her hands. "That one must have somebody to work for in order to get the best out of existence." Linda's hands dropped; her face grew wistful. "And I have no one but myself to work for," she shook her head sadly. "You have me, in a certain sense, and it is too early yet for you to despair of having someone else." Miss Ri laughed wickedly. Linda pretended to box her ears. "You are a naughty old thing. I am going out to talk to Mammy, and leave you to meditate upon your sins," she said. Mammy was sitting at the table lingering over her dinner. She never liked to cut short this happy hour of the day, and was fond of picking here and picking there, though she would not remain at the table if anyone entered. It would never do to have "white folkes" see you eat. "I thes gwine to cl'ar away," she said with a beaming smile as she swept bones and potato skins into her empty plate. "Oh, Mammy, you haven't finished your dinner," exclaimed Linda. "Yas, I done et all I wants. I thes res'in' up a little 'fo' I does mah dishes. Set down, honey, an' tell yo' Mammy what yuh-all been a-doin' whilst yuh was up in de city. Mighty fine doin's, I reckon. Yuh stay at de big hotel?" "Yes." "An' w'ar dat nice floppity white frock?" "Yes, I wore it several times." "An' yuh has uver so many nice young gem'mans come to see yuh?" "Not very many. You see I don't know a great many people, and I am not going to dances this winter, of course. Mr. Jeffreys came up while I was there, and he is a nice young gentleman, I am sure." Mammy began delicately to wipe her tumblers. "Miss Lindy, yuh ain't gwine ma'y dat man, is yuh?" "No, Mammy." Linda spoke quite decidedly, "but you know he is a kind of cousin, and I must be as nice to him as possible, besides I like him very much." "He kain't hol' a can'le to Mr. Berk; he de likenes' young man I uvver see." "You'll make me jealous if you talk that way," said Linda fondly and to please her Mammy. Mammy ducked her head and laughed, shaking her head from side to side. "I'll not go away again if you are going to get so fond of someone else while I am gone," Linda went on with a pretence of pouting. Mammy fairly doubled up at this. "Ain' it de troof?" she cried. "Law, chile," she continued appeasingly, "I ain't so t'arin' fond o' him; he ain't tall enough." It was Linda's turn to laugh, and she went back to Miss Ri to repeat Mammy's criticism. CHAPTER XIX OF WHAT AVAIL? Berkley's words did have the effect of encouraging Mr. Jeffreys to take heart anew, and, as it would be another month before his presence would be required in Hartford, he concluded not to neglect his opportunities. Therefore again Berkley retired to the background to watch his rival pass by with Linda, walk to church with her, while he heard of his visiting her daily. It seemed, then, that he did not intend to give her up lightly. "I don't know what to do about it," Linda confided to Miss Ri ruefully. "I can't tell him to go home when he comes, and I can't disappear like the Cheshire cat when he joins me on the street. He will be such a short time here that it doesn't seem worth while to do more than let matters drift." "I rather like his persistence," declared Miss Ri. "He'll win you yet, Verlinda." Linda neither affirmed nor denied. Another little poem had found its way into print and there was hope ahead, even though Talbot's Angles should be lost to her. "It isn't such a tremendously valuable piece of property after all," Miss Ri continued her remarks, showing the trend of her thought, "and if you weren't so sentimentally fond of it, Verlinda, I don't know that it would be such a great loss. I wish you'd let me adopt you; then I'd leave you this place." "You'd have me give up my independence, Aunt Ri? Oh, no. We've canvassed that question too often. If you had taken me before I had known what it was to hoe my own row, it might have done, but now, oh, no. You're the dearest of dears to tempt me, but we shall both be happier with no faster bond than that which self-elected friends must always feel. I love no one so well as you, and you don't dislike me, though I admit I don't consider myself first in your regard." "And who do you think is? Not Becky Hill's brood, I'm sure. They will have enough, and I am not one of those who think everything should go to those of the name, unless there's love, too. Who do you mean? If you're not first, who is?" "Berkley Matthews." "Better say he used to be. He hasn't the sense he was born with. If I were his mother I'd spank him." "Now, Aunt Ri, what for?" "On general principles, just because he is such a notional piece of humanity. I admire him, too; I can't help it; all the same he tries me. When you desert me to turn Yankee, Verlinda, I'll make my will and leave this place as a home for indigent females or something of that kind." "How nice," returned Linda comfortably; "then when I grow decrepit I can come back here and have my old room." The little creases appearing around Miss Ri's eyes, showed that she appreciated this retort. "There comes Bertie," she announced a moment after. "Then I'll ask her to walk with me," returned Linda, rising with alacrity. "Doesn't Mr. Jeffreys make his appearance about this time?" "Generally, but I can skip him to-day. I'd rather go with Bertie. Just tell him, Aunt Ri." "That you'd rather go with Bertie?" "Of course not, but that we have gone out for a walk." "Where are you going?" "There's no need of your knowing, is there?" Miss Ri looked up with a smile. "I understand. Go along. I reckon you're right to suggest the unattainable once in a while; it adds to the zest later." And with this Parthian shot following her, Linda left the room to join Bertie. In another moment Miss Ri saw the two girls going out the gate. "I'll not even watch to see which way they turn," she said to herself, letting her gaze fall on her work rather than on the outside world. The dear lady made a good conspirator. "When are you going to announce your engagement?" was one of the first questions Bertie put to her companion, as they set their faces toward the main street. "What do you mean?" asked Linda. "Oh, now Linda Talbot, everyone knows you are engaged to Mr. Jeffreys. You wouldn't be together so continually if you were not." "I think I could mention several young persons in this town who have set a worthy precedent," replied Linda. "Oh, well, of course, but in this case--He isn't the flirty kind, we all know." "He is my cousin," argued Linda in self-defence. Bertie laughed. "We all know that kind of cousin. The Irish maids have flaunted them before our eyes for generations. That won't do, Linda. Own up." "Positively there are none but friendly relations between Wyatt Jeffreys and myself." "Truly? I can scarcely believe it, but there is not a doubt but that there will be different ones, and everyone is thinking it such an ideal arrangement, for of course it is known that he is the claimant for Talbot's Angles." "I am sorry to disappoint my neighbors." "I, for one, don't expect to be disappointed. If I did I would set my cap for the young man myself. I've heard girls talk that way before, and the first thing you knew their wedding cards were out. I don't see how you can possibly give up the joy of owning that dear old home of yours. He'd better not offer himself to me, I'd accept him for Talbot's Angles if for nothing else." Linda winced. It might come to that, perhaps. For the moment she felt annoyed at Bertie who might have been more tactful, she thought. "Do you know," continued Bertie, "whether Mr. Jeffreys intends to live there? We are all dying to know, and if you don't become the mistress of the dear old place it will not want for one for the lack of appreciative damsels. The girls are ready, even now to reckon on their chances. We don't have so many eligible young men come to town that we can afford to let such a desirable one go away unappropriated." "It seems to me that he is not the only one," responded Linda. "There are not more than half a dozen, not near enough to go around. I know perfectly well, for at the last dance I had to dance twice with a girl, and I do hate that. Let me see, there are Elmer Dawson, John Emory, Todd Bryan, Billy Tucker, Tom Willis, and Berk Matthews, though Berk doesn't count. Nobody sees him nowadays. He has turned into a regular greasy grind, so that he is no good at all. He has a girl up in the city, you know. I charged him with it, and he the same as admitted it. I think he might have looked nearer home. Berk used to be great fun, too; it is rather a shame. So you see, Linda, even counting him there are not more than six who are really worth while; the rest are mere boys. Now, if you really don't want your cousin yourself, you might speak a good word for me, and I'll be mighty thankful." "Bertie, you are a silly child. You know you don't mean a word of all this. Why do you rattle on in such a brainless way?" "I'm in dead earnest, I assure you. I'll take him in a minute, now that I can't get Berk who is as good as gone. We are wild to know who the girl is, what she looks like and all that. I suppose you didn't happen to meet her when you were in the city. Miss Ri ought to know, if anyone does." "We didn't meet any such person," replied Linda a little defiantly. "We saw Mrs. Matthews and Margaret, but, of course, they did not mention her." "Very likely they would be the last ones to know. At all events he is not the lad he was, as anyone with half an eye can see. Even if he hadn't told me there would be but one conclusion to gather from his absolute indifference to us all. Every one of the girls agree to that." Linda smiled mechanically. Suppose it were true. There had been but the one meeting, that which took place upon the day of her arrival from the city, then it had seemed as if they were about to return to the old pleasant relations, but since then not another sign. Yet--"There isn't anything I wouldn't do to make you happy, Linda Talbot." What was the meaning of that saying? Only the gentle concern of a chivalrous, tender-hearted man, probably. She gave a little sigh which drew Bertie's attention. "Tired, Linda? We're going too far, perhaps. I forget that you are a busy bee all the morning. We'd better turn back." Linda agreed. She felt singularly heavy-spirited and would be glad to reach home, she realized. Bertie left her with a laughing challenge to "hurry up or she would try to cut her out," and then Linda went in. Miss Ri was just stirring the fire, for she loved the dancing lights at a twilight hour. "Draw up, draw up," she cried, "and tell me the news. What did you learn from Bertie?" "First that I was engaged to Mr. Jeffreys, and if not that I ought to be. Second; it is reported that Berkley Matthews has a sweetheart in the city." "The wretch!" cried Miss Ri. "I'd like to see him bring a strange girl here for me to conciliate and defer to." "He has a perfect right, hasn't he, Aunt Ri?" "Oh, I don't know, I'm sure. I hate to think of it. So the report is that you are certainly engaged." "Yes, they have arranged it all, and are quite pleased. I am to live at Talbot's Angles, it seems, and it is considered a delightful way to settle matters for me. Bertie was quite enthusiastic. Did Mr. Jeffreys come?" "Yes, and was sorry to have missed you. He'll be back this evening. He tells me he is going to leave for Hartford next week. Are you going with him, Verlinda?" The girl thoughtfully prodded a long stick which needed pushing further back. "I haven't decided," she replied presently. "You had decided there in Baltimore, if I remember correctly." "Yes, so I had. Oh, I don't know. I don't know. I don't see how I could stand it to keep on living here." She put down the tongs and clasped her hands tightly. "Why, Verlinda, my dear child, what do you mean? You--" Miss Ri paused and laid her hand gently on the girl's. "The wretch," she murmured, "the wretch." Linda turned to kiss her cheek. "Never mind, Aunt Ri," she rejoined; "no doubt I'll be thanking the Lord yet." Miss Ri laughed shortly, then the words came pleadingly, "Don't leave me, Verlinda, and don't think you will be any happier if you go away. You can't run from yourself, you know. Stay where you are and fight it out as I did. I'll do my best for you." "Dear Aunt Ri! As if I didn't know that. After all, I believe you are right. I'd be happier here with you than among strangers under any circumstances, even with my old home calling me and a good man to share it. I suppose it is cowardly to want to take refuge in a love you can't return." "It isn't only cowardly," affirmed Miss Ri with decision, "but it is unfair to the one who gives all and receives no return. I think you are too proud as well as too honest to allow that, Verlinda." "Do you think I've been unkind, unfair to Mr. Jeffreys? I haven't meant to be. I've been trying my best to care for him, to learn to know him better and to appreciate his good qualities so they would seem sufficient for me. I haven't meant to encourage him unduly. I meant to do the very fairest thing I could, but I am afraid I haven't, after all, or the town wouldn't take things so for granted." "The town takes things for granted upon slighter evidence than that. Don't struggle any more, dear child. What is that old quotation? 'To thine own self be true and it must follow as the night the day, thou can'st not then be false to any man.' Don't forget that. Now, let's light up and be as cheery as we can. Don't believe all the gossip you hear; there's not one tenth of it true." Mr. Jeffreys came again that evening. Miss Ri, with a wisdom born of experience, went around to Miss Parthy's and with the opportunity afforded him Mr. Jeffreys made a final throw--and lost. Miss Ri returned to find Linda, with her head in the cushions of the sofa, shaking with sobs. "You poor darling child," said Miss Ri, bending over her, "was it so hard?" "Oh, I hated to do it. I hated to, Aunt Ri. He was so quiet and dignified, and so kind. He tried to make me feel that it wasn't my fault and he--cares much more than I believed. He didn't say so before." "Before? There was a first time, then, and this was the second." "Yes, as you suspected, there in Baltimore, but I wasn't half so distressed then. Oh, dear, why should we have such contrary hearts?" Down went her head again. "There, dear, there," Miss Ri soothed her. "Don't cry about it. There never was a man living worth so many tears. He will get over it beautifully; I never knew one who didn't. You will probably get cards for his wedding while you are still grieving over this night's business. Mark my words." Linda sat up at this. "I suppose I am silly," she said steadily. "I haven't a doubt but I was overwrought and nervous. You see it is the first time I ever refused a man to his face; I gave him a note before. Very likely if I had refused a dozen men as some girls do, I should get to rather enjoying it." She smiled ruefully. Miss Ri sat down and snuggled her up close. "Dear, good little lass, you'd never be one to glory in scalps. I am sorry for you both, but it can't be helped, and you have done exactly right. Now don't lie awake all night thinking about it." A wise piece of advice but one which profited Linda little. With more than his usual gravity Wyatt Jeffreys presented himself at Berkley's office the next morning. "Can I see you privately?" he asked, for Billy was rattling papers in the next room where a couple of countrymen were waiting, beguiling the time by a plentiful use of chewing tobacco. Berkley glanced at his clients. "Can you wait a few minutes? I shall be through with these men before very long. Suppose you go over to the hotel and tell them that you are to meet me there. Ask them to show you to my room. I'll be over as soon as I can." Jeffreys nodded approvingly. "Very well. I will meet you there. Thank you for suggesting it." He was admitted to the room without question. He remembered it from having first visited Berkley there to identify the little trunk. Better it had never been found and that he had left the place then and there. He sat down in the one easy chair, and looked around. On the bureau stood a row of photographs, the first of a gentle looking woman whose eyes were like Berkley's; that must be his mother, and the next his sister. A third, evidently taken some years before, showed a man with thoughtful brow and a strong, though not handsome face; this was Dr. Matthews of whom Jeffreys had heard much from those who still missed their beloved physician. There was another photograph standing by itself, the thin white outer covering dropped like a veil over it, but through this Jeffreys could see that it was a head of Linda. He did not lift the veil, but stood thoughtfully looking at the dim outline. He had put his own camera to use often enough to secure several snap-shots of the girl in Miss Ri's old garden, but this picture he had not seen. He wondered if she had given it to Berkley, and when. There were no other pictures about except those three of the family standing side by side. The man sat down again and presently Berkley hurried in. "Sorry I had to keep you waiting," he said, "but these country fellows are slow. Well, anything new?" "Nothing," responded Jeffreys dully. "I only wanted to tell you that I am leaving next week, and that I wish to stop proceedings in the matter of Talbot's Angles." "What do you mean, man?" Berkley turned in surprise. "Just that. Do you think you're the only man who can do a brave thing? Do you suppose you can flaunt your heroics without making me feel that I am a small specimen who has no right to be smirking around as a complacent recipient of others' property? I will not have it. I am as capable as you of making sacrifices. I will not be outdone by you." "Please explain yourself." Berkley spoke quietly, eyeing the other man's tense face. "I mean this: I wish Miss Talbot to retain her property. I have taken your advice, but, as I told you before, it was not worth while. Not even for the sake of having her own again would she take me with the property." "You wouldn't expect one of her caliber to do it for the sake of that only," said Berkley a little proudly. Then more gently, "I am no end of sorry. Believe me or not, I had hoped for a better report from you." "Is that honestly said?" "It is." The man's face softened. "I believe you, Matthews. If ever a man has shown himself loyal, you are he. I see it all, and I bow to the inevitable. I never have had much of what I wanted in this world, and I suppose I shall never have. As yet I cannot be as generous as you, but some day I hope to reach your heights. I have the promise of a good future before me, and I can do without Cyrus Talbot's inheritance. What I came to say I have said. Stop proceedings. I relinquish all claim to Talbot's Angles." What could Berkley answer? He realized that these were sorry days for Jeffreys, and the least said now the better. "Very well," he agreed; "it shall be as you wish. I consider it most generous of you. Of course nothing of any account has been done, and we will drop the whole thing for the present. Perhaps you will wish to reconsider it some day. If you do, I am at your service. Shall I hand you back your papers?" "No. Throw them into the fire. I don't care what you do with them. I shall never want them." He rose to go. Berkley followed him to the street where they parted, the one to return to his room, the other to his office where he tied up the papers and thrust them into his desk. That was done. What a storm of feeling those yellow sheets had raised, and now--"Poor devil," said Berkley to himself. "It was pretty hard lines and he has shown himself of good stuff. Confound it all, why did it have to happen so? At least I must have the delicacy to keep out of the way while the man is in town." The color rushed to his face, but receded almost as quickly. "I'm a conceited ass," he cried inwardly. "If she couldn't care for such a man as Jeffreys why should I expect her to care for me? Go to, Berkley Matthews. Crawl down from your pinnacle, and don't lay any such flattering unction to your soul." He set to work at one of his briefs, determined not to encourage himself in any illusions. CHAPTER XX "THE SPRING HAS COME" During the remainder of Mr. Jeffreys' stay in the town Berkley religiously kept away from Miss Ri's brown house on the point, and even carried his determination so far that once seeing Linda in the distance as he was coming out of his office he bolted back again and waited till she was well out of sight before he came out. "What did I do that for?" he said to himself, smiling a little. He did not see Mr. Jeffreys again until one afternoon a week later when he came into the office. "I am going around making my farewell calls, Matthews," he said. "I take the boat for Baltimore this evening. My unfortunate old trunk and I will soon be out of your way. Again let me thank you for all your kindness." "I'm sorry to see you go," replied Berkley, "but I hope you will carry away some pleasant memories of our old 'eastern shore.'" "I shall carry away many. I can never forget the hospitality and kindness shown me here." "And about those papers; if ever you want to renew the case I am ready to help you, remember." He held out his hand. "That matter is disposed of," returned Jeffreys with a little frown. "We will dispense with the subject if you please. I am going to Miss Talbot from here, and shall tell her that she need fear no more interference from me. To-day our paths separate. Have you seen her, Matthews?" he asked after a slight pause. "No, I have not." Berkley looked straight into the other's eyes. Jeffreys gave the hand he held a closer grip. "You are a good friend, Matthews. Let me echo your offer; if there is anything I can ever do for you, command me. Good-by." Berkley laid his hand on the young man's shoulder. "Thank you, Jeffreys. I will remember. Good luck to you and good-by." So they parted and the boat slipping through the darkness over the quiet waters of the river that night, bore away him whose coming and going both seemed made under unpropitious stars. It was a warm afternoon in February, one of those days when Spring seems close at hand by reason of a bluebird's early note, and the appearance of some venturesome crocus in the grass. February brings such days in this part of Maryland. The morning's mail had given Linda the happiness of receiving a magazine in which were some of her verses, accepted and paid for. This step, which carried her beyond the satisfaction of seeing herself in print, merely by compliment, was one which well agreed with the springlike day. She was sitting at the piano joyously singing: "The spring has come, the flowers in bloom The happy birds--" She broke off suddenly, for in through the window open to the floor came Berkley. "Don't stop," he begged. "I love to hear you." They stood smiling at one another, before either spoke again, then Linda turned back to the piano to finish the song while Berkley leaned above her to watch her slim fingers moving over the keys. "It just suits the day, doesn't it?" she said when she had finished. "Did you see that there was a crocus by the side of the walk? And this morning I heard a bluebird." "And that is what makes you look so happy?" "Not altogether. Sit down over there by the little window, and if you will be very good I will show you something." He obediently took the place assigned him, where the window seat ran along the small raised platform, and Linda produced the magazine. "There," she said, opening to a certain page. "And it is paid for," she added triumphantly. Berkley read the lines through. "You have climbed into fame, haven't you?" he said. "Are you feeling very high and mighty? Would you like me to sit on the floor at your feet. It would be very easy on this platform." She laughed. It was good to hear the old foolish manner of speech again. "No, I won't insist upon that, though I can't tell what I may require if this continues. Do you like my verses, Berk?" "Yes, very much. I suppose they are really better than these. He took from his pocket-book a little clipping, 'The Marching Pines,' but I shall always care more for these. I shall never be quite so fond of any others, perhaps." "Why?" Berkley did not answer, but instead asked, "Did Jeffreys tell you of his determination not to follow up his claim?" "Yes, he told me." Linda looked grave. "It was generous of him, don't you think?" A half smile played around Linda's lips. "Yes, I suppose it was. He meant to do me a great kindness and I appreciate it." "But you could not agree to share it with him. He is a good fellow, Linda, and I am very sorry for him. He was greatly cut up." "How do you know?" "He told me." "That--" "That he had asked you to marry him? Yes, he told me that. Poor old chap. I grew quite fond of him. Why didn't you, Linda?" "I don't know. I didn't; that's all; I didn't, though I tried very hard." "Don't you think he was actually heroic to give up the claim?" "I am sure he meant to be, but of course you understand that I could not accept such a sacrifice from him and that if the law were to give him a right to Talbot's Angles, I couldn't think of doing anything but giving it up to him." "But he refuses to allow me to go on. I have the papers and I am to burn them if I choose." Linda smiled, a little mysterious, exultant smile. "That doesn't alter my point of view." "And so you refuse to allow him to be a hero." "He isn't the only hero in the world. He himself told me of another." There was a wise, kind expression in her eyes. Berkley slipped down from the window seat to a cushion at her feet. She bent over him as a mother over her child. "Linda," he said whisperingly. "Linda." He took her soft hand in his strong lithe fingers, and she let it lie there. He pressed the cool little hand against his hot brow, then he looked up. "Linda," he repeated, "here I am at your feet. I love you so! Oh, how I love you! I know I don't deserve it, but do you think you could ever learn to care a little for me? I am not rich, but some day maybe I could buy back Talbot's Angles. There is nothing I would not do to make you happy." "You said that once before, Berk." "Did I?" "Yes,--that night in the rain." "I meant it." "As much as you do now?" "Every bit." "And yet you avoided me, passed me by, allowed another to step in." "It was for you, for you. I wanted you to be happy," he murmured. "I see that now, but I missed my friend." "Your friend? Am I never to be anything more, Linda? I love you with my whole heart. You are the one woman in the world to me. Don't you think that some day you might learn to love me a little?" Linda's face was aglow with a tender light; her eyes were like stars. "No, Berk," she said slowly, lingeringly, "I could never learn to love you a little." He dropped her hand and looked down, all the hope gone from his face. "Because," Linda went on, bending a little nearer that he could hear her whisper, "I already love you so much." He gave a little joyous cry and sprang to his feet, all his divine right suddenly recognized. He held out his arms. "Come," he said. Linda arose with shining face, stepped down from the platform and went to him. The dim portraits on the walls smiled down at them. It was the old story to which each passing generation had listened. The ancient house could tell many a like tale. "Berk," said Linda when they had gone back to the seat by the window, "they told me you had a sweetheart in the city. Bertie Bryan vowed you acknowledged it to her." He took her hands and kissed them. "So I may have done, my queen, but it was when you were there." Linda sighed, a happy satisfied sigh. "Berk, dear, were you very unhappy, then? You didn't have to be, you see." "I thought it was necessary, and perhaps I needed the discipline." "Just as I have needed the discipline of teaching. I am realizing by degrees what a wonderful life work it might become." "But you shall not teach long, though, Linda darling, I haven't told you that we shall have to begin life rather simply, for you know I must always think of my mother." "Berk, dear, I couldn't be happy if I thought you ever would do less than you do now for her." "You are so wonderful, so wonderful," he murmured. "I hope to do better and better in my profession, for I am much encouraged, and some day, remember I shall buy back Talbot's Angles for you." "You will never do that, Berk," returned Linda, trying to look very grave. "Why, sweet?" "Because when Grace marries it will be mine without any question. We have had a letter from Judge Goldsborough." "And he said--" "That he had discovered papers which prove that Cyrus Talbot had only a lease on the place; it was for ninety-nine years, and it expired more than ten years ago." "Of all things!" ejaculated Berkley. "That was the last explanation that would have occurred to me. Did Jeffreys know before he left?" "Yes, we told him that afternoon he called to say good-by. Aunt Ri thought it was best to tell him, and to show him the judge's letter." "Poor old chap! And he had to go without even the recompense of having made a sacrifice for you." Linda's face clouded. "Yes, he said that everything had failed, even his attempted good deeds. I hope he will find happiness some day." "And you are very glad that you can feel an undisputed ownership of the old home?" "Yes, of course I am glad. Aren't you?" "What is your happiness is mine, beloved Verlinda." "The only drop of bitterness comes from the thought of Wyatt Jeffreys, but even there Aunt Ri insists his unhappiness will not last and that comforts me." "Who is talking about Aunt Ri?" asked that lady coming in and throwing aside her hat. "Parthy has a brood of thirteen young chickens just out, and I have been down to see them. What were you two saying about me? Hallo, Berk, what has brought you here, I'd like to know? I thought you were so busy you could scarcely breathe." "Oh, I'm taking an afternoon off," he responded. "A man can't be a mere machine such weather as this." "I've been telling him about the judge's letter," put in Linda. "And I reckon that was a mighty big surprise; it certainly was to us. It took a better lawyer than you, Berk Matthews, to unravel that snarl. Even the judge himself didn't remember the facts." "Which were?" "That to Cyrus Talbot belonged Addition and a part of Timber Neck, while to Madison belonged the Angles and the other part of Timber Neck; that was in the first place when they had their inheritance from their father, you see. They sold Timber Neck, and then Madison retained the Angles, while Cyrus kept Addition. Well, it seems the Angles, being the home plantation, had always gone to the eldest son. Madison's first child was a daughter, and after her birth Madison's wife died. Cyrus' first child was a son, and he wanted the Angles for him but Madison wouldn't give it up, but at last he consented to lease the place to his brother. Later on Cyrus' son died, and he left for the West, selling out Addition to his brother Madison who had married a second time. Madison went to Addition to live while Cyrus still clung to his lease of the Angles. However, when the house at Addition was burned he allowed his brother to go back to the homestead place to live. The rest you know; how Cyrus rented the lands to this and that tenant, and how the place went to the dogs at one time, and how it was finally discovered by Charles Jeffreys to belong to his mother's family. He wrote the letter you remember, the answer to which you have shown us. There is no use going over all that, for you will see just how the matter stands, and Verlinda will come to her own." Linda looked at Berk who smiled back at her understandingly. "Aunt Ri," said the girl, going over and laying her cheek against the gray head, "Verlinda has come to her own in more than one sense." She held out her hand to Berkley who took it and drew it against his heart. "What?" almost screamed Miss Ri. "You haven't a sweetheart in the city, Berk Matthews? What did I tell you, Verlinda? I knew that Bertie Bryan was making that all up." "Not exactly, Miss Ri," said Berkley, "for I did give her reason to think so." "And why did you do it? Just to make Verlinda unhappy?" "Oh, Aunt Ri," Linda put her hand over the dear lady's lips. "I did have a sweetheart there, when you were in the city," replied Berk, "and here she is, the only sweetheart for me." Miss Ri pulled out her handkerchief and began to mop her eyes. "I'm as glad as I can be," she wept, "but I am tremendously sorry for myself. You will leave me, Verlinda, and you will take Phebe, too. What am I to do?" "Oh, it will not be for a long, long time from now," said Linda consolingly. "Yes, it will." Miss Ri was decided. "Of course it must be. Why in the world should you wait? You will stop teaching after this year, anyway, for then you will have the farm to depend upon, while as for Berk, he is out of the woods, I know that; his mother told me so. By the way, Berk, how glad your mother will be. She fell in love with Linda at first sight. Oh, she told me a thing or two, and that's why I knew Bertie Bryan was--" "But she wasn't, you remember," interposed Linda. "She thought so." "It amounts to the same thing. Well, I shall have to adopt somebody. Never shall I be happy alone again, now that I know what it is to have a young thing about. I believe I will send for Jeffreys, he is mighty forlorn, and he needs coddling." "He wouldn't come," said Berkley triumphantly. "You mean you don't want him to; you look much better when he isn't here to give the contrast," retorted Miss Ri. "I don't want him myself, to tell the truth. See here, children, why can't you both come here and live with me till I can find an orphan who wants an Aunt Ri? I'm speaking for myself, for how I am to endure anyone's cooking after Phebe's is more than I can tell, and think of me rattling around in this big house like a dried pea in a pod. I should think you would be sorry enough for me to be ready to do anything." Miss Ri was so very unlike a dried pea that the two laughed. "We'll talk about it some day," said Berkley, "but just now--" [Illustration: "HER GAZE FELL ON THE TWO."] "All you want is to be happy. Well," Miss Ri sighed, but immediately brightened. "Go along," she cried, "I never get mad with fools, you remember, and, as I have frequently told Verlinda, I am still thanking the Lord that I have escaped. Go along with you. My brain has about as much as it can stand." The two stepped out upon the porch, but Miss Ri bustled after them. "Here, take this shawl, Verlinda; it is growing damp. Don't stay out too late. You'll stay to supper, Berk, of course." "Thank you, Miss Ri. I'll be glad to come, but I must go to the office for a few moments. I'll be back, though." The sun was dropping in the west. Day was almost done for the workers in the packing house near by, from which presently arose a burst of song. Phebe, at her kitchen door, joined in, crooning softly: "I'se gwine away some o' dese days 'Cross de riber o' Jordan My Lord, my Lord." As she sang her gaze fell on the two walking slowly toward the river's brim, the man leaning over the girl, her eyes lifted to his. Suddenly Mammy clapped her hand over her mouth, then she seized her knees, bending double as she chuckled gleefully. "Ain't it de troof, now," she murmured. "She nuvver look dat away at Mr. Jeffs, I say she nuvver. Bless my honey baby." Then she lifted up her voice fairly drowning the rival singers further away as she chanted: "Dis is de way I long has sought-- Oh, glory hallelujah! And mo'ned because I found it not-- Oh, glory hallelujah!" "Phebe," said Miss Ri, suddenly interrupting the singing, "we have got to have the best supper you ever cooked." "Ain't it de troof, now, Miss Ri," Phebe responded with alacrity. "Dat's thes what I say, dat's thes what I say." The shadows fell softly, the singers ceased their weird chant. Phebe, too busy conferring with Miss Ri to think of singing, bustled about the kitchen. Berkley and Linda walked slowly to the gate. "Berk," said the girl, "I wouldn't live anywhere but on this blessed old Eastern Sho' for the world, would you?" "If you were in the anywhere else, yes," he answered. She stood at the gate watching his sturdy figure and springing step as he went off down the street. So would she stand to watch him in the years to come. It was all like a wonderful dream. The old home and the love of Berkley, what more could heaven bestow upon her! The sun had disappeared, but a golden gleam rose and fell upon the water's surface with each pulsation of the river's heart. The venturesome crocus had shut its yellow eye, the harbinger bird had tucked its head under its wing. The world, life, love, all made a poem for Linda. Presently Mammy came waddling down the path in breathless haste. "Miss Lindy, Miss Lindy," she panted, "Miss Ri say yuh jes' got time to come in an' put on that purty floppity white frock. She puttin' flowers on de table, an' we sho' gwine hab a fesibal dis night." Linda turned her laughing face toward the old house, lightly ran up the path, and disappeared within the fan-topped doorway. Presently Miss Ri heard her upstairs singing: "The spring has come." * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Page 172, changed "or" to "of" (some of whom are grown) Page 219, changed "a" to "an" (merely an unostentatious) Page 226, changed "Jefreys" to "Jeffreys" (and Mr. Jeffreys, acted) Both homemade and home-made are used. Both pocketbook and pocket-book are used. Both schoolmarm and school-marm are used. 
5368	----	RICHARD CARVEL By Winston Churchill Volume 4. XIX. A Man of Destiny XX. A Sad Home-coming XXI. The Gardener's Cottage XXII. On the Road XXIII. London Town XXIV. Castle Yard XXV. The Rescue CHAPTER XIX A MAN OF DESTINY I was picked up and thrown into the brigantine's long-boat with a head and stomach full of salt water, and a heart as light as spray with the joy of it all. A big, red-bearded man lifted my heels to drain me. "The mon's deid," said he. "Dead!" cried I, from the bottom-board. "No more dead than you!" I turned over so lustily that he dropped my feet, and I sat up, something to his consternation. And they had scarce hooked the ship's side when I sprang up the sea-ladder, to the great gaping of the boat's crew, and stood with the water running off me in rivulets before the captain himself. I shall never forget the look of his face as he regarded my sorry figure. "Now by Saint Andrew," exclaimed he, "are ye kelpie or pirate?" "Neither, captain," I replied, smiling as the comical end of it came up to me, "but a young gentleman in misfortune." "Hoots!" says he, frowning at the grinning half-circle about us, "it's daft ye are--" But there he paused, and took of me a second sizing. How he got at my birth behind my tangled mat of hair and wringing linsey-woolsey I know not to this day. But he dropped his Scotch and merchant-captain's manner, and was suddenly a French courtier, making me a bow that had done credit to a Richelieu. "Your servant, Mr.--" "Richard Carvel, of Carvel Hall, in his Majesty's province of Maryland." He seemed sufficiently impressed. "Your very humble servant, Mr. Carvel. 'Tis in faith a privilege to be able to serve a gentleman." He bowed me toward his cabin, and then in sharp, quick tones he gave an order to his mate to get under way, and I saw the men turning to the braces with wonder in their eyes. My own astonishment was as great. And so, with my clothes sucking to my body and a trail of water behind me like that of a wet walrus, I accompanied the captain aft. His quarters were indeed a contrast to those of Griggs, being so neat that I paused at the door for fear of profaning them; but was so courteously bid to enter that I came on again. He summoned a boy from the round house. "William," said he, "a bottle of my French brandy. And my compliments to Mr. MacMuir, and ask him for a suit of clothes. You are a larger man than I, Mr. Carvel," he said to me, "or I would fit you out according to your station." I was too overwhelmed to speak. He poured out a liberal three fingers of brandy, and pledged me as handsomely as I had been an admiral come thither in mine own barge, instead of a ragged lad picked off a piratical slaver, with nothing save my bare word and address. 'Twas then I had space to note him more particularly. His skin was the rich colour of a well-seasoned ship's bell, and he was of the middle height, owned a slight, graceful figure, tapering down at the waist like a top, which had set off a silk coat to perfection and soured the beaus with envy. His movements, however, had all the decision of a man of action and of force. But his eye it was took possession of me--an unfathomable, dark eye, which bore more toward melancholy than sternness, and yet had something of both. He wore a clean, ruffled shirt, an exceeding neat coat and breeches of blue broadcloth, with plate burnished buttons, and white cotton stockings. Truly, this was a person to make one look twice, and think oftener. Then, as I went to pledge him, I, too, was caught for his name. "Paul," said he; "John Paul, of the brigantine John, of Kirkcudbright, in the West India trade." "Captain Paul--" I began. But my gratitude stuck fast in my throat and flowed out of my eyes. For the thought of the horrors from which he had saved me for the first time swept over me; his own kind treatment overcame me, and I blubbered like a child. With that he turned his back. "Hoots," says he, again, "dinna ye thank me. 'Tis naething to scuttle a nest of vermin, but the duty of ilka man who sails the seas." By this, having got the better of his emotion, he added: "And if it has been my good fortune to save a gentleman, Mr. Carvel, I thank God for it, as you must." Save for a slackness inside the leg and in the hips, Macbluir's clothes fitted me well enough, and presently I reappeared in the captain's cabin rigged out in the mate's shore suit of purplish drab, and brass-buckled shoes that came high over the instep, with my hair combed clear and tied with a ribbon behind. I felt at last that I might lay some claim to respectability. And what was my surprise to find Captain Paul buried to his middle in a great chest, and the place strewn about with laced and broidered coats and waistcoats, frocks and Newmarkets, like any tailor's shop in Church Street. So strange they looked in those tropical seas that he was near to catching me in a laugh as he straightened up. 'Twas then I noted that he was a younger man than I had taken him for. "You gentlemen from the southern colonies are too well nourished, by far," says he; "you are apt to be large of chest and limb. 'Odds bods, Mr. Carvel, it grieves me to see you apparelled like a barber surgeon. If the good Lord had but made you smaller, now," and he sighed, "how well this skyblue frock had set you off." "Indeed, I am content, and more, captain," I replied with a smile, "and thankful to be safe amongst friends. Never, I assure you, have I had less desire for finery." "Ay," said he, "you may well say that, you who have worn silk all your life, and will the rest of it, and we get safe to port. But believe me, sir, the pleasure of seeing one of your face and figure in such a coat as that would not be a small one." And disregarding my blushes and protests, he held up the watchet blue frock against me, and it was near fitting me but for my breadth,--the skirts being prodigiously long. I wondered mightily what tailor had thrust this garment upon him; its fashion was of the old king's time, the cuffs slashed like a sea-officer's uniform, and the shoulders made carefully round. But other thoughts were running within me then. "Captain," I cut in, "you are sailing eastward." "Yes, yes," he answered absently, fingering some Point d'Espagne. "There is no chance of touching in the colonies?" I persisted. "Colonies! No," said he, in the same abstraction; "I am making for the Solway, being long overdue. But what think you of this, Mr. Carvel?" And he held up a wondrous vellum-hole waistcoat of a gone-by vintage, and I saw how futile it were to attempt to lead him, while in that state of absorption, to topics which touched my affair. Of a sudden the significance of what he had said crept over me, the word Solway repeating itself in my mind. That firth bordered England itself, and Dorothy was in London! I became reconciled. I had no particle of objection to the Solway save the uneasiness my grandfather would come through, which was beyond helping. Fate had ordered things well. Then I fell to applauding, while the captain tried on (for he was not content with holding up) another frock of white drab, which, cuffs and pockets, I'll take my oath mounted no less than twenty-four: another plain one of pink cut-velvet; tail-coats of silk, heavily broidered with flowers, and satin waistcoats with narrow lace. He took an inconceivable enjoyment out of this parade, discoursing the while, like a nobleman with nothing but dress in his head, or, perhaps, like a mastercutter, about the turn of this or that lapel, the length from armpit to fold, and the number of button-holes that was proper. And finally he exhibited with evident pride a pair of doeskins that buttoned over the calf to be worn with high shoes, which I make sure he would have tried on likewise had he been offered the slightest encouragement. So he exploited the whole of his wardrobe, such an unlucky assortment of finery as I never wish to see again; all of which, however, became him marvellously, though I think he had looked well in anything. I hope I may be forgiven the perjury I did that day. I wondered greatly that such a foible should crop out in a man of otherwise sound sense and plain ability. At length, when the last chest was shut again and locked, and I had exhausted my ingenuity at commendation, and my patience also, he turned to me as a man come out of a trance. "Od's fish, Mr. Carvel," he cried, "you will be starved. I had forgot your state." I owned that hunger had nigh overcome me, whereupon he became very solicitous, bade the boy bring in supper at once, and in a short time we sat down together to the best meal I had seen for a month. It seemed like a year. Porridge, and bacon nicely done, and duff and ale, with the sea rushing past the cabin windows as we ate, touched into colour by the setting sun. Captain Paul did not mess with his mates, not he, and he gave me to understand that I was to share his cabin, apologizing profusely for what he was pleased to call poor fare. He would have it that he, and not I, were receiving favour. "My dear sir," he said once, "you cannot know what a bit of finery is to me, who has so little chance for the wearing of it. To discuss with a gentleman, a connoisseur (I know a bit of French, Mr. Carvel), is a pleasure I do not often come at." His simplicity in this touched me; it was pathetic. "How know you I am a gentleman, Captain Paul?" I asked curiously. "I should lack discernment, sir," he retorted, with some heat, "if I could not see as much. Breeding shines through sack-cloth, sir. Besides," he continued, in a milder tone, "the look of you is candour itself. Though I have not greatly the advantage of you in age, I have seen many men, and I know that such a face as yours cannot lie." Here Mr. Lowrie, the second mate, came in with a report; and I remarked that he stood up hat in hand whilst making it, very much as if Captain Paul commanded a frigate. The captain went to a locker and brought forth some mellow Madeira, and after the mate had taken a glass of it standing, he withdrew. Then we lighted pipes and sat very cosey with a lanthorn swung between us, and Captain Paul expressed a wish to hear my story. I gave him my early history briefly, dwelling but casually upon the position enjoyed in Maryland by my family; but I spoke of my grandfather, now turning seventy, gray-haired in the service of King and province. The captain was indeed a most sympathetic listener, now throwing in a question showing keen Scotch penetration, and anon making a most ludicrous inquiry as to the dress livery our footmen wore, and whether Mr. Carvel used outriders when he travelled abroad. This was the other side of the man. As the wine warmed and the pipe soothed, I spoke at length of Grafton and the rector; and when I came to the wretched contrivance by which they got me aboard the Black Moll, he was stalking hither and thither about the cabin, his fists clenched and his voice thick, breaking into Scotch again and vowing that hell were too good for such as they. His indignation, which seemed real and generous, transformed him into another man. He showered question after question upon me concerning my uncle and Mr. Allen; declared that he had known many villains, but had yet to hear of their equals; and finally, cooling a little, gave it as his judgment that the crime could never be brought home to them. This was my own opinion. He advised me, before we turned in, to "gie the parson a Grunt" as soon as ever I could lay hands upon him. The John made a good voyage for that season, with fair winds and clear skies for the most part. 'Twas a stout ship and a steady, with generous breadth of beam, and kept by the master as clean and bright as his porringer. He was Emperor aboard her. He spelt Command with a large C, and when he inspected, his jacks stood to attention like man-o'-war's men. The John mounting only four guns, and but two of them ninepounders, I expressed my astonishment that he had dared attack a pirate craft like the Black Moll, without knowing her condition and armament. "Richard," says he, impressively, for we had become very friendly, "I would close with a thirty-two and she flew that flag. Why, sir, a bold front is half the battle, using circumspection, of a course. A pretty woman, whatever her airs and quality, is to be carried the same way, and a man ought never to be frightened by appearances." Sometimes, at our meals, we discussed politics. But he seemed lukewarm upon this subject. He had told me that he had a brother William in Virginia, who was a hot Patriot. The American quarrel seemed to interest him very little. I should like to underscore this last sentence, my dears, in view of what comes after. What he said on the topic leaned perhaps to the King's side, tho' he was careful to say nothing that would give me offence. I was not surprised, for I had made a fair guess of his ambitions. It is only honest to declare that in my soberer moments my estimate of his character suffered. But he was a strange man,--a genius, as I soon discovered, to rouse the most sluggish nature to enthusiasm. The joy of sailing is born into some men, and those who are marked for the sea go down thither like the very streams, to be salted. Whatever the sign, old Stanwix was not far wrong when he read it upon me, and 'twas no great while before I was part and parcel of the ship beneath my feet, breathing deep with her every motion. What feeling can compare with that I tasted when the brigantine lay on her side, the silver spray hurling over the bulwarks and stinging me to life! Or, in the watches, to hear the sea lashing along her strakes in never ending music! I gave MacMuir his shore suit again, and hugely delighted and astonished Captain Paul by donning a jacket of Scotch wool and a pair of seaman's boots, and so became a sailor myself. I had no mind to sit idle the passage, and the love of it, as I have said, was in me. In a fortnight I went aloft with the best of the watch to reef topsails, and trod a foot-rope without losing head or balance, bent an easing, and could lay hand on any lift, brace, sheet, or haulyards in the racks. John Paul himself taught me to tack and wear ship, and MacMuir to stow a headsail. The craft came to me, as it were, in a hand-gallop. At first I could make nothing of the crew, not being able to understand a word of their Scotch; but I remarked, from the first, that they were sour and sulky, and given to gathering in knots when the captain or MacMuir had not the deck. For Mr. Lowrie, poor man, they had little respect. But they plainly feared the first mate, and John Paul most of all. Of me their suspicion knew no bounds, and they would give me gruff answers, or none, when I spoke to them. These things roused both curiosity and foreboding within me. Many a watch I paced thro' with MacMuir, big and red and kindly, and I was not long in letting him know of the interest which Captain Paul had inspired within me. His own feeling for him was little short of idolatry. I had surmised much as to the rank of life from which the captain had sprung, but my astonishment was great when I was told that John Paul was the son of a poor gardener. "A gardener's son, Mr. MacMuir!" I repeated. "Just that," said he, solemnly, "a guid man an' haly' was auld Paul. Unco puir, by reason o' seven bairns. I kennt the daddie weel. I mak sma' doubt the captain'll tak ye hame wi' him, syne the mither an' sisters still be i' the cot i' Mr. Craik's croft." "Tell me, MacMuir," said I, "is not the captain in some trouble?" For I knew that something, whatever it was, hung heavy on John Paul's mind as we drew nearer Scotland. At times his brow would cloud and he would fall silent in the midst of a jest. And that night, with the stars jumping and the air biting cold (for we were up in the 40's), and the John wish-washing through the seas at three leagues the hour, MacMuir told me the story of Mungo Maxwell. You may read it for yourselves, my dears, in the life of John Paul Jones. "Wae's me!" he said, with a heave of his big chest, "I reca' as yestreen the night Maxwell cam aboord. The sun gaed loon a' bluidy, an' belyve the morn rose unco mirk an' dreary, wi' bullers (rollers) frae the west like muckle sowthers (soldiers) wi' white plumes. I tauld the captain 'twas a' the faut o' Maxwell. I ne'er cad bide the blellum. Dour an' din he was, wi' ae girn like th' auld hornie. But the captain wadna hark to my rede when I tauld him naught but dool wad cooin o' taking Mungo." It seemed that John Paul, contrary to MacMuir's advice, had shipped as carpenter on the voyage out--near seven months since--a man by the name of Mungo Maxwell. The captain's motive had nothing in it but kindness, and a laudable desire to do a good turn to a playmate of his boyhood. As MacMuir said, "they had gaed barefit thegither amang the braes." The man hailed from Kirkbean, John Paul's own parish. But he had within him little of the milk of kindness, being in truth a sour and mutinous devil; and instead of the gratitude he might have shown, he cursed the fate that had placed him under the gardener's son, whom he deemed no better than himself. The John had scarce cleared the Solway before Maxwell showed signs of impudence and rebellion. The crew was three-fourths made of Kirkcudbright men who had known the master from childhood, many of them, indeed, being older than he; they were mostly jealous of Paul, envious of the command he had attained to over them, and impatient under the discipline he was ever ready to inflict. 'Tis no light task to enforce obedience from those with whom one has birdnested. But, having more than once felt the weight of his hand, they feared him. Dissatisfaction among such spreads apace, if a leader is but given; and Maxwell was such a one. His hatred for John Paul knew no bounds, and, having once tasted of his displeasure, he lay awake o' nights scheming to ruin him. And this was the plot: when the Azores should be in the wake, Captain Paul was to be murdered as he paced his quarterdeck in the morning, the two mates clapt into irons, and so brought to submission. And Maxwell, who had no more notion of navigation than a carpenter should, was to take the John to God knows where,--the Guinea coast, most probably. He would have no more navy regulations on a merchant brigantine, he promised them, nor banyan days, for the matter o' that. Happily, MacMuir himself discovered the affair on the eve of its perpetration, overhearing two men talking in the breadroom, and he ran to the cabin with the sweat standing out on his forehead. But the captain would have none of the precautions he urged; declared he would walk the deck as usual, and vowed he could cope single-handed with a dozen cowards like Maxwell. Sure enough, at crowdie-time, the men were seen coming aft, with Maxwell in the van carrying a bowl, on the pretext of a complaint against the cook. "John Paul," said MacMuir, with admiration in his voice and gesture, "John Paul wasna feart a pickle, but gaed to the mast, whyles I stannt chittering i' my claes, fearfu' for his life. He teuk the horns from Mungo, priet (tasted) a soup o' the crowdie, an' wi' that he seiz't haut o' the man by baith shouthers ere the blastie (scoundrel) raught for 's knife. My aith upo't, sir, the lave (rest) o' the batch cowert frae his e'e for a' the wand like thumpit tykes.'" So ended that mutiny, by the brave act of a brave man. The carpenter was clapt into irons himself, and given no less of the cat-o'-nine-tails than was good for him, and properly discharged at Tobago with such as had supported him. But he brought Captain Paul before the vice-admiralty court of that place, charging him with gross cruelty, and this proceeding had delayed the brigantine six months from her homeward voyage, to the great loss of her owners. And tho' at length the captain was handsomely acquitted, his character suffered unjustly, for there lacked not those who put their own interpretation upon the affair. He would most probably lose the brigantine. "He expected as much," said MacMuir. "There be mony aboord," he concluded, with a sigh, "as'll muckle gash (gossip) when we win to Kirkcudbright." CHAPTER XX A SAD HOME-COMING Mr. Lowrie and Auctherlonnie, the Dumfries bo'sun, both of whom would have died for the captain, assured me of the truth of MacMuir's story, and shook their heads gravely as to the probable outcome. The peculiar water-mark of greatness that is woven into some men is often enough to set their own community bitter against them. Sandie, the plodding peasant, finds it a hard matter to forgive Jamie, who is taken from the plough next to his, and ends in Parliament. The affair of Mungo Maxwell, altered to suit, had already made its way on more than one vessel to Scotland. For according to Lowrie, there was scarce a man or woman in Kirkcudbrightshire who did not know that John Paul was master of the John, and (in their hearts) that he would be master of more in days to come. Human nature is such that they resented it, and cried out aloud against his cruelty. On the voyage I had many sober thoughts of my own to occupy me of the terrible fate, from which, by Divine inter position, I had been rescued; of the home I had left behind. I was all that remained to Mr. Carvel in the world, and I was sure that he had given me up for dead. How had he sustained the shock? I saw him heavily mounting the stairs upon Scipicks arm when first the news was brought to him. Next Grafton would come hurrying in from Kent to Marlboro Street, disavowing all knowledge of the messenger from New York, and intent only upon comforting his father. And when I pictured my uncle soothing him to his face, and grinning behind his bed-curtains, my anger would scald me, and the realization of my helplessness bring tears of very bitterness. What would I not have given then for one word with that honest and faithful friend of our family, Captain Daniel! I knew that he suspected Grafton: he had told me as much that night at the Coffee House. Perhaps the greatest of my fears was that my uncle would deny him access to Mr. Carvel when he returned from the North. In the evening, when the sun settled red upon the horizon, I would think of Patty and my friends in Gloucester Street. For I knew they missed me sadly of a Sunday at the supper-table. But it has ever been my nature to turn forward instead of back, and to accept the twists and flings of fortune with hope rather than with discouragement. And so, as we left league after, league of the blue ocean behind us, I would set my face to the forecastle. For Dorothy was in England. On a dazzling morning in March, with the brigantine running like a beagle in full cry before a heaping sea that swayed her body,--so I beheld for the first time the misty green of the high shores of Ireland. Ah! of what heroes' deeds was I capable as I watched the lines come out in bold relief from a wonderland of cloud! With what eternal life I seemed to tingle! 'Twas as though I, Richard Carvel, had discovered all this colour; and when a tiny white speck of a cottage came out on the edge of the cliff, I thought irresistibly of the joy to live there the year round with Dorothy, with the wind whistling about our gables, and the sea thundering on the rocks far below. Youth is in truth a mystery. How long I was gazing at the shifting coast I know not, for a strange wildness was within me that made me forget all else, until suddenly I became conscious of a presence at my side, and turned to behold the captain. "'Tis a braw sight, Richard," said he, "but no sae bonnie as auld Scotland. An' the wind hands, we shall see her shores the morn." His voice broke, and I looked again to see two great tears rolling upon his cheeks. "Ah, Scotland!" he pressed on, heedless of them, "God aboon kens what she is to me! But she hasna' been ower guid to me, laddie." And he walked to the taffrail, and stood looking astern that two men who had come aft to splice a haulyard might not perceive his disorder. I followed him, emboldened to speak at last what was in me. "Captain Paul," said I, "MacMuir has told me of your trouble. My grandfather is rich, and not lacking in gratitude,"--here I paused for suitable words, as I could not solve his expression,--"you, sir, whose bravery and charity will have restored me to him, shall not want for friends and money." He heard me through. "Mr. Carvel," he replied with an impressiveness that took me aback, "reward is a thing that should not be spoken of between gentlemen." And thus he left me, upbraiding myself that I should have mentioned money. And yet, I reflected secondly, why not? He was no more nor less than a master of a merchantman, and surely nothing was out of the common in such a one accepting what he had honestly come by. Had my affection for him been less sincere, had I not been racked with sympathy, I had laughed over his notions of gentility. I resolved, however, that when I had reached London and seen Mr. Dix, Mr. Carvel's agent, he should be rewarded despite his scruples. And if he lost his ship, he should have one of my grandfather's. But at dinner he had plainly forgot any offence, and I had more cause than ever to be puzzled over his odd mixture of confidence and aloofness. He talked gayly on a score of subjects,--on dress, of which he was never tired, and described ports in the Indies and South America, in a fashion that betrayed prodigious powers of acute observation; nor did he lack for wit when he spoke of the rich planters who had wined him, and had me much in laughter. We fell into a merry mood, in Booth, jingling the glasses in many toasts, for he had a list of healths to make me gasp, near as long as the brigantine's articles,--Inez in Havana and Maraquita in Cartagena, and Clotilde, the Creole, of Martinico, each had her separate charm. Then there was Bess, in Kingston, the relict of a customs official, Captain Paul relating with ingenuous gusto a midnight brush with a lieutenant of his Majesty, in which the fair widow figured, and showed her preference, too. But his adoration for the ladies of the more northern colonies, he would have me to understand, was unbounded. For example, Miss Arabella Pope of Norfolk, in Virginia,--and did I know her? No, I had not that pleasure, though I assured him the Popes of Virginia were famed. Miss Pope danced divinely as any sylph, and the very memory of her tripping at the Norfolk Assembly roused the captain to such a pitch of enthusiasm as I had never seen in him. Marvellous to say, his own words failed him, and he had recourse to the poets: "Her feet beneath her petticoat Like little mice stole in and out, As if they feared the light; But, oh, she dances such a way! No sun upon an Easter-day Is half so fine a sight." The lines, he told me, were Sir John Suckling's; and he gave them standing, in excellent voice and elegant gesture. He was in particular partial to the poets, could quote at will from Gay and Thomson and Goldsmith and Gray, and even from Shakespeare, much to my own astonishment and humiliation. Saving only Dr. Courtenay of Annapolis I had never met his equal for versatility of speech and command of fine language; and, having heard that he had been at sea since the age of twelve, I made bold to ask him at what school he had got his knowledge. "At none, Richard," he answered with pride, "saving the rudiments at the Parish School at Kirkbean. Why, sir, I hold it to be within every man's province to make himself what he will, and I early recognized in Learning the only guide for such as me. I may say that I married her for the furtherance of my fortunes, and have come to love her for her own sake. Many and many the 'tween-watch have I passed in a coil of rope in the tops, a volume of the classics in my hand. And 'my happiest days, when not at sea, have been spent in my brother William's little library. He hath a modest estate near Fredericksburg, in Virginia, and none holds higher than he the worth of an education. Ah, Richard," he added, with a certain sadness, "I fear you little know the value of that which hath been so lavishly bestowed upon you. There is no creation in the world to equal your fine gentleman!" It struck me indeed as strange that a man of his powers should set store by such trumpery, and, too, that these notions had not impaired his ability as a seaman. I did not reply. He gave no heed, however, but drew from a case a number of odes and compositions, which he told me were his own. They were addressed to various of his enamouritas, abounded in orrery, and were all, I make no doubt, incredibly fine, tho' not so much as one sticks in my mind. To speak truth I listened with a very ill grace, longing the while to be on deck, for we were about to sight the Isle of Man. The wine and the air of the cabin had made my eyes heavy. But presently, when he had run through with some dozen or more, he put them by, and with a quick motion got from his chair, a light coming into his dark eyes that startled me to attention. And I forgot the merchant captain, and seemed to be looking forward into the years. "Mark you, Richard," said he, "mark well when I say that my time will come, and a day when the best of them will bow to me. And every ell of that triumph shall be mine, sir,-ay, every inch!" Such was his force, which sprang from some hidden fire within him, that I believed his words as firmly as they had been writ down in the Book of Isaiah. Brimming over with enthusiasm, I pledged his coming greatness in a reaming glass of Malaga. "Alack," he cried, "an' they all had your faith, laddie, a fig for the prophecy! Ya maun ken th' incentive's the maist o' the battle." There was more of wisdom in this than I dreamed of then. Here lay hid the very keynote of that ambitious character: he stooped to nothing less than greatness for a triumph over his slanderers. I rose betimes the next morning to find the sun peeping above the wavy line of the Scottish hills far up the. Solway, and the brigantine sliding smoothly along in the lee of the Galloway Rhinns. And, though the month was March, the slopes of Burrow Head were green as the lawn of Carvel Hall in May, and the slanting rays danced on the ruffed water. By eight of the clock we had crept into Kirkcudbright Bay and anchored off St. Mary's Isle, the tide running ebb, and leaving a wide brown belt of sand behind it. St. Mary's Isle! As we looked upon it that day, John Paul and I, and it lay low against the bright water with its bare oaks and chestnuts against the dark pines, 'twas perhaps as well that the future was sealed to us. Captain Paul had conned the brigantine hither with a master's hand; but now that the anchor was on the ground, he became palpably nervous. I had donned again good MacMuir's shore suit, and was standing by the gangway when the captain approached me. "What'll ye be doing now, Dickie lad?" he asked kindly. What indeed! I was without money in a foreign port, still dependent upon my benefactor. And since he had declared his unwillingness to accept any return I was of no mind to go farther into his debt. I thanked him again for his goodness in what sincere terms I could choose, and told him I should be obliged if he would put me in the way of working my passage to London upon some coasting vessel. But my voice was thick, my affection for him having grown-past my understanding. "Hoots!" he replied, moved in his turn, "whyles I hae siller ye shallna lack. Ye maun gae post-chaise to London, as befits yere station." And scouting my expostulations, he commanded the longboat, bidding me be ready to go ashore with him. I had nothing to do but to say farewell to MacMuir and Lowrie and Auctherlonnie, which was hard enough. For the honest first mate I had a great liking, and was touched beyond speech when he enjoined me to keep his shore suit as long as I had want of it. "But you will be needing it, MacMuir," I said, suspecting he had no other. "Haith! I am but a plain man, Mr. Carvel, and ye can sen' back the claw frae London, wi' this geordie." He slipped a guinea into my hand, but this I positively refused to take; and to hide my feelings I climbed quickly over the side and into the stern of the boat, beside the captain, and was rowed away through the little fleet of cobles gathering about the ship. Twisting my neck for a parting look at the John, I caught a glimpse of MacMuir's ungainly shoulders over the fokesle rail, and I was near to tears as he shouted a hearty "God speed" after me. As we drew near the town of Kirkcudbright, which lies very low at the mouth of the river Dee, I made out a group of men and women on the wharves. The captain was silent, regarding them. When we had got within twenty feet or so of the landing, a dame in a red woollen kerchief called out: "What hae ye done wi' Mungo, John Paul?" "CAPTAIN John Paul, Mither Birkie," spoke up a coarse fellow with a rough beard. And a laugh went round. "Ay, captain! I'll captain him!" screamed the carlin, pushing to the front as the oars were tossed, "I'll tak aith Mr. Currie'll be captaining him for his towmond voyage o' piratin'. He be leukin' for ye noo, John Paul." With that some of the men on the thwarts, perceiving that matters were likely to go ill with the captain, began to chaff with their friends above. The respect with which he had inspired them, however, prevented any overt insult on their part. As for me, my temper had flared up like the burning of a loose charge of powder, and by instinct my right hand sought the handle of the mate's hanger. The beldame saw the motion. "An' hae ye murder't MacMuir, John Paul, an' gien's claw to a Buckskin gowk?" The knot stirred with an angry murmur: in truth they meant violence, --nothing less. But they had counted without their man, for Paul was born to ride greater crises. With his lips set in a line he stepped lightly out of the boat into their very midst, and they looked into his eyes to forget time and place. MacMuir had told me how those eyes could conquer mutiny, but I had not believed had I trot been thereto see the pack of them give back in sullen wonder. And so we walked through and on to the little street beyond, and never a word from the captain until we came opposite the sign of the Hurcheon." "Do you await me here, Richard," he said quite calmly; "I mast seek Mr. Currie, and make my report." I have still the remembrance of that pitiful day in the clean little village. I went into the inn and sat down upon an oak settle in a corner of the bar, under the high lattice, and thought of the bitterness of this home-coming. If I was amongst strangers, he was amongst worse: verily, to have one's own people set against one is heaviness of heart to a man whose love of Scotland was great as John Paul's. After a while the place began to fill, Willie and Robbie and Jamie arriving to discuss Paul's return over their nappy. The little I could make of their talk was not to my liking, but for the captain's sake I kept my anger under as best I could, for I had the sense to know that brawling with a lot of alehouse frequenters would not advance his cause. At length, however, came in the same sneering fellow I had marked on the wharf, calling loudly for swats. "Ay, Captain Paul was noo at Mr. Curries, syne banie Alan seed him gang forbye the kirk." The speaker's name, I learned, was Davie, and he had been talking with each and every man in the long-boat. Yes, Mungo Maxwell had been cat-o'-ninetailed within an inch of his life; and that was the truth; for a trifling offence, too; and cruelly discharged at some outlandish port because, forsooth, he would not accept the gospel of the divinity of Captain Paul. He would as soon sign papers with the devil. This Davie was gifted with a dangerous kind of humour which I have heard called innuendo, and he soon had the bar packed with listeners who laughed and cursed turn about, filling the room to a closeness scarce supportable. And what between the foul air and my resentment, and apprehension lest John Paul would come hither after me, I was in prodigious discomfort of body and mind. But there was no pushing my way through them unnoticed, wedged as I was in a far corner; so I sat still until unfortunately, or fortunately, the eye of Davie chanced to fall upon me, and immediately his yellow face lighted malignantly. "Oh! here be the gentleman the captain's brocht hame!" he cried, emphasizing the two words; "as braw a gentleman as eer taen frae pirates, an' nae doubt sin to ae bien Buckskin bonnet-laird." I saw through his game of getting satisfaction out of John Paul thro' goading me, and determined he should have his fill of it. For, all in all, he had me mad enough to fight three times over. "Set aside the gentleman," said I, standing up and taking off MacMuir's coat, "and call me a lubberly clout like yourself, and we will see which is the better clout." I put off the longsleeved jacket, and faced him with my fists doubled, crying: "I'll teach you, you spawn of a dunghill, to speak ill of a good man!" A clamour of "Fecht! fecht!" arose, and some of them applauded me, calling me a "swankie," which I believe is a compliment. A certain sense of fairness is often to be found where least expected. They capsized the fat, protesting browsterwife over her own stool, and were pulling Jamie's coat from his back, when I began to suspect that a fight was not to the sniveller's liking. Indeed, the very look of him made me laugh out --'twas now as mild as a summer's morn. "Wow," says Jamie, "ye maun fecht wi' a man o' yere ain size." "I'll lay a guinea that we weigh even," said I; and suddenly remembered that I had not so much as tuppence to bless me. Happily he did not accept the wager. In huge disgust they hustled him from the inn and put forward the blacksmith, who was standing at the door in his leather apron. Now I had not bargained with the smith, who seemed a well-natured enough man, and grinned broadly at the prospect. But they made a ring on the floor, I going over it at one end, and he at the other, when a cry came from the street, those about the entrance parted, and in walked John Paul himself. At sight of him my new adversary, who was preparing to deal me out a blow to fell an ox, dropped his arms in surprise, and held out his big hand. "Haith! John Paul," he shouted heartily, forgetting me, "'tis blythe I am to see yere bonnie face ance mair! "An' wha are ye, Jamie Darrell," said the captain, "to be bangin' yere betters? Dinna ye ken gentry when ye see't?" A puzzled look spread over the smith's grimy face. "Gentry!" says he; "nae gentry that I ken, John Paul. Th' fecht be but a bit o' fun, an' nane o' my seekin'." "What quarrel is this, Richard?" says John Paul to me. "In truth I have no quarrel with this honest man," I replied; "I desired but the pleasure of beating a certain evil-tongued Davie, who seems to have no stomach for blows, and hath taken his lies elsewhere." So quiet was the place that the tinkle of the guidwife's needle, which she had dropped to the flags, sounded clear to all. John Paul stood in the middle of the ring, erect, like a man inspired, and the same strange sense of prophecy that had stirred my blood crept over him and awed the rest, as tho' 'twere suddenly given to see him, not as he was, but as he would be. Then he spoke. "You, who are my countrymen, who should be my oldest and best friends, are become my enemies. You who were companions of my childhood are revilers of my manhood; you have robbed me of my good name and my honour, of my ship, of my very means of livelihood, and you are not content; you would rob me of my country, which I hold dearer than all. And I have never done you evil, nor spoken aught against you. As for the man Maxwell, whose part you take, his child is starving in your very midst, and you have not lifted your hands. 'Twas for her sake I shipped him, and none other. May God forgive you! He alone sees the bitterness in my heart this day. He alone knows my love for Scotland, and what it costs me to renounce her." He had said so much with an infinite sadness, and I read a response in the eyes of more than one of his listeners, the guidwife weeping aloud. But now his voice rose, and he ended with a fiery vigour. "Renounce her I do," he cried, "now and forevermore! Henceforth I am no countryman of yours. And if a day of repentance should come for this evil, remember well what I have said to you." They stood for a moment when he had finished, shifting uneasily, their tongues gone, like lads caught in a lie. I think they felt his greatness then, and had any one of them possessed the nobility to come forward with an honest word, John Paul might yet have been saved to Scotland. As it was, they slunk away in twos and threes, leaving at last only the good smith with us. He was not a man of talk, and the tears had washed the soot from his face in two white furrows. "Ye'll hae a waught wi' me afore ye gang, John," he said clumsily, "for th' morns we've paddl' 't thegither i' th' Nith." The ale was brought by the guidwife, who paused, as she put it down, to wipe her eyes with her apron. She gave John Paul one furtive glance and betook herself again to her knitting with a sigh, speech having failed her likewise. The captain grasped up his mug. "May God bless you, Jamie," he said. "Ye'll be gaen noo to see the mither," said Jamie, after a long space. "Ay, for the last time. An', Jamie, ye'll see that nae harm cams to her when I'm far awa'?" The smith promised, and also agreed to have John Paul's chests sent by wagon, that very day, to Dumfries. And we left him at his forge, his honest breast torn with emotion, looking after us. CHAPTER XXI THE GARDENER'S COTTAGE So we walked out of the village, with many a head craned after us and many an eye peeping from behind a shutter, and on into the open highway. The day was heavenly bright, the wind humming around us and playing mad pranks with the white cotton clouds, and I forgot awhile the pity within me to wonder at the orderly look of the country, the hedges with never a stone out of place, and the bars always up. The ground was parcelled off in such bits as to make me smile when I remembered our own wide tracts in the New World. Here waste was sin: with us part and parcel of a creed. I marvelled, too, at the primness and solidity of the houses along the road, and remarked how their lines belonged rather to the landscape than to themselves. But I was conscious ever of a strange wish to expand, for I felt as tho' I were in the land of the Liliputians, and the thought of a gallop of forty miles or so over these honeycombed fields brought me to a laugh. But I was yet to see some estates of the gentry. I had it on my tongue's tip to ask the captain whither he was taking me, yet dared not intrude on the sorrow that still gripped him. Time and time we met people plodding along, some of them nodding uncertainly, others abruptly taking the far side of the pike, and every encounter drove the poison deeper into his soul. But after we had travelled some way, up hill and down dale, he vouchsafed the intelligence that we were making for Arbigland, Mr. Craik's seat near Dumfries, which lies on the Nith twenty miles or so up the Solway from Kirkcudbright. On that estate stood the cottage where John Paul was born, and where his mother and sisters still dwelt. "I'll juist be saying guidbye, Richard," he said; "and leave them a bit siller I hae saved, an' syne we'll be aff to London thegither, for Scotland's no but a cauld kintra." "You are going to London with me?" I cried. "Ay," answered he; "this is hame nae mair for John Paul." I made bold to ask how the John's owners had treated him. "I have naught to complain of, laddie," he answered; "both Mr. Beck and Mr. Currie bore the matter of the admiralty court and the delay like the gentlemen they are. They well know that I am hard driven when I resort to the lash. They were both sore at losing me, and says Mr. Beck: I We'll not soon get another to keep the brigantine like a man-o'-war, as did you, John Paul.' I thanked him, and told him I had sworn never to take another merchantman out of the Solway. And I will keep that oath." He sighed, and added that he never hoped for better owners. In token of which he drew a certificate of service from his pocket, signed by Messrs. Currie and Beck, proclaiming him the best master and supercargo they had ever had in their service. I perceived that talk lightened him, and led him on. I inquired how he had got the 'John'. "I took passage on her from Kingston, laddie. On the trip both Captain Macadam and the chief mate died of the fever. And it was I, the passenger, who sailed her into Kirkcudbright, tho' I had never been more than a chief mate before. That is scarce three years gone, when I was just turned one and twenty. And old Mr. Currie, who had known my father, was so pleased that he gave me the ship. I had been chief mate of the 'Two Friends', a slaver out of Kingston." "And so you were in that trade!" I exclaimed. He seemed to hesitate. "Yes," he replied, "and sorry I am to say it. But a man must live. It was no place for a gentleman, and I left of my own accord. Before that, I was on a slaver out of Whitehaven." "You must know Whitehaven, then." I said it only to keep the talk going, but I remembered the remark long after. "I do," said he. "'Tis a fair sample of an English coast town. And I have often thought, in the event of war with France, how easy 'twould be for Louis's cruisers to harry the place, and an hundred like it, and raise such a terror as to keep the British navy at home." I did not know at the time that this was the inspiration of an admiral and of a genius. The subject waned. And as familiar scenes jogged his memory, he launched into Scotch and reminiscence. Every barn he knew, and cairn and croft and steeple recalled stories of his boyhood. We had long been in sight of Criffel, towering ahead of us, whose summit had beckoned for cycles to Helvellyn and Saddleback looming up to the southward, marking the wonderland of the English lakes. And at length, after some five hours of stiff walking, we saw the brown Nith below us going down to meet the Solway, and so came to the entrance of Mr. Craik's place. The old porter recognized Paul by a mere shake of the head and the words, "Yere back, are ye?" and a lowering of his bushy white eyebrows. We took a by-way to avoid the manor-house, which stood on the rising ground twixt us and the mountain, I walking close to John Paul's shoulder and feeling for him at every step. Presently, at a turn of the path, we were brought face to face with an elderly gentleman in black, and John Paul stopped. "Mr. Craik!" he said, removing his hat. But the gentleman only whistled to his dogs and went on. "My God, even he!" exclaimed the captain, bitterly; "even he, who thought so highly of my father!" A hundred yards more and we came to the little cottage nigh hid among the trees. John Paul paused a moment, his hand upon the latch of the gate, his eyes drinking in the familiar picture. The light of day was dying behind Criffel, and the tiny panes of the cottage windows pulsed with the rosy flame on the hearth within, now flaring, and again deepening. He sighed. He walked with unsteady step to the door and pushed it open. I followed, scarce knowing what I did, halted at the threshold and drew back, for I had been upon holy ground. John Paul was kneeling upon the flags by the ingleside, his face buried on the open Bible in his mother's lap. Her snowy-white head was bent upon his, her tears running fast, and her lips moving in silent prayer to Him who giveth and taketh away. Verily, here in this humble place dwelt a love that defied the hard usage of a hard world! After a space he came to the door and called, and took me by the hand, and I went in with him. Though his eyes were wet, he bore himself like a cavalier. "Mother, this is Mr. Richard Carvell heir to Carvel Hall in Maryland,--a young gentleman whom I have had the honour to rescue from a slaver." I bowed low, such was my respect for Dame Paul, and she rose and curtseyed. She wore a widow's cap and a black gown, and I saw in her deep-lined face a resemblance to her son. "Madam," I said, the title coming naturally, "I owe Captain Paul a debt I can never repay." "An' him but a laddie!" she cried. "I'm thankful, John, I'm thankful for his mither that ye saved him." "I have no mother, Madam Paul," said I, "and my father was killed in the French war. But I have a grandfather who loves me dearly as I love him." Some impulse brought her forward, and she took both my hands in her own. "Ye'll forgive an auld woman, sir," she said, with a dignity that matched her son's, "but ye're sae young, an' ye hae sic a leuk in yere bonny gray e'e that I ken yell aye be a true friend o' John's. He's been a guid sin to me, an' ye maunna reek what they say o' him." When now I think of the triumph John Paul has achieved, of the scoffing world he has brought to his feet, I cannot but recall that sorrowful evening in the gardener's cottage, when a son was restored but to be torn away. The sisters came in from their day's work,--both well-favoured lasses, with John's eyes and hair,--and cooked the simple meal of broth and porridge, and the fowl they had kept so long against the captain's home-coming. He carved with many a light word that cost him dear. Did Janet reca' the simmer nights they had supped here, wi' the bumclocks bizzin' ower the candles? And was Nancy, the cow, still i' the byre? And did the bees still give the same bonnie hiney, and were the red apples still in the far orchard? Ay, Meg had thocht o' him that autumn, and ran to fetch them with her apron to her face, to come back smiling through her tears. So it went; and often a lump would rise in my throat that I could not eat, famished as I was, and the mother and sisters scarce touched a morsel of the feast. The one never failing test of a son, my dears, lies in his treatment of his mother, and from that hour forth I had not a doubt of John Paul. He was a man who had seen the world and become, in more than one meaning of the word, a gentleman. Whatever foibles he may have had, he brought no conscious airs and graces to this lowly place, but was again the humble gardener's boy. But time pressed, as it ever does. The hour came for us to leave, John Paul firmly refusing to remain the night in a house that belonged to Mr. Craik. Of the tenderness, nay, of the pity and cruelty of that parting, I have no power to write. We knelt with bowed heads while the mother prayed for the son, expatriated, whom she never hoped to see again on this earth. She gave us bannocks of her own baking, and her last words were to implore me always to be a friend to John Paul. Then we went out into the night and walked all the way to Dumfries in silence. We lay that night at the sign of the "Twa Naigs," where Bonnie Prince Charlie had rested in the Mars year(1715). Before I went to bed I called for pen and paper, and by the light of a tallow dip sat down to compose a letter to my grandfather, telling him that I was alive and well, and recounting as much of my adventures as I could. I said that I was going to London, where I would see Mr. Dix, and would take passage thence for America. I prayed that he had been able to bear up against the ordeal of my disappearance. I dwelt upon the obligations I was under to John Paul, relating the misfortunes of that worthy seaman (which he so little deserved!). And said that it was my purpose to bring him to Maryland with me, where I knew Mr. Carvel would reward him with one of his ships, explaining that he would accept no money. But when it came to accusing Grafton and the rector, I thought twice, and bit the end of the feather. The chances were so great that my grandfather would be in bed and under the guardianship of my uncle that I forbore, and resolved instead to write it to Captain Daniel at my first opportunity. I arose early to discover a morning gray and drear, with a mist falling to chill the bones. News travels apace the world over, and that of John Paul's home-coming and of his public renunciation of Scotland at the "Hurcheon" had reached Dumfries in good time, substantiated by the arrival of the teamster with the chests the night before. I descended into the courtyard in time to catch the captain in his watchet-blue frock haggling with the landlord for a chaise, the two of them surrounded by a muttering crowd anxious for a glimpse of Mr. Craik's gardener's son, for he had become a nine-day sensation to the country round about. But John Paul minded them not so much as a swarm of flies, and the teamster's account of the happenings at Kirkcudbright had given them so wholesome a fear of his speech and presence as to cause them to misdoubt their own wit, which is saying a deal of Scotchmen. But when the bargain had been struck and John Paul gone with the 'ostler to see to his chests, mine host thought it a pity not to have a fall out of me. "So ye be the Buckskin laud," he said, with a wink at a leering group of farmers; "ye hae braw gentles in America." He was a man of sixty or thereabout, with a shrewd but not unkindly face that had something familiar in it. "You have discernment indeed to recognize a gentleman in Scotch clothes," I replied, turning the laugh on him. "Dinna raise ae Buckskin, Mr. Rawlinson," said a man in corduroy. "Rawlinson!" I exclaimed at random, "there is one of your name in the colonies who knows his station better." "Trowkt!" cried mine host, "ye ken Ivie o' Maryland, Ivie my brither?" "He is my grandfather's miller at Carvel Hall," I said. "Syne ye maun be nane ither than Mr. Richard Carvel. Yere servan', Mr. Carvel," and he made me a low bow, to the great dropping of jaws round about, and led me into the inn. With trembling hands he took a packet from his cabinet and showed me the letters, twenty-three in all, which Ivie had written home since he had gone out as the King's passenger in '45. The sight of them brought tears to my eyes and carried me out of the Scotch mist back to dear old Maryland. I had no trouble in convincing mine host that I was the lad eulogized in the scrawls, and he put hand on the very sheet which announced my birth, nineteen years since,--the fourth generation of Carvels Ivie had known. So it came that the captain and I got the best chaise and pair in place of the worst, and sat down to a breakfast such as was prepared only for my Lord Selkirk when he passed that way, while I told the landlord of his brother; and as I talked I remembered the day I had caught the arm of the mill and gone the round, to find that Ivie had written of that, too! After that our landlord would not hear of a reckoning. I might stay a month, a year, at the "Twa Naigs" if I wished. As for John Paul, who seemed my friend, he would say nothing, only to advise me privately that the man was queer company, shaking his head when I defended him. He came to me with ten guineas, which he pressed me to take for Ivies sake, and repay when occasion offered. I thanked him, but was of no mind to accept money from one who thought ill of my benefactor. The refusal of these recalled the chaise, and I took the trouble to expostulate with the captain on that score, pointing out as delicately as I might that, as he had brought me to Scotland, I held it within my right to incur the expense of the trip to London, and that I intended to reimburse him when I saw Mr. Dix. For I knew that his wallet was not over full, since he had left the half of his savings with his mother. Much to my secret delight, he agreed to this as within the compass of a gentleman's acceptance. Had he not, I had the full intention of leaving him to post it alone, and of offering myself to the master of the first schooner. Despite the rain, and the painful scenes gone through but yesterday, and the sour-looking ring of men and women gathered to see the start, I was in high spirits as we went spinning down the Carlisle road, with my heart leaping to the crack of the postilion's whip. I was going to London and to Dorothy! CHAPTER XXII ON THE ROAD Many were the ludicrous incidents we encountered on our journey to London. As long as I live, I shall never forget John Paul's alighting upon the bridge of the Sark to rid himself of a mighty farewell address to Scotland he had been composing upon the road. And this he delivered with such appalling voice and gesture as to frighten to a standstill a chaise on the English side of the stream, containing a young gentleman in a scarlet coat and a laced hat, and a young lady who sobbed as we passed them. They were, no doubt, running to Gretna Green to be married. Captain Paul, as I have said, was a man of moods, and strangely affected by ridicule. And this we had in plenty upon the road. Landlords, grooms, and'ostlers, and even our own post-boys, laughed and jested coarsely at his sky-blue frock, and their sallies angered him beyond all reason, while they afforded me so great an amusement that more than once I was on the edge of a serious falling-out with him as a consequence of my merriment. Usually, when we alighted from our vehicle, the expression of mine host would sour, and his sir would shift to a master; while his servants would go trooping in again, with many a coarse fling that they would get no vails from such as we. And once we were invited into the kitchen. He would be soar for half a day at a spell after a piece of insolence out of the common, and then deliver me a solemn lecture upon the advantages of birth in a manor. Then his natural buoyancy would lift him again, and he would be in childish ecstasies at the prospect of getting to London, and seeing the great world; and I began to think that he secretly cherished the hope of meeting some of its votaries. For I had told him, casually as possible, that I had friends in Arlington Street, where I remembered the Manners were established. "Arlington Street!" he repeated, rolling the words over his tongue; "it has a fine sound, laddie, a fine sound. That street must be the very acme of fashion." I laughed, and replied that I did not know. And at the ordinary of the next inn we came to, he took occasion to mention to me, in a louder voice than was necessary, that I would do well to call in Arlington Street as we went into town. So far as I could see, the remark did not compel any increase of respect from our fellow-diners. Upon more than one point I was worried. Often and often I reflected that some hitch might occur to prevent my getting money promptly from Mr. Dix. Days would perchance elapse before I could find the man in such a great city as London; he might be out of town at this season, Easter being less than a se'nnight away. For I had heard my grandfather say that the elder Mr. Dix had a house in some merchant's suburb, and loved to play at being a squire before he died. Again (my heart stood at the thought), the Manners might be gone back to America. I cursed the stubborn pride which had led the captain to hire a post-chaise, when the wagon had served us so much better, and besides relieved him of the fusillade of ridicule he got travelling as a gentleman. But such reflections always ended in my upbraiding myself for blaming him whose generosity had rescued me from perhaps a life-long misery. But, on the whole, we rolled southward happily, between high walls and hedges, past trim gardens and fields and meadows, and I marvelled at the regular, park-like look of the country, as though stamped from one design continually recurring, like our butter at Carvel Hall. The roads were sometimes good, and sometimes as execrable as a colonial byway in winter, with mud up to the axles. And yet, my heart went out to this country, the home of my ancestors. Spring was at hand; the ploughboys whistled between the furrows, the larks circled overhead, and the lilacs were cautiously pushing forth their noses. The air was heavy with the perfume of living things. The welcome we got at our various stopping-places was often scanty indeed, and more than once we were told to go farther down the street, that the inn was full. And I may as well confess that my mind was troubled about John Paul. Despite all I could say, he would go to the best hotels in the larger towns, declaring that there we should meet the people of fashion. Nor was his eagerness damped when he discovered that such people never came to the ordinary, but were served in their own rooms by their own servants. "I shall know them yet," he would vow, as we started off of a morning, after having seen no more of my Lord than his liveries below stairs. "Am I not a gentleman in all but birth, Richard? And that is a difficulty many before me have overcome. I have the classics, and the history, and the poets. And the French language, though I have never made the grand tour. I flatter myself that my tone might be worse. By the help of your friends, I shall have a title or two for acquaintances before I leave London; and when my money is gone, there is a shipowner I know of who will give me employment, if I have not obtained preferment." The desire to meet persons of birth was near to a mania with him. And I had not the courage to dampen his hopes. But, inexperienced as I was, I knew the kind better than he, and understood that it was easier for a camel to enter the eye of a needle, than for John Paul to cross the thresholds of the great houses of London. The way of adventurers is hard, and he could scarce lay claim then to a better name. "We shall go to Maryland together, Captain Paul," I said, "and waste no time upon London save to see Vauxhall, and the opera, and St. James's and the Queen's House and the Tower, and Parliament, and perchance his Majesty himself," I added, attempting merriment, for the notion of seeing Dolly only to leave her gave me a pang. And the captain knew nothing of Dolly. "So, Richard, you fear I shall disgrace you," he said reproachfully. "Know, sir, that I have pride enough and to spare. That I can make friends without going to Arlington Street." I was ready to cry with vexation at this childish speech. "And a time will come when they shall know me," he went on. "If they insult me now they shall pay dearly for it." "My dear captain," I cried; "nobody will insult you, and least of all my friends, the Manners." I had my misgivings about little Mr. Marmaduke. "But we are, neither of us, equipped for a London season. I am but an unknown provincial, and you--" I paused for words. For a sudden realization had come upon me that our positions were now reversed. It seemed strange that I should be interpreting the world to this man of power. "And I?" he repeated bitterly. "You have first to become an admiral," I replied, with inspiration; "Drake was once a common seaman." He did not answer. But that evening as we came into Windsor, I perceived that he had not abandoned his intentions. The long light flashed on the peaceful Thames, and the great, grim castle was gilded all over its western side. The captain leaned out of the window. "Postilion," he called, "which inn here is most favoured by gentlemen?" "The Castle," said the boy, turning in his saddle to grin at me. "But if I might be so bold as to advise your honour, the 'Swan' is a comfortable house, and well attended." "Know your place, sirrah," shouted the captain, angrily, "and drive us to the 'Castle.'" The boy snapped his whip disdainfully, and presently pulled us up at the inn, our chaise covered with the mud of three particular showers we had run through that day. And, as usual, the landlord, thinking he was about to receive quality, came scraping to the chaise door, only to turn with a gesture of disgust when he perceived John Paul's sea-boxes tied on behind, and the costume of that hero, as well as my own. The captain demanded a room. But mine host had turned his back, when suddenly a thought must have struck him, for he wheeled again. "Stay," he cried, glancing suspiciously at the sky-blue frock; "if you are Mr. Dyson's courier, I have reserved a suite." This same John Paul, who was like iron with mob and mutiny, was pitiably helpless before such a prop of the aristocracy. He flew into a rage, and rated the landlord in Scotch and English, and I was fain to put my tongue in my cheek and turn my back that my laughter might not anger him the more. And so I came face to face with another smile, behind a spying-glass,--a smile so cynical and unpleasant withal that my own was smothered. A tall and thin gentleman, who had come out of the inn without a hat, was surveying the dispute with a keen delight. He was past the middle age. His clothes bore that mark which distinguishes his world from the other, but his features were so striking as to hold my attention unwittingly. After a while he withdrew his glass, cast one look at me which might have meant anything, and spoke up. "Pray, my good Goble, why all this fol-de-rol about admitting a gentleman to your house?" I scarce know which was the more astonished, the landlord, John Paul, or I. Goble bowed at the speaker. "A gentleman, your honour!" he gasped. "Your honour is joking again. Surely this trumpery Scotchman in Jews' finery is no gentleman, nor the longshore lout he has got with him. They may go to the 'Swan.'" "Jews' finery!" shouted the captain, with his fingers on his sword. But the stranger held up a hand deprecatingly. "'Pon my oath, Goble, I gave you credit for more penetration," he drawled; "you may be right about the Scotchman, but your longshore lout has had both birth and breeding, or I know nothing." John Paul, who was in the act of bowing to the speaker, remained petrified with his hand upon his heart, entirely discomfited. The landlord forsook him instantly for me, then stole a glance at his guest to test his seriousness, and looked at my face to see how greatly it were at variance with my clothes. The temptation to lay hands on the cringing little toadeater grew too strong for me, and I picked him up by the scruff of the collar,--he was all skin and bones,--and spun him round like a corpse upon a gibbet, while he cried mercy in a voice to wake the dead. The slim gentleman under the sign laughed until he held his sides, with a heartiness that jarred upon me. It did not seem to fit him. "By Hercules and Vulcan," he cried, when at last I had set the landlord down, "what an arm and back the lad has! He must have the best in the house, Goble, and sup with me." Goble pulled himself together. "And he is your honour's friend," he began, with a scowl. "Ay, he is my friend, I tell you," retorted the important personage, impatiently. The innkeeper, sulky, half-satisfied, yet fearing to offend, welcomed us with what grace he could muster, and we were shown to "The Fox and the Grapes," a large room in the rear of the house. John Paul had not spoken since the slim gentleman had drawn the distinction between us, and I knew that the affront was rankling in his breast. He cast himself into a chair with such an air of dejection as made me pity him from my heart. But I had no consolation to offer. His first words, far from being the torrent of protest I looked for, almost startled me into laughter. "He can be nothing less than a duke," said the captain. "Ah, Richard, see what it is to be a gentleman!" "Fiddlesticks! I had rather own your powers than the best title in England," I retorted sharply. He shook his head sorrowfully, which made me wonder the more that a man of his ability should be unhappy without this one bauble attainment. "I shall begin to believe the philosophers have the right of it," he remarked presently. "Have you ever read anything of Monsieur Rousseau's, Richard?" The words were scarce out of his mouth when we heard a loud rap on the door, which I opened to discover a Swiss fellow in a private livery, come to say that his master begged the young gentleman would sup with him. The man stood immovable while he delivered this message, and put an impudent emphasis upon the gentleman. "Say to your master, whoever he may be," I replied, in some heat at the man's sneer, "that I am travelling with Captain Paul. That any invitation to me must include him." The lackey stood astounded at my answer, as though he had not heard aright. Then he retired with less assurance than he had come, and John Paul sprang to his feet and laid his hands upon my shoulders, as was his wont when affected. He reproached himself for having misjudged me, and added a deal more that I have forgotten. "And to think," he cried, "that you have forgone supping with a nobleman on my account!" "Pish, captain, 'tis no great denial. His Lordship--if Lordship he is --is stranded in an inn, overcome with ennui, and must be amused. That is all." Nevertheless I think the good captain was distinctly disappointed, not alone because I gave up what in his opinion was a great advantage, but likewise because I could have regaled him on my return with an account of the meal. For it must be borne in mind, my dears, that those days are not these, nor that country this one. And in judging Captain Paul it must be remembered that rank inspired a vast respect when King George came to the throne. It can never be said of John Paul that he lacked either independence or spirit. But a nobleman was a nobleman then. So when presently the gentleman himself appeared smiling at our door, which his servant had left open, we both of us rose up in astonishment and bowed very respectfully, and my face burned at the thought of the message I had sent him. For, after all, the captain was but twenty-one and I nineteen, and the distinguished unknown at least fifty. He took a pinch of snuff and brushed his waistcoat before he spoke. "Egad," said he, with good nature, looking up at me, "Mohammed was a philosopher, and so am I, and come to the mountain. 'Tis worth crossing an inn in these times to see a young man whose strength has not been wasted upon foppery. May I ask your name, sir?" "Richard Carvel," I answered, much put aback. "Ah, Carvel," he repeated; "I know three or four of that name. Perhaps you are Robert Carvel's son, of Yorkshire. But what the devil do you do in such clothes? I was resolved to have you though I am forced to take a dozen watchet-blue mountebanks in the bargain." "Sir, I warn you not to insult my friend," I cried, in a temper again. "There, there, not so loud, I beg you," said he, with a gesture. "Hot as pounded pepper,--but all things are the better for a touch of it. I had no intention of insulting the worthy man, I give my word. I must have my joke, sir. No harm meant." And he nodded at John Paul, who looked as if he would sink through the floor. "Robert Carvel is as testy as the devil with the gout, and you are not unlike him in feature." "He is no relation of mine," I replied, undecided whether to laugh or be angry. And then I added, for I was very young, "I am an American, and heir to Carvel Hall in Maryland." "Lord, lord, I might have known," exclaimed he. "Once I had the honour of dining with your Dr. Franklin, from Pennsylvania. He dresses for all the world like you, only worse, and wears a hat I would not be caught under at Bagnigge Wells, were I so imprudent as to go there." "Dr. Franklin has weightier matters than hats to occupy him, sir," I retorted. For I was determined to hold my own. He made a French gesture, a shrug of his thin shoulders, which caused me to suspect he was not always so good-natured. "Dr. Franklin would better have stuck to his newspaper, my young friend," said he. "But I like your appearance too well to quarrel with you, and we'll have no politics before eating. Come, gentlemen, come! Let us see what Goble has left after his shaking." He struck off with something of a painful gait, which he explained was from the gout. And presently we arrived at his parlour, where supper was set out for us. I had not tasted its equal since I left Maryland. We sat down to a capon stuffed with eggs, and dainty sausages, and hot rolls, such as we had at home; and a wine which had cobwebbed and mellowed under the Castle Inn for better than twenty years. The personage did not drink wine. He sent his servant to quarrel with Goble because he had not been given iced water. While he was tapping on the table I took occasion to observe him. His was a physiognomy to strike the stranger, not by reason of its nobility, but because of its oddity. He had a prodigious length of face, the nose long in proportion, but not prominent. The eyes were dark, very bright, and wide apart, with little eyebrows dabbed over them at a slanting angle. The thin-lipped mouth rather pursed up, which made his smile the contradiction it was. In short, my dears, while I do not lay claim to the reading of character, it required no great astuteness to perceive the scholar, the man of the world, and the ascetic--and all affected. His conversation bore out the summary. It astonished us. It encircled the earth, embraced history and letters since the world began. And added to all this, he had a thousand anecdotes on his tongue's tip. His words he chose with too great a nicety; his sentences were of a foreign formation, twisted around; and his stories were illustrated with French gesticulations. He threw in quotations galore, in Latin, and French, and English, until the captain began casting me odd, uncomfortable looks, as though he wished himself well out of the entertainment. Indeed, poor John Paul's perturbation amused me more than the gentleman's anecdotes. To be ill at ease is discouraging to any one, but it was peculiarly fatal with the captain. This arch-aristocrat dazzled him. When he attempted to follow in the same vein he would get lost. And his really considerable learning counted for nothing. He reached the height of his mortification when the slim gentleman dropped his eyelids and began to yawn. I was wickedly delighted. He could not have been better met. Another such encounter, and I would warrant the captain's illusions concerning the gentry to go up in smoke. Then he might come to some notion of his own true powers. As for me, I enjoyed the supper which our host had insisted upon our partaking, drank his wine, and paid him very little attention. "May I make so bold as to ask, sir, whether you are a patron of literature?" said the captain, at length. "A very poor patron, my dear man," was the answer. "Merely a humble worshipper at the shrine. And I might say that I partake of its benefits as much as a gentleman may. And yet," he added, with a laugh and a cough, "those silly newspapers and magazines insist on calling me a literary man." "And now that you have indulged in a question, and the claret is coming on," said he, "perhaps you will tell me something of yourself, Mr. Carvel, and of your friend, Captain Paul. And how you come to be so far from home." And he settled himself comfortably to listen, as a man who has bought his right to an opera box. Here was my chance. And I resolved that if I did not further enlighten John Paul, it would be no fault of mine. "Sir," I replied, in as dry a monotone as I could assume, "I was kidnapped by the connivance of some unscrupulous persons in my colony, who had designs upon my grandfather's fortune. I was taken abroad in a slaver and carried down to the Caribbean seas, when I soon discovered that the captain and his crew were nothing less than pirates. For one day all hands got into a beastly state of drunkenness, and the captain raised the skull and cross-bones, which he had handy in his chest. I was forced to climb the main rigging in order to escape being hacked to pieces." He sat bolt upright, those little eyebrows of his gone up full half an inch, and he raised his thin hands with an air of incredulity. John Paul was no less astonished at my little ruse. "Holy Saint Clement!" exclaimed our host; "pirates! This begins to have a flavour indeed. And yet you do not seem to be a lad with an imagination. Egad, Mr. Carvel, I had put you down for one who might say, with Alceste: 'Etre franc et sincere est mon plus grand talent.' But pray go on, sir. You have but to call for pen and ink to rival Mr. Fielding." With that I pushed back my chair, got up from the table, and made him a bow. And the captain, at last seeing my drift, did the same. "I am not used at home to have my word doubted, sir," I said. "Sir, your humble servant. I wish you a very good evening." He rose precipitately, crying out from his gout, and laid a hand upon my arm. "Pray, Mr. Carvel, pray, sir, be seated," he said, in some agitation. "Remember that the story is unusual, and that I have never clapped eyes on you until to-night. Are all young gentlemen from Maryland so fiery? But I should have known from your face that you are incapable of deceit. Pray be seated, captain." I was persuaded to go on, not a little delighted that I had scored my point, and broken down his mask of affectation and careless cynicism. I told my story, leaving out the family history involved, and he listened with every mark of attention and interest. Indeed, to my surprise, he began to show some enthusiasm, of which sensation I had not believed him capable. "What a find! what a find!" he continued to exclaim, when I had finished. "And true. You say it is true, Mr. Carvel?" "Sir!" I replied, "I thought we had thrashed that out." "Yes, yes, to be sure. I beg pardon," said he. And then to his servant: "Colomb, is my writing-tablet unpacked?" I was more mystified than ever as to his identity. Was he going to put the story in a magazine? After that he seemed plainly anxious to be rid of us. I bade him good night, and he grasped my hand warmly enough. Then he turned to the captain in his most condescending manner. But a great change had come over John Paul. He was ever quick to see and to learn, and I rejoiced to remark that he did not bow over the hand, as he might have done two hours since. He was again Captain Paul, the man, who fought his way on his own merits. He held himself as tho' he was once more pacing the deck of the John. The slim gentleman poured the width of a finger of claret in his glass, soused it with water, and held it up. "Here's to your future, my good captain," he said, "and to Mr. Carvel's safe arrival home again. When you get to town, Mr. Carvel, don't fail to go to Davenport, who makes clothes for most of us at Almack's, and let him remodel you. I wish to God he might get hold of your doctor. And put up at the Star and Garter in Pall Mall: I take it that you have friends in London." I replied that I had. But he did not push the inquiry. "You should write out this history for your grandchildren, Mr. Carvel," he added, as he bade his Swiss light us to our room. "A strange yarn indeed, captain." "And therefore," said the captain, coolly, "as a stranger give it welcome. "'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.'" Had a meteor struck at the gentleman's feet, he could not have been more taken aback. "What! What's this?" he cried. "You quote Hamlet! And who the devil are you, sir, that you know my name?" "Your name, sir!" exclaims the captain, in astonishment. "Well, well," he said, stepping back and eying us closely, "'tis no matter. Good night, gentlemen, good night." And we went to bed with many a laugh over the incident. "His name must be Horatio. We'll discover it in the morning," said John Paul. CHAPTER XXIII LONDON TOWN But he had not risen when we set out, nor would the illnatured landlord reveal his name. It mattered little to me, since I desired to forget him as quickly as possible. For here was one of my own people of quality, a gentleman who professed to believe what I told him, and yet would do no more for me than recommend me an inn and a tailor; while a poor sea-captain, driven from his employment and his home, with no better reason to put faith in my story, was sharing with me his last penny. Goble, in truth, had made us pay dearly for our fun with him, and the hum of the vast unknown fell upon our ears with the question of lodging still unsettled. The captain was for going to the Star and Garter, the inn the gentleman had mentioned. I was in favour of seeking a more modest and less fashionable hostelry. "Remember that you must keep up your condition, Richard," said John Paul. "And if all English gentlemen are like our late friend," I said, "I would rather stay in a city coffee-house. Remember that you have only two guineas left after paying for the chaise, and that Mr. Dix may be out of town." "And your friends in Arlington Street?" said he. "May be back in Maryland," said I; and added inwardly, "God forbid!" "We shall have twice the chance at the Star and Garter. They will want a show of gold at a humbler place, and at the Star we may carry matters with a high hand. Pick out the biggest frigate," he cried, for the tenth time, at least, "or the most beautiful lady, and it will surprise you, my lad, to find out how many times you will win." I know of no feeling of awe to equal that of a stranger approaching for the first time a huge city. The thought of a human multitude is ever appalling as that of infinity itself, a human multitude with its infinity of despairs and joys, disgraces and honours, each small unit with all the world in its own brain, and all the world out of it! Each intent upon his own business or pleasure, and striving the while by hook or crook to keep the ground from slipping beneath his feet. For, if he falls, God help him! Yes, here was London, great and pitiless, and the fear of it was upon our souls as we rode into it that day. Holland House with its shaded gardens, Kensington Palace with the broad green acres of parks in front of it stitched by the silver Serpentine, and Buckingham House, which lay to the south over the hill,--all were one to us in wonder as they loomed through the glittering mist that softened all. We met with a stream of countless wagons that spoke of a trade beyond knowledge, sprinkled with the equipages of the gentry floating upon it; coach and chaise, cabriolet and chariot, gorgeously bedecked with heraldry and wreaths; their numbers astonished me, for to my mind the best of them were no better than we could boast in Annapolis. One matter, which brings a laugh as I recall it, was the oddity to me of seeing white coachmen and footmen. We clattered down St. James's Street, of which I had often heard my grandfather speak, and at length we drew up before the Star and Garter in Pall Mall, over against the palace. The servants came hurrying out, headed by a chamberlain clad in magnificent livery, a functionary we had not before encountered. John Paul alighted to face this personage, who, the moment he perceived us, shifted his welcoming look to one of such withering scorn as would have daunted a more timid man than the captain. Without the formality of a sir he demanded our business, which started the inn people and our own boy to snickering, and made the passers-by pause and stare. Dandies who were taking the air stopped to ogle us with their spying-glasses and to offer quips, and behind them gathered the flunkies and chairmen awaiting their masters at the clubs and coffee-houses near by. What was my astonishment, therefore, to see a change in the captain's demeanour. Truly for quick learning and the application of it I have never known his equal. His air became the one of careless ease habitual to the little gentleman we had met at Windsor, and he drew from his pocket one of his guineas, which he tossed in the man's palm. "Here, my man," said he, snapping his fingers; "an apartment at once, or you shall pay for this nonsense, I promise you." And walked in with his chin in the air, so grandly as to dissolve ridicule into speculation. For an instant the chamberlain wavered, and I trembled, for I dreaded a disgrace in Pall Mall, where the Manners might hear of it. Then fear, or hope of gain, or something else got the better of him, for he led us to a snug, well-furnished suite of a parlour and bedroom on the first floor, and stood bowing in the doorway for his honour's further commands. They were of a sort to bring the sweat to my forehead. "Have a fellow run to bid Davenport, the tailor, come hither as fast as his legs will carry him. And you may make it known that this young gentleman desires a servant, a good man, mind you, with references, who knows a gentleman's wants. He will be well paid." That name of Davenport was a charm,--the mention of a servant was its finishing touch. The chamberlain bent almost double, and retired, closing the door softly behind him. And so great had been my surprise over these last acquirements of the captain that until now I had had no breath to expostulate. "I must have my fling, Richard," he answered, laughing; "I shall not be a gentleman long. I must know how it feels to take your ease, and stroke your velvet, and order lackeys about. And when my money is gone I shall be content to go to sea again, and think about it o' stormy nights." This feeling was so far beyond my intelligence that I made no comment. And I could not for the life of me chide him, but prayed that all would come right in the end. In less than an hour Davenport himself arrived, bristling with importance, followed by his man carrying such a variety of silks and satins, flowered and plain, and broadcloths and velvets, to fill the furniture. And close behind the tailor came a tall haberdasher from Bond Street, who had got wind of a customer, with a bewildering lot of ruffles and handkerchiefs and neckerchiefs, and bows of lawn and lace which (so he informed us) gentlemen now wore in the place of solitaires. Then came a hosier and a bootmaker and a hatter; nay, I was forgetting a jeweller from Temple Bar. And so imposing a front did the captain wear as he picked this and recommended the other that he got credit for me for all he chose, and might have had more besides. For himself he ordered merely a modest street suit of purple, the sword to be thrust through the pocket, Davenport promising it with mine for the next afternoon. For so much discredit had been cast upon his taste on the road to London that he was resolved to remain indoors until he could appear with decency. He learned quickly, as I have said. By the time we had done with these matters, which I wished to perdition, some score of applicants was in waiting for me. And out of them I hired one who had been valet to the young Lord Rereby, and whose recommendation was excellent. His name was Banks, his face open and ingenuous, his stature a little above the ordinary, and his manner respectful. I had Davenport measure him at once for a suit of the Carvel livery, and bade him report on the morrow. All this while, my dears, I was aching to be off to Arlington Street, but a foolish pride held me back. I had heard so much of the fashion in which the Manners moved that I feared to bring ridicule upon them in poor MacMuir's clothes. But presently the desire to see Dolly took such hold upon me that I set out before dinner, fought my way past the chairmen and chaisemen at the door, and asked my way of the first civil person I encountered. 'Twas only a little rise up the steps of St. James's Street, Arlington Street being but a small pocket of Piccadilly, but it seemed a dull English mile; and my heart thumped when I reached the corner, and the houses danced before my eyes. I steadied myself by a post and looked again. At last, after a thousand leagues of wandering, I was near her! But how to choose between fifty severe and imposing mansions? I walked on toward that endless race of affairs and fashion, Piccadilly, scanning every door, nay, every window, in the hope that I might behold my lady's face framed therein. Here a chair was set down, there a chariot or a coach pulled up, and a clocked flunky bowing a lady in. But no Dorothy. Finally, when I had near made the round of each side, I summoned courage and asked a butcher's lad, whistling as he passed me, whether he could point out the residence of Mr. Manners. "Ay," he replied, looking me over out of the corner of his eye, "that I can. But y'ell not get a glimpse o' the beauty this day, for she's but just off to Kensington with a coachful o' quality." And he led me, all in a tremble over his answer, to a large stone dwelling with arched windows, and pillared portico with lanthorns and link extinguishers, an area and railing beside it. The flavour of generations of aristocracy hung about the place, and the big knocker on the carved door seemed to regard with such a forbidding frown my shabby clothes that I took but the one glance (enough to fix it forever in my memory), and hurried on. Alas, what hope had I of Dorothy now! "What cheer, Richard?" cried the captain when I returned; "have you seen your friends?" I told him that I had feared to disgrace them, and so refrained from knocking--a decision which he commended as the very essence of wisdom. Though a desire to meet and talk with quality pushed him hard, he would not go a step to the ordinary, and gave orders to be served in our room, thus fostering the mystery which had enveloped us since our arrival. Dinner at the Star and Garter being at the fashionable hour of half after four, I was forced to give over for that day the task of finding Mr. Dix. That evening--shall I confess it?--I spent between the Green Park and Arlington Street, hoping for a glimpse of Miss Dolly returning from Kensington. The next morning I proclaimed my intention of going to Mr. Dix. "Send for him," said the captain. "Gentlemen never seek their men of affairs." "No," I cried; "I can contain myself in this place no longer. I must be moving." "As you will, Richard," he replied, and giving me a queer, puzzled look he settled himself between the Morning Post and the Chronicle. As I passed the servants in the lower hall, I could not but remark an altered treatment. My friend the chamberlain, more pompous than ever, stood erect in the door with a stony stare, which melted the moment he perceived a young gentleman who descended behind me. I heard him cry out "A chaise for his Lordship!" at which command two of his assistants ran out together. Suspicion had plainly gripped his soul overnight, and this, added to mortified vanity at having been duped, was sufficient for him to allow me to leave the inn unattended. Nor could I greatly blame him, for you must know, my dears, that at that time London was filled with adventurers of all types. I felt a deal like an impostor, in truth, as I stepped into the street, disdaining to inquire of any of the people of the Star and Garter where an American agent might be found. The day was gray and cheerless, the colour of my own spirits as I walked toward the east, knowing that the city lay that way. But I soon found plenty to distract me. To a lad such as I, bred in a quiet tho' prosperous colonial town, a walk through London was a revelation. Here in the Pall Mall the day was not yet begun, tho' for some scarce ended. I had not gone fifty paces from the hotel before I came upon a stout gentleman with twelve hours of claret inside him, brought out of a coffee-house and put with vast difficulty into his chair; and I stopped to watch the men stagger off with their load to St. James's Street. Next I met a squad of redcoated guards going to the palace, and after them a grand coach and six rattled over the Scotch granite, swaying to a degree that threatened to shake off the footmen clinging behind. Within, a man with an eagle nose sat impassive, and I set him down for one of the king's ministers. Presently I came out into a wide space, which I knew to be Charing Cross by the statue of Charles the First which stood in the centre of it, and the throat of a street which was just in front of me must be the Strand. Here all was life and bustle. On one hand was Golden's Hotel, and a crowded mail-coach was dashing out from the arch beneath it, the horn blowing merrily; on the other hand, so I was told by a friendly man in brown, was Northumberland House, the gloomy grandeur whereof held my eyes for a time. And I made bold to ask in what district were those who had dealings with the colonies. He scanned me with a puzzling look of commiseration. "Ye're not a-going to sell yereself for seven year, my lad?" said he. "I was near that myself when I was young, and I thank God' to this day that I talked first to an honest man, even as you are doing. They'll give ye a pretty tale,--the factors,--of a land of milk and honey, when it's naught but stripes and curses yell get." And he was about to rebuke me hotly, when I told him I had come from Maryland, where I was born. "Why, ye speak like a gentleman!" he exclaimed. "I was informed that all talk like naygurs over there. And is it not so of your redemptioners?" I said that depended upon the master they got. "Then I take it ye are looking for the lawyers, who mostly represent the planters. And y e'll find them at the Temple or Lincoln's Inn." I replied that he I sought was not an attorney, but a man of business. Whereupon he said that I should find all those in a batch about the North and South American Coffee House, in Threadneedle Street. And he pointed me into the Strand, adding that I had but to follow my nose to St. Paul's, and there inquire. I would I might give you some notion of the great artery of London in those days, for it has changed much since I went down it that heavy morning in April, 1770, fighting my way. Ay, truly, fighting my way, for the street then was no place for the weak and timid, when bullocks ran through it in droves on the way to market, when it was often jammed from wall to wall with wagons, and carmen and truckmen and coachmen swung their whips and cursed one another to the extent of their lungs. Near St. Clement Danes I was packed in a crowd for ten minutes while two of these fellows formed a ring and fought for the right of way, stopping the traffic as far as I could see. Dustmen, and sweeps, and even beggars, jostled you on the corners, bullies tried to push you against the posts or into the kennels; and once, in Butchers' Row, I was stopped by a flashy, soft-tongued fellow who would have lured me into a tavern near by. The noises were bedlam ten times over. Shopmen stood at their doors and cried, "Rally up, rally up, buy, buy, buy!" venders shouted saloop and barley, furmity, Shrewsbury cakes and hot peascods, rosemary and lavender, small coal and sealing-wax, and others bawled "Pots to solder!" and "Knives to grind!" Then there was the incessant roar of the heavy wheels over the rough stones, and the rasp and shriek of the brewers' sledges as they moved clumsily along. As for the odours, from that of the roasted coffee and food of the taverns, to the stale fish on the stalls, and worse, I can say nothing. They surpassed imagination. At length, upon emerging from Butchers' Row, I came upon some stocks standing in the street, and beheld ahead of me a great gateway stretching across the Strand from house to house. Its stone was stained with age, and the stern front of it seemed to mock the unseemly and impetuous haste of the tide rushing through its arches. I stood and gazed, nor needed one to tell me that those two grinning skulls above it, swinging to the wind on the pikes, were rebel heads. Bare and bleached now, and exposed to a cruel view, but once caressed by loving hands, was the last of those whose devotion to the house of Stuart had brought from their homes to Temple Bar. I halted by the Fleet Market, nor could I resist the desire to go into St. Paul's, to feel like a pebble in a bell under its mighty dome; and it lacked but half an hour of noon when I had come out at the Poultry and finished gaping at the Mansion House. I missed Threadneedle Street and went down Cornhill, in my ignorance mistaking the Royal Exchange, with its long piazza and high tower, for the coffeehouse I sought: in the great hall I begged a gentleman to direct me to Mr. Dix, if he knew such a person. He shrugged his shoulders, which mystified me somewhat, but answered with a ready good-nature that he was likely to be found at that time at Tom's Coffee House, in Birchin Lane near by, whither I went with him. He climbed the stairs ahead of me and directed me, puffing, to the news room, which I found filled with men, some writing, some talking eagerly, and others turning over newspapers. The servant there looked me over with no great favour, but on telling him my business he went off, and returned with a young man of a pink and white complexion, in a green riding-frock, leather breeches, and top boots, who said: "Well, my man, I am Mr. Dix." There was a look about him, added to his tone and manner, set me strong against him. I knew his father had not been of this stamp. "And I am Mr. Richard Carvel, grandson to Mr. Lionel Carvel, of Carvel Hall, in Maryland," I replied, much in the same way. He thrust his hands into his breeches and stared very hard. "You?" he said finally, with something very near a laugh. "Sir, a gentleman's word usually suffices!" I cried. He changed his tone a little. "Your pardon, Mr. Carvel," he said, "but we men of business have need to be careful. Let us sit, and I will examine your letters. Your determination must have been suddenly taken," he added, "for I have nothing from Mr. Carvel on the subject of your coming." "Letters! You have heard nothing!" I gasped, and there stopped short and clinched the table. "Has not my grandfather written of my disappearance?" Immediately his expression went back to the one he had met me with. "Pardon me," he said again. I composed myself as best I could in the face of his incredulity, swallowing with an effort the aversion I felt to giving him my story. "I think it strange he has not informed you," I said; "I was kidnapped near Annapolis last Christmas-time, and put on board of a slaver, from which I was rescued by great good fortune, and brought to Scotland. And I have but just made my way to London." "The thing is not likely, Mr.--, Mr.--," he said, drumming impatiently on the board. Then I lost control of myself. "As sure as I am heir to Carvel Hall, Mr. Dix," I cried, rising, "you shall pay for your insolence by forfeiting your agency!" Now the roan was a natural coward, with a sneer for some and a smirk for others. He went to the smirk. "I am but looking to Mr. Carvel's interests the best I know how," he replied; "and if indeed you be Mr. Richard Carvel, then you must applaud my caution, sir, in seeking proofs." "Proofs I have none," I cried; "the very clothes on my back are borrowed from a Scotch seaman. My God, Mr. Dix, do I look like a rogue?" "Were I to advance money upon appearances, sir, I should be insolvent in a fortnight. But stay," he cried uneasily, as I flung back my chair, "stay, sir. Is there no one of your province in the town to attest your identity?" "Ay, that there is," I said bitterly; "you shall hear from Mr. Manners soon, I promise you." "Pray, Mr. Carvel," he said, overtaking me on the stairs, "you will surely allow the situation to be--extraordinary, you will surely commend my discretion. Permit me, sir, to go with you to Arlington Street." And he sent a lad in haste to the Exchange for a hackney-chaise, which was soon brought around. I got in, somewhat mollified, and ashamed of my heat: still disliking the man, but acknowledging he had the better right on his side. True to his kind he gave me every mark of politeness now, asked particularly after Mr. Carvel's health, and encouraged me to give him as much of my adventure as I thought proper. But what with the rattle of the carriage and the street noises and my disgust, I did not care to talk, and presently told him as much very curtly. He persisted, how: ever, in pointing out the sights, the Fleet prison, and where the Ludgate stood six years gone; and the Devil's Tavern, of old Ben Jonson's time, and the Mitre and the Cheshire Cheese and the Cock, where Dr. Johnson might be found near the end of the week at his dinner. He showed me the King's Mews above Charing Cross, and the famous theatre in the Haymarket, and we had but turned the corner into Piccadilly when he cried excitedly at a passing chariot: "There, Mr. Carvel, there go my Lord North and Mr. Rigby!" "The devil take them, Mr. Dix!" I exclaimed. He was silent after that, glancing at me covertly from while to while until we swung into Arlington Street. Before I knew we were stopped in front of the house, but as I set foot on the step I found myself confronted by a footman in the Manners livery, who cried out angrily to our man: "Make way, make way for his Grace of Chartersea!" Turning, I saw a coach behind, the horses dancing at the rear wheels of the chaise. We alighted hastily, and I stood motionless, my heart jumping quick and hard in the hope and fear that Dorothy was within, my eye fixed on the coach door. But when the footman pulled it open and lowered the step, out lolled a very broad man with a bloated face and little, beady eyes without a spark of meaning, and something very like a hump was on the top of his back. He wore a yellow top-coat, and red-heeled shoes of the latest fashion, and I settled at once he was the Duke of Chartersea. Next came little Mr. Manners, stepping daintily as ever; and then, as the door closed with a bang, I remembered my errand. They had got halfway to the portico. "Mr. Manners!" I cried. He faced about, and his Grace also, and both stared in wellbred surprise. As I live, Mr. Manners looked into my face, into my very eyes, and gave no sign of recognition. And what between astonishment and anger, and a contempt that arose within me, I could not speak. "Give the man a shilling, Manners," said his Grace; "we can't stay here forever." "Ay, give the man a shilling," lisped Mr. Manners to the footman. And they passed into the house, and the door eras shut. Then I heard Mr. Dix at my elbow, saying in a soft voice: "Now, my fine gentleman, is there any good reason why you should not ride to Bow Street with me?" "As there is a God in heaven. Mr. Dix," I answered, very low, "if you attempt to lay hands on me, you shall answer for it! And you shall hear from me yet, at the Star and Garter hotel." I spun on my heel and left him, nor did he follow; and a great lump was in my throat and tears welling in my eyes. What would John Paul say? CHAPTER XXIV CASTLE YARD But I did not go direct to the Star and Garter. No, I lacked the courage to say to John Paul: "You have trusted me, and this is how I have rewarded your faith." And the thought that Dorothy's father, of all men, had served me thus, after what I had gone through, filled me with a bitterness I had never before conceived. And when my brain became clearer I reflected that Mr. Manners had had ample time to learn of my disappearance from Maryland, and that his action had been one of design, and of cold blood. But I gave to Dorothy or her mother no part in it. Mr. Manners never had had cause to hate me, and the only reason I could assign was connected with his Grace of Chartersea, which I dismissed as absurd. A few drops of rain warned me to seek shelter. I knew not where I was, nor how long I had been walking the streets at a furious pace. But a huckster told me I was in Chelsea; and kindly directed me back to Pall Mall. The usual bunch of chairmen was around the hotel entrance, but I noticed a couple of men at the door, of sharp features and unkempt dress, and heard a laugh as I went in. My head swam as I stumbled up the stairs and fumbled at the knob, when I heard voices raised inside, and the door was suddenly and violently thrown open. Across the sill stood a big, rough-looking man with his hands on his hips. "Oho! Here be the other fine bird a-homing, I'll warrant," he cried. The place was full. I caught sight of Davenport, the tailor, with a wry face, talking against the noise; of Banks, the man I had hired, resplendent in my livery. One of the hotel servants was in the corner perspiring over John Paul's chests, and beside him stood a man disdainfully turning over with his foot the contents, as they were thrown on the floor. I saw him kick the precious vellum-hole waistcoat across the room in wrath and disgust, and heard him shout above the rest: "The lot of them would not bring a guinea from any Jew in St. Martin's Lane!" In the other corner, by the writing-desk, stood the hatter and the haberdasher with their heads together. And in the very centre of the confusion was the captain himself. He was drest in his new clothes Davenport had brought, and surprised me by his changed appearance, and looked as fine a gentleman as any I have ever seen. His face lighted with relief at sight of me. "Now may I tell these rogues begone, Richard?" he cried. And turning to the man confronting me, he added, "This gentleman will settle their beggarly accounts." Then I knew we had to do with bailiffs, and my heart failed me. "Likely," laughed the big man; "I'll stake my oath he has not a groat to pay their beggarly accounts, as year honour is pleased to call them." They ceased jabbering and straightened to attention, awaiting my reply. But I forgot them all, and thought only of the captain, and of the trouble I had brought him. He began to show some consternation as I went up to him. "My dear friend," I said, vainly trying to steady my voice, "I beg, I pray that you will not lose faith in me,--that you will not think any deceit of mine has brought you to these straits. Mr. Dix did not know me, and has had no word from my grandfather of my disappearance. And Mr. Manners, whom I thought my friend, spurned me in the street before the Duke of Chartersea." And no longer master of myself, I sat down at the table and hid my face, shaken by great sobs, to think that this was my return for his kindness. "What," I heard him cry, "Mr. Manners spurned you, Richard! By all the law in Coke and Littleton, he shall answer for it to me. Your fairweather fowl shall have the chance to run me through!" I sat up in bewilderment, doubting my senses. "You believe me, captain," I said, overcome by the man's faith; "you believe me when I tell you that one I have known from childhood refused to recognize me to-day?" He raised me in his arms as tenderly as a woman might. "And the whole world denied you, lad, I would not. I believe you--" and he repeated it again and again, unable to get farther. And if his words brought tears to my eyes, my strength came with them. "Then I care not," I replied; "I only to live to reward you." "Mr. Manners shall answer for it to me!" cried John Paul again, and made a pace toward the door. "Not so fast, not so fast, captain, or admiral, or whatever you are," said the bailiff, stepping in his way, for he was used to such scenes; "as God reigns, the owners of all these fierce titles be fire-eaters, who would spit you if you spilt snuff upon 'em. Come, come, gentlemen, your swords, and we shall see the sights o' London." This was the signal for another uproar, the tailor shrieking that John Paul must take off the suit, and Banks the livery; asking the man in the corner by the sea-chests (who proved to be the landlord) who was to pay him for his work and his lost cloth. And the landlord shook his fist at us and shouted back, who was to pay him his four pounds odd, which included two ten-shilling dinners and a flask of his best wine? The other tradesmen seized what was theirs and made off with remarks appropriate to the occasion. And when John Paul and my man were divested of their plumes, we were marched downstairs and out through a jeering line of people to a hackney coach. "Now, sirs, whereaway?" said the bailiff when we were got in beside one of his men, and burning with the shame of it; "to the prison? Or I has a very pleasant hotel for gentlemen in Castle Yard." The frightful stories my dear grandfather had told me of the Fleet came flooding into my head, and I shuddered and turned sick. I glanced at John Paul. "A guinea will not go far in a sponging-house," said he, and the bailiff's man laughed. The bailiff gave a direction we did not hear, and we drove off. He proved a bluff fellow with a bloat yet not unkindly humour, and despite his calling seemed to have something that was human in him. He passed many a joke on that pitiful journey in an attempt to break our despondency, urging us not to be downcast, and reminding us that the last gentleman he had taken from Pall Mall was in over a thousand pounds, and that our amount was a bagatelle. And when we had gone through Temple Bar, instead of keeping on down Fleet Street, we jolted into Chancery Lane. This roused me. "My friend has warned you that he has no money," I said, "and no more have I." The bailiff regarded me shrewdly. "Ay," he replied, "I know. But I has seen many stripes o' men in my time, my masters, and I know them to trust, and them whose silver I must feel or send to the Fleet." I told him unreservedly my case, and that he must take his chance of being paid; that I could not hear from America for three months at least. He listened without much show of attention, shaking his head from side to side. "If you ever cheated a man, or the admiral here either, then I begin over again," he broke in with decision; "it is the fine sparks from the clubs I has to watch. You'll not worry, sir, about me. Take my oath I'll get interest out of you on my money." Unwilling as we both were to be beholden to a bailiff, the alternative of the Fleet was too terrible to be thought of. And so we alighted after him with a shiver at the sight of the ugly, grimy face of the house, and the dirty windows all barred with double iron. In answer to a knock we were presently admitted by a turnkey to a vestibule as black as a tomb, and the heavy outer door was locked behind us. Then, as the man cursed and groped for the keyhole of the inner door, despair laid hold of me. Once inside, in the half light of a narrow hallway, a variety of noises greeted our ears,--laughter from above and below, interspersed with oaths; the click of billiard balls, and the occasional hammering of a pack of cards on a bare table before the shuffle. The air was close almost to suffocation, and out of the coffee room, into which I glanced, came a heavy cloud of tobacco smoke. "Why, my masters, why so glum?" said the bailiff; "my inn is not such a bad place, and you'll find ample good company here, I promise you." And he led us into a dingy antechamber littered with papers, on every one of which, I daresay, was written a tragedy. Then he inscribed our names, ages, descriptions, and the like in a great book, when we followed him up three flights to a low room under the eaves, having but one small window, and bare of furniture save two narrow cots for beds, a broken chair, and a cracked mirror. He explained that cash boarders got better, and added that we might be happy we were not in the Fleet. "We dine at two here, gentlemen, and sup at eight. This is not the Star and Garter," said he as he left us. It was the captain who spoke first, though he swallowed twice before the words came out. "Come, Richard, come, laddie," he said, "'tis no so bad it micht-na be waur. We'll mak the maist o' it." "I care not for myself, Captain Paul," I replied, marvelling the more at him, "but to think that I have landed you here, that this is my return for your sacrifice." "Hoots! How was ye to foresee Mr. Manners was a blellum?" And he broke into threats which, if Mr. Marmaduke had heard and comprehended, would have driven him into the seventh state of fear. "Have you no other friends in London?" he asked, regaining his English. I shook my head. Then came--a question I dreaded. "And Mr. Manners's family?" "I would rather remain here for life," I said, "than to them now." For pride is often selfish, my dears, and I did not reflect that if I remained, the captain would remain likewise. "Are they all like Mr. Manners?" "That they are not," I returned with more heat than was necessary; "his wife is goodness itself, and his daughter--" Words failed me, and I reddened. "Ah, he has a daughter, you say," said the captain, casting a significant look at me and beginning to pace the little room. He was keener than I thought, this John Paul. If it were not so painful a task, my dears, I would give you here some notion of what a London sponging-house was in the last century. Comyn has heard me tell of it, and I have seen Bess cry over the story. Gaming was the king-vice of that age, and it filled these places to overflowing. Heaven help a man who came into the world with that propensity in the early days of King George the Third. Many, alas, acquired it before they were come to years of discretion. Next me, at the long table where we were all thrown in together,--all who could not pay for private meals, --sat a poor fellow who had flung away a patrimony of three thousand a year. Another had even mortgaged to a Jew his prospects on the death of his mother, and had been seized by the bailiffs outside of St. James's palace, coming to Castle Yard direct from his Majesty's levee. Yet another, with such a look of dead hope in his eyes as haunts me yet, would talk to us by the hour of the Devonshire house where he was born, of the green valley and the peaceful stream, and of the old tower-room, caressed by trees, where Queen Bess had once lain under the carved oak rafters. Here he had taken his young wife, and they used to sit together, so he said, in the sunny oriel over the water, and he had sworn to give up the cards. That was but three years since, and then all had gone across the green cloth in one mad night in St. James's Street. Their friends had deserted them, and the poor little woman was lodged in Holborn near by, and came every morning with some little dainty to the bailiff's, for her liege lord who had so used her. He pressed me to share a fowl with him one day, but it would have choked me. God knows where she got the money to buy it. I saw her once hanging on his neck in the hall, he trying to shield her from the impudent gaze of his fellow-lodgers. But some of them lived like lords in luxury, with never a seeming regret; and had apartments on the first floor, and had their tea and paper in bed, and lounged out the morning in a flowered nightgown, and the rest of the day in a laced coat. These drank the bailiff's best port and champagne, and had nothing better than a frown or haughty look for us, when we passed them at the landing. Whence the piper was paid I knew not, and the bailiff cared not. But the bulk of the poor gentlemen were a merry crew withal, and had their wit and their wine at table, and knew each other's histories (and soon enough ours) by heart. They betted away the week at billiards or whist or picquet or loo, and sometimes measured swords for diversion, tho' this pastime the bailiff was greatly set against; as calculated to deprive him of a lodger. Although we had no money for gaming, and little for wine or tobacco, the captain and I were received very heartily into the fraternity. After one afternoon of despondency we both voted it the worst of bad policy to remain aloof and nurse our misfortune, and spent our first evening in making acquaintances over a deal of very thin "debtor's claret." I tossed long that night on the hard cot, listening to the scurrying rats among the roof-timbers. They ran like the thoughts in my brain. And before I slept I prayed again and again that God would put it in my power to reward him whom charity for a friendless foundling had brought to a debtor's prison. Not so much as a single complaint or reproach had passed his lips! CHAPTER XXV THE RESCUE Perchance, my dears, if John Paul and I had not been cast by accident in a debtor's prison, this great man might never have bestowed upon our country those glorious services which contributed so largely to its liberty. And I might never have comprehended that the American Revolution was brought on and fought by a headstrong king, backed by unscrupulous followers who held wealth above patriotism. It is often difficult to lay finger upon the causes which change the drift of a man's opinions, and so I never wholly knew why John Paul abandoned his deep-rooted purpose to obtain advancement in London by grace of the accomplishments he had laboured so hard to attain. But I believe the beginning was at the meeting at Windsor with the slim and cynical gentleman who had treated him to something between patronage and contempt. Then my experience with Mr. Manners had so embedded itself in his mind that he could never speak of it but with impatience and disgust. And, lastly, the bailiff's hotel contained many born gentlemen who had been left here to rot out the rest of their dreary lives by friends who were still in power and opulence. More than once when I climbed to our garret I found the captain seated on the three-legged chair, with his head between his hands, sunk in reflection. "You were right, Richard," said he; "your great world is a hard world for those in the shadow of it. I see now that it must not be entered from below, but from the cabin window. A man may climb around it, lad, and when he is above may scourge it." "And you will scourge it, captain!" I had no doubt of his ability one day to do it. "Ay, and snap my fingers at it. 'Tis a pretty organization, this society, which kicks the man who falls to the dogs. None of your fine gentlemen for me!" And he would descend to talk politics with our fellow-guests. We should have been unhappy indeed had it not been for this pastime. It seems to me strange that these debtors took such a keen interest in outside affairs, even tho' it was a time of great agitation. We read with eagerness the cast-off newspapers of the first-floor gentlemen. One poor devil who had waddled (failed) in Change Alley had collected under his mattress the letters of Junius, then selling the Public Advertiser as few publications had ever sold before. John Paul devoured these attacks upon his Majesty and his ministry in a single afternoon, and ere long he had on the tip of his tongue the name and value of every man in Parliament and out of it. He learned, almost by heart, the history of the astonishing fight made by Mr. Wilkes for the liberties of England, and speedily was as good a Whig and a better than the member from Middlesex himself. The most of our companions were Tories, for, odd as it may appear, they retained their principles even in Castle Yard. And in those days to be a Tory was to be the friend of the King, and to be the friend of the King was to have some hope of advancement and reward at his hand. They had none. The captain joined forces with the speculator from the Alley, who had hitherto contended against mighty odds, and together they bore down upon the enemy--ay, and rooted him, too. For John Paul had an air about him and a natural gift of oratory to command attention, and shortly the dining room after dinner became the scene of such contests as to call up in the minds of the old stagers a field night in the good days of Mr. Pitt and the second George. The bailiff often sat by the door, an interested spectator, and the macaroni lodgers condescended to come downstairs and listen. The captain attained to fame in our little world from his maiden address, in which he very shrewdly separated the political character of Mr. Wilkes from his character as a private gentleman, and so refuted a charge of profligacy against the people's champion. Altho' I never had sufficient confidence in my powers to join in these discussions, I followed them zealously, especially when they touched American questions, as they frequently did. This subject of the wrongs of the colonies was the only one I could ever be got to study at King William's School, and I believe that my intimate knowledge of it gave the captain a surprise. He fell into the habit of seating himself on the edge of my bed after we had retired for the night, and would hold me talking until the small hours upon the injustice of taxing a people without their consent, and upon the multitude of measures of coercion which the King had pressed upon us to punish our resistance. He declaimed so loudly against the tyranny of quartering troops upon a peaceable state that our exhausted neighbours were driven to pounding their walls and ceilings for peace. The news of the Boston massacre had not then reached England. I was not, therefore, wholly taken by surprise when he said to me one night: "I am resolved to try my fortune in America, lad. That is the land for such as I, where a man may stand upon his own merits." "Indeed, we shall go together, captain," I answered heartily, "if we are ever free of this cursed house. And you shall taste of our hospitality at Carvel Hall, and choose that career which pleases you. Faith, I could point you a dozen examples in Annapolis of men who have made their way without influence. But you shall have influence," I cried, glowing at the notion of rewarding him; "you shall experience Mr. Carvel's gratitude and mine. You shall have the best of our ships, and you will." He was a man to take fire easily, and embraced me. And, strange to say, neither he nor I saw the humour, nor the pity, of the situation. How many another would long before have become sceptical of my promises! And justly. For I had led him to London, spent all his savings, and then got him into a miserable prison, and yet he had faith remaining, and to spare! It occurred to me to notify Mr. Dix of my residence in Castle Yard, not from any hope that he would turn his hand to my rescue, but that he might know where to find me if he heard from Maryland. And I penned another letter to Mr. Carvel, but a feeling I took no pains to define compelled me to withhold an account of Mr. Manners's conduct. And I refrained from telling him that I was in a debtor's prison. For I believe the thought of a Carvel in a debtor's prison would have killed him. I said only that we were comfortably lodged in a modest part of London; that the Manners were inaccessible (for I could not bring myself to write that they were out of town). Just then a thought struck me with such force that I got up with a cheer and hit the astonished captain between the shoulders. "How now!" he cried, ruefully rubbing himself. "If these are thy amenities, Richard, Heaven spare me thy blows." "Why, I have been a fool, and worse," I shouted. "My grandfather's ship, the Sprightly Bess, is overhauling this winter in the Severn. And unless she has sailed, which I think unlikely, I have but to despatch a line to Bristol to summon Captain Bell, the master, to London. I think he will bring the worthy Mr. Dix to terms." "Whether he will or no," said John Paul, hope lighting his face, "Bell must have command of the twenty pounds to free us, and will take us back to America. For I must own, Richard, that I have no great love for London." No more had I. I composed this letter to Bell in such haste that my hand shook, and sent it off with a shilling to the bailiff's servant, that it might catch the post. And that afternoon we had a two-shilling bottle of port for dinner, which we shared with a broken-down parson who had been chaplain in ordinary to my Lord Wortley, and who had preached us an Easter sermon the day before. For it was Easter Monday. Our talk was broken into by the bailiff, who informed me that a man awaited me in the passage, and my heart leaped into my, throat. There was Banks. Thinking he had come to reproach me; I asked him rather sharply what he wanted. He shifted his hat from one hand to the other and looked sheepish. "Your pardon, sir," said he, "but your honour must be very ill-served here." "Better than I should be, Banks, for I have no money," I said, wondering if he thought me a first-floor lodger. He made no immediate reply to that, either, but seemed more uneasy still. And I took occasion to note his appearance. He was exceeding neat in a livery of his old master, which he had stripped of the trimmings. Then, before I had guessed at his drift, he thrust his hand inside his coat and drew forth a pile of carefully folded bank notes. "I be a single man, sir, and has small need of this. And and I knows your honour will pay me when your letter comes from America." And he handed me five Bank of England notes of ten pounds apiece. I took them mechanically, without knowing what I did. The generosity of the act benumbed my senses, and for the instant I was inclined to accept the offer upon the impulse of it. "How do you know you would get your money again, Banks?" I asked curiously. "No fear, sir," he replied promptly, actually brightening at the prospect. "I knows gentlemen, sir, them that are such, sir. And I will go to America with you, and you say the word, sir." I was more touched than I cared to show over his offer, which I scarce knew how to refuse. In truth it was a difficult task, for he pressed me again and again, and when he saw me firm, turned away to wipe his eyes upon his sleeve. Then he begged me to let him remain and serve me in the sponginghouse, saying that he would pay his own way. The very thought of a servant in the bailiff's garret made me laugh, and so I put him off, first getting his address, and promising him employment on the day of my release. On Wednesday we looked for a reply from Bristol, if not for the appearance of Bell himself, and when neither came apprehension seized us lest he had already sailed for Maryland. The slender bag of Thursday's letters contained none for me. Nevertheless, we both did our best to keep in humour, forbearing to mention to one another the hope that had gone. Friday seemed the beginning of eternity; the day dragged through I know not how, and toward evening we climbed back to our little room, not daring to speak of what we knew in our hearts to be so,--that the Sprightly Bess had sailed. We sat silently looking out over the dreary stretch of roofs and down into a dingy court of Bernard's Inn below, when suddenly there arose a commotion on the stairs, as of a man mounting hastily. The door was almost flung from its hinges, some one caught me by the shoulders, gazed eagerly into my face, and drew back. For a space I thought myself dreaming. I searched my memory, and the name came. Had it been Dorothy, or Mr. Carvel himself, I could not have been more astonished, and my knees weakened under me. "Jack!" I exclaimed; "Lord Comyn!" He seized my hand. "Yes; Jack, whose life you saved, and no other," he cried, with a sailor's impetuosity. "My God, Richard! it was true, then; and you have been in this place for three weeks!" "For three weeks," I repeated. He looked at me, at John Paul, who was standing by in bewilderment, and then about the grimy, cobwebbed walls of the dark garret, and then turned his back to hide his emotion, and so met the bailiff, who was coming in. "For how much are these gentlemen in your books?" he demanded hotly. "A small matter, your Lordship,--a mere trifle," said the man, bowing. "How much, I say?" "Twenty-two guineas, five shillings, and eight pence, my Lord, counting debts, and board,--and interest," the bailiff glibly replied; for he had no doubt taken off the account when he spied his Lordship's coach. "And I was very good to Mr. Carvel and the captain, as your Lordship will discover--" "D--n your goodness!" said my Lord, cutting him short. And he pulled out a wallet and threw some pieces at the bailiff, bidding him get change with all haste. "And now, Richard," he added, with a glance of disgust about him, "pack up, and we'll out of this cursed hole!" "I have nothing to pack, my Lord," I said. "My Lord! Jack, I have told you, or I leave you here." "Well, then, Jack, and you will," said I, overflowing with thankfulness to God for the friends He had bestowed upon me. "But before we go a step, Jack, you must know the man but for whose bravery I should long ago have been dead of fever and ill-treatment in the Indies, and whose generosity has brought him hither. My Lord Comyn, this is Captain John Paul." The captain, who had been quite overwhelmed by this sudden arrival of a real lord to our rescue at the very moment when we had sunk to despair, and no less astonished by the intimacy that seemed to exist between the newcomer and myself, had the presence of mind to bend his head, and that was all. Comyn shook his hand heartily. "You shall not lack reward for this, captain, I promise you," cried he. "What you have done for Mr. Carvel, you have done for me. Captain, I thank you. You shall have my interest." I flushed, seeing John Paul draw his lips together. But how was his Lordship to know that he was dealing with no common sea-captain? "I have sought no reward, my Lord," said he. "What I have done was out of friendship for Mr. Carvel, solely." Comyn was completely taken by surprise by these words, and by the haughty tone in which they were spoken. He had not looked for a gentleman, and no wonder. He took a quizzical sizing of the sky-blue coat. Such a man in such a station was out of his experience. "Egad, I believe you, captain," he answered, in a voice which said plainly that he did not. "But he shall be rewarded nevertheless, eh, Richard? I'll see Charles Fox in this matter to-morrow. Come, come," he added impatiently, "the bailiff must have his change by now. Come, Richard!" and he led the way down the winding stairs. "You must not take offence at his ways," I whispered to the captain. For I well knew that a year before I should have taken the same tone with one not of my class. "His Lordship is all kindness." "I have learned a bit since I came into England, Richard," was his sober reply. "'Twas a pitiful sight to see gathered on the landings the poor fellows we had come to know in Castle Yard, whose horizons were then as gray as ours was bright. But they each had a cheery word of congratulation for us as we passed, and the unhappy gentleman from Devonshire pressed my hand and begged that I would sometime think of him when I was out under the sky. I promised even more, and am happy to be able to say, my dears, that I saw both him and his wife off for America before I left London. Our eyes were wet when we reached the lower hall, and I was making for the door in an agony to leave the place, when the bailiff came out of his little office. "One moment, sir," he said, getting in front of me; "there is a little form yet to be gone through. The haste of gentlemen to leave us is not flattering." He glanced slyly at Comyn, and his Lordship laughed a little. I stepped unsuspectingly into the office. "Richard!" I stopped across the threshold as tho' I had been struck. The late sunlight filtering through the dirt of the window fell upon the tall figure of a girl and lighted an upturned face, and I saw tears glistening on the long lashes. It was Dorothy. Her hands were stretched out in welcome, and then I had them pressed in my own. And I could only look and look again, for I was dumb with joy. "Thank God you are alive!" she cried; "alive and well, when we feared you dead. Oh, Richard, we have been miserable indeed since we had news of your disappearance." "This is worth it all, Dolly," I said, only brokenly. She dropped her eyes, which had searched me through in wonder and pity, --those eyes I had so often likened to the deep blue of the sea,--and her breast rose and fell quickly with I knew not what emotions. How the mind runs, and the heart runs, at such a time! Here was the same Dorothy I had known in Maryland, and yet not the same. For she was a woman now, who had seen the great world, who had refused both titles and estates, --and perchance accepted them. She drew her hands from mine. "And how came you in such a place?" she asked, turning with a shudder. "Did you not know you had friends in London, sir?" Not for so much again would I have told her of Mr. Manners's conduct. So I stood confused, casting about for a reply with truth in it, when Comyn broke in upon us. "I'll warrant you did not look for her here, Richard. Faith, but you are a lucky dog," said my Lord, shaking his head in mock dolefulness; "for there is no man in London, in the world, for whom she would descend a flight of steps, save you. And now she has driven the length of the town when she heard you were in a sponging-house, nor all the dowagers in Mayfair could stop her." "Fie, Comyn," said my lady, blushing and gathering up her skirts; "that tongue of yours had hung you long since had it not been for your peer's privilege. Richard and I were brought up as brother and sister, and you know you were full as keen for his rescue as I." His Lordship pinched me playfully. "I vow I would pass a year in the Fleet to have her do as much for me," said he. "But where is the gallant seaman who saved you, Richard?" asked Dolly, stamping her foot. "What," I exclaimed; "you know the story?" "Never mind," said she; "bring him here." My conscience smote me, for I had not so much as thought of John Paul since I came into that room. I found him waiting in the passage, and took him by the hand. "A lady wishes to know you, captain," I said. "A lady!" he cried. "Here? Impossible!" And he looked at his clothes. "Who cares more for your heart than your appearance," I answered gayly, and led him into the office. At sight of Dorothy he stopped abruptly, confounded, as a man who sees a diamond in a dust-heap. And a glow came over me as I said: "Miss Manners, here is Captain Paul, to whose courage and unselfishness I owe everything." "Captain," said Dorothy, graciously extending her hand, "Richard has many friends. You have put us all in your debt, and none deeper than his old playmate." The captain fairly devoured her with his eyes as she made him a curtsey. But he was never lacking in gallantry, and was as brave on such occasions as when all the dangers of the deep threatened him. With an elaborate movement he took Miss Manners's fingers and kissed them, and then swept the floor with a bow. "To have such a divinity in my debt, madam, is too much happiness for one man," he said. "I have done nothing to merit it. A lifetime were all too short to pay for such a favour." I had almost forgotten Miss Dolly the wayward, the mischievous. But she was before me now, her eyes sparkling, and biting her lips to keep down her laughter. Comyn turned to fleck the window with his handkerchief, while I was not a little put out at their mirth. But if John Paul observed it, he gave no sign. "Captain, I vow your manners are worthy of a Frenchman," said my Lord; "and yet I am given to understand you are a Scotchman." A shadow crossed the captain's face. "I was, sir," he said. "You were!" exclaimed Comyn, astonished; "and pray, what are you now, sir?" "Henceforth, my Lord," John Paul replied with vast ceremony: "I am an American, the compatriot of the beautiful Miss Manners!" "One thing I'll warrant, captain," said his Lordship, "that you are a wit." 
5371	----	RICHARD CARVEL By Winston Churchill Volume 7. XLII. My Friends are proven XLIII. Annapolis once more XLIV. Noblesse Oblige XLV. The House of Memories XLVI. Gordon's Pride XLVII. Visitors XLVIII. Multum in Parvo XLIX. Liberty loses a Friend CHAPTER XLII MY FRIENDS ARE PROVEN At the door of my lodgings I was confronted by Banks, red with indignation and fidgety from uneasiness. "O Lord, Mr. Carvel, what has happened, sir?" he cried. "Your honour's agent 'as been here since noon. Must I take orders from the likes o' him, sir?" Mr. Dix was indeed in possession of my rooms, lounging in the chair Dolly had chosen, smoking my tobacco. I stared at him from the threshold. Something in my appearance, or force of habit, or both brought him to his feet, and wiped away the smirk from his face. He put down the pipe guiltily. I told him shortly that I had heard the news which he must have got by the packet: and that he should have his money, tho' it took the rest of my life: and the ten per cent I had promised him provided he would not press my Lord Comyn. He hesitated, and drummed on the table. He was the man of business again. "What security am I to have, Mr. Carvel?" he asked. "My word," I said. "It has never yet been broken, I thank God, nor my father's before me. And hark ye, Mr. Dix, you shall not be able to say that of Grafton." Truly I thought the principal and agent were now well matched. "Very good, Mr. Carvel," he said; "ten per cent. I shall call with the papers on Monday morning." "I shall not run away before that," I replied. He got out, with a poor attempt at a swagger, without his customary protestations of duty and humble offers of service. And I thanked Heaven he had not made a scene, which in my state of mind I could not have borne, but must have laid hands upon him. Perhaps he believed Grafton not yet secure in his title. I did not wonder then, in the heat of my youth, that he should have accepted my honour as security. But since I have marvelled not a little at this. The fine gentlemen at Brooks's with whom I had been associating were none too scrupulous, and regarded money-lenders as legitimate prey. Debts of honour they paid but tardily, if at all. A certain nobleman had been owing my Lord Carlisle thirteen thousand pounds for a couple of years, that his Lordship had won at hazard. And tho' I blush to write it, Mr. Fox himself was notorious in such matters, and was in debt to each of the coterie of fashionables of which he was the devoted chief. The faithful Banks vowed, with tears in his eyes, that he would never desert me. And in that moment of dejection the poor fellow's devotion brought me no little comfort. At such times the heart is bitter. We look askance at our friends, and make the task of comfort doubly hard for those that remain true. I had a great affection for the man, and had become so used to his ways and unwearying service that I had not the courage to refuse his prayers to go with me to America. I had not a farthing of my own--he would serve me for nothing--nay, work for me. "Sure," he said, taking off my coat and bringing me my gown,--"Sure, your honour was not made to work." To cheer me he went on with some foolish footman's gossip that there lacked not ladies with jointures who would marry me, and be thankful. I smiled sadly. "That was when I was Mr. Carvel's heir, Banks." "And your face and figure, sir, and masterful ways! Faith, and what more would a lady want!" Banks's notions of morality were vague enough, and he would have had me sink what I had left at hazard at Almack's. He had lived in this atmosphere. Alas! there was little chance of my ever regaining the position I had held but yesterday. I thought of the sponging-house, and my brow was moist. England was no place, in those days, for fallen gentlemen. With us in the Colonies the law offered itself. Mr. Swain, and other barristers of Annapolis, came to my mind, for God had given me courage. I would try the law. For I had small hopes of defeating my Uncle Grafton. The Sunday morning dawned brightly, and the church bells ringing brought me to my feet, and out into Piccadilly, in the forlorn hope that I might see my lady on her way to morning service,--see her for the last time in life, perhaps. Her locket I wore over my heart. It had lain upon hers. To see her was the most exquisite agony in the world. But not to see her, and to feel that she was scarce quarter of a mile away, was beyond endurance. I stood beside an area at the entrance to Arlington Street, and waited for an hour, quite in vain; watching every face that passed, townsmen in their ill-fitting Sunday clothes, and fine ladies with the footmen carrying velvet prayerbooks. And some that I knew only stared, and others gave me distant bows from their coach windows. For those that fall from fashion are dead to fashion. Dorothy did not go to church that day. It is a pleasure, my dears, when writing of that hour of bitterness, to record the moments of sweetness which lightened it. As I climbed up to my rooms in Dover Street, I heard merry sounds above, and a cloud of smoke blew out of the door when I opened it. "Here he is," cried Mr. Fox. "You see, Richard, we have not deserted you when we can win no more of your money." "Why, egad! the man looks as if he had had a calamity," said Mr. Fitzpatrick. "And there is not a Jew here," Fox continued. "Tho' it is Sunday, the air in my Jerusalem chamber is as bad as in any crimps den in St. Giles's. 'Slife, and I live to be forty, I shall have as many underground avenues as his Majesty Louis the Eleventh." "He must have a place," put in my Lord Carlisle. "We must do something for him," said Fox, "albeit he is an American and a Whig, and all the rest of the execrations. Thou wilt have to swallow thy golden opinions, my buckskin, when we put thee in office." I was too overwhelmed even to protest. "You are not in such a cursed bad way, when all is said, Richard," said Fitzpatrick. "Charles, when he loses a fortune, immediately borrows another." "If you stick to whist and quinze," said Charles, solemnly, giving me the advice they were forever thrusting upon him, "and play with system, you may make as much as four thousand a year, sir." And this was how I was treated by those heathen and cynical macaronies, Mr. Fox's friends. I may not say the same for the whole of Brooks's Club, tho' I never darkened its doors afterwards. But I encountered my Lord March that afternoon, and got only a blank stare in place of a bow. Charles had collected (Heaven knows how!) the thousand pounds which he stood in my debt, and Mr. Storer and Lord Carlisle offered to lend me as much as I chose. I had some difficulty in refusing, and more still in denying Charles when he pressed me to go with them to Richmond, where he had rooms for play over Sunday. Banks brought me the news that Lord Comyn was sitting up, and had been asking for me that day; that he was recovering beyond belief. But I was resolved not to go to Brook Street until the money affairs were settled on Monday with Mr. Dix, for I knew well that his Lordship would insist upon carrying out with the agent the contract he had so generously and hastily made, rather than let me pay an abnormal interest. On Monday I rose early, and went out for a bit of air before the scene with Mr. Dix. Returning, I saw a coach with his Lordship's arms on the panels, and there was Comyn himself in my great chair at the window, where he had been deposited by Banks and his footman. I stared as on one risen from the dead. "Why, Jack, what are you doing here?" I cried. He replied very offhand, as was his manner at such times: "Blicke vows that Chartersea and Lewis have qualified for the College of Surgeons," says he. "They are both born anatomists. Your job under the arm was the worst bungle of the two, egad, for Lewis put his sword, pat as you please, between two of my organs (cursed if I know their names), and not so much as scratched one." "Look you, Jack," said I, "I am not deceived. You have no right to be here, and you know it." "Tush!" answered his Lordship; "I am as well as you." And he took snuff to prove the assertion. "Why the devil was you not in Brook Street yesterday to tell me that your uncle had swindled you? I thought I was your friend," says he, "and I learn of your misfortune through others." "It is because you are my friend, and my best friend, that I would not worry you when you lay next door to death on my account," I said, with emotion. And just then Banks announced Mr. Dix. "Let him wait," said I, greatly disturbed. "Show him up!" said my Lord, peremptorily. "No, no!" I protested; "he can wait. We shall have no business now." But Banks was gone. And I found out, long afterward, that it was put up between them. The agent swaggered in with that easy assurance he assumed whenever he got the upper hand. He was the would-be squire once again, in top-boots and a frock. I have rarely seen a man put out of countenance so easily as was Mr. Dix that morning when he met his Lordship's fixed gaze from the arm-chair. "And so you are turned Jew?" says he, tapping his snuffbox. "Before you go ahead so fast again, you will please to remember, d--n you, that Mr. Carvel is the kind that does not lose his friends with his fortune." Mr. Dix made a salaam, which was so ludicrous in a squire that my Lord roared with laughter, and I feared for his wound. "A man must live, my Lord," sputtered the agent. His discomfiture was painful. "At the expense of another," says Comyn, dryly. "That is your motto in Change Alley." "If you will permit, Jack, I must have a few words in private with Mr. Dix," I cut in uneasily. His Lordship would be damned first. "I am not accustomed to be thwarted, Richard, I tell you. Ask the dowager if I have not always had my way. I am not going to stand by and see a man who saved my life fall into the clutches of an usurer. Yes, I said usurer, Mr. Dix. My attorney, Mr. Kennett, of Lincoln's Inn, has instructions to settle with you." And, despite all I could say, he would not budge an inch. At last I submitted under the threat that he would never after have a word to say to me. By good luck, when I had paid into Mr. Dix's hand the thousand pounds I had received from Charles Fox, and cleared my outstanding bills, the sum I remained in Comyn's debt was not greatly above seven hundred pounds. And that was the end of Mr. Dix for me; when he had backed himself out in chagrin at having lost his ten per centum, my feelings got the better of me. The water rushed to my eyes, and I turned my back upon his Lordship. To conceal his own emotions he fell to swearing like mad. "Fox will get you something," he said at length, when he was a little calmed. I told him, sadly, that my duty took me to America. "And Dorothy?" he said; "you will leave her?" I related the whole miserable story (all save the part of the locket), for I felt that I owed it him. His excitement grew as he listened, until I had to threaten to stop to keep him quiet. But when I had done, he saw nothing but good to come of it. "'Od's life! Richard, lad, come here!" he cried. "Give me your hand. Why, you ass, you have won a thousand times over what you lost. She loves you! Did I not say so? And as for that intriguing little puppy, her father, you have pulled his teeth, egad. She heard what you said to him, you tell me. Then he will never deceive her again, my word on't. And Chartersea may come back to London, and be damned." CHAPTER XLIII ANNAPOLIS ONCE MORE Three days after that I was at sea, in the Norfolk packet, with the farewells of my loyal English friends ringing in my ears. Captain Graham, the master of the packet, and his passengers found me but a poor companion. But they had heard of my misfortune, and vied with each other in heaping kindnesses upon me. Nor did they intrude on my walks in the night watches, to see me slipping a locket from under my waistcoat--ay, and raising it to my lips. 'Twas no doubt a blessing that I had lesser misfortunes to share my attention. God had put me in the way of looking forward rather than behind, and I was sure that my friends in Annapolis would help me to an honest living, and fight my cause against Grafton. Banks was with me. The devoted soul did his best to cheer me, tho' downcast himself at leaving England. To know what to do with him gave me many an anxious moment. I doubted not that I could get him into a service, but when I spoke of such a thing he burst into tears, and demanded whether I meant to throw him off. Nor was any argument of mine of use. After a fair and uneventful voyage of six weeks, I beheld again my native shores in the low spits of the Virginia capes. The sand was very hot and white, and the waters of the Chesapeake rolled like oil under the July sun. We were all day getting over to Yorktown, the ship's destination. A schooner was sailing for Annapolis early the next morning, and I barely had time to get off my baggage and catch her. We went up the bay with a fresh wind astern, which died down at night. The heat was terrific after England and the sea-voyage, and we slept on the deck. And Banks sat, most of the day, exclaiming at the vast scale on which this new country was laid out, and wondering at the myriad islands we passed, some of them fair with grain and tobacco; and at the low-lying shores clothed with forests, and broken by the salt marshes, with now and then the manor-house of some gentleman-planter visible on either side. Late on the second day I beheld again the cliffs that mark the mouth of the Severn, then the sail-dotted roads and the roofs of Annapolis. We landed, Banks and I, in a pinnace from the schooner, and so full was my heart at the sight of the old objects that I could only gulp now and then, and utter never a word. There was the dock where I had paced up and down near the whole night, when Dolly had sailed away; and Pryse the coachmaker's shop, and the little balcony upon which I had stood with my grandfather, and railed in a boyish tenor at Mr. Hood. The sun cast sharp, black shadows. And it being the middle of the dull season, when the quality were at their seats, and the dinner-hour besides, the town might have been a deserted one for its stillness, as tho' the inhabitants had walked out of it, and left it so. I made my way, Banks behind me, into Church Street, past the "Ship" tavern, which brought memories of the brawl there, and of Captain Clapsaddle forcing the mob, like chaff, before his sword. The bees were humming idly over the sweet-scented gardens, and Farris, the clock-maker, sat at his door, and nodded. He jerked his head as I went by with a cry of "Lord, it is Mr. Richard back!" and I must needs pause, to let him bow over my hand. Farther up the street I came to mine host of the Coffee House standing on his steps, with his hands behind his back. "Mr. Claude," I said. He looked at me as tho' I had risen from the dead. "God save us!" he shouted, in a voice that echoed through the narrow street. "God save us!" He seemed to go all to pieces. To my bated questions he replied at length, when he had got his breath, that Captain Clapsaddle had come to town but the day before, and was even then in the coffee-room at his dinner. Alone? Yes, alone. Almost tottering, I mounted the steps, and turned in at the coffee-room door, and stopped. There sat the captain at a table, the roast and wine untouched before him, his waistcoat thrown open. He was staring out of the open window into the inn garden beyond, with its shade of cherry trees. Mr. Claude's cry had not disturbed his reveries, nor our talk after it. I went forward. I touched him on the shoulder, and he sprang up, and looked once into my face, and by some trick of the mind uttered the very words Mr. Claude had used. "God save us! Richard!" And he opened his arms and strained me to his great chest, calling my name again and again, while the tears coursed down the furrows of his cheeks. For I marked the furrows for the first time, and the wrinkles settling in his forehead and around his eyes. What he said when he released me, nor my replies, can I remember now, but at last he called, in his ringing voice, to mine host: "A bottle from your choicest bin, Claude! Some of Mr. Bordley's. For he that was lost is found." The hundred questions I had longed to ask were forgotten. A peace stole upon me that I had not felt since I had looked upon his face before. The wine was brought by Mr. Claude, and opened, and it was mine host who broke the silence, and the spell. "Your very good health, Mr. Richard," he said; "and may you come to your own again!" "I drink it with all my heart, Richard," replied Captain Daniel. But he glanced at me sadly, and his honest nature could put no hope into his tone. "We have got him back again, Mr. Claude. And God has answered our prayers. So let us be thankful." And he sat down in silence, gazing at me in pity and tenderness, while Mr. Claude withdrew. "I can give you but a sad welcome home, my lad," he said presently, with a hesitation strange to him. "'Tis not the first bad news I have had to break in my life to your family, but I pray it may be the last." He paused. I knew he was thinking of the black tidings he had once brought my mother. "Richard, your grandfather is dead," he ended abruptly. I nodded wonderingly. "What!" he exclaimed; "you have heard already?" "Mr. Manners told me, in London," I said, completely mystified. "London!" he cried, starting forward. "London and Mr. Manners! Have you been to London?" "You had my letters to Mr. Carvel?" I demanded, turning suddenly sick. His eye flashed. "Never a letter. We mourned you for dead, Richard. This is Grafton's work!" he cried, springing to his feet and striking the table with his great fist, so that the dishes jumped. "Grafton Carvel, the prettiest villain in these thirteen colonies! Oh, we shall hang him some day." "Then Mr. Carvel died without knowing that I was safe?" I interrupted. "On that I'll lay all my worldly goods," replied Captain Daniel, emphatically. "If any letters came to Marlboro' Street from you, Mr. Carvel never dropped eyes on 'em." "What a fool was I not to have written you!" I groaned. He drew his chair around the table, and close to mine. "Had the news that you escaped death been cried aloud in the streets, my lad, 'twould never have got to your grandfather's ear," he said, in lower tones. "I will tell you what happened, tho' I have it at second hand, being in the North, as you may remember. Grafton came in from Kent and invested Marlboro' Street. He himself broke the news to Mr. Carvel, who took to his bed. Leiden was not in attendance, you may be sure, but that quack-doctor Drake. Swain sent me a message, and I killed a horse getting here from New York. But I could no more gain admittance to your grandfather, Richard, than to King George the Third. I was met in the hall by that crocodile, who told me with too many fair words that I could not see my old friend; that for the present Dr. Drake denied him everybody. Then I damned Dr. Drake, and Grafton too. And I let him know my suspicions. He ordered me off, Richard--from that house which has been my only home for these twenty years." His voice broke. "Mr. Carvel thought me dead, then." "And most mercifully. Your black Hugo, when he was somewhat recovered, swore he had seen you killed and carried off. Sooth, they say there was blood enough on the place. But we spared no pains to obtain a clew of you. I went north to Boston, and Lloyd's factor south to Charleston. But no trace of the messenger who came to the Coffee House after you could we find. Hell had opened and swallowed him. And mark this for consummate villany: Grafton himself spent no less than five hundred pounds in advertising and the like." "And he is not suspected?" I asked. This was the same question I had put to Mrs. Manners. It caused the captain to flare up again. "'Tis incredible how a rogue may impose upon men of worth and integrity if he but know how to smirk piously, and never miss a service. And then he is an exceeding rich man. Riches cover a multitude of sins in the most virtuous community in the world. Your Aunt Caroline brought him a pretty fortune, you know. We had ominous times this spring, with the associations forming, and the 'Good Intent' and the rest being sent back to England. His Excellency was at his wits' end for support. It was Grafton Carvel who helped him most, and spent money like tobacco for the King's cause, which, being interpreted, was for his own advancement. But I believe Colonel Lloyd suspects him, tho' he has never said as much to me. I have told Mr. Swain, under secrecy, what I think. He is one of the ablest lawyers that the colony owns, Richard, and a stanch friend of yours. He took your case of his own accord. But he says we have no foothold as yet." When I asked if there was a will the captain rapped out an oath. "'Sdeath! yes," he cried, "a will in favour of Grafton and his heirs, witnessed by Dr. Drake, they say, and another scoundrel. Your name does not occur throughout the length and breadth of it. You were dead. But you will have to ask Mr. Swain for those particulars. My dear old friend was sadly gone when he wrote it, I fear. For he never lacked shrewdness in his best days. Nor," added Captain Daniel, with force, "nor did he want for a proper estimation of Grafton." "He has never been the same since that first sickness," I answered sadly. When the captain came to speak of Mr. Carvel's death, the son and daughter he loved, and the child of his old age in the grave before him, he proceeded brokenly, and the tears blinded him. Mr. Carvel's last words will never be known, my dears. They sounded in the unfeeling ears of the serpent Grafton. 'Twas said that he was seen coming out of his father's house an hour after the demise, a smile on his face which he strove to hide with a pucker of sorrow. But by God's grace Mr. Allen had not read the prayers. The rector was at last removed from Annapolis, and had obtained the fat living of Frederick which he coveted. "As I hope for salvation," the captain concluded, "I will swear there is not such another villain in the world as Grafton. The imagination of a fiend alone could have conceived and brought to execution the crime he has committed. And the Borgias were children to him. 'Twas not only the love of money that urged him, but hatred of you and of your father. That was his strongest motive, I believe. However, the days are coming, lad, when he shall have his reward, unless all signs fail. And we have had enough of sober talk," said he, pressing me to eat. "Faith, but just now, when you came in, I was thinking of you, Richard. And--God forgive me! complaining against the lot of my life. And thinking, now that you were taken out of it, and your father and mother and grandfather gone, how little I had to live for. Now you are home again," says he, his eyes lighting on me with affection, "I count the gray hairs as nothing. Let us have your story, and be merry. Nay, I might have guessed you had been in London, with your fine clothes and your English servant." 'Twas a long story, as you know, my dears. He lighted his pipe and laid his big hand over mine, and filled my glass, and I told him most of that which had happened to me. But I left out the whole of that concerning Mr. Manners and the Duke of Chartersea, nor did I speak of the sponging-house. I believe my only motive for this omittance was a reluctance to dwell upon Dorothy, and a desire to shield her father for her sake. He dropped many a vigorous exclamation into my pauses, but when I came to speak of my friendship with Mr. Fox, his brow clouded over. "'Ad's heart!" he cried, "'Ad's heart! And so you are turned Tory, and have at last been perverted from those principles for which I loved you most. In the old days my conscience would not allow me to advise you, Richard, and now that I am free to speak, you are past advice." I laughed aloud. "And what if I tell you that I made friends with his Grace of Grafton, and Lord Sandwich, and was invited to Hichinbroke, his Lordship's seat?" said I. His honest face was a picture of consternation. "Now the good Lord deliver us!" he exclaimed fervently. "Sandwich! Grafton! The devil!" I gave myself over to the first real merriment I had had since I had heard of Mr. Carvel's death. "And when Mr. Fox learned that I had lost my fortune," I went on, "he offered me a position under Government." "Have you not friends enough at home to care for you, sir?" he said, his face getting purple. "Are you Jack Carvel's son, or are you an impostor?" "I am Jack Carvel's son, dear Captain Daniel, and that is why I am here," I replied. "I am a stouter Whig than ever, and I believe I might have converted Mr. Fox himself had I remained at home sufficiently long," I added, with a solemn face. And, for my own edification, I related how I had bearded his Majesty's friends at Brooks's, whereat he gave a great, joyful laugh, and thumped me on the back. "You dog, Richard! You sly rogue!" And he called to Mr. Claude for another bottle on the strength of that, and we pledged the Association. He peppered me with questions concerning Junius, and Mr. Wilkes, and Mr. Franklin of Philadelphia. Had I seen him in London? "I would not doubt a Carvel's word," says the captain, "(always excepting Grafton and his line, as usual), but you may duck me on the stool and I comprehend why Mr. Fox and his friends took up with such a young rebel rapscallion as you--and after the speech you made 'em." I astonished him vastly by pointing out that Mr. Fox and his friends cared a deal for place, and not a fig for principle; that my frankness had entertained rather than offended them; and that, having a taste for a bit of wild life and the money to gratify it, and being of a tolerant, easy nature withal, I had contrived to make many friends in that set, without aiming at influence. Whereat he gave me another lick between the shoulders. "It was so with Jack," he cried; "thou art a replica. He would have made friends with the devil himself. In the French war, when all the rest of us Royal Americans were squabbling with his Majesty's officers out of England, and cursing them at mess, they could never be got to fight with Jack, tho' he gave them ample provocation. There was Tetherington, of the 22d foot,--who jeered us for damned provincials, and swaggered through three duels in a week,--would enter no quarrel with him. I can hear him say: 'Damn you, Carvel, you may slap my face and you will, or walk in ahead of me at the general's dinner and you will, but I like you too well to draw at you. I would not miss your company at table for all the world.' And when he was killed," Captain Daniel continued, lowering his voice, "some of them cried like women, Tetherington among 'em,--and swore they would rather have lost their commissions at high play." We sat talking until the summer's dusk grew on apace, and one thing this devoted lover of my family told me, which lightened my spirits of the greatest burden that had rested upon them since my calamity befell me. I had dwelt at length upon my Lord Comyn, and upon the weight of his services to me, and touched upon the sum which I stood in his debt. The captain interrupted me. "One day, before your mother died, she sent for me," said he, "and I came to Carvel Hall. You were too young to remember. It was in September, and she was sitting on the seat under the oak she loved so well,--by Dr. Hilliard's study. "The lace shawl your father had given her was around her shoulders, and upon her face was the smile that gave me a pang to see. For it had something of heaven in it, Richard. She called me 'Daniel' then for the second time in her life. She bade me be seated beside her. 'Daniel,' she said, 'when I am gone, and father is gone, it is you who will take care of Richard. I sometimes believe all may not be well then, and that he will need you.' I knew she was thinking of Grafton," said the captain. "'I have a little money of my own, Daniel, which I have saved lately with this in view. I give it into your charge, and if trouble comes to him, my old friend, you will use it as you see fit.' "It was a bit under a thousand pounds, Richard. And when she died I put it out under Mr. Carroll's direction at safe interest. So that you have enough to discharge your debt, and something saved against another emergency." He fell silent, sunk into one of those reveries which the memory of my mother awoke in him. My own thoughts drifted across the sea. I was again at the top of the stairs in Arlington Street, and feeling the dearest presence in the world. The pale oval of Dorothy's face rose before me and the troubled depths of her blue eyes. And I heard once more the tremble in her voice as she confessed, in words of which she took no heed, that love for which I had sought in vain. The summer dusk was gathering. Outside, under the cherry trees, I saw Banks holding forth to an admiring circle of negro 'ostlers. And presently Mr. Claude came in to say that Shaw, the town carpenter, and Sol Mogg, the ancient sexton of St. Anne's, and several more of my old acquaintances were without, and begged the honour of greeting me. CHAPTER XLIV NOBLESSE OBLIGE I lay that night in Captain Clapsaddle's lodgings opposite, and slept soundly. Banks was on hand in the morning to assist at my toilet, and was greatly downcast when I refused him this privilege, for the first time. Captain Daniel was highly pleased with the honest fellow's devotion in following me to America. To cheer him he began to question him as to my doings in London, and the first thing of which Banks must tell was of the riding-contest in Hyde Park, which I had omitted. It is easy to imagine how this should have tickled the captain, who always had my horsemanship at heart; and when it came to Chartersea's descent into the Serpentine, I thought he would go into apoplexy. For he had put on flesh with the years. The news of my return had spread all over town, so that I had a deal more handshaking to do when we went to the Coffee House for breakfast. All the quality were in the country, of course, save only four gentlemen of the local Patriots' committee, of which Captain Daniel was a member, and with whom he had an appointment at ten. It was Mr. Swain who arrived first of the four. This old friend of my childhood was a quiet man (I may not have specified), thin, and a little under stature, with a receding but thoughtful forehead. But he could express as much of joy and welcome in his face and manner as could Captain Daniel with his heartier ways. "It does me good to see you, lad," he said, pressing my hand. "I heard you were home, and sent off an express to Patty and the mother last night." "And are they not here?" I asked, with disappointment. Mr. Swain smiled. "I have done a rash thing since I saw you, Richard, and bought a little plantation in Talbot, next to Singleton's. It will be my ruin," he added. "A lawyer has no business with landed ambitions." "A little plantation!" echoed the captain. "'Od's life, he has bought one of his Lordship's own manors--as good an estate as there is in the province." "You overdo it, Daniel," said he, reprovingly. At that moment there was a stir in the doorway, and in came Mr. Carroll, the barrister, and Mr. Bordley and Colonel Lloyd. These gentlemen gave me such a welcome as those warm-hearted planters and lawyers knew how to bestow. "What, he!" cried Mr. Lloyd, "I'm stamped and taxed if it isn't young Richard Carvel himself. Well," says he, "I know one who will sleep easier o' nights now,--one Clapsaddle. The gray hairs are forgot, Daniel. We had more to-do over your disappearance than when Mr. Worthington lost his musical nigger. Where a deuce have you been, sir?" "He shall tell us when we come back," said Mr. Bordley. "He has brought our worthy association to a standstill once, and now we must proceed about our business. Will you come, Richard? I believe you have proved yourself a sufficiently good patriot, and in this very house." We went down Church Street, I walking behind with Colonel Lloyd, and so proud to be in such company that I cared not a groat whether Grafton had my acres or not. I remembered that the committee all wore plain and sober clothes, and carried no swords. Mr. Swain alone had a wig. I had been away but seven months, and yet here was a perceptible change. In these dignified and determined gentlemen England had more to fear than in all the mobs at Mr. Wilkes's back. How I wished that Charles Fox might have been with me. The sun beat down upon the street. The shopkeepers were gathered at their doors, but their chattering was hushed as the dreaded committee passed. More than one, apparently, had tasted of its discipline. Colonel Lloyd whispered to me to keep my countenance, that they were not after very large game that morning,--only Chipchase, the butcher. And presently we came upon the rascal putting up his shutters in much precipitation, although it was noon. He had shed his blood-stained smock and breeches, and donned his Sunday best,--a white, thick-set coat, country cloth jacket, blue broadcloth breeches, and white shirt. A grizzled cut wig sat somewhat awry under his bearskin hat. When he perceived Mr. Carroll at his shoulder, he dropped his shutter against the wall, and began bowing frantically. "You keep good hours, Master Chipchase," remarked Colonel Lloyd. "And lose good customers," Mr. Swain added laconically. The butcher wriggled. "Your honours must know there be little selling when the gentry be out of town. And I was to take a holiday to-day, to see my daughter married." "You will have a feast, my good man?" Captain Daniel asked. "To be sure, your honour, a feast." "And any little ewe-lambs?" says Mr. Bordley, very innocent. Master Chipchase turned the colour of his meat, and his wit failed him. "'Fourthly,'" recited Mr. Carroll, with an exceeding sober face, "'Fourthly, that we will not kill, or suffer to be killed, or sell, or dispose to any person whom we have reason to believe intends to kill, any ewe-lamb that shall be weaned before the first day of May, in any year during the time aforesaid.' Have you ever heard anything of that sound, Mr. Chipchase?" Mr. Chipchase had. And if their honours pleased, he had a defence to make, if their honours would but listen. And if their honours but knew, he was as good a patriot as any in the province, and sold his wool to Peter Psalter, and he wore the homespun in winter. Then Mr. Carroll drew a paper from his pocket, and began to read: "Mr. Thomas Hincks, personally known to me, deposeth and saith,--" Master Chipchase's knees gave from under him. "And your honours please," he cried piteously, "I killed the lamb, but 'twas at Mr. Grafton Carvel's order, who was in town with his Excellency." (Here Mr. Swain and the captain glanced significantly at me.) "And I lose Mr. Carvel's custom, there is twelve pounds odd gone a year, your honours. And I am a poor man, sirs." "Who is it owns your shop, my man?" asks Mr. Bordley, very sternly. "Oh, I beg your honours will not have me put out--" The wailing of his voice had drawn a crowd of idlers and brother shopkeepers, who seemed vastly to enjoy the knave's discomfiture. Amongst them I recognized my old acquaintance, Weld, now a rival butcher. He pushed forward boldly. "And your honours please," said he, "he has sold lamb to half the Tory gentry in Annapolis." "A lie!" cried Chipchase; "a lie, as God hears me!" Now Captain Clapsaddle was one who carried his loves and his hatreds to the grave, and he had never liked Weld since the day, six years gone by, he had sent me into the Ship tavern. And when Weld heard the captain's voice he slunk away without a word. "Have a care, Master Weld," says he, in a quiet tone that boded no good; "there is more evidence against you than you will like." Master Chipchase, after being frightened almost out of his senses, was pardoned this once by Captain Daniel's influence. We went thence to Mr. Hildreth's shop; he was suspected of having got tea out of a South River snow; then to Mr. Jackson's; and so on. 'Twas after two when we got back to the Coffee House, and sat down to as good a dinner as Mr. Claude could prepare. "And now," cried Colonel Lloyd, "we shall have your adventures, Richard. I would that your uncle were here to listen to them," he added dryly. I recited them very much as I had done the night before, and I warrant you, my dears, that they listened with more zest and eagerness than did Mr. Walpole. But they were all shrewd men, and kept their suspicions, if they had any, to themselves. Captain Daniel would have me omit nothing,--my intimacy with Mr. Fox, the speech at Brooks's Club, and the riding-match at Hyde Park. "What say you to that, gentlemen?" he cried. "Egad, I'll be sworn he deserves credit,--an arrant young spark out of the Colonies, scarce turned nineteen, defeating a duke of the realm on horseback, and preaching the gospel of 'no taxation' at Brooks's Club! Nor the favour of Sandwich or March could turn him from his principles." Modesty, my dears, does not permit me to picture the enthusiasm of these good gentlemen, who bore the responsibility of the colony of Maryland upon their shoulders. They made more of me than I deserved. In vain did I seek to explain that if a young man was but well-born, and had a full purse and a turn for high play, his principles might go hang, for all Mr. Fox cared. Colonel Lloyd commanded that the famous rose punch-bowl be filled to the brim with Mr. Claude's best summer brew, and they drank my health and my grandfather's memory. It mattered little to them that I was poor. They vowed I should not lose by my choice. Mr. Bordley offered me a home, and added that I should have employment enough in the days to come. Mr. Carroll pressed me likewise. And big-hearted Colonel Lloyd desired to send me to King's College, as was my grandfather's wish, where Will Fotheringay and my cousin Philip had been for a term. I might make a barrister of myself. Mr. Swain alone was silent and thoughtful, but I did not for an instant doubt that he would have done as much for me. Before we broke up for the evening the gentlemen plied me with questions concerning the state of affairs in England, and the temper of his Majesty and Parliament. I say without vanity that I was able to enlighten them not a little, for I had learned a deeper lesson from the set into which I had fallen in London than if I had become the confidant of Rockingham himself. America was a long way from England in those days. I regretted that I had not arrived in London in time to witness Lord Chatham's dramatic return to politics in January, when he had completed the work of Junius, and broken up the Grafton ministry. But I told them of the debate I had heard in St. Stephen's, and made them laugh over Mr. Fox's rescue of the King's friends, and the hustling of Mr. Burke from the Lords. They were very curious, too, about Mr. Manners; and I was put to much ingenuity to answer their queries and not reveal my own connection with him. They wished to know if it were true that some nobleman had flung a bottle at his head in a rage because Dorothy would not marry him, as Dr. Courtenay's letter had stated. I replied that it was so. I did not add that it was the same nobleman who had been pitched into the Serpentine. Nor did I mention the fight at Vauxhall. I made no doubt these things would come to their ears, but I did not choose to be the one to tell them. Mr. Swain remained after the other gentlemen, and asked me if I would come with him to Gloucester Street; that he had something to say to me. We went the long way thither, and I was very grateful to him for avoiding Marlboro' Street, which must needs bring me painful recollections. He said little on the way. I almost expected to see Patty come tripping down from the vine-covered porch with her needlework in her hand, and the house seemed strangely empty without her. Mr. Swain had his negro, Romney, place chairs for us under the apple tree, and bring out pipes and sangaree. The air was still, and heavy with the flowers' scent, and the sun was dipping behind the low eaves of the house. It was so natural to be there that I scarce realized all that had happened since last I saw the back gate in the picket fence. Alas! little Patty would never more be smuggled through it and over the wall to Marlboro' Street. Mr. Swain recalled my thoughts. "Captain Clapsaddle has asked me to look into this matter of the will, Richard," he began abruptly. "Altho' we thought never to see you again, we have hoped against hope. I fear you have little chance for your property, my lad." I replied that Captain Daniel had so led me to believe, and thanked him for his kindness and his trouble. "'Twas no trouble," he replied quickly. "Indeed, I wish it might have been. I shall always think of your grandfather with reverence and with sorrow. He was a noble man, and was a friend to me, in spite of my politics, when other gentlemen of position would not invite me to their houses. It would be the greatest happiness of my life if I could restore his property to you, where he would have had it go, and deprive that villain, your uncle, of the fruits of his crime." "Then there is nothing to be got by contesting the will?" I asked. He shook his head soberly. "I fear not at present," said he, "nor can I with honesty hold out any hope to you, Richard. Your uncle, by reason of his wealth, is a man of undue influence with the powers of the colony. Even if he were not so, I doubt greatly whether we should be the gainers. The will is undoubtedly genuine. Mr. Carvel thought you dead, and we cannot prove undue influence by Grafton unless we also prove that it was he who caused your abduction. Do you think you can prove that?" "There is one witness," I exclaimed, "who overheard my uncle and Mr. Allen talking of South River and Griggs, the master of the slaver, in the stables at Carvel Hall." "And who is that?" demanded Mr. Swain, with more excitement than I believed him capable of. "Old Harvey." Your grandfather's coachman? Alas, he died the day after Mr. Carvel, and was buried the same afternoon. Have you spoken of this?" "Not to a soul," said I. "Then I would not. You will have to be very careful and say nothing, Richard. Let me hear what other reasons you have for believing that your uncle tried to do away with you." I told him, lucidly as possible, everything I have related in these pages, and the admission of Griggs. He listened intently, shaking his head now and then, but not a word out of him. "No," he said at length, "nothing is there which will be admitted, but enough to damn him if you yourself might be a witness. I will give you the law, briefly: descendible estates among us are of two kinds, estates in fee simple and estates in fee tail. Had your grandfather died without a will, his estate, which we suppose to be in fee simple, would have descended to you as the son of his eldest son, according to the fourth of the canons of descent in Blackstone. But with us fee simple estates are devisable, and Mr. Carvel was wholly within his right in cutting off the line of his eldest son. Do you follow me?" I nodded. "There is one chance," he continued, "and that is a very slim one. I said that Mr. Carvel's estate was supposed to be in fee simple. Estates tail are not devisable. Our system of registration is far from infallible, and sometimes an old family settlement turns up to prove that a property which has been willed out of the direct line, as in fee simple, is in reality entailed. Is there a possibility of any such document?" I replied that I did not know. My grandfather had never brought up the subject. "We must bend our efforts in that direction," said the barrister. "I shall have my clerks make a systematic search." He ceased talking, and sat sipping his sangaree in the abstracted manner common to him. I took the opportunity to ask about his family, thinking about what Dolly had said of Patty's illness. "The mother is as well as can be expected, Richard, and Patty very rosy with the country air. Your disappearance was a great shock to them both." "And Tom?" He went behind his reserve. "Tom is a d--d rake," he exclaimed, with some vehemence. "I have given him over. He has taken up with that macaroni Courtenay, who wins his money,--or rather my money,--and your cousin Philip, when he is home from King's College. How Tom can be son of mine is beyond me, in faith. I see him about once in two months, when he comes here with a bill for his satins and his ruffles, and along face of repentance, and a lot of gaming debts to involve my honour. And that reminds me, Richard," said he, looking straight at me with his clear, dark eyes: "have you made any plans for your future?" I ventured to ask his advice as to entering the law. "As the only profession open to a gentleman," he replied, smiling a little. "No, you were no more cut out for an attorney, or a barrister, or a judge, than was I for a macaroni doctor. The time is not far away, my lad," he went on, seeing my shame and confusion, "when an American may amass money in any way he chooses, and still be a gentleman, behind a counter, if he will." "I do not fear work, Mr. Swain," I remarked, with some pride. "That is what I have been thinking," he said shortly. "And I am not a man to make up my mind while you count three, Richard. I have the place in Talbot, and no one to look after it. And--and in short I think you are the man." He paused to watch the effect of this upon me. But I was so taken aback by this new act of kindness that I could not say a word. "Tom is fast going to the devil, as I told you," he continued. "He cannot be trusted. If I die, that estate shall be Patty's, and he may never squander it. Captain Daniel tells me, and Mr. Bordley also, that you managed at Carvel Hall with sense and ability. I know you are very young, but I think I may rely upon you." Again he hesitated, eying me fixedly. "Ah," said he, with his quiet smile, "it is the old noblesse oblige. How many careers has it ruined since the world began!" CHAPTER XLV THE HOUSE OF MEMORIES I was greatly touched, and made Mr. Swain many awkward acknowledgments, which he mercifully cut short. I asked him for a while to think over his offer. This seemed to please rather than displease him. And my first impulse on reaching the inn was to ask the captain's advice. I thought better of it however, and at length resolved to thrash out the matter for myself. The next morning, as I sat reflecting, an overwhelming desire seized me to go to Marlboro' Street. Hitherto I could not have borne the sight of the old place. I gulped down my emotion as the gate creaked behind me, and made my way slowly to the white seat under the big chestnut behind the house, where my grandfather had been wont to sit reading his prints, in the warm weather. The flowers and the hedges had grown to a certain wildness; and the smell of the American roses carried me back-as odours will-to long-forgotten and trivial scenes. Here I had been caned many a day for Mr. Daaken's reports, and for earlier offences. And I recalled my mother as she once ran out at the sound of my cries to beg me off. So vivid was that picture that I could hear Mr. Carvel say: "He is yours, madam, not mine. Take him!" I started up. The house was still, the sun blistering the green paint of the shutters. My eye was caught by those on the room that had been hers, and which, by my grandfather's decree, had lain closed since she left it. The image of it grew in my mind: the mahogany bed with its poppy counterpane and creamy curtains, and the steps at the side by which she was wont to enter it; and the 'prie-dieu', whence her soul had been lifted up to God. And the dresser with her china and silver upon it, covered by years of dust. For I had once stolen the key from Willis's bunch, crept in, and crept out again, awed. That chamber would be profaned, now, and those dear ornaments, which were mine, violated. The imagination choked me. I would have them. I must. Nothing easier than to pry open a door or window in the north wing, by the ball-room. When I saw Grafton I would tell him. Nay, I would write him that day. I was even casting about me for an implement, when I heard a step on the gravel beside me. I swung around, and came face to face with my uncle. He must have perceived me. And after the first shock of my surprise had passed, I remarked a bearing on him that I had not seen before. He was master of the situation at last,--so it read. The realization gave him an easier speech than ever. "I thought I might find you here, Richard," he said, "since you were not at the Coffee House." He did not offer me his hand. I could only stare at him, for I had expected anything but this. "I came from Carvel Hall to get you," he proceeded smoothly enough. "I heard but yesterday of your return, and some of your miraculous adventures. Your recklessness has caused us many a trying day, Richard, and I believe killed your grandfather. You have paid dearly, and have made us pay dearly, for your mad frolic of fighting cut-throats on the highroad." The wonder was that I did not kill him on the spot. I cannot think what possessed the man,--he must have known me better. "My recklessness!" I shouted, fairly hoarse with anger. I paid no heed to Mr. Swain's warning. "You d--d scoundrel!" I cried, "it was you killed him, and you know it. When you had put me out of the way and he was in your power, you tortured him to death. You forced him to die alone with your sneering face, while your shrew of a wife counted cards downstairs. Grafton Carvel, God knows you better than I, who know you two well. And He will punish you as sure as the crack of doom." He heard me through, giving back as I came forward, his face blanching only a little, and wearing all the time that yellow smile which so fitted it. "You have finished?" says he. "Ay, I have finished. And now you may order me from this ground you have robbed me of. But there are some things in that house you shall not steal, for they are mine despite you." "Name them, Richard," he said, very sorrowful. "The articles in my mother's room, which were hers." "You shall have them this day," he answered. It was his way never to lose his temper, tho' he were called by the vilest name in the language. He must always assume this pious grief which made me long to throttle him. He had the best of me, even now, as he took the great key from his pocket. "Will you look at them before you go?" he asked. At first I was for refusing. Then I nodded. He led the way silently around by the front; and after he had turned the lock he stepped aside with a bow to let me pass in ahead of him. Once more I was in the familiar hall with the stairs dividing at the back. It was cool after the heat, and musty, and a touch of death hung in the prisoned air. We paused for a moment on the landing, beside the high, triple-arched window which the branches tapped on windy winter days, while Grafton took down the bunch of keys from beside the clock. I thought of my dear grandfather winding it every Sunday, and his ruddy face and large figure as he stood glancing sidewise down at me. Then the sound of Grafton's feet upon the bare steps recalled the present. We passed Mr. Carvel's room and went down the little corridor over the ball-room, until we came to the full-storied wing. My uncle flung open the window and shutters opposite and gave me the key. A delicacy not foreign to him held him where he was. Time had sealed the door, and when at last it gave before my strength, a shower of dust quivered in the ray of sunlight from the window. I entered reverently. I took only the silverbound prayer-book, cast a lingering look at the old familiar objects dimly defined, and came out and locked the door again. I said very quietly that I would send for the things that afternoon, for my anger was hushed by what I had seen. We halted together on the uncovered porch in front of the house, that had a seat set on each side of it. Marlboro' Street was still, the wide trees which flanked it spreading their shade over walk and roadway. Not a soul was abroad in the midday heat, and the windows of the long house opposite were sightless. "Richard," said my uncle, staring ahead of him, "I came to offer you a home, and you insult me brutally, as you have done unreproved all your life. And yet no one shall say of me that I shirk my duty. But first I must ask you if there is aught else you desire of me." "The black boy, Hugo, is mine," I said. I had no great love for Hugo, save for association's sake, and I had one too many servants as it was; but to rescue one slave from Grafton's clutches was charity. "You shall have him," he replied, "and your chaise, and your wardrobe, and your horses, and whatever else I have that belongs to you. As I was saying, I will not shirk my duty. The memory of my dear father, and of what he would have wished, will not permit me to let you go a-begging. You shall be provided for out of the estate, despite what you have said and done." This was surely the quintessence of a rogue's imagination. Instinctively I shrank from him. With a show of piety that 'turned me sick he continued: "Let God witness that I carry out my father's will!" "Stop there, Grafton Carvel!" I cried; "you shall not take His name in vain. Under this guise of holiness you and your accomplice have done the devil's own work, and the devil will reward you." This reference to Mr. Allen, I believe, frightened him. For a second only did he show it. "My--my accomplice, sir!" he stammered. And then righting himself: "You will have to explain this, by Heaven." "In ample time your plot shall be laid bare, and you and his Reverence shall hang, or lie in chains." "You threaten, Mr. Carvel?" he shouted, nearly stepping off the porch in his excitement. "Nay, I predict," I replied calmly. And I went down the steps and out of the gate, he looking after me. Before I had turned the corner of Freshwater Lane, he was in the seat, and fanning himself with his hat. I went straight to Mr. Swain's chambers in the Circle, where I found the good barrister and Captain Daniel in their shirt-sleeves, seated between the windows in the back room. Mr. Swain was grave enough when he heard of my talk with Grafton, but the captain swore I was my father's son (for the fiftieth time since I had come back), and that a man could no more help flying at Grafton's face than Knipe could resist his legs; or Cynthia his back, if he went into her stall. I had scarce finished my recital, when Mr. Renwick, the barrister's clerk, announced Mr. Tucker, which caused Mr. Swain to let out a whistle of surprise. "So the wind blows from that quarter, Daniel," said he. "I thought so." Mr. Tucker proved to be the pettifogger into whose hands Grafton had put his affairs, taking them from Mr. Dulany at Mr. Carvel's death. The man was all in a sweat, and had hardly got in the door before he began to talk. He had no less astonishing a proposition to make than this, which he enunciated with much mouthing of the honour and sense of duty of Mr. Grafton Carvel. His client offered to Mr. Richard Carvel the estate lying in Kent County, embracing thirty-three hundred acres more or less of arable land and woodland, with a fine new house, together with the indented servants and negroes and other chattels thereon. Mr. Richard Carvel would observe that in making this generous offer for the welfare of his nephew, Mr. Tucker's client was far beyond the letter of his obligations; wherefore Mr. Grafton Carvel made it contingent upon the acceptance of the estate that his nephew should sign a paper renouncing forever any claims upon the properties of the late Mr. Lionel Carvel. This condition was so deftly rolled up in law-Latin that I did not understand a word of it until Mr. Swain stated it very briefly in English. His quiet laugh prodigiously disconcerted the pettifogger, who had before been sufficiently ill at ease in the presence of the great lawyer. Mr. Tucker blew his nose loudly to hide his confusion. "And what say you, Richard?" said Mr. Swain, without a shade of accent in his voice. I bowed my head. I knew that the honest barrister had read my heart when he spoke of noblesse oblige. That senseless pride of cast, so deep-rooted in those born in our province, had made itself felt. To be a factor (so I thought, for I was young) was to renounce my birth. Until that moment of travail the doctrine of equality had seemed very pretty to me. Your fine gentleman may talk as nobly as he pleases over his Madeira, and yet would patronize Monsieur Rousseau if he met him; and he takes never a thought of those who knuckle to him every day, and clean his boots and collect his rents. But when he is tried in the fire, and told suddenly to collect some one else's rents and curse another's negroes, he is fainthearted for the experiment. So it was with me when I had to meet the issue. I might take Grafton's offer, and the chance to marry Dorothy was come again. For by industry the owner of the Kent lands would become rich. The room was hot, and still save for the buzzing of the flies. When I looked up I discovered the eyes of all three upon me. "You may tell your client, Mr. Tucker, that I refuse his offer," I said. He got to his feet, and with the customary declaration of humble servitude bowed himself out. The door was scarce closed on him when the captain had me by the hands. "What said I, Henry?" he cried. "Did I not know the lad?" Mr. Swain did not stir from his seat. He was still gazing at me with a curious expression. And then I saw the world in truer colour. This good Samaritan was not only taking me into his home, but would fight for my rights with the strong brain that had lifted him out of poverty and obscurity. I stood, humbled before him. "I would accept your kindness, Mr. Swain," I said, vainly trying to steady my voice, "but I have the faithful fellow, Banks, who followed me here from England, dependant on me, and Hugo, whom I rescued from my uncle. I will make over the black to you and you will have him." He rose, brushed his eyes with his shirt, and took me by the arm. "You and the captain dine with me to-day," says he. "And as for Banks, I think that can be arranged. Now I have an estate, I shall need a trained butler, egad. I have some affairs to keep me in town to-day, Richard. But we'll be off for Cordon's Pride in the morning, and I know of one little girl will be glad to see us." We dined out under the apple tree in Gloucester Street. And the captain argued, in his hopeful way, that Tucker's visit betrayed a weak point in Grafton's position. But the barrister shook his head and said that Grafton was too shrewd a rogue to tender me an estate if he feared me. It was Mr. Swain's opinion that the motive of my uncle was to put himself in a good light; and perhaps, he added, there was a little revenge mixed therein, as the Kent estate was the one Mr. Carvel had given him when he cast him off. A southerly wind was sending great rolls of fog before it as Mr. Swain and I, with Banks, crossed over to Kent Island on the ferry the next morning. We traversed the island, and were landed by the other ferry on the soil of my native county, Queen Anne's. In due time we cantered past Master Dingley's tavern, the sight of which gave me a sharp pang, for it is there that the by-road turns over the bridge to Carvel Hall and Wilmot House; and force of habit drew my reins to the right across the horse's neck, so that I swerved into it. The barrister had no word of comment when I overtook him again. 'Twas about two o'clock when we came to the gate Mr. Swain had erected at the entrance to his place; the land was a little rolling, and partly wooded, like that on the Wye. But the fields were prodigiously unkempt. He drew up, and glanced at me. "You will see there is much to be done with such fallows as these," said he. "The lessees from his Lordship were sportsmen rather than husbandmen, and had an antipathy to a constable or a sheriff like a rat to a boar cat. That is the curse of some of your Eastern Shore gentlemen, especially in Dorchester," he added; "they get to be fishmongers." Presently we came in sight of the house, long and low, like the one in Gloucester Street, with a new and unpainted wing just completed. That day the mist softened its outline and blurred the trees which clustered about it. Even as we swung into the circle of the drive a rounded and youthful figure appeared in the doorway, gave a little cry, and stood immovable. It was Patty, in a striped dimity gown with the sleeves rolled up, and her face fairly shone with joy as I leaped from my horse and took her hands. "So you like my surprise, girl?" said her father, as he kissed her blushing face. For answer she tore herself away, and ran through the hall to the broad porch in front. "Our barrister is come, mother," we heard her exclaiming, "and whom do you think he has brought?" "Is it Richard?" asked the gentler voice, more hastily than usual. I stepped out on the porch, where the invalid sat in her armchair. She was smiling with joy, too, and she held out her wasted hands and drew me toward her, kissing me on both cheeks. "I thank God for His goodness," said she. "And the boy has come to stay, mother," said her husband, as he stooped over her. "To stay!" cries Patty. "Gordon's Pride is henceforth his home," replied the barrister. "And now I can return in peace to my musty law, and know that my plantation will be well looked after." Patty gasped. "Oh, I am so glad!" said she, "I could almost rejoice that his uncle cheated him out of his property. He is to be factor of Gordon's Pride?" "He is to be master of Gordon's Pride, my dear," says her father, smiling and tilting her chin; "we shall have no such persons as factors here." At that the tears forced themselves into my own eyes. I turned away, and then I perceived for the first time the tall form of my old friend, Percy Singleton. "May I, too, bid you welcome, Richard," said he, in his manly way; "and rejoice that I have got such a neighbour?" "Thank you, Percy," I answered. I was not in a state to say much more. "And now," exclaims Patty, "what a dinner we shall have in the prodigal's honour! I shall make you all some of the Naples biscuit Mrs. Brice told me of." She flew into the house, and presently we heard her clear voice singing in the kitchen. CHAPTER XLVI GORDON'S PRIDE The years of a man's life that count the most are often those which may be passed quickest in the story of it. And so I may hurry over the first years I spent as Mr. Swain's factor at Gordon's Pride. The task that came to my hand was heaven-sent. That manor-house, I am sure, was the tidiest in all Maryland, thanks to Patty's New England blood. She was astir with the birds of a morning, and near the last to retire at night, and happy as the days were long. She was ever up to her elbows in some dish, and her butter and her biscuits were the best in the province. Little she cared to work samplers, or peacocks in pretty wools, tho' in some way she found the time to learn the spinet. As the troubles with the mother country thickened, she took to a foot-wheel, and often in the crisp autumn evenings I would hear the bumping of it as I walked to the house, and turn the knob to come upon her spinning by the twilight. She would have no English-made linen in that household. "If mine scratch your back, Richard," she would say, "you must grin and bear, and console yourself with your virtue." It was I saw to the flax, and learned from Ivie Rawlinson (who had come to us from Carvel Hall) the best manner to ripple and break and swingle it. And Mr. Swain, in imitation of the high example set by Mr. Bordley, had buildings put up for wheels and the looms, and in due time kept his own sheep. If man or woman, white or black, fell sick on the place, it was Patty herself who tended them. She knew the virtue of every herb in the big chest in the storeroom. And at table she presided over her father's guests with a womanliness that won her more admiration than mine. Now that the barrister was become a man of weight, the house was as crowded as ever was Carvel Hall. Carrolls and Pacas and Dulanys and Johnsons, and Lloyds and Bordleys and Brices and Scotts and Jennings and Ridouts, and Colonel Sharpe, who remained in the province, and many more families of prominence which I have not space to mention, all came to Gordon's Pride. Some of these, as their names proclaim, were of the King's side; but the bulk of Mr. Swain's company were stanch patriots, and toasted Miss Patty instead of his Majesty. By this I do not mean that they lacked loyalty, for it is a matter of note that our colony loved King George. I must not omit from the list above the name of my good friend, Captain Clapsaddle. Nor was there lack of younger company. Betty Tayloe, who plied me with questions concerning Dorothy and London, but especially about the dashing and handsome Lord Comyn; and the Dulany girls, and I know not how many others. Will Fotheringay, when he was home from college, and Archie Brice, and Francis Willard (whose father was now in the Assembly) and half a dozen more to court Patty, who would not so much as look at them. And when I twitted her with this she would redden and reply: "I was created for a housewife, sir, and not to make eyes from behind a fan." Indeed, she was at her prettiest and best in the dimity frock, with the sleeves rolled up. 'Twas a very merry place, the manor of Gordon's Pride. A generous bowl of punch always stood in the cool hall, through which the south winds swept from off the water, and fruit and sangaree and lemonade were on the table there. The manor had no ball-room, but the negro fiddlers played in the big parlour. And the young folks danced till supper time. In three months Patty's suppers grew famous in a colony where there was no lack of good cooks. The sweet-natured invalid enjoyed these festivities in her quiet way, and often pressed me to partake. So did Patty beg me, and Mr. Swain. Perhaps a false sense of pride restrained me, but my duties held me all day in the field, and often into the night when there was curing to be done, or some other matters of necessity. And for the rest, I thought I detected a change in the tone of Mr. Fotheringay, and some others, tho' it may have been due to sensibility on my part. I would put up with no patronage. There was no change of tone, at least, with the elder gentlemen. They plainly showed me an added respect. And so I fell into the habit, after my work was over, of joining them in their suppers rather than the sons and daughters. There I was made right welcome. The serious conversation spiced with the wit of trained barristers and men of affairs better suited my changed condition of life. The times were sober, and for those who could see, a black cloud was on each horizon. 'Twas only a matter of months when the thunder-clap was to come-indeed, enough was going on within our own province to forebode a revolution. The Assembly to which many of these gentlemen belonged was in a righteous state of opposition to the Proprietary and the Council concerning the emoluments of colonial officers and of clergymen. Honest Governor Eden had the misfortune to see the justice of our side, and was driven into a seventh state by his attempts to square his conscience. Bitter controversies were waging in the Gazette, and names were called and duels fought weekly. For our cause "The First Citizen" led the van, and the able arguments and moderate language of his letters soon identified him as Mr. Charles Carroll of Carrollton, one of the greatest men Maryland has ever known. But even at Mr. Swain's, amongst his few intimate friends, Mr. Carroll could never be got to admit his 'nom de guerre' until long after 'Antilon' had been beaten. I write it with pride, that at these suppers I was sometimes asked to speak; and, having been but lately to England, to give my opinion upon the state of affairs there. Mr. Carroll honoured me upon two occasions with his confidence, and I was made clerk to a little club they had, and kept the minutes in my own hand. I went about in homespun, which, if good enough for Mr. Bordley, was good enough for me. I rode with him over the estate. This gentleman was the most accomplished and scientific farmer we had in the province. Having inherited his plantation on Wye Island, near Carvel Hall, he resigned his duties as judge, and a lucrative practice, to turn all his energies to the cultivation of the soil. His wheat was as eagerly sought after as was Colonel Washington's tobacco. It was to Mr. Bordley's counsel that the greater part of my success was due. He taught me the folly of ploughing with a fluke,--a custom to which the Eastern Shore was wedded, pointing out that a double surface was thus exposed to the sun's rays; and explained at length why there was more profit in small grain in that district than heavy tobacco. He gave me Dr. Eliot's "Essays on Field Husbandry," and Mill's "Husby," which I read from cover to cover. And I went from time to time to visit him at Wye Island, when he would canter with me over that magnificent plantation, and show me with pride the finished outcome of his experiments. Mr. Swain's affairs kept him in town the greater part of the twelve months, and Mrs. Swain and Patty moved to Annapolis in the autumn. But for three years I was at Cordon's Pride winter and summer alike. At the end of that time I was fortunate enough to show my employer such substantial results as to earn his commendation--ay, and his confidence, which was the highest token of that man's esteem. The moneys of the estate he left entirely at my order. And in the spring of '73, when the opportunity was suddenly offered to buy a thousand acres of excellent wheat land adjoining, I made the purchase for him while he was at Williamsburg, and upon my own responsibility. This connected the plantation on the east with Singleton's. It had been my secret hope that the two estates might one day be joined in marriage. For of all those who came a-courting Patty, Percy was by far the best. He was but a diffident suitor; he would sit with me on the lawn evening after evening, when company was there, while Fotheringay and Francis Willard made their compliments within,--silly flatteries, at which Patty laughed. Percy kept his hounds, and many a run we had together' in the sparkling days that followed the busy summer, when the crops were safe in the bottoms; or a quiet pipe and bottle in his bachelor's hall, after a soaking on the duck points. And this brings me to a subject on which I am loth to write. Where Mr. Singleton was concerned, Patty, the kindest of creatures, was cruelty itself. Once, when I had the effrontery to venture a word in his behalf, I had been silenced so effectively as to make my ears tingle. A thousand little signs led me to a conclusion which pained me more than I can express. Heaven is my witness that no baser feeling leads me to hint of it here. Every day while the garden lasted flowers were in my room, and it was Banks who told me that she would allow no other hands than her own to place them by my bed. He got a round rating from me for violating the pledge of secrecy he had given her. It was Patty who made my shirts, and on Christmas knitted me something of comfort; who stood on the horse-block in the early morning waving after me as I rode away, and at my coming her eyes would kindle with a light not to be mistaken. None of these things were lost upon Percy Singleton, and I often wondered why he did not hate me. He was of the kind that never shows a hurt. Force of habit still sent him to Gordon's Pride, but for days he would have nothing to say to the mistress of it, or she to him. CHAPTER XLVII VISITORS It was not often that Mr. Thomas Swain honoured Gordon's Pride with his presence. He vowed that the sober Whig company his father brought there gave him the vapours. He snapped his fingers at the articles of the Patriots' Association, and still had his cocked hats and his Brussels lace and his spyglass, and his top boots when he rode abroad, like any other Tory buck. His intimates were all of the King's side,--of the worst of the King's side, I should say, for I would not be thought to cast any slur on the great number of conscientious men of that party. But, being the son of one of the main props of the Whigs, Mr. Tom went unpunished for his father's sake. He was not uncondemned. Up to 1774, the times that Mr. Swain mentioned his son to me might be counted on the fingers of one hand. It took not a great deal of shrewdness to guess that he had paid out many a pretty sum to keep Tom's honour bright: as bright, at least, as such doubtful metal would polish. Tho' the barrister sought my ear in many matters, I never heard a whimper out of him on this score. Master Tom had no ambition beyond that of being a macaroni; his easy-going nature led him to avoid alike trouble and responsibility. Hence he did not bother his head concerning my position. He appeared well content that I should make money out of the plantation for him to spend. His visits to Gordon's Pride were generally in the late autumn, and he brought his own company with him. I recall vividly his third or fourth appearance, in October of '73. Well I may! The family was preparing to go to town, and this year I was to follow them, and take from Mr. Swain's shoulders some of his private business, for he had been ailing a little of late from overwork. The day of which I have spoken a storm had set in, the rain falling in sheets. I had been in the saddle since breakfast, seeing to an hundred repairs that had to be made before the cold weather. 'Twas near the middle of the afternoon when I pulled up before the weaving house. The looms were still, and Patty met me at the door with a grave look, which I knew portended something. But her first words were of my comfort. "Richard, will you ever learn sense? You have been wet all day long, and have missed your dinner. Go at once and change your clothes, sir!" she commanded severely. "I have first to look at the warehouse, where the roof is leaking," I expostulated. "You shall do no such thing," replied she, "but dry yourself, and march into the dining room. We have had the ducks you shot yesterday, and some of your experimental hominy; but they are all gone." I knew well she had laid aside for me some dainty, as was her habit. I dismounted. She gave me a quick, troubled glance, and said in a low voice: "Tom is come. And oh, I dare not tell you whom he has with him now!" "Courtenay?" I asked. "Yes, of coarse. I hate the sight of the man. But your cousin, Philip Carvel, is here, Richard. Father will be very angry. And they are making a drinking-tavern of the house." I gave Firefly a slap that sent her trotting stable-ward, and walked rapidly to the house. I found the three of them drinking in the hall, the punch spilled over the table, and staining the cards. "Gad's life!" cries Tom, "here comes Puritan Richard, in his broad rim. How goes the crop, Richard? 'Twill have to go well, egad, for I lost an hundred at the South River Club last week!" Next him sat Philip, whom I had not seen since before I was carried off. He was lately come home from King's College; and very mysteriously, his father giving out that his health was not all it should be. He had not gained Grafton's height, but he was broader, and his face had something in it of his father. He had his mother's under lip and complexion. Grafton was sallow; Philip was a peculiar pink,--not the ruddy pink of heartier natures, like my grandfather's, nor yet had he the peach-like skin of Mr. Dix. Philip's was a darker and more solid colour, and I have never seen man or woman with it and not mistrusted them. He wore a red velvet coat embroidered with gold, and as costly ruffles as I had ever seen in London. But for all this my cousin had a coarse look, and his polished blue flints of eyes were those of a coarse man. He got to his feet as Tom spoke, looking anywhere but at me, and came forward slowly. He was loyal to no one, was Philip, not even to his father. When he was got within three paces he halted. "How do you, cousin?" says he. "A little wet, as you perceive, Philip," I replied. I left him and stood before the fire, my rough wool steaming in the heat. He sat down again, a little awkwardly; and the situation began to please me better. "How do you?" I asked presently. "I have got a devilish cold," said he. "Faith, I'll warrant the doctor will be sworn I have been but indifferent company since we left the Hall. Eh, doctor?" Courtenay, with his feet stretched out, bestowed an amiable but languid wink upon me, as much as to say that I knew what Mr. Philip's company was at best. When I came out after my dinner, they were still sitting there, Courtenay yawning, and Tom and Philip wrangling over last night's play. "Come, my man of affairs, join us a hand!" says the doctor to me. "I have known the time when you would sit from noon until supper." "I had money then," said I. "And you have a little now, or I am cursed badly mistook. Oons! what do you fear?" he exclaimed, "you that have played with March and Fox?" "I fear nothing, doctor," I answered, smiling. "But a man must have a sorry honour when he will win fifty pounds with but ten of capital." "One of Dr. Franklin's maxims, I presume," says he, with sarcasm. "And if it were, it could scarce be more pat," I retorted. "'Tis Poor Richard's maxim." "O lud! O my soul!" cries Tom, with a hiccup and a snigger; "'tis time you made another grand tour, Courtenay. Here's the second Whig has got in on you within the week!" "Thank God they have not got me down to osnabrig and bumbo yet," replies the doctor. Coming over to me by the fire, he tapped my sleeve and added in a low tone: "Forbearance with such a pair of asses is enough to make a man shed bitter tears. But a little of it is necessary to keep out of debt. You and I will play together, against both the lambs, Richard. One of them is not far from maudlin now." "Thank you, doctor," I answered politely, "but I have a better way to make my living." In three years I had learned a little to control my temper. He shrugged his thin shoulders. "Eh bien, mon bon," says he, "I dare swear you know your own game better than do I." And he cast a look up the stairs, of which I quite missed the meaning. Indeed, I was wholly indifferent. The doctor and his like had passed out of my life, and I believed they were soon to disappear from our Western Hemisphere. The report I had heard was now confirmed, that his fortune was dissipated, and that he lived entirely off these young rakes who aspired to be macaronies. "Since your factor is become a damned Lutheran, Tom," said he, returning to the table and stripping a pack, "it will have to be picquet. You promised me we could count on a fourth, or I had never left Inman's." It was Tom, as I had feared, who sat down unsteadily opposite. Philip lounged and watched them sulkily, snuffing and wheezing and dipping into the bowl, and cursing the house for a draughty barn. I took a pipe on the settle to see what would come of it. I was not surprised that Courtenay lost at first, and that Tom drank the most of the punch. Nor was it above half an hour before the stakes were raised and the tide began to turn in the doctor's favour. "A plague of you, Courtenay!" cries Mr. Tom, at length, flinging down the cards. His voice was thick, while the Selwyn of Annapolis was never soberer in his life. Tom appealed first to Philip for the twenty pounds he owed him. "You know how damned stingy my father is, curse you," whined my cousin, in return. "I told you I should not have it till the first of the month." Tom swore back. He thrust his hands deep in his pockets and sank into that attitude of dejection common to drunkards. Suddenly he pulled himself up. "'Shblood! Here's Richard t' draw from. Lemme have fifty pounds, Richard." "Not a farthing," I said, unmoved. "You say wha' shall be done with my father's money!" he cried. "I call tha' damned cool--Gad's life! I do. Eh, Courtenay?" Courtenay had the sense not to interfere. "I'll have you dishcharged, Gads death! so I will!" he shouted. "No damned airs wi' me, Mr. Carvel. I'll have you know you're not wha' you once were, but, only a cursht oversheer." He struggled to his feet, forgot his wrath on the instant, and began to sing drunkenly the words of a ribald air. I took him by both shoulders and pushed him back into his chair. "Be quiet," I said sternly; "while your mother and sister are here you shall not insult them with such a song." He ceased, astonished. "And as for you, gentlemen," I continued, "you should know better than to make a place of resort out of a gentleman's house." Courtenay's voice broke the silence that followed. "Of all the cursed impertinences I ever saw, egad!" he drawled. "Is this your manor, Mr. Carvel? Or have you a seat in Kent?" I would not have it in black and white that I am an advocate of fighting. But a that moment I was in the mood when it does not matter much one way or the other. The drunken man carried us past the point. "The damned in--intriguing rogue'sh worked himself into my father's grashes," he said, counting out his words. "He'sh no more Whig than me. I know'sh game, Courtenay--he wants t' marry Patty. Thish place'll be hers." The effect upon me of these words, with all their hideous implication of gossip and scandal, was for an instant benumbing. The interpretation of the doctor's innuendo struck me then. I was starting forward, with a hand open to clap over Tom's mouth, when I saw the laugh die on Courtenay's face, and him come bowing to his legs. I turned with a start. On the stairs stood Patty herself, pale as marble. "Come with me, Tom," she said. He had obeyed her from childhood. This time he tried, and failed miserably. "Beg pardon, Patty," he stammered, "no offensh meant. Thish factor thinks h' ownsh Gordon's now. I say, not'll h' marries you. Good fellow, Richard, but infernal forward. Eh, Courtenay?" Philip turned away, while the doctor pretended to examine the silver punch-ladle. As for me, I could only stare. It was Patty who kept her head, and made us a stately curtsey. "Will you do me the kindness, gentlemen," said she, "to leave me with my brother?" We walked silently into the parlour, and I closed the door. "Slife!" cried Courtenay, "she's a vision. What say you, Philip? And I might see her in that guise again, egad, I would forgive Tom his five hundred crowns!" "A buxom vision," agreed my cousin, "but I vow I like 'em so." He had forgotten his cold. "This conversation is all of a piece with the rest of your conduct," said I, hotly. The candles were burning brightly in the sconces. The doctor walked to the glass, took snuff, and burnished his waistcoat before he answered. "Sure, a fortune lies under every virtue we assume," he recited. "But she is not for you, Richard," says he, tapping his box. "Mr. Carvel, if you please," I replied. I felt the demon within me. But I had the sense to realize that a quarrel with Dr. Courtenay, under the circumstances, would be far from wise. He had no intention of quarrelling, however. He made me a grand bow. "Mr. Carvel, your very obedient. Hereafter I shall know better than to forget myself with an overseer." And he gave me his back. "What say you to a game of billiards, Philip?" Philip seemed glad to escape. And soon I heard their voices, mingling with the click of the balls. There followed for me one of the bitterest half hours I have had in my life. Then Patty opened the hall door. "Will you come in for a moment, Richard?" she said, quite calmly. I followed her, wondering at the masterful spirit she had shown. For there was Tom all askew in his chair, his feet one way and his hands another, totally subdued. What was most to the point, he made me an elaborate apology. How she had sobered his mind I know not. His body was as helpless as the day he was born. Long before the guests thought of rising the next morning, Patty came to me as I was having the mare saddled. The sun was up, and the clouds were being chased, like miscreants who have played their prank, and were now running for it. The sharp air brought the red into her cheeks. And for the first time in her life with me she showed shyness. She glanced up into my face, and then down at the leaves running on the ground. "I hope they will go to-day," said she, when I was ready to mount. I began to tighten the girths, venting my feelings on Firefly until the animal swung around and made a vicious pass at my arm. "Richard!" "Yes." "You will not worry over that senseless speech of Tom's?" "I see it in a properer light now, Patty," I replied. "I usually do--in the morning." She sighed. "You are so--high-strung," she said, "I was afraid you would--" "I would--?" She did not answer until I had repeated. "I was very silly," she said slowly, her colour mounting even higher," I was afraid that you would--leave us." Stroking the mare's neck, and with a little halt in her voice, "I do not know what we should do without you." Indeed, I was beginning to think I would better leave, though where I should go was more than I could say. With a quick intuition she caught my hand as I put foot in the stirrup. "You will not go away!" she cried. "Say you will not! What would poor father do? He is not so well as he used to be." The wild appeal in her eyes frightened me. It was beyond resisting. In great agitation I put my foot to the ground again. "Patty, I should be a graceless scamp in truth," I exclaimed. "I do not forget that your father gave me a home when mine was taken away, and has made me one of his family. I shall thank God if I can but lighten some of his burdens." But they did not depart that day, nor the next; nor, indeed, for a week after. For Philip's cold brought on a high fever. He stuck to his bed, and Patty herself made broth and dainties for him, and prescribed him medicine out of the oak chest whence had come so much comfort. At first Philip thought he would die, and forswore wine and cards, and some other things the taste for which he had cultivated, and likewise worse vices that had come to him by nature. I am greatly pleased to write that the stay profited the gallant Dr. Courtenay nothing. Patty's mature beauty and her manner of carrying off the episode in the hall had made a deep impression upon the Censor. I read the man's mind in his eye; here was a match to mend his fortunes, and do him credit besides. However, his wit and his languishing glances and double meanings fell on barren ground. No tire-woman on the plantation was busier than Patty during the first few days of his stay. After that he grew sulky and vented his spleen on poor Tom, winning more money from him at billiards and picquet. Since the doctor was too much the macaroni to ride to hounds and to shoot ducks, time began to hang exceeding heavy on his hands. Patty and I had many a quiet laugh over his predicament. And, to add zest to the situation, I informed Singleton of what was going forward. He came over every night for supper, and to my delight the bluff Englishman was received in a fashion to make the doctor writhe and snort with mortification. Never in his life had he been so insignificant a person. And he, whose conversation was so sought after in the gay season in town, was thrown for companionship upon a scarce-grown boy whose talk was about as salted, and whose intellect as great, as those of the cockerouse in our fable. He stood it about a se'nnight, at the end of which space Philip was put on his horse, will-he-nill-he, and made to ride northward. I sat with my cousin of an evening as he lay in bed. Not, I own, from any charity on my part, but from other motives which do me no credit. The first night he confessed his sins, and they edified me not a little. On the second he was well enough to sit up and swear, and to vow that Miss Swain was an angel; that he would marry her the very next week and his father Grafton were not such a stickler for family. "Curse him," says his dutiful and loyal son, "he is so bally stingy with my stipend that I am in debt to half the province. And I say it myself, Richard, he has been a blackguard to you, tho' I allow him some little excuse. You were faring better now, my dear cousin, and you had not given him every reason to hate you. For I have heard him declare more than once 'pon my soul, I have--that he would rather you were his friend than his enemy." My contempt for Philip kept me silent here. I might quarrel with Grafton, who had sense enough to feel pain at a well deserved thrust. Philip had not the intelligence to recognize insult from compliment. It was but natural he should mistake my attitude now. He leaned forward in his bed. "Hark you, Richard," whispers he, with a glance at the door, "I might tell you some things and I chose, and--and it were worth my while." "Worth your while?" I repeated vaguely. He traced nervously the figures on the counterpane. Next came a rush of anger to redden his face. "By Gad, I will tell you. Swear to Gad I will." Then, the little cunning inherited from his father asserting itself, he added, "Look you, Richard, I am the son of one of the richest men in the colony, and I get the pittance of a backwoods pastor. I tell you 'tis not to be borne with. And I am not of as much consideration at the Hall as Brady, the Irish convict, who has become overseer." I little wondered at this. Philip sank back, and for some moments eyed me between narrowed lids. He continued presently with shortened breath: "I have evidence--I have evidence to get you back a good share of the estate, which my father will never miss. And I will do it," he cries, suddenly bold, "I will do it for three thousand pounds down when you receive it." This was why he had come with Tom to Talbot! I was so dumfounded that my speech was quite taken away. Then I got up and began pacing the room. Was it not fair to fight a scoundrel with his own weapons? Here at last was the witness Mr. Swain had been seeking so long, come of his own free will. Then--Heaven help me!--my mind flew on. As time had passed I had more than once regretted refusing the Kent plantation, which had put her from whom my thought never wandered within my reach again. Good Mr. Swain had erred for once. 'Twas foolish, indeed, not to accept a portion of what was rightfully mine, when no more could be got. And now, if what Philip said was true (and I doubted it not), here at last was the chance come again to win her without whom I should never be happy. I glanced at my cousin. "Gad's life!" says he, "it is cheap enough. I might have asked you double." "So you might, and have been refused," I cried hotly. For I believe that speech of his recalled me to my senses. It has ever been an instinct with me that no real prosperity comes out of double-dealing. And commerce with such a sneak sickened me. "Go back to your father, Philip, and threaten him, and he may make you rich. Such as he live by blackmail. And you may add, and you will, that the day of retribution is coming for him." CHAPTER XLVIII MULTUM IN PARVO I lost no time after getting to Annapolis in confiding to Mr. Swain the conversation I had had with my cousin Philip. And I noticed, as he sat listening to my account in the library in Gloucester Street, that the barrister looked very worn. He had never been a strong man, and the severe strain he had been under with the patriots' business was beginning to tell. He was very thoughtful when I had finished, and then told me briefly that I had done well not to take the offer. "Tucker would have made but short work of such evidence, my lad," said he, "and I think Master Philip would have lied himself in and out a dozen times. I cannot think what witness he would have introduced save Mr. Allen. And there is scarcely a doubt that your uncle pays him for his silence, for I am told he is living in Frederick in a manner far above what he gets from the parish. However, Philip has given us something more to work on. It may be that he can put hands on the messenger." I rose to go. "We shall bring them to earth yet, Richard, and I live," he added. "And I have always meant to ask you whether you ever regretted your decision in taking Gordon's Pride." "And you live, sir!" I exclaimed, not heeding the question. He smiled somewhat sadly. "Of one thing I am sure, my lad," he continued, "which is that I have had no regrets about taking you. Mr. Bordley has just been here, and tells me you are the ablest young man in the province. You see that more eyes than mine are upon you. You have proved yourself a man, Richard, and there are very few macaronies would have done as you did. I am resolved to add another little mite to your salary." The "little mite" was of such a substantial nature that I protested strongly against it. I thought of Tom's demands upon him. "I could afford to give you double for what you have made off the place," he interrupted. "But I do not believe in young men having too much." He sighed, and turned to his work. I hesitated. "You have spent time and labour upon my case, sir, and have asked no fee." "I shall speak of the fee when I win it," he said dryly, "and not before. How would you like to be clerk this winter to the Committee of Correspondence?" I suppose my pleasure was expressed in my face. "Well," said he, "I have got you the appointment without much difficulty. There are many ways in which you can be useful to the party when not helping me with my affairs." This conversation gave me food for reflection during a week. I was troubled about Mr. Swain, and what he had said as to not living kept running in my head as I wrote or figured. For I had enough to hold me busy. In the meantime, the clouds fast gathering on both sides of the Atlantic grew blacker, and blacker still. I saw a great change in Annapolis. Men of affairs went about with grave faces, while gay and sober alike were touched by the spell. The Tory gentry, to be sure, rattled about in their gilded mahogany coaches, in spite of jeers and sour looks. My Aunt Caroline wore jewelled stomachers to the assemblies,--now become dry and shrivelled entertainments. She kept her hairdresser, had three men in livery to her chair, and a little negro in Turk's costume to wait on her. I often met her in the streets, and took a fierce joy in staring her, in the eye. And Grafton! By a sort of fate I was continually running against him. He was a very busy man, was my uncle, and had a kind of dignified run, which he used between Marlboro' Street and the Council Chamber in the Stadt House, or the Governor's mansion. He never did me the honour to glance at me. The Rev. Mr. Allen, too, came a-visiting from Frederick, where he had grown stout as an alderman upon the living and its perquisites and Grafton's additional bounty. The gossips were busy with his doings, for he had his travelling-coach and servant now. He went to the Tory balls with my aunt. Once I all but encountered him on the Circle, but he ran into Northeast Street to avoid me. Yes, that was the winter when the wise foresaw the inevitable, and the first sharp split occurred between men who had been brothers. The old order of things had plainly passed, and I was truly thankful that my grandfather had not lived to witness those scenes. The greater part of our gentry stood firm for America's rights, and they had behind them the best lawyers in America. After the lawyers came the small planters and most of the mechanics. The shopkeepers formed the backbone of King George's adherents; the Tory gentry, the clergy, and those holding office under the proprietor made the rest. And it was all about tea, a word which, since '67, had been steadily becoming the most vexed in the language. The East India Company had put forth a complaint. They had Heaven knows how many tons getting stale in London warehouses, all by reason of our stubbornness, and so it was enacted that all tea paying the small American tax should have a rebate of the English duties. That was truly a master-stroke, for Parliament to give it us cheaper than it could be had at home! To cause his Majesty's government to lose revenues for the sake of being able to say they had caught and taxed us at last! The happy result is now history, my dears. And this is not a history, tho' I wish it were. What occurred at Boston, at Philadelphia, and Charleston, has since caused Englishmen, as well as Americans, to feel proud. The chief incident in Annapolis I shall mention in another chapter. When it became known with us that several cargoes were on their way to the colonies, excitement and indignation gained a pitch not reached since the Stamp Act. Business came to a standstill, plantations lay idle, and gentry and farmers flocked to Annapolis, and held meetings and made resolutions anew. On my way of a morning from Mr. Swain's house to his chambers in the Circle I would meet as many as a dozen knots of people. Mr. Claude was one of the few patriots who reaped reward out of the disturbance, for his inn was crowded. The Assembly met, appointed committees to correspond with the other colonies, and was prorogued once and again. Many a night I sat up until the small hours copying out letters to the committees of Virginia, and Pennsylvania, and Massachusetts. The gentlemen were wont to dine at the Coffee House, and I would sit near the foot of the table, taking notes of their plans. 'Twas so I met many men of distinction from the other colonies. Colonel Washington came once. He was grown a greater man than ever, and I thought him graver than when I had last seen him. I believe a trait of this gentleman was never to forget a face. "How do you, Richard?" said he. How I reddened when he called me so before all the committee. "I have heard your story, and it does you vast credit. And the gentlemen tell me you are earning laurels, sir." That first winter of the tea troubles was cold and wet with us, and the sun, as if in sympathy with the times, rarely showed his face. Early in February our apprehensions concerning Mr. Swain's health were realized. One day, without a word to any one, he went to his bed, where Patty found him. And I ran all the way to Dr. Leiden's. The doctor looked at him, felt his pulse and his chest, and said nothing. But he did not rest that night, nor did Patty or I. Thus I came to have to do with the good barrister's private affairs. I knew that he was a rich man, as riches went in our province, but I had never tried to guess at his estate. I confess the sums he had paid out in Tom's behalf frightened me. With the advice of Mr. Bordley and Mr. Lloyd I managed his money as best I could, but by reason of the non-importation resolutions there was little chance for good investments, --no cargoes coming and few going. I saw, indeed, that buying the Talbot estate had been a fortunate step, since the quantities of wheat we grew there might be disposed of in America. When Dr. Leiden was still coming twice a day to Gloucester Street, Mr. Tom must needs get into a scrape with one of the ladies of the theatre, and come to me in the Circle chambers for one hundred pounds. I told him, in despair, that I had no authority to pay out his father's money. "And so you have become master, sure enough!" he cried, in a passion. For he was desperate. "You have worked your way in vastly well, egad, with your Whig committee meetings and speeches. And now he is on his back, and you have possession, you choose to cut me off. 'Slife, I know what will be coming next!" I pulled him into Mr. Swain's private room, where we would be free of the clerks. "Yes, I am master here," I replied, sadly enough, as he stood sullenly before me. "I should think you would be ashamed to own it. When I came to your father I was content to be overseer in Talbot, and thankful for his bounty. 'Tis no fault of mine, but your disgrace, that his son is not managing his business, and supporting him in the rights of his country. I am not very old, Tom. A year older than you, I believe. But I have seen enough of life to prophesy your end and you do not reform." "We are turned preacher," he says, with a sneer. "God forbid! But I have been in a sponging-house, and tasted the lowest dregs. And if this country becomes free, as I think it will some day, such as you will be driven to England, and die in the Fleet." "Not while my father lives," retorts he, and throws aside the oiled silk cape with a London name upon it. The day was rainy. I groaned. My responsibility lay heavy upon me. And this was not my first scene with him. He continued doggedly:--"You have no right to deny me what is not yours. 'Twill be mine one day." "You have no right to accuse me of thoughts that do not occur to men of honour," I replied. "I am slower to anger than I once was, but I give you warning now. Do you know that you will ruin your father in another year and you continue?" He gave me no answer. I reached for the ledger, and turning the pages, called off to him the sums he had spent. "Oh, have done, d--n it!" he cried, when I was not a third through. "Are you or are you not to give me the money?" "And you are to spend it upon an actress?" I should have called her by a worse name. "Actress!" he shouted. "Have you seen her in The Orphan? My soul, she is a divinity!" Then he shifted suddenly to whining and cringing. "I am ruined outright, Richard, if I do not get it." Abjectly he confessed the situation, which had in it enough material for a scandal to set the town wagging for a month. And the weight of it would fall; as I well knew, upon those who deserved it least. "I will lend you the money, or, rather, will pay it for you," I said, at last. For I was not so foolish as to put it into his hands. "You shall have the sum under certain conditions." He agreed to them before they were out of my mouth, and swore in a dozen ways that he would repay me every farthing. He was heartily tired of the creature, and, true to his nature, afraid of her. That night when the play was over I went to her lodging, and after a scene too distressing to dwell upon, bought her off. I sat with Mr. Swain many an hour that spring, with Patty sewing at the window open to the garden. Often, as we talked, unnoticed by her father she would drop her work and the tears glisten in her eyes. For the barrister's voice was not as strong as it once was, and the cold would not seem to lift from his chest. So this able man, who might have sat in the seats of Maryland's high reward, was stricken when he was needed most. He was permitted two visitors a day: now 'twas Mr. Carroll and Colonel Lloyd, again Colonel Tilghman and Captain Clapsaddle, or Mr. Yaca and Mr. Bordley. The gentlemen took turns, and never was their business so pressing that they missed their hour. Mr. Swain read all the prints, and in his easier days would dictate to me his views for the committee, or a letter signed Brutes for Mr. Green to put in the Gazette. So I became his mouthpiece at the meetings, and learned to formulate my thoughts and to speak clearly. For fear of confusing this narrative, my dears, I have referred but little to her who was in my thoughts night and day, and whose locket I wore, throughout all those years, next my heart. I used to sit out under the stars at Gordon's Pride, with the river lapping at my feet, and picture her the shining centre of all the brilliant scenes I had left, and wonder if she still thought of me. Nor have I mentioned that faithful correspondent, and more faithful friend, Lord Comyn. As soon as ever I had obtained from Captain Daniel my mother's little inheritance, I sent off the debt I owed his Lordship. 'Twas a year before I got him to receive it; he despatched the money back once, saying that I had more need of it than he. I smiled at this, for my Lord was never within his income, and I made no doubt he had signed a note to cover my indebtedness. Every letter Comyn writ me was nine parts Dolly, and the rest of his sheet usually taken up with Mr. Fox and his calamities: these had fallen upon him very thick of late. Lord Holland had been forced to pay out a hundred thousand pounds for Charles, and even this enormous sum did not entirely free Mr. Fox from the discounters and the hounds. The reason for this sudden onslaught was the birth of a boy to his brother Stephen, who was heir to the title. "When they told Charles of it," Comyn wrote, "said he, coolly: 'My brother Ste's son is a second Messiah, born for the destruction of the Jews.'" I saw no definite signs, as yet, of the conversion of this prodigy, which I so earnestly hoped for. He had quarrelled with North, lost his place on the Admiralty, and presently the King had made him a Lord of the Treasury, tho' more out of fear than love. Once in a while, when he saw Comyn at Almack's, he would desire to be remembered to me, and he always spoke of me with affection. But he could be got to write to no one, said my Lord, with kind exaggeration; nor will he receive letters, for fear he may get a dun. Alas, I got no message from Dorothy! Nor had she ever mentioned my name to Comyn. He had not seen her for eight months after I left England, as she had been taken to the Continent for her health. She came back to London more ravishing than before, and (I use his Lordship's somewhat extravagant language) her suffering had stamped upon her face even more of character and power. She had lost much of her levity, likewise. In short, my Lord declared, she was more of the queen than ever, and the mystery which hung over the Vauxhall duel had served only to add to her fame. Dorothy having become cognizant of Mr. Marmaduke's trickery, Chartersea seemed to have dropped out of the race. He now spent his time very evenly between Spa and Derresley and Paris. Hence I had so much to be thankful for,--that with all my blunders, I had saved her from his Grace. My Lord the Marquis of Wells was now most conspicuous amongst her suitors. Comyn had nothing particular against this nobleman, saying that he was a good fellow, with a pretty fortune. And here is a letter, my dears, in which he figures, that I brought to Cordon's Pride that spring: "10 SOUTH PARADE, BATH, "March 12, 1774. "DEAR RICHARD:--Miss Manners has come to Bath, with a train behind her longer than that which followed good Queen Anne hither, when she made this Gehenna the fashion. Her triumphal entry last Wednesday was announced by such a peal of the abbey bells as must have cracked the metal (for they have not rung since) and started Beau Nash a-cursing where he lies under the floor. Next came her serenade by the band. Mr. Marmaduke swore they would never have done, and squirmed and grinned like Punch when he thought of the fee, for he had hoped to get off with a crown, I warrant you. You should have seen his face when they would accept no fee at all for the beauty! Some wag has writ a verse about it, which was printed, and has set the whole pump-room laughing this morning. "She was led out by Wells in the Seasons last night. As Spring she is too bewildering for my pen,--all primrose and white, with the flowers in her blue-black hair. Had Sir Joshua seen her, he would never rest content till he should have another portrait. The Duc de Lauzun, who contrived to get two dances, might give you a description in a more suitable language than English. And there was a prodigious deal of jealousy among the fair ones on the benches, you may be sure, and much jaundiced comment. "Some half dozen of us adorers have a mess at the Bear, and have offered up a prize for the most appropriate toast on the beauty. This is in competition with Mrs. Miller. Have you not heard of her among your tobacco-hills? Horry calls her Mrs. 'Calliope' Miller. At her place near here, Bath Easton Villa, she has set up a Roman vase bedecked with myrtle, and into this we drop our bouts-rimes. Mrs. Calliope has a ball every Thursday, when the victors are crowned. T'other day the theme was 'A Buttered Muffin,' and her Grace of Northumberland was graciously awarded the prize. In faith, that theme taxed our wits at the Bear,--how to weave Miss Dolly's charms into a verse on a buttered muffin. I shall not tire you with mine. Storer's deserved to win, and we whisper that Mrs. Calliope ruled it out through spite. 'When Phyllis eats,' so it began, and I vow 'twas devilish ingenious. "We do nothing but play lasquenet and tennis, and go to the assembly, and follow Miss Dolly into Gill's, the pastry-cook's, where she goes every morning to take a jelly. The ubiquitous Wells does not give us much chance. He writes 'vers de societe' with the rest, is high in Mr. Marmaduke's favour, which alone is enough to damn his progress. I think she is ill of the sight of him. "Albeit she does not mourn herself into a tree, I'll take oath your Phyllis is true to you, Richard, and would live with you gladly in a thatched hut and you asked her. Write me more news of yourself. "Your ever affectionate "COMYN "P.S. I have had news of you through Mr. Worthington, of your colony, who is just arrived here. He tells me that you have gained a vast reputation for your plantation, and likewise that you are thought much of by the Whig wiseacres, and that you hold many seditious offices. He does not call them so. Since your modesty will not permit you to write me any of these things, I have been imagining you driving slaves with a rawhide, and seeding runaway convicts to the mines. Mr. W. is even now paying his respects to Miss Manners, and I doubt not trumpeting your praises there, for he seems to like you. So I have asked him to join the Bear mess. One more unfortunate! "P.S. I was near forgetting the news about Charles Fox. He sends you his love, and tells me to let you know that he has been turned out of North's house for good and all. He is sure you will be cursed happy over it, and says that you predicted he would go over to the Whigs. I can scarce believe that he will. North took a whole week to screw up His courage, h-s M-j-sty pricking him every day. And then he wrote this: "'Sir, his Majesty has thought proper to order a new Commission of the Treasury to be made out, in which I do not see your name.' Poor Charles! He is now without money or place, but as usual appears to worry least of all of us, and still reads his damned Tasso for amusement. "C." Perchance he was to be the Saint Paul of English politics, after all. CHAPTER XLIX LIBERTY LOSES A FRIEND Mr. Bordley's sloop took Mr. Swain to Gordon's Pride in May, and placed him in the big room overlooking the widening river. There he would lie all day long, staring through the leaves at the water, or listening to the sweet music of his daughter's voice as she read from the pompous prints of the time. Gentlemen continued to come to the plantation, for the barrister's wisdom was sorely missed at the councils. One day, as I rode in from the field, I found Colonel Lloyd just arrived from Philadelphia, sipping sangaree on the lawn and mopping himself with his handkerchief. His jolly face was troubled. He waved his hand at me. "Well, Richard," says he, "we children are to have our first whipping. At least one of us. And the rest are resolved to defy our parent." "Boston, Mr. Lloyd?" I asked. "Yes, Boston," he replied; "her port is closed, and we are forbid any intercourse with her until she comes to her senses. And her citizens must receive his gracious Majesty's troopers into their houses. And if a man kill one of them by any chance, he is to go to England to be tried. And there is more quite as bad." "'Tis bad enough!" I cried, flinging myself down. And Patty gave me a glass in silence. "Ay, but you must hear all," said he; "our masters are of a mind to do the thing thoroughly. Canada is given some score of privileges. Her French Roman Catholics, whom we fought not long since, are thrown a sop, and those vast territories between the lakes and the Ohio and Mississippi are given to Quebec as a price for her fidelity. And so, if the worst comes to worst, George's regiments will have a place to land against us." Such was the news, and though we were some hundreds of miles from Massachusetts, we felt their cause as our own. There was no need of the appeal which came by smoking horses from Philadelphia, for the indignation of our people was roused to the highest pitch. Now Mr. Swain had to take to his bed from the excitement. This is not a history, my dears, as I have said. And time is growing short. I shall pass over that dreary summer of '74. It required no very keen eye to see the breakers ahead, and Mr. Bordley's advice to provide against seven years of famine did not go unheeded. War was the last thing we desired. We should have been satisfied with so little, we colonies! And would have voted the duties ten times over had our rights been respected. Should any of you doubt this, you have but to read the "Address to the King" of our Congress, then sitting in Philadelphia. The quarrel was so petty, and so easy of mending, that you of this generation may wonder why it was allowed to run. I have tried to tell you that the head of a stubborn, selfish, and wilful monarch blocked the way to reconciliation. King George the Third is alone to blame for that hatred of race against race which already hath done so much evil. And I pray God that a great historian may arise whose pen will reveal the truth, and reconcile at length those who are, and should be, brothers. By October, that most beautiful month of all the year in Maryland, we were again in Annapolis: One balmy day 'twas a Friday, I believe, and a gold and blue haze hung over the Severn--Mr. Chase called in Gloucester Street to give the barrister news of the Congress, which he had lately left. As he came down the stairs he paused for a word with me in the library, and remarked sadly upon Mr. Swain's condition. "He looks like a dying man, Richard," said he, "and we can ill afford to lose him." Even as we sat talking in subdued tones, the noise of a distant commotion arose. We had scarce started to our feet, Mr. Chase and I, when the brass knocker resounded, and Mr. Hammond was let in. His wig was awry, and his face was flushed. "I thought to find you here," he said to Mr. Chase. "The Anne Arundel Committee is to meet at once, and we desire to have you with us." Perceiving our blank faces, he added: "The 'Peggy Stewart' is in this morning with over a ton of tea aboard, consigned to the Williams's." The two jumped into a chaise, and I followed afoot, stopped at every corner by some excited acquaintance; so that I had the whole story, and more, ere I reached Church Street. The way was blocked before the committee rooms, and 'twas said that the merchants, Messrs. Williams, and Captain Jackson of the brig, were within, pleading their cause. Presently the news leaked abroad that Mr. Anthony Stewart, the brig's owner, had himself paid the duty on the detested plant. Some hundreds of people were elbowing each other in the street, for the most part quiet and anxious, until Mr. Hammond appeared and whispered to a man at the door. In all my life before I had never heard the hum of an angry crowd. The sound had something ominous in it, like the first meanings of a wind that is to break off great trees at their trunks. Then some one shouted: "To Hanover Street! To Hanover Street! We'll have him tarred and feathered before the sun is down!" The voice sounded strangely like Weld's. They charged at this cry like a herd of mad buffalo, the weaker ones trampled under foot or thrust against the wall. The windows of Mr. Aikman's shop were shattered. I ran with the leaders, my stature and strength standing me in good stead more than once, and as we twisted into Northwest Street I took a glance at the mob behind me, and great was my anxiety at not being able to descry one responsible person. Mr. Stewart's house stood, and stands to-day, amid trim gardens, in plain sight of the Severn. Arriving there, the crowd massed in front of it, some of the boldest pressing in at the gate and spreading over the circle of lawn enclosed by the driveway. They began to shout hoarsely, with what voices they had left, for Mr. Stewart to come out, calling him names not to be spoken, and swearing they would show him how traitors were to be served. I understood then the terror of numbers, and shuddered. A chandler, a bold and violent man, whose leather was covered with grease, already had his foot on the steps, when the frightened servants slammed the door in his face, and closed the lower windows. In vain I strained my eyes for some one who might have authority with them. They began to pick up stones, though none were thrown. Suddenly a figure appeared at an upper window,--a thin and wasted woman dressed in white, with sad, sweet features. It was Mrs. Stewart. Without flinching she looked down upon the upturned faces; but a mob of that kind has no pity. Their leaders were the worst class in our province, being mostly convicts who had served their terms of indenture. They continued to call sullenly for "the traitor." Then the house door opened, and the master himself appeared. He was pale and nervous, and no wonder; and his voice shook as he strove to make himself heard. His words were drowned immediately by shouts of "Seize him! Seize the d--d traitor!" "A pot and a coat of hot tar!" Those who were nearest started forward, and I with them. With me 'twas the decision of an instant. I beat the chandler up the steps, and took stand in front of the merchant, and I called out to them to fall back. To my astonishment they halted. The skirts of the crowd were now come to the foot of the little porch. I faced them with my hand on Mr. Stewart's arm, without a thought of what to do next, and expecting violence. There was a second's hush. Then some one cried out: "Three cheers for Richard Carvel!" They gave them with a will that dumfounded me. "My friends," said I, when I had got my wits, "this is neither the justice nor the moderation for which our province is noted. You have elected your committee of your free wills, and they have claims before you." "Ay, ay, the committee!" they shouted. "Mr. Carvel is right. Take him to the Committee!" Mr. Stewart raised his hand. "My friends," he began, as I had done, "when you have learned the truth, you will not be so hasty to blame me for an offence of which I am innocent. The tea was not for me. The brig was in a leaky and dangerous state and had fifty souls aboard her. I paid the duty out of humanity--" He had come so far, when they stopped him. "Oh, a vile Tory!" they shouted. "He is conniving with the Council. 'Twas put up between them." And they followed this with another volley of hard names, until I feared that his chance was gone. "You would best go before the Committee, Mr. Stewart," I said. "I will go with Mr. Carvel, my friends," he cried at once. And he invited me into the house whilst he ordered his coach. I preferred to remain outside. I asked them if they would trust me with Mr. Stewart to Church Street. "Yes, yes, Mr. Carvel, we know you," said several. "He has good cause to hate Tories," called another, with a laugh. I knew the voice. "For shame, Weld," I cried. And I saw McNeir, who was a stanch friend of mine, give him a cuff to send him spinning. To my vast satisfaction they melted away, save only a few of the idlest spirits, who hung about the gate, and cheered as we drove off. Mr. Stewart was very nervous, and profuse in his gratitude. I replied that I had acted only as would have any other responsible citizen. On the way he told me enough of his case to convince me that there was much to be said on his side, but I thought it the better part of wisdom not to commit myself. The street in front of the committee rooms was empty, and I was informed that a town meeting had been called immediately at the theatre in West Street. And I advised Mr. Stewart to attend. But through anxiety or anger, or both, he was determined not to go, and drove back to his house without me. I had got as far as St. Anne's, halfway to the theatre, when it suddenly struck me that Mr. Swain must be waiting for news. With a twinge I remembered what Mr. Chase had said about the barrister's condition, and I hurried back to Gloucester Street, much to the surprise of those I met on their way to the meeting. I was greatly relieved, when I arrived, to find Patty on the porch. I knew she had never been there were her father worse. After a word with her and her mother, I went up the stairs. It was the hour for the barrister's nap. But he was awake, lying back on the pillows, with his eyes half closed. He was looking out into the garden, which was part orchard, now beginning to shrivel and to brown with the first touch of frosts. "That is you, Richard?" he inquired, without moving. "What is going forward to-day?" I toned down the news, so as not to excite him, and left out the occurrence in Hanover Street. He listened with his accustomed interest, but when I had done he asked no questions, and lay for a long time silent. Then he begged me to bring my chair nearer. "Richard,--my son," said he, with an evident effort, "I have never thanked you for your devotion to me and mine through the best years of your life. It shall not go unrewarded, my lad." It seemed as if my heart stood still with the presage of what was to come. "May God reward you, sir!" I said. "I have wished to speak to you," he continued, "and I may not have another chance. I have arranged with Mr. Carroll, the barrister, to take your cause against your uncle, so that you will lose nothing when I am gone. And you will see, in my table in the library, that I have left my property in your hands, with every confidence in your integrity, and ability to care for my family, even as I should have done." I could not speak at once. A lump rose in my throat, for I had come to look upon him as a father. His honest dealings, his charity, of which the world knew nothing, and his plain and unassuming ways had inspired in me a kind of worship. I answered, as steadily as I might: "I believe I am too inexperienced for such a responsibility, Mr. Swain. Would it not be better that Mr. Bordley or Mr. Lloyd should act?" "No, no," he said; "I am not a man to do things unadvisedly, or to let affection get the better of my judgment, where others dear to me are concerned. I know you, Richard Carvel. Scarce an action of yours has escaped my eye, though I have said nothing. You have been through the fire, and are of the kind which comes out untouched. You will have Judge Bordley's advice, and Mr. Carroll's. And they are too busy with the affairs of the province to be burdened as my executors. But," he added a little more strongly, "if what I fear is coming, Mr. Bordley will take the trust in your absence. If we have war, Richard, you will not be content to remain at home, nor would I wish it." I did not reply. "You will do what I ask?" he said. "I would refuse you nothing, Mr. Swain," I answered. "But I have heavy misgivings." He sighed. "And now, if it were not for Tom, I might die content," he said. If it were not for Tom! The full burden of the trust began to dawn upon me then. Presently I heard him speaking, but in so low a voice that I hardly caught the words. "In our youth, Richard," he was saying, "the wrath of the Almighty is but so many words to most of us. When I was little more than a lad, I committed a sin of which I tremble now to think. And I was the fool to imagine, when I amended my life, that God had forgotten. His punishment is no heavier than I deserve. But He alone knows what He has made me suffer." I felt that I had no right to be there. "That is why I have paid Tom's debts," he continued; "I cannot cast off my son. I have reasoned, implored, and appealed in vain. He is like Reuben,--his resolutions melt in an hour. And I have pondered day and night what is to be done for him." "Is he to have his portion?" I asked. Indeed, the thought of the responsibility of Tom Swain overwhelmed me. "Yes, he is to have it," cried Mr. Swain, with a violence to bring on a fit of coughing. "Were I to leave it in trust for a time, he would have it mortgaged within a year. He is to have his portion, but not a penny additional." He lay for a long time breathing deeply, I watching him. Then, as he reached out and took my hand, I knew by some instinct what was to come. I summoned all my self-command to meet his eye. I knew that the malicious and unthinking gossip of the town had reached him, and that he had received it in the simple faith of his hopes. "One thing more, my lad," he said, "the dearest wish of all--that you will marry Patty. She is a good girl, Richard. And I have thought," he added with hesitation, "I have thought that she loves you, though her lips have never opened on that subject." So the blow fell. I turned away, for to save my life the words would not come. He missed the reason of my silence. "I understand and honour your scruples," he went on. His kindness was like a knife. "No, I have had none, Mr. Swain," I exclaimed. For I would not be thought a hypocrite. There I stopped. A light step sounded in the hall, and Patty came in upon us. Her colour at once betrayed her understanding. To my infinite relief her father dropped my fingers, and asked cheerily if there was any news from the town meeting. On the following Wednesday, with her flag flying and her sails set, the Peggy Stewart was run ashore on Windmill Point. She rose, a sacrifice to Liberty, in smoke to heaven, before the assembled patriots of our city. That very night a dear friend to Liberty passed away. He failed so suddenly that Patty had no time to call for aid, and when the mother had been carried in, his spirit was flown. We laid him high on the hill above the creek, in the new lot he had bought and fenced around. The stone remains: HERE LIETH HENRY SWAIN, BARRISTER. BORN MAY 13, 1730 (O.S.); DIED OCTOBER 19, 1774. Fidus Amicis atque Patrice. The simple inscription, which speaks volumes to those who knew him, was cut after the Revolution. He was buried with the honours of a statesman, which he would have been had God spared him to serve the New Country which was born so soon after his death. 
5372	----	RICHARD CARVEL By Winston Churchill Volume 8. L. Farewell to Gordon's LI. How an Idle Prophecy came to pass LII. How the Gardener's Son fought the Serapis LIII. In which I make Some Discoveries LIV. More Discoveries. LV. The Love of a Maid for a Man LVI. How Good came out of Evil LVII. I come to my Own again CHAPTER L FAREWELL TO GORDON'S I cannot bear to recall my misery of mind after Mr. Swain's death. One hope had lightened all the years of my servitude. For, when I examined my soul, I knew that it was for Dorothy I had laboured. And every letter that came from Comyn telling me she was still free gave me new heart for my work. By some mystic communion--I know not what--I felt that she loved me yet, and despite distance and degree. I would wake of a morning with the knowledge of it, and be silent for half the day with some particle of a dream in my head, lingering like the burden of a song with its train of memories. So, in the days that followed, I scarce knew myself. For a while (I shame to write it) I avoided that sweet woman who had made my comfort her care, whose father had taken me when I was homeless. The good in me cried out, but the flesh rebelled. Poor Patty! Her grief for her father was pathetic to see. Weeks passed in which she scarcely spoke a word. And I remember her as she sat in church Sundays, the whiteness of her face enhanced by the crape she wore, and a piteous appeal in her gray eyes. My own agony was nigh beyond endurance, my will swinging like a pendulum from right to wrong, and back again. Argue as I might that I had made the barrister no promise, conscience allowed no difference. I was in despair at the trick fate had played me; at the decree that of all women I must love her whose sphere was now so far removed from mine. For Patty had character and beauty, and every gift which goes to make man's happiness and to kindle his affections. Her sorrow left her more womanly than ever. And after the first sharp sting of it was deadened, I noticed a marked reserve in her intercourse with me. I knew then that she must have strong suspicions of her father's request. Speak I could not soon after the sad event, but I strove hard that she should see no change in my conduct. Before Christmas we went to the Eastern Shore. In Annapolis fife and drum had taken the place of fiddle and clarion; militia companies were drilling in the empty streets; despatches were arriving daily from the North; and grave gentlemen were hurrying to meetings. But if the war was to come, I must settle what was to be done at Gordon's Pride with all possible speed. It was only a few days after our going there, that I rode into Oxford with a black cockade in my hat Patty had made me, and the army sword Captain Jack had given Captain Daniel at my side. For I had been elected a lieutenant in the Oxford company, of which Percy Singleton was captain. So passed that winter, the darkest of my life. One soft spring day, when the birds were twittering amid new-born leaves, and the hyacinths and tulips in Patty's garden were coming to their glory, Master Tom rode leisurely down the drive at Gordon's Pride. That was a Saturday, the 29th of April, 1775. The news which had flown southward, night and day alike, was in no hurry to run off his tongue; he had been lolling on the porch for half an hour before he told us of the bloodshed between the minute-men of Massachusetts and the British regulars, of the rout of Percy's panting redcoats from Concord to Boston. Tom added, with the brutal nonchalance which characterized his dealings with his mother and sister, that he was on his way to Philadelphia to join a company. The poor invalid was carried up the stairs in a faint by Banks and Romney. Patty, with pale face and lips compressed, ran to fetch the hartshorn. But Master Tom remained undisturbed. "I suppose you are going, Richard," he remarked affably. For he treated me with more consideration than his family. "We shall ride together," said he. "We ride different ways, and to different destinations," I replied dryly. "I go to serve my country, and you to fight against it." "I think the King is right," he answered sullenly. "Oh, I beg your pardon," I remarked, and rose. "Then you have studied the question since last I saw you." "No, by G-d!" he cried, "and I never will. I do not want to know your d--d principles--or grievances, or whatever they are. We were living an easy life, in the plenty of money, and nothing to complain of. You take it all away, with your cursed cant--" I left him railing and swearing. And that was the last I saw of Tom Swain. When I returned from a final survey of the plantation; and a talk with Percy Singleton, he had ridden North again. I found Patty alone in the parlour. Her work (one of my own stockings she was darning) lay idle in her lap, and in her eyes were the unshed tears which are the greatest suffering of women. I sat down beside her and called her name. She did not seem to hear me. "Patty!" She started. And my courage ebbed. "Are you going to the war--to leave us, Richard?" she faltered. "I fear there is no choice, Patty," I answered, striving hard to keep my own voice steady. "But you will be well looked after. Ivie Rawlinson is to be trusted, and Mr. Bordley has promised to keep an eye upon you." She took up the darning mechanically. "I shall not speak a word to keep you, Richard. He would have wished it," she said softly. "And every strong arm in the colonies will be needed. We shall think of you, and pray for you daily." I cast about for a cheerful reply. "I think when they discover how determined we are, they will revoke their measures in a hurry. Before you know it, Patty, I shall be back again making the rounds in my broad rim, and reading to you out of Captain Cook." It was a pitiful attempt. She shook her head sadly. The tears were come now, and she was smiling through them. The sorrow of that smile! "I have something to say to you before I go, Patty," I said. The words stuck. I knew that there must be no pretence in that speech. It must be true as my life after, the consequence of it. "I have something to ask you, and I do not speak without your father's consent. Patty, if I return, will you be my wife?" The stocking slipped unheeded to the floor. For a moment she sat transfixed, save for the tumultuous swelling of her breast. Then she turned and gazed earnestly into my face, and the honesty of her eyes smote me. For the first time I could not meet them honestly with my own. "Richard, do you love me?" she asked. I bowed my head. I could not answer that. And for a while there was no sound save that of the singing of the frogs in the distant marsh. Presently I knew that she was standing at my side. I felt her hand laid upon my shoulder. "Is--is it Dorothy?" she said gently. Still I could not answer. Truly, the bitterness of life, as the joy of it, is distilled in strong drops. "I knew," she continued, "I have known ever since that autumn morning when I went to you as you saddled--when I dreaded that you would leave us. Father asked you to marry me, the day you took Mr. Stewart from the mob. How could you so have misunderstood me, Richard?" I looked up in wonder. The sweet cadence in her tone sprang from a purity not of this earth. They alone who have consecrated their days to others may utter it. And the light upon her face was of the same source. It was no will of mine brought me to my feet. But I was not worthy to touch her. "I shall make another prayer, beside that for your safety, Richard," she said. In the morning she waved me a brave farewell from the block where she had stood so often as I rode afield, when the dawn was in the sky. The invalid mother sat in her chair within the door; the servants were gathered on the lawn, and Ivie Rawlinson and Banks lingered where they had held my stirrup. That picture is washed with my own tears. The earth was praising God that Sunday as I rode to Mr. Bordley's. And as it is sorrow which lifts us nearest to heaven, I felt as if I were in church. I arrived at Wye Island in season to dine with the good judge and his family, and there I made over to his charge the property of Patty and her mother. The afternoon we spent in sober talk, Mr. Bordley giving me much sound advice, and writing me several letters of recommendation to gentlemen in Congress. His conduct was distinguished by even more of kindness and consideration than he had been wont to show me. In the evening I walked out alone, skirting the acres of Carvel Hall, each familiar landmark touching the quick of some memory of other days. Childhood habit drew me into the path to Wilmot House. I came upon it just as the sunlight was stretching level across the Chesapeake, and burning its windows molten red. I had been sitting long on the stone steps, when the gaunt figure of McAndrews strode toward me out of the dusk. "God be gude to us, it is Mr. Richard!" he cried. "I hae na seen ye're bonny face these muckle years, sir, sync ye cam' back frae ae sight o' the young mistress." (I had met him in Annapolis then.) "An' will ye be aff to the wars?" I told him yes. That I had come for a last look at the old place before I left. He sighed. "Ye're vera welcome, sir." Then he added: "Mr. Bordley's gi'en me a fair notion o' yere management at Gordon's. The judge is thinking there'll be nane ither lad t' hand a candle to ye." "And what news do you hear from London?" I asked, cutting him short. "Ill uncos, sir," he answered, shaking his head with violence. He had indeed but a sorry tale for my ear, and one to make my heart heavier than it was. McAndrews opened his mind to me, and seemed the better for it. How Mr. Marmaduke was living with the establishment they wrote of was more than the honest Scotchman could imagine. There was a country place in Sussex now, said he, that was the latest. And drafts were coming in before the wheat was in the ear; and the plantations of tobacco on the Western Shore had been idle since the non-exportation, and were mortgaged to their limit to Mr. Willard. Money was even loaned on the Wilmot House estate. McAndrews had a shrewd suspicion that neither Mrs. Manners nor Miss Dorothy knew aught of this state of affairs. "Mr. Richard," he said earnestly, as he bade me good-by, "I kennt Mr. Manners's mind when he lea'd here. There was a laird in't, sir, an' a fortune. An' unless these come soon, I'm thinking I can spae th' en'." In truth, a much greater fool than McAndrews might have predicted that end. On Monday Judge Bordley accompanied me as far as Dingley's tavern, and showed much emotion at parting. "You need have no fears for your friends at Gordon's Pride, Richard," said he. "And when the General comes back, I shall try to give him a good account of my stewardship." The General! That title brought old Stanwix's cobwebbed prophecy into my head again. Here, surely, was the war which he had foretold, and I ready to embark in it. Why not the sea, indeed? CHAPTER LI HOW AN IDLE PROPHECY CAME TO PASS Captain Clapsaddle not being at his lodgings, I rode on to the Coffee House to put up my horse. I was stopped by Mr. Claude. "Why, Mr. Carvel," says he, "I thought you on the Eastern Shore. There is a gentleman within will be mightily tickled to see you, or else his protestations are lies, which they may very well be. His name? Now, 'Pon my faith, it was Jones--no more." This thing of being called for at the Coffee House stirred up unpleasant associations. "What appearance does the man make?" I demanded. "Merciful gad!" mine host exclaimed; "once seen, never forgotten, and once heard, never forgotten. He quotes me Thomson, and he tells me of his estate in Virginia." The answer was not of a sort to allay my suspicions. "Then he appears to be a landowner?" said I. "'Ods! Blest if I know what he is," says Mr. Claude. "He may be anything, an impostor or a high-mightiness. But he's something to strike the eye and hold it, for all his Quaker clothes. He is swarth and thickset, and some five feet eight inches--full six inches under your own height. And he comes asking for you as if you owned the town between you. 'Send a fellow to Marlboro' Street for Mr. Richard Carvel, my good host!' says he, with a snap of his fingers. And when I tell him the news of you, he is prodigiously affected, and cries--but here's my gentleman now!" I jerked my head around. Coming down the steps I beheld my old friend and benefactor, Captain John Paul! "Ahoy, ahoy!" cries he. "Now Heaven be praised, I have found you at last." Out of the saddle I leaped, and straight into his arms. "Hold, hold, Richard!" he gasped. "My ribs, man! Leave me some breath that I may tell you how glad I am to see you." "Mr. Jones!" I said, holding him out, "now where the devil got you that?" "Why, I am become a gentleman since I saw you," he answered, smiling. "My poor brother left me his estate in Virginia. And a gentleman must have three names at the least." I dropped his shoulders and shook with laughter. "But Jones!" I cried. "'Ad's heart! could you go no higher? Has your imagination left you, captain?" "Republican simplicity, sir," says he, looking a trifle hurt. But I laughed the more. "Well, you have contrived to mix oil and vinegar," said I. "A landed gentleman and republican simplicity. I'll warrant you wear silk-knit under that gray homespun, and have a cameo in your pocket." He shook his head, looking up at me with affection. "You might have guessed better," he answered. "All of quality I have about me are an enamelled repeater and a gold brooch." This made me suddenly grave, for McAndrews's words had been ringing in my ears ever since he had spoken them. I hitched my arm into the captain's and pulled him toward the Coffee House door. "Come," I said, "you have not dined, and neither have I. We shall be merry to-day, and you shall have some of the best Madeira in the colonies." I commanded a room, that we might have privacy. As he took his seat opposite me I marked that he had grown heavier and more browned. But his eye had the same unfathomable mystery in it as of yore. And first I upbraided him for not having writ me. "I took you for one who glories in correspondence, captain," said I; "and I did not think you could be so unfaithful. I directed twice to you in Mr. Orchardson's care." "Orchardson died before I had made one voyage," he replied, "and the Betsy changed owners. But I did not forget you, Richard, and was resolved but now not to leave Maryland until I had seen you. But I burn to hear of you," he added. "I have had an inkling of your story from the landlord. So your grandfather is dead, and that blastie, your uncle, of whom you told me on the John, is in possession." He listened to my narrative keenly, but with many interruptions. And when I was done, he sighed. "You are always finding friends, Richard," said he; "no matter what your misfortunes, they are ever double discounted. As for me; I am like Fulmer in Mr. Cumberland's 'West Indian': 'I have beat through every quarter of the compass; I have bellowed for freedom; I have offered to serve my country; I have'--I am engaging to betray it. No, Scotland is no longer my country, and so I cannot betray her. It is she who has betrayed me." He fell into a short mood of dejection. And, indeed, I could not but reflect that much of the character fitted him like a jacket. Not the betrayal of his country. He never did that, no matter how roundly they accused him of it afterward. To lift him, I cried: "You were one of my first friends, Captain Paul" (I could not stomach the Jones); "but for you I should now be a West Indian, and a miserable one, the slave of some unmerciful hidalgo. Here's that I may live to repay you!" "And while we are upon toasts," says he, bracing immediately, "I give you the immortal Miss Manners! Her beauty has dwelt unfaded in my memory since I last beheld her, aboard the Betsy." Remarking the pain in my face, he added, with a concern which may have been comical: "And she is not married?" "Unless she is lately gone to Gretna, she is not," I replied, trying to speak lightly. "Alack! I knew it," he exclaimed. "And if there's any prophecy in my bones, she'll be Mrs. Carvel one of these days." "Well captain," I said abruptly, "the wheel has gone around since I saw you. Now it is you who are the gentleman, while I am a factor. Is it the bliss you pictured?" I suspected that his acres were not as broad, nor his produce as salable, as those of Mount Vernon. "To speak truth, I am heartily tired of that life," said he. "There is little glory in raising nicotia, and sipping bumbo, and cursing negroes. Ho for the sea!" he cried. "The salt sea, and the British prizes. Give me a tight frigate that leaves a singing wake. Mark me, Richard," he said, a restless gleam coning into his dark eyes, "stirring times are here, and a chance for all of us to make a name." For so it seemed ever to be with him. "They are black times, I fear," I answered. "Black!" he said. "No, glorious is your word. And we are to have an upheaval to throw many of us to the top." "I would rather the quarrel were peacefully settled," said I, gravely. "For my part, I want no distinction that is to come out of strife and misery." He regarded me quizzically. "You are grown an hundred years old since I pulled you out of the sea," says he. "But we shall have to fight for our liberties. Here is a glass to the prospect!" "And so you are now an American?" I said curiously. "Ay, strake and keelson,--as good a one as though I had got my sap in the Maine forests. A plague of monarchs, say I. They are a blotch upon modern civilization. And I have here," he continued, tapping his pocket, "some letters writ to the Virginia printers, signed Demosthenes, which Mr. Randolph and Mr. Henry have commended. To speak truth, Richard, I am off to Congress with a portmanteau full of recommendations. And I was resolved to stop here even till I secured your company. We shall sweep the seas together, and so let George beware!" I smiled. But my blood ran faster at the thought of sailing under such a captain. However, I made the remark that Congress had as yet no army, let alone a navy. "And think you that gentlemen of such spirit and resources will lack either for long?" he demanded, his eye flashing. "Then I know nothing of a ship save the little I learned on the John," I said. "You were born for the sea, Richard," he exclaimed, raising his glass high. "And I would rather have one of your brains and strength and handiness than any merchant's mate I ever sailed with. The more gentlemen get commissions, the better will be our new service." At that instant came a knock at the door, and one of the inn negroes to say that Captain Clapsaddle was below, and desired to see me. I persuaded John Paul to descend with me. We found Captain Daniel seated with Mr. Carroll, the barrister, and Mr. Chase. "Captain," I said to my old friend, "I have a rare joy this day in making known to you Mr. John Paul Jones, of whom I have spoken to you a score of times. He it is whose bravery sank the Black Moll, whose charity took me to London, and who got no other reward for his faith than three weeks in a debtors' prison. For his honour, as I have told you, would allow him to accept none, nor his principles to take the commission in the Royal Navy which Mr. Fox offered him." Captain Daniel rose, his honest face flushing with pleasure. "Faith, Mr. Jones," he cried, when John Paul had finished one of his elaborate bows, "this is well met, indeed. I have been longing these many years for a chance to press your hand, and in the names of those who are dead and gone to express my gratitude." "I have my reward now, captain," replied John Paul; "a sight of you is to have Richard's whole life revealed. And what says Mr. Congreve? "'For blessings ever wait on virtuous deeds, And tho' a late, a sure reward succeeds.' "Tho' I would not have you believe that my deed was virtuous. And you, who know Richard, may form some notion of the pleasure I had out of his companionship." I hastened to present my friend to the other gentlemen, who welcomed him with warmth, though they could not keep their amusement wholly out of their faces. "Mr. Jones is now the possessor of an estate in Virginia, sirs," I explained. "And do you find it more to your taste than seafaring, Mr. Jones?" inquired Mr. Chase. This brought forth a most vehement protest, and another quotation. "Why, sir," he cried, "to be 'Fixed like a plant on his peculiar spot, To draw nutrition, propagate, and rot,' is an animal's existence. I have thrown it over, sir, with a right good will, and am now on my way to Philadelphia to obtain a commission in the navy soon to be born." Mr. Chase smiled. John Paul little suspected that he was a member of the Congress. "This is news indeed, Mr. Jones," he said. "I have yet to hear of the birth of this infant navy, for which we have not yet begun to make swaddling clothes." "We are not yet an infant state, sir," Mr. Carroll put in, with a shade of rebuke. For Maryland was well content with the government she had enjoyed, and her best patriots long after shunned the length of secession. "I believe and pray that the King will come to his senses. And as for the navy, it is folly. How can we hope to compete with England on the sea?" "All great things must have a beginning sir," replied John Paul, launching forth at once, nothing daunted by such cold conservatism. "What Israelite brickmaker of Pharaoh's dreamed of Solomon's temple? Nay, Moses himself had no conception of it. And God will send us our pillars of cloud and of fire. We must be reconciled to our great destiny, Mr. Carroll. No fight ever was won by man or nation content with half a victory. We have forests to build an hundred armadas, and I will command a fleet and it is given me." The gentlemen listened in astonishment. "I' faith, I believe you, sir," cried Captain Daniel, with admiration. The others, too, were somehow fallen under the spell of this remarkable individuality. "What plan would you pursue, sir?" asked Mr. Chase, betraying more interest than he cared to show. "What plan, sir!" said Captain John Paul, those wonderful eyes of his alight. "In the first place, we Americans build the fastest ships in the world,--yours of the Chesapeake are as fleet as any. Here, if I am not mistaken, one hundred and eighty-two were built in the year '71. They are idle now. To them I would issue letters of marque, to harry England's trade. From Carolina to Maine we have the wood and iron to build cruisers, in harbours that may not easily be got at. And skilled masters and seamen to elude the enemy." "But a navy must be organized, sir. It must be an unit," objected Mr. Carroll. "And you would not for many years have force enough, or discipline enough, to meet England's navy." "I would never meet it, sir," he replied instantly. "That would be the height of folly. I would divide our forces into small, swift-sailing squadrons, of strength sufficient to repel his cruisers. And I would carry the war straight into his unprotected ports of trade. I can name a score of such defenceless places, and I know every shoal of their harbours. For example, Whitehaven might be entered. That is a town of fifty thousand inhabitants. The fleet of merchantmen might with the greatest ease be destroyed, a contribution levied, and Ireland's coal cut off for a winter. The whole of the shipping might be swept out of the Clyde. Newcastle is another likely place, and in almost any of the Irish ports valuable vessels may be found. The Baltic and West Indian fleets are to be intercepted. I have reflected upon these matters for years, gentlemen. They are perfectly feasible. And I'll warrant you cannot conceive the havoc and consternation their fulfilment would spread in England." If the divine power of genius ever made itself felt, 'twas on that May evening, at candle-light, in the Annapolis Coffee House. With my own eyes I witnessed two able and cautious statesmen of a cautious province thrilled to the pitch of enthusiasm by this strange young man of eight and twenty. As for good Captain Daniel, enthusiasm is but a poor word to express his feelings. A map was sent for and spread out upon the table. And it was a late hour when Mr. Chase and Mr. Carroll went home, profoundly impressed. Mr. Chase charged John Paul look him up in Congress. The next morning I bade Captain Daniel a solemn good-by, and rode away with John Paul to Baltimore. Thence we took stage to New Castle on the Delaware, and were eventually landed by Mr. Tatlow's stage-boat at Crooked Billet wharf, Philadelphia. A BRIEF SUMMARY, WHICH BRINGS THIS BIOGRAPHY TO THE FAMOUS FIGHT OF THE BON HOMME RICHARD AND THE SERAPIS BY DANIEL CLAPSADDLE CARVEL Mr. Richard Carvel refers here to the narrative of his experiences in the War of the Revolution, which he had written in the year 1805 or 1806. The insertion of that account would swell this book, already too long, out of all proportion. Hence I take it upon myself, with apologies, to compress it. Not until October of that year, 1775, was the infant navy born. Mr. Carvel was occupied in the interval in the acquirement of practical seamanship and the theory of maritime warfare under the most competent of instructors, John Paul Jones. An interesting side light is thrown upon the character of that hero by the fact that, with all his supreme confidence in his ability, he applied to Congress only for a first lieutenancy. This was in deference to the older men before that body. "I hoped," said he, "in that rank to gain much useful knowledge from those of more experience than myself." His lack of assertion for once cost him dear. He sailed on the New Providence expedition under Commodore Hopkins as first lieutenant of the Alfred, thirty; and he soon discovered that, instead of gaining information, he was obliged to inform others. He trained the men so thoroughly in the use of the great guns "that they went through the motions of broadsides and rounds exactly as soldiers generally perform the manual exercise." Captain Jones was not long in fixing the attention and earning the gratitude of the nation, and of its Commander-in-Chief, General Washington. While in command of the Providence, twelve four-pounders, his successful elusions of the 'Cerberus', which hounded him, and his escape from the 'Solebay', are too famous to be dwelt upon here. Obtaining the Alfred, he captured and brought into Boston ten thousand suits of uniform for Washington's shivering army. Then, by the bungling of Congress, thirteen officers were promoted over his head. The bitterness this act engendered in the soul of one whose thirst for distinction was as great as Captain Jones's may be imagined. To his everlasting credit be it recorded that he remained true to the country to which he had dedicated his life and his talents. And it was not until 1781 that he got the justice due him. That the rough and bluff captains of the American service should have regarded a man of Paul Jones's type with suspicion is not surprising. They resented his polish and accomplishments, and could not understand his language. Perhaps it was for this reason, as well as a reward for his brilliant services, that he was always given a separate command. In the summer of 1777 he was singled out for the highest gift in the power of the United States, nothing less than that of the magnificent frigate 'Indien', then building at Amsterdam. And he was ordered to France in command of the 'Ranger', a new ship then fitting at Portsmouth. Captain Jones was the admiration of all the young officers in the navy, and was immediately flooded with requests to sail with him. One of his first acts, after receiving his command, was to apply to the Marine Committee for Mr. Carvel. The favour was granted. My grandfather had earned much commendation from his superiors. He had sailed two cruises as master's mate of the Cabot, and was then serving as master of the Trumbull, Captain Saltonstall. This was shortly after that frigate had captured the two British transports off New York. Captain Jones has been at pains to mention in his letters the services rendered him by Mr. Carvel in fitting out the Ranger. And my grandfather gives a striking picture of the captain. At that time the privateers, with the larger inducements of profit they offered, were getting all the best seamen. John Paul had but to take two turns with a man across the dock, and he would sign papers. Captain Jones was the first to raise the new flag of the stars and stripes over a man-o'-war. They got away on November 14, 1777, with a fair crew and a poor lot of officers. Mr. Carvel had many a brush with the mutinous first lieutenant Simpson. Family influence deterred the captain from placing this man under arrest, and even Dr. Franklin found trouble, some years after, in bringing about his dismissal from the service. To add to the troubles, the Ranger proved crank and slow-sailing; and she had only one barrel of rum aboard, which made the men discontented. Bringing the official news of Burgoyne's surrender, which was to cause King Louis to acknowledge the independence of the United States, the Ranger arrived at Nantes, December 2. Mr. Carvel accompanied Captain Jones to Paris, where a serious blow awaited him. The American Commissioners informed him that the Indien had been transferred to France to prevent her confiscation. That winter John Paul spent striving in vain for a better ship, and imbibing tactics from the French admirals. Incidentally, he obtained a salute for the American flag. The cruise of the Ranger in English waters the following spring was a striking fulfilment, with an absurdly poor and inadequate force, of the plan set forth by John Paul Jones in the Annapolis Coffee House. His descent upon Whitehaven spread terror and consternation broadcast through England, and he was branded as a pirate and a traitor. Mr. Carvel was fortunately not of the landing party on St. Mary's Isle, which place he had last beheld in John Paul's company, on the brigantine John, when entering Kirkcudbright. The object of that expedition, as is well known, was to obtain the person of the Earl of Selkirk, in order to bring about the rescue of the unfortunate Americans suffering in British prisons. After the celebrated capture of the sloop-of-war Drake, Paul Jones returned to France a hero. If Captain Jones was ambitious of personal glory, he may never, at least, be accused of mercenary motives. The ragged crew of the Ranger was paid in part out of his own pocket, and for a whole month he supported the Drake's officers and men, no provision having been made for prisoners. He was at large expense in fitting out the Ranger, and he bought back at twice what it was worth the plate taken from St. Mary's Isle, getting but a tardy recognition from the Earl of Selkirk for such a noble and unheard-of action. And, I take pride in writing it, Mr. Carvel spent much of what he had earned at Gordon's Pride in a like honourable manner. Mr. Carvel's description of the hero's reception at Versailles is graphic and very humorous. For all his republican principles John Paul never got over his love of courts, and no man was ever a more thorough courtier. He exchanged compliments with Queen Marie Antoinette, who was then in the bloom of her beauty, and declared that she was a "good girl, and deserved to be happy." The unruly Simpson sailed for America in the Ranger in July, Captain Jones being retained in France "for a particular enterprise." And through the kindness of Dr. Franklin, Mr. Carvel remained with him. Then followed another period of heartrending disappointment. The fine ship the French government promised him was not forthcoming, though Captain Jones wrote a volume of beautiful letters to every one of importance, from her Royal Highness the Duchess of Chartres to his Most Christian Majesty, Louis, King of France and Navarre. At length, when he was sitting one day in unusual dejection and railing at the vanity of courts and kings, Mr. Carvel approached him with a book in his hand. "What have you there, Richard?" the captain demanded. "Dr. Franklin's Maxims," replied my grandfather. They were great favourites with him. The captain took the book and began mechanically to turn over the pages. Suddenly he closed it with a bang, jumped up, and put on his coat and hat. Mr. Carvel looked on in astonishment. "Where are you going, sir?" says he. "To Paris, sir," says the captain. "Dr. Franklin has taught me more wisdom in a second than I had in all my life before. 'If you wish to have any business faithfully and expeditiously performed, go and do it yourself; otherwise, send.'" As a result of that trip he got the Duras, which he renamed the 'Bon homme Richard' in honour of Dr. Franklin. The Duras was an ancient Indiaman with a high poop, which made my grandfather exclaim, when he saw her, at the remarkable fulfilment of old Stanwix's prophecy. She was perfectly rotten, and in the constructor's opinion not worth refitting. Her lowest deck (too low for the purpose) was pierced aft with three ports on a side, and six worn-out eighteen-pounders mounted there. Some of them burst in the action, killing their people. The main battery, on the deck above, was composed of twenty-eight twelve-pounders. On the uncovered deck eight nine-pounders were mounted. Captain Jones again showed his desire to serve the cause by taking such a ship, and not waiting for something better. In the meantime the American frigate 'Alliance' had brought Lafayette to France, and was added to the little squadron that was to sail with the 'Bon homme Richard'. One of the most fatal mistakes Congress ever made was to put Captain Pierre Landais in command of her, out of compliment to the French allies. He was a man whose temper and vagaries had failed to get him a command in his own navy. His insulting conduct and treachery to Captain Jones are strongly attested to in Mr. Carvel's manuscript: they were amply proved by the written statements of other officers. The squadron sailed from L'Orient in June, but owing to a collision between the Bon homme Richard and the Alliance it was forced to put back into the Groix roads for repairs. Nails and rivets were with difficulty got to hold in the sides of the old Indianian. On August 14th John Paul Jones again set sail for English waters, with the following vessels: Alliance, thirty-six; Pallas, thirty; Cerf, eighteen; Vengeance, twelve; and two French privateers. Owing to the humiliating conditions imposed upon him by the French Minister of Marine, Commodore Jones did not have absolute command. In a gale on the 26th the two privateers and the Cerf parted company, never to return. After the most outrageous conduct off the coast of Ireland, Landais, in the 'Alliance', left the squadron on September 6th, and did not reappear until the 23d, the day of the battle. Mr. Carvel was the third lieutenant of the 'Bon homme Richard', tho' he served as second in the action. Her first lieutenant (afterwards the celebrated Commodore Richard Dale) was a magnificent man, one worthy in every respect of the captain he served. When the hour of battle arrived, these two and the sailing master, and a number of raw midshipmen, were the only line-officers left, and two French officers of marines. The rest had been lost in various ways. And the crew of the 'Bon homme Richard' was as sorry a lot as ever trod a deck. Less than three score of the seamen were American born; near four score were British, inclusive of sixteen Irish; one hundred and thirty-seven were French soldiers, who acted as marines; and the rest of the three hundred odd souls to fight her were from all over the earth,--Malays and Maltese and Portuguese. In the hold were more than one hundred and fifty English prisoners. This was a vessel and a force, truly, with which to conquer a fifty-gun ship of the latest type, and with a picked crew. Mr. Carvel's chapter opens with Landais's sudden reappearance on the morning of the day the battle was fought. He shows the resentment and anger against the Frenchman felt by all on board, from cabin-boy to commodore. But none went so far as to accuse the captain of the 'Alliance' of such supreme treachery as he was to show during the action. Cowardice may have been in part responsible for his holding aloof from the two duels in which the Richard and the Pallas engaged. But the fact that he poured broadsides into the Richard, and into her off side, makes it seem probable that his motive was to sink the commodore's ship, and so get the credit of saving the day, to the detriment of the hero who won it despite all disasters. To account for the cry that was raised when first she attacked the Richard, it must be borne in mind that the crew of the 'Alliance' was largely composed of Englishmen. It was thought that these had mutinied and taken her. CHAPTER LII HOW THE GARDENER'S SON FOUGHT THE "SERAPIS" When I came on deck the next morning our yards were a-drip with a clammy fog, and under it the sea was roughed by a southwest breeze. We were standing to the northward before it. I remember reflecting as I paused in the gangway that the day was Thursday, September the 23d, and that we were near two months out of Groix with this tub of an Indiaman. In all that time we had not so much as got a whiff of an English frigate, though we had almost put a belt around the British Isles. Then straining my eyes through the mist, I made out two white blurs of sails on our starboard beam. Honest Jack Pearce, one of the few good seamen we had aboard, was rubbing down one of the nines beside me. "Why, Jack," said I, "what have we there? Another prize?" For that question had become a joke on board the 'Bon homme Richard' since the prisoners had reached an hundred and fifty, and half our crew was gone to man the ships. "Bless your 'art, no, sir," said he. "'Tis that damned Frenchy Landais in th' Alliance. She turns up with the Pallas at six bells o' the middle watch." "So he's back, is he?" "Ay, he's back," he returned, with a grunt that was half a growl; "arter three weeks breakin' o' liberty. I tell 'ee what, sir, them Frenchies is treecherous devils, an' not to be trusted the len'th of a lead line. An' they beant seamen eno' to keep a full an' by with all their 'takteek'. Ez fer that Landais, I hearn him whinin' at the commodore in the round house when we was off Clear, an' sayin' as how he would tell Sartin on us when he gets back to Paree. An' jabberin to th'other Frenchmen as was there that this here butter-cask was er King's ship, an' that the commodore weren't no commodore nohow. They say as how Cap'n Jones be bound up in a hard knot by some articles of agreement, an' daresn't punish him. Be that so, Mr. Carvel?" I said that it was. "Shiver my bulkheads!" cried Jack, "I gave my oath to that same, sir. For I knowed the commodore was the lad t' string 'em to the yard-arm an' he had the say on it. Oh, the devil take the Frenchies," said Jack, rolling his quid to show his pleasure of the topic, "they sits on their bottoms in Brest and L'Oriong an' talks takteek wi' their han's and mouths, and daresn't as much as show the noses o' their three-deckers in th' Bay o' Biscay, while Cap'n Jones pokes his bowsprit into every port in England with a hulk the rats have left. I've had my bellyful o' Frenchies, Mr. Carvell save it be to fight 'em. An' I tell 'ee 'twould give me the greatest joy in life t' leave loose 'Scolding Sairy' at that there Landais. Th' gal ain't had a match on her this here cruise, an' t' my mind she couldn't be christened better, sir." I left him patting the gun with a tender affection. The scene on board was quiet and peaceful enough that morning. A knot of midshipmen on the forecastle were discussing Landais's conduct, and cursing the concordat which prevented our commodore from bringing him up short. Mr. Stacey, the sailing-master, had the deck, and the coasting pilot was conning; now and anon the boatswain's whistle piped for Garrett or Quito or Fogg to lay aft to the mast, where the first lieutenant stood talking to Colonel de Chamillard, of the French marines. The scavengers were sweeping down, and part of the after guard was bending a new bolt-rope on a storm staysail. Then the--fore-topmast crosstrees reports a sail on the weather quarter, the Richard is brought around on the wind, and away we go after a brigantine, "flying like a snow laden with English bricks," as Midshipman Coram jokingly remarks. A chase is not such a novelty with us that we crane our necks to windward. At noon, when I relieved Mr. Stacey of the deck, the sun had eaten up the fog, and the shores of England stood out boldly. Spurn Head was looming up across our bows, while that of Flamborough jutted into the sea behind us. I had the starboard watch piped to dinner, and reported twelve o'clock to the commodore. And had just got permission to "make it," according to a time-honoured custom at sea, when another "Sail, ho!" came down from aloft. "Where away?" called back Mr. Linthwaite, who was midshipman of the forecastle. "Starboard quarter, rounding Flamborough Head, sir. Looks like a full-rigged ship, sir." I sent the messenger into the great cabin to report. He was barely out of sight before a second cry came from the masthead: "Another sail rounding Flamborough, sir!" The officers on deck hurried to the taffrail. I had my glass, but not a dot was visible above the sea-line. The messenger was scarcely back again when there came a third hail: "Two more rounding the head, sir! Four in all, sir!" Here was excitement indeed. Without waiting for instructions, I gave the command: "Up royal yards! Royal yardmen in the tops!" We were already swaying out of the chains, when Lieutenant Dale appeared and asked the coasting pilot what fleet it was. He answered that it was the Baltic fleet, under convoy of the Countess of Scarborough, twenty guns, and the Serapis, forty-four. "Forty-four," repeated Mr. Dale, smiling; "that means fifty, as English frigates are rated. We shall have our hands full this day, my lads," said he. "You have done well to get the royals on her, Mr. Carvel." While he was yet speaking, three more sail were reported from aloft. Then there was a hush on deck, and the commodore himself appeared. As he reached the poop we saluted him and informed him of what had happened. "The Baltic fleet," said he, promptly. "Call away the pilotboat with Mr. Lunt to follow the brigantine, sir, and ease off before the wind. Signal 'General Chase' to the squadron, Mr. Mayrant." The men had jumped to the weather braces before I gave the command, and all the while more sail were counting from the crosstrees, until their number had reached forty-one. The news spread over the ship; the starboard watch trooped up with their dinners half eaten. Then a faint booming of guns drifted down upon our ears. "They've got sight of us, sir," shouted the lookout. "They be firing guns to windward, an' letting fly their topgallant sheets." At that the commodore hurried forward, the men falling back to the bulwarks respectfully, and he mounted the fore-rigging as agile as any topman, followed by his aide with a glass. From the masthead he sung out to me to set our stu'nsails, and he remained aloft till near seven bells of the watch. At that hour the merchantmen had all scuttled to safety behind the head, and from the deck a great yellow King's frigate could be plainly seen standing south to meet us, followed by her smaller consort. Presently she hove to, and through our glasses we discerned a small boat making for her side, and then a man clambering up her sea-ladder. "That be the bailiff of Scarborough, sir," said the coasting pilot, "come to tell her cap'n 'tis Paul Jones he has to fight." At that moment the commodore lay down from aloft, and our hearts beat high as he walked swiftly aft to the quarterdeck, where he paused for a word with Mr. Dale. Meanwhile Mr. Mayrant hove out the signal for the squadron to form line of battle. "Recall the pilot-boat, Mr. Carvel," said the commodore, quietly. "Then you may beat to quarters, and I will take the ship, sir." "Ay, ay, sir." I raised my trumpet. "All hands clear ship for action!" It makes me sigh now to think of the cheer which burst from that tatterdemalion crew. Who were they to fight the bone and sinew of the King's navy in a rotten ship of an age gone by? And who was he, that stood so straight upon the quarter-deck, to instil this scum with love and worship and fervour to blind them to such odds? But the bo'suns piped and sang out the command in fog-horn voices, the drums beat the long roll and the fifes whistled, and the decks became suddenly alive. Breechings were loosed and gun-tackles unlashed, rammer and sponge laid out, and pike and pistol and cutlass placed where they would be handy when the time came to rush the enemy's decks. The powder-monkeys tumbled over each other in their hurry to provide cartridges, and grape and canister and doubleheaded shot were hoisted up from below. The trimmers rigged the splinter nettings, got out spare spars and blocks and ropes against those that were sure to be shot away, and rolled up casks of water to put out the fires. Tubs were filled with sand, for blood is slippery upon the boards. The French marines, their scarlet and white very natty in contrast to most of our ragged wharf-rats at the guns, were mustered on poop and forecastle, and some were sent aloft to the tops to assist the tars there to sweep the British decks with handgrenade and musket. And, lastly, the surgeon and his mates went below to cockpit and steerage, to make ready for the grimmest work of all. My own duties took me to the dark lower deck, a vile place indeed, and reeking with the smell of tar and stale victuals. There I had charge of the battery of old eighteens, while Mr. Dale commanded the twelves on the middle deck. We loaded our guns with two shots apiece, though I had my doubts about their standing such a charge, and then the men stripped until they stood naked to the waist, waiting for the fight to begin. For we could see nothing of what was going forward. I was pacing up and down, for it was a task to quiet the nerves in that dingy place with the gun-ports closed, when about three bells of the dog, Mr. Mease, the purser, appeared on the ladder. "Lunt has not come back with the pilot-boat, Carvel," said he. "I have volunteered for a battery, and am assigned to this. You are to report to the commodore." I thanked him, and climbed quickly to the quarterdeck. The 'Bon homme Richard' was lumbering like a leaden ship before the wind, swaying ponderously, her topsails flapping and her heavy blocks whacking against the yards. And there was the commodore, erect, and with fire in his eye, giving sharp commands to the men at the wheel. I knew at once that no trifle had disturbed him. He wore a brand-new uniform; a blue coat with red lapels and yellow buttons, and slashed cuffs and stand-up collar, a red waistcoat with tawny lace, blue breeches, white silk stockings, and a cocked hat and a sword. Into his belt were stuck two brace of pistols. It took some effort to realize, as I waited silently for his attention, that this was the man of whose innermost life I had had so intimate a view. Who had taken me to the humble cottage under Criffel, who had poured into my ear his ambitions and his wrongs when we had sat together in the dingy room of the Castle Yard sponging-house. Then some of those ludicrous scenes on the road to London came up to me, for which the sky-blue frock was responsible. And yet this commodore was not greatly removed from him I had first beheld on the brigantine John. His confidence in his future had not so much as wavered since that day. That future was now not so far distant as the horizon, and he was ready to meet it. "You will take charge of the battery of nines on this deck, Mr. Carvel," said he, at length. "Very good, sir," I replied, and was making my way down the poop ladder, when I heard him calling me, in a low voice, by the old name: "Richard!" I turned and followed him aft to the taffrail, where we were clear of the French soldiers. The sun was hanging red over the Yorkshire Wolds, the Head of Flamborough was in the blue shadow, and the clouds were like rose leaves in the sky. The enemy had tacked and was standing west, with ensign and jack and pennant flying, the level light washing his sails to the whiteness of paper. 'Twas then I first remarked that the Alliance had left her place in line and was sailing swiftly ahead toward the Serapis. The commodore seemed to read my exclamation. "Landais means to ruin me yet, by hook or crook," said he. "But he can't intend to close with them," I replied. "He has not the courage." "God knows what he intends," said the commodore, bitterly. "It is no good, at all events." My heart bled for him. Some minutes passed that he did not speak, making shift to raise his glass now and again, and I knew that he was gripped by a strong emotion. "'Twas so he ever behaved when the stress was greatest. Presently he lays down the glass on the signal-chest, fumbles in his coat, and brings out the little gold brooch I had not set eyes on since Dolly and he and I had stood together on the Betsy's deck. "When you see her, Richard, tell her that I have kept it as sacred as her memory," he said thickly. "She will recall what I spoke of you when she gave it me. You have been leal and true to me indeed, and many a black hour have you tided me over since this war' began. Do you know how she may be directed to?" he concluded, with abruptness. I glanced at him, surprised at the question. He was staring at the English shore. "Mr. Ripley, of Lincoln's Inn, used to be Mr. Manners's lawyer," I answered. He took out a little note-book and wrote that down carefully. "And now," he continued, "God keep you, my friend. We must win, for we fight with a rope around our necks." "But you, Captain Paul," I said, "is--is there no one?" His face took on the look of melancholy it had worn so often of late, despite his triumphs. That look was the stamp of fate. "Richard," replied he, with an ineffable sadness, "I am naught but a wanderer upon the face of the earth. I have no ties, no kindred,--no real friends, save you and Dale, and some of these honest fellows whom I lead to slaughter. My ambition is seamed with a flaw. And all my life I must be striving, striving, until I am laid in the grave. I know that now, and it is you yourself who have taught me. For I have violently broken forth from those bounds which God in His wisdom did set." I pressed his hand, and with bowed head went back to my station, profoundly struck by the truth of what he had spoken. Though he fought under the flag of freedom, the curse of the expatriated was upon his head. Shortly afterward he appeared at the poop rail, straight and alert, his eye piercing each man as it fell on him. He was the commodore once more. The twilight deepened, until you scarce could see your hands. There was no sound save the cracking of the cabins and the tumbling of the blocks, and from time to time a muttered command. An age went by before the trimmers were sent to the lee braces, and the Richard rounded lazily to. And a great frigate loomed out of the night beside us, half a pistolshot away. "What ship is that?" came the hail, intense out of the silence. "I don't hear you," replied our commodore, for he had not yet got his distance. Again came the hail: "What ship is that?" John Paul Jones leaned forward over the rail. "Pass the word below to the first lieutenant to begin the action, sir." Hardly were the words out of my mouth before the deck gave a mighty leap, a hot wind that seemed half of flame blew across my face, and the roar started the pain throbbing in my ears. At the same instant the screech of shot sounded overhead, we heard the sharp crack-crack of wood rending and splitting,--as with a great broadaxe,--and a medley of blocks and ropes rattled to the deck with the 'thud of the falling bodies. Then, instead of stillness, moans and shrieks from above and below, oaths and prayers in English and French and Portuguese, and in the heathen gibberish of the East. As the men were sponging and ramming home in the first fury of hatred, the carpenter jumped out under the battle-lanthorn at the main hatch, crying in a wild voice that the old eighteens had burst, killing half their crews and blowing up the gundeck above them. At this many of our men broke and ran for the hatches. "Back, back to your quarters! The first man to desert will be shot down!" It was the same strange voice that had quelled the mutiny on the John, that had awed the men of Kirkcudbright. The tackles were seized and the guns run out once more, and fired, and served again in an agony of haste. In the darkness shot shrieked hither and thither about us like demons, striking everywhere, sometimes sending casks of salt water over the nettings. Incessantly the quartermaster walked to and fro scattering sand over the black pools that kept running, running together as the minutes were tolled out, and the red flashes from the guns revealed faces in a hideous contortion. One little fellow, with whom I had had many a lively word at mess, had his arm taken off at the shoulder as he went skipping past me with the charge under his coat, and I have but to listen now to hear the patter of the blood on the boards as they carried him away to the cockpit below. Out of the main hatch, from that charnel house, rose one continuous cry. It was an odd trick of the mind or soul that put a hymn on my lips in that dreadful hour of carnage and human misery, when men were calling the name of their Maker in vain. But as I ran from crew to crew, I sang over and over again a long-forgotten Christmas carol, and with it came a fleeting memory of my mother on the stairs at Carvel Hall, and of the negroes gathered on the lawn without. Suddenly, glancing up at the dim cloud of sails above, I saw that we were aback and making sternway. We might have tossed a biscuit aboard the big Serapis as she glided ahead of us. The broadsides thundered, and great ragged scantlings brake from our bulwarks and flew as high as the mizzen-top; and the shrieks and groans redoubled. Involuntarily my eyes sought the poop, and I gave a sigh of relief at the sight of the commanding figure in the midst of the whirling smoke. We shotted our guns with double-headed, manned our lee braces, and gathered headway. "Stand by to board!" The boatswains' whistles trilled through the ship, pikes were seized, and pistol and cutlass buckled on. But even as we waited with set teeth, our bows ground into the enemy's weather quarter-gallery. For the Richard's rigging was much cut away, and she was crank at best. So we backed and filled once more, passing the Englishman close aboard, himself being aback at the time. Several of his shot crushed through the bulwarks in front of me, shattering a nine-pounder and killing half of its crew. And it is only a miracle that I stand alive to be able to tell the tale. Then I caught a glimpse of the quartermaster whirling the spokes of our wheel, and over went our helm to lay us athwart the forefoot of the 'Serapis', where we might rake and rush her decks. Our old Indiaman answered but doggedly; and the huge bowsprit of the Serapis, towering over our heads, snapped off our spanker gaff and fouled our mizzen rigging. "A hawser, Mr. Stacey, a hawser!" I heard the commodore shout, and saw the sailing-master slide down the ladder and grope among the dead and wounded and mass of broken spars and tackles, and finally pick up a smeared rope's end, which I helped him drag to the poop. There we found the commodore himself taking skilful turns around the mizzen with the severed stays and shrouds dangling from the bowsprit, the French marines looking on. "Don't swear, Mr. Stacey," said he, severely; "in another minute we may all be in eternity." I rushed back to my guns, for the wind was rapidly swinging the stern of the Serapis to our own bow, now bringing her starboard batteries into play. Barely had we time to light our snatches and send our broadside into her at three fathoms before the huge vessels came crunching together, the disordered riggings locking, and both pointed northward to a leeward tide in a death embrace. The chance had not been given him to shift his crews or to fling open his starboard gun-ports. Then ensued a moment's breathless hush, even the cries of those in agony lulling. The pall of smoke rolled a little, and a silver moonlight filtered through, revealing the weltering bodies twisted upon the boards. A stern call came from beyond the bulwarks. "Have you struck, sir?" The answer sounded clear, and bred hero-worship in our souls. "Sir, I have not yet begun to fight." Our men raised a hoarse yell, drowned all at once by the popping of musketry in the tops and the bursting of grenades here and there about the decks. A mighty muffled blast sent the Bon homme Richard rolling to larboard, and the smoke eddied from our hatches and lifted out of the space between the ships. The Englishman had blown off his gun-ports. And next some one shouted that our battery of twelves was fighting them muzzle to muzzle below, our rammers leaning into the Serapis to send their shot home. No chance then for the thoughts which had tortured us in moments of suspense. That was a fearful hour, when a shot had scarce to leap a cannon's length to find its commission; when the belches of the English guns burned the hair of our faces; when Death was sovereign, merciful or cruel at his pleasure. The red flashes disclosed many an act of coolness and of heroism. I saw a French lad whip off his coat when a gunner called for a wad, and another, who had been a scavenger, snatch the rammer from Pearce's hands when he staggered with a grape-shot through his chest. Poor Jack Pearce! He did not live to see the work 'Scolding Sairy' was to do that night. I had but dragged him beyond reach of the recoil when he was gone. Then a cry came floating down from aloft. Thrice did I hear it, like one waking out of a sleep, ere I grasped its import. "The Alliance! The Alliance!" But hardly had the name resounded with joy throughout the ship, when a hail of grape and canister tore through our sails from aft forward. "She rakes us! She rakes us!" And the French soldiers tumbled headlong down from the poop with a wail of "Les Anglais font prise!" "Her Englishmen have taken her, and turned her guns against us!" Our captain was left standing alone beside the staff where the stars and stripes waved black in the moonlight. "The Alliance is hauling off, sir!" called the midshipman of the mizzen-top. "She is making for the Pallas and the Countess of Scarborough." "Very good, sir," was all the commodore said. To us hearkening for his answer his voice betrayed no sign of dismay. Seven times, I say, was that battle lost, and seven times regained again. What was it kept the crews at their quarters and the officers at their posts through that hell of flame and shot, when a madman could scarce have hoped for victory? What but the knowledge that somewhere in the swirl above us was still that unswerving and indomitable man who swept all obstacles from before him, and into whose mind the thought of defeat could not enter. His spirit held us to our task, for flesh and blood might not have endured alone. We had now but one of our starboard nine-pounders on its carriage, and word came from below that our battery of twelves was all but knocked to scrap iron, and their ports blown into one yawning gap. Indeed, we did not have to be told that sides and stanchions had been carried away, for the deck trembled and teetered under us as we dragged 'Scolding Sairy' from her stand in the larboard waist, clearing a lane for her between the bodies. Our feet slipped and slipped as we hove, and burning bits of sails and splinters dropping from aloft fell unheeded on our heads and shoulders. With the energy of desperation I was bending to the pull, when the Malay in front of me sank dead across the tackle. But, ere I could touch him, he was tenderly lifted aside, and a familiar figure seized the rope where the dead man's hands had warmed it. Truly, the commodore was everywhere that night. "Down to the surgeon with you, Richard!" he cried. "I will look to the battery." Dazed, I put my hand to my hair to find it warm and wringing wet. When I had been hit, I knew not. But I shook my head, for the very notion of that cockpit turned my stomach. The blood was streaming from a gash in his own temple, to which he gave no heed, and stood encouraging that panting line until at last the gun was got across and hooked to the ring-bolts of its companion that lay shattered there. "Serve her with double-headed, my lads," he shouted, "and every shot into the Englishman's mainmast!" "Ay, ay, sir," came the answer from every man of that little remnant. The Serapis, too, was now beginning to blaze aloft, and choking wood-smoke eddied out of the Richard's hold and mingled with the powder fumes. Then the enemy's fire abreast us seemed to lull, and Mr. Stacey mounted the bulwarks, and cried out: "You have cleared their decks, my hearties!" Aloft, a man was seen to clamber from our mainyard into the very top of the Englishman, where he threw a hand-grenade, as I thought, down her main hatch. An instant after an explosion came like a, clap of thunder in our faces, and a great quadrant of light flashed as high as the 'Serapis's' trucks, and through a breach in her bulwarks I saw men running with only the collars of their shirts upon their naked bodies. 'Twas at this critical moment, when that fearful battle once more was won, another storm of grape brought the spars about our heads, and that name which we dreaded most of all was spread again. As we halted in consternation, a dozen round shot ripped through our unengaged side, and a babel of voices hailed the treacherous Landais with oaths and imprecations. We made out the Alliance with a full head of canvas, black and sharp, between us and the moon. Smoke hung above her rail. Getting over against the signal fires blazing on Flamborough Head, she wore ship and stood across our bows, the midshipman on the forecastle singing out to her, by the commodore's orders, to lay the enemy by the board. There was no response. "Do you hear us?" yelled Mr. Linthwaite. "Ay, ay," came the reply; and with it the smoke broke from her and the grape and canister swept our forecastle. Then the Alliance sailed away, leaving brave Mr. Caswell among the many Landais had murdered. The ominous clank of the chain pumps beat a sort of prelude to what happened next. The gunner burst out of the hatch with blood running down his face, shouting that the Richard was sinking, and yelling for quarter as he made for the ensign-staff on the poop, for the flag was shot away. Him the commodore felled with a pistol-butt. At the gunner's heels were the hundred and fifty prisoners we had taken, released by the master at arms. They swarmed out of the bowels of the ship like a horde of Tartars, unkempt and wild and desperate with fear, until I thought that the added weight on the scarce-supported deck would land us all in the bilges. Words fail me when I come to describe the frightful panic of these creatures, frenzied by the instinct of self-preservation. They surged hither and thither as angry seas driven into a pocket of a storm-swept coast. They trampled rough-shod over the moaning heaps of wounded and dying, and crowded the crews at the guns, who were powerless before their numbers. Some fought like maniacs, and others flung themselves into the sea. Those of us who had clung to hope lost it then. Standing with my back to the mast, beating them off with a pike, visions of an English prison-ship, of an English gallows, came before me. I counted the seconds until the enemy's seamen would be pouring through our ragged ports. The seventh and last time, and we were beaten, for we had not men enough left on our two decks to force them down again. Yes,--I shame to confess it--the heart went clean out of me, and with that the pain pulsed and leaped in my head like a devil unbound. At a turn of the hand I should have sunk to the boards, had not a voice risen strong and clear above that turmoil, compelling every man to halt trembling in his steps. "Cast off, cast off! 'The Serapis' is sinking. To the pumps, ye fools, if you would save your lives!" That unerring genius of the gardener's son had struck the only chord! They were like sheep before us as we beat them back into the reeking hatches, and soon the pumps were heard bumping with a renewed and a desperate vigour. Then, all at once, the towering mainmast of the enemy cracked and tottered and swung this way and that on its loosened shrouds. The first intense silence of the battle followed, in the midst of which came a cry from our top: "Their captain is hauling down, sir!" The sound which broke from our men could scarce be called a cheer. That which they felt as they sank exhausted on the blood of their comrades may not have been elation. My own feeling was of unmixed wonder as I gazed at a calm profile above me, sharp-cut against the moon. I was moved as out of a revery by the sight of Dale swinging across to the Serapis by the main brace pennant. Calling on some of my boarders, I scaled our bulwarks and leaped fairly into the middle of the gangway of the Serapis. Such is nearly all of my remembrance of that momentous occasion. I had caught the one glimpse of our first lieutenant in converse with their captain and another officer, when a naked seaman came charging at me. He had raised a pike above his shoulder ere I knew what he was about, and my senses left me. CHAPTER LIII IN WHICH I MAKE SOME DISCOVERIES The room had a prodigious sense of change about it. That came over me with something of a shock, since the moment before I had it settled that I was in Marlboro' Street. The bare branches swaying in the wind outside should belong to the trees in Freshwater Lane. But beyond the branches were houses, the like of which I had no remembrance of in Annapolis. And then my grandfather should be sitting in that window. Surely, he was there! He moved! He was coming toward me to say: "Richard, you are forgiven," and to brush his eyes with his ruffles. Then there was the bed-canopy, the pleatings of which were gone, and it was turned white instead of the old blue. And the chimney-place! That was unaccountably smaller, and glowed with a sea-coal fire. And the mantel was now but a bit of a shelf, and held many things that seemed scarce at home on the rough and painted wood,--gold filigree; and China and Japan, and a French clock that ought not to have been just there. Ah, the teacups! Here at last was something to touch a fibre of my brain, but a pain came with the effort of memory. So my eyes went back to my grandfather in the window. His face was now become black as Scipio's, and he wore a red turban and a striped cotton gown that was too large for him. And he was sewing. This was monstrous! I hurried over to the tea-cups, such a twinge did that discovery give me. But they troubled me near as much, and the sea-coal fire held strange images. The fascination in the window was not to be denied, for it stood in line with the houses and the trees. Suddenly there rose up before me a gate. Yes, I knew that gate, and the girlish figure leaning over it. They were in Prince George Street. Behind them was a mass of golden-rose bushes, and out of these came forth a black face under a turban, saying, "Yes, mistis, I'se comin'." "Mammy--Mammy Lucy!" The figure in the window stirred, and the sewing fell its ample lap. "Now Lawd'a mercy!" I trembled--with a violence unspeakable. Was this but one more of those thousand voices, harsh and gentle, rough and tender, to which I had listened in vain this age past? The black face was hovering over me now, and in an agony of apprehension I reached up and felt its honest roughness. Then I could have wept for joy. "Mammy Lucy!" "Yes, Marse Dick?" "Where--where is Miss Dolly?" "Now, Marse Dick, doctah done say you not t' talk, suh." "Where is Miss Dolly?" I cried, seizing her arm. "Hush, Marse Dick. Miss Dolly'll come terectly, suh. She's lyin' down, suh." The door creaked, and in my eagerness I tried to lift myself. 'Twas Aunt Lucy's hand that restrained me, and the next face I saw was that of Dorothy's mother. But why did it appear so old and sorrow-lined? And why was the hair now of a whiteness with the lace of the cap? She took my fingers in her own, and asked me anxiously if I felt any pain. "Where am I, Mrs. Manners?" "You are in London, Richard." "In Arlington Street?" She shook her head sadly. "No, my dear, not in Arlington Street. But you are not to talk." "And Dorothy? May I not see Dorothy? Aunt Lucy tells me she is here." Mrs. Manners gave the old mammy a glance of reproof, a signal that alarmed me vastly. "Oh, tell me, Mrs. Manners! You will speak the truth. Tell me if she is gone away?" "My dear boy, she is here, and under this very roof. And you shall see her as soon as Dr. Barry will permit. Which will not be soon," she added with a smile, "if you persist in this conduct." The threat had the desired effect. And Mrs. Manners quietly left the room, and after a while as quietly came back again and sat down by the fire, whispering to Aunt Lucy. Fate, in some inexplicable way, had carried me into the enemy's country and made me the guest of Mr. Marmaduke Manners. As I lay staring upward, odd little bits of the past came floating to the top of my mind, presently to be pieced together. The injuries Mr. Marmaduke had done me were the first to collect, since I was searching for the cause of my resentment against him. The incidents arrived haphazard as magic lanthorn views, but very vivid. His denial of me before Mr. Dix, and his treachery at Vauxhall, when he had sent me to be murdered. Next I felt myself clutching the skin over his ribs in Arlington Street, when I had flung him across the room in his yellow night-gown. That brought me to the most painful scene of my life, when I had parted with Dorothy at the top of the stairs. Afterward followed scraps of the years at Gordon's Pride, and on top of them the talk with McAndrews. Here was the secret I sought. The crash had come. And they were no longer in Mayfair, but must have taken a house in some poorer part of London. This thought cast me down tremendously. And Dorothy! Had time changed her? 'Twas with that query on my lips I fell asleep, to dream of the sun shining down on Carvel Hall and Wilmot House; of Aunt Hester and Aunt Lucy, and a lass and a lad romping through pleasant fields and gardens. When I awoke it was broad day once more. A gentleman sat on the edge of my bed. He had a queer, short face, ruddy as the harvest moon, and he smiled good-humouredly when I opened my eyes. "I bid you good morning, Mr. Carvel, for the first time since I have made your acquaintance," said he. "And how do you feel, sir?" "I have never felt better in my life," I replied, which was the whole truth. "Well, vastly well," says he, laughing, "prodigious well for a young man who has as many holes in him as have you. Do you hear him, Mrs. Manners?" At that last word, I popped up to look about the room, and the doctor caught hold of me with ludicrous haste. A pain shot through my body. "Avast, avast, my hearty," cries he. "'Tis a miracle you can speak, let alone carry your bed and walk for a while yet." And he turned to Dorothy's mother, whom I beheld smiling at me. "You will give him the physic, ma'am, at the hours I have chosen. Egad, I begin to think we shall come through. "But pray remember, ma'am, if he talks, you are to put a wad in his mouth." "He shall have no opportunity to talk, Dr. Barry," said Mrs. Manners. "Save for a favour I have to ask you, doctor," I cried. "'Od's bodkins! Already, sir? And what may that be?" "That you will allow me to see Miss Manners." He shook with laughter, and then winked at me very roguishly. "Oh!" says he, "and faith, I should be worse than cruel. First she comes imploring me to see you, and so prettily that a man of oak could not refuse her. And now it is you begging to see her. Had your eyes been opened, sir, you might have had many a glimpse of Miss Dolly these three weeks past." "What! She has been watching with me?" I asked, in a rapture not to be expressed. "'Od's, but those are secrets. And the medical profession is close-mouthed, Mr. Carvel. So you want to see her? No," cries he, "'tis not needful to swear it on the Evangels. And I let her come in, will you give me your honour as a gentleman not to speak more than two words to her?" "I promise anything, and you will not deny me looking at her," said I. He shook again, all over. "You rascal! You sad dog, sir! No, sir, faith, you must shut your eyes. Eh, madam, must he not shut his eyes?" "They were playmates, doctor," answers Mrs. Manners. She was laughing a little, too. "Well, she shall come in. But remember that I shall have my ear to the keyhole, and you go beyond your promise, out she's whisked. So I caution you not to spend rashly those two words, sir." And he followed Mrs. Manners out of the room, frowning and shaking his fist at me in mock fierceness. I would have died for the man. For a space--a prodigious long space--I lay very still, my heart bumping like a gun-carriage broke loose, and my eyes riveted on the crack of the door. Then I caught the sound of a light footstep, the knob turned, and joy poured into my soul with the sweep of a Fundy tide. "Dorothy!" I cried. "Dorothy!" She put her finger to her lips. "There, sir," said she, "now you have spoken them both at once!" She closed the door softly behind her, and stood looking down upon me with such a wondrous love-light in her eyes as no man may describe. My fancy had not lifted me within its compass, my dreams even had not imagined it. And the fire from which it sprang does not burn in humbler souls. So she stood gazing, those lips which once had been the seat of pride now parted in a smile of infinite tenderness. But her head she still held high, and her body straight. Down the front of her dress fell a tucked apron of the whitest linen, and in her hand was a cup of steaming broth. "You are to take this, Richard," she commanded. And added, with a touch of her old mischief, "Mind, sir, if I hear a sound out of you, I am to disappear like the fairy godmother." I knew full well she meant it, and the terror of losing her kept me silent. She put down the cup, placed another pillow behind my head with a marvellous deftness, and then began feeding me in dainty spoonfuls something which was surely nectar. And mine eyes, too, had their feast. Never before had I seen my lady in this gentle guise, this task of nursing the sick, which her doing raised to a queenly art. Her face had changed some. Years of trial unknown to me had left an ennobling mark upon her features, increasing their power an hundred fold. And the levity of girlish years was gone. How I burned to question her! But her lips were now tight closed, her glance now and anon seeking mine, and then falling with an exquisite droop to the coverlet. For the old archness, at least, would never be eradicated. Presently, after she had taken the cup and smoothed my pillow, I reached out for her hand. It was a boldness of which I had not believed myself capable; but she did not resist, and even, as I thought, pressed my fingers with her own slender ones, the red of our Maryland holly blushing in her cheeks. And what need of words, indeed! Our thoughts, too, flew coursing hand in hand through primrose paths, and the angels themselves were not to be envied. A master might picture my happiness, waking and sleeping, through the short winter days that came and went like flashes of gray light. The memory of them is that of a figure tall and lithe, a little more rounded than of yore, and a chiselled face softened by a power that is one of the world's mysteries. Dorothy had looked the lady in rags, and housewife's cap and apron became her as well as silks or brocades. When for any reason she was absent from my side, I moped, to the quiet amusement of Mrs. Manners and the more boisterous delight of Aunt Lucy, who took her turn sewing in the window. I was near to forgetting the use of words, until at length, one rare morning when the sun poured in, the jolly doctor dressed my wounds with more despatch than common, and vouchsafed that I might talk awhile that day. "Oh!" cries he, putting me as ever to confusion, "but I have a guess whom my gentleman will be wishing to talk with. But I'll warrant, sir, you have said a deal more than I have any notion of without opening your lips." And he went away, intolerably pleased with his joke. Alas for the perversity of maiden natures! It was not my dear nurse who brought my broth that morning, but Mrs. Manners herself. She smiled at my fallen face, and took a chair at my bedside. "Now, my dear boy," she said, "you may ask what questions you choose, and I will tell you very briefly how you have come here." "I have been thinking, Mrs. Manners," I replied, "that if it were known that you harboured one of John Paul Jones's officers in London, very serious trouble might follow for you." I thought her brow clouded a little. "No one knows of it, Richard, or is likely to. Dr. Barry, like so many in England, is a good Whig and friend to America. And you are in a part of London far removed from Mayfair." She hesitated, and then continued in a voice that strove to be lighter: "This little house is in Charlotte Street, Mary-le-Bone, for the war has made all of us suffer some. And we are more fortunate than many, for we are very comfortable here, and though I say it, happier than in Arlington Street. And the best of our friends are still faithful. Mr. Fox, with all his greatness, has never deserted us, nor my Lord Comyn. Indeed, we owe them much more than I can tell you of now," she said, and sighed. "They are here every day of the world to inquire for you, and it was his Lordship brought you out of Holland." And so I had reason once more to bless this stanch friend! "Out of Holland?" I cried. "Yes. One morning as we sat down to breakfast, Mr. Ripley's clerk brought in a letter for Dorothy. But I must say first that Mr. Dulany, who is in London, told us that you were with John Paul Jones. You can have no conception, Richard, of the fear and hatred that name has aroused in England. Insurance rates have gone up past belief, and the King's ships are cruising in every direction after the traitor and pirate, as they call him. We have prayed daily for your safety, and Dorothy--well, here is the letter she received. It had been opened by the inspector, and allowed to pass. And it is to be kept as a curiosity." She drew it from the pocket of her apron and began to read. "THE TEXEL, October 3, 1779 "MY DEAR Miss DOROTHY: I would not be thought to flutter y'r Gentle Bosom with Needless Alarms, nor do I believe I have misjudged y'r Warm & Generous Nature when I write you that One who is held very High in y'r Esteem lies Exceeding Ill at this Place, who might by Tender Nursing regain his Health. I seize this Opportunity to say, my dear Lady, that I have ever held my too Brief Acquaintance with you in London as one of the Sacred Associations of my Life. From the Little I saw of you then I feel Sure that this Appeal will not pass in Vain. I remain y'r most Humble and Devoted Admirer, "JAMES ORCHARDSON." "And she knew it was from Commodore Jones?" I asked, in astonishment. "My dear," replied Mrs. Manners, with a quiet smile, "we women have a keener instinct than men--though I believe your commodore has a woman's intuition. Yes, Dorothy knew. And I shall never forget the fright she gave me as she rose from the table and handed me the sheet to read, crying but the one word. She sent off to Brook Street for Lord Comyn, who came at once, and, in half an hour the dear fellow was set out for Dover. He waited for nothing, since war with Holland was looked for at any day. And his Lordship himself will tell you about that rescue. Within the week he had brought you to us. Your skull had been trepanned, you had this great hole in your thigh, and your heart was beating but slowly. By Mr. Fox's advice we sent for Dr. Barry, who is a skilled surgeon, and a discreet man despite his manner. And you have been here for better than three weeks, Richard, hanging between life and death." "And I owe my life to you and to Dorothy," I said. "To Lord Comyn and Dr. Barry, rather," she replied quickly. "We have done little but keep the life they saved. And I thank God it was given me to do it for the son of your mother and father." Something of the debt I owed them was forced upon me. They were poor, doubtless driven to make ends meet, and yet they had taken me in, called upon near the undivided services of an able surgeon, and worn themselves out with nursing me. Nor did I forget the risk they ran with such a guest. For the first time in many years my heart relented toward Mr. Marmaduke. For their sakes I forgave him over and over what I had suffered, and my treatment of him lay like a weight upon me. And how was I to repay them? They needed the money I had cost them, of that I was sure. After the sums I had expended to aid the commodore with the 'Ranger' and the 'Bon homme Richard', I had scarce a farthing to my name. With such leaden reflections was I occupied when I heard Mrs. Manners speaking to me. "Richard, I have some news for you which the doctor thinks you can bear to-day. Mr. Dulany, who is exiled like the rest of us, brought them. It is a great happiness to be able to tell you, my dear, that you are now the master of Carvel Hall, and like to stay so." The tears stole into her eyes as she spoke. And the enormity of those tidings, coming as they did on the top of my dejection, benumbed me. All they meant was yet far away from my grasp, but the one supreme result that was first up to me brought me near to fainting in my weakness. "I would not raise your hopes unduly, Richard," the good lady was saying, "but the best informed here seem to think that England cannot push the war much farther. If the Colonies win, you are secure in your title." "But how is it come about, Mrs. Manners?" I demanded, with my first breath. "You doubtless have heard that before the Declaration was signed at Philadelphia your Uncle Grafton went to the committee at Annapolis and contributed to the patriot cause, and took very promptly the oath of the Associated Freemen of Maryland, thus forsaking the loyalist party--" "Yes, yes," I interrupted, "I heard of it when I was on the Cabot. He thought his property in danger." "Just so," said Mrs. Manners, laughing; "he became the best and most exemplary of patriots, even as he had been the best of Tories. He sent wheat and money to the army, and went about bemoaning that his only son fought under the English flag. But very little fighting has Philip done, my dear. Well, when the big British fleet sailed up the bay in '77, your precious uncle made the first false step in his long career of rascality. He began to correspond with the British at Philadelphia, and one of his letters was captured near the Head of Elk. A squad was sent to the Kent estate, where he had been living, to arrest him, but he made his escape to New York. And his lands were at once confiscated by the state." "'Then they belong to the state," I said, with misgiving. "Not so fast, Richard. At the last session of the Maryland Legislature a bill was introduced, through the influence of Mr. Bordley and others, to restore them to you, their rightful owner. And insomuch as you were even then serving the country faithfully and bravely, and had a clean and honourable record of service, the whole of the lands were given to you. And now, my dear, you have had excitement enough for one day." CHAPTER LIV MORE DISCOVERIES All that morning I pondered over the devious lane of my life, which had led up to so fair a garden. And one thing above all kept turning and turning in my head, until I thought I should die of waiting for its fulfilment. Now was I free to ask Dorothy to marry me, to promise her the ease and comfort that had once been hers, should God bring us safe back to Maryland. The change in her was little less than a marvel to me, when I remembered the wilful miss who had come to London bent upon pleasure alone. Truly, she was of that rare metal which refines, and then outshines all others. And there was much I could not understand. A miracle had saved her from the Duke of Chartersea, but why she had refused so many great men and good was beyond my comprehension. Not a glimpse of her did I get that day, though my eyes wandered little from the knob of the door. And even from Aunt Lucy no satisfaction was to be had as to the cause of her absence. "'Clare to goodness, Marse Dick," said she, with great solemnity, "'clare to goodness, I'se nursed Miss Dolly since she was dat high, and neber one minnit obher life is I knowed what de Chile gwine t' do de next. She ain't neber yit done what I calcelated on." The next morning, after the doctor had dressed my wounds and bantered me to his heart's content, enters Mr. Marmaduke Manners. I was prodigiously struck by the change in him, and pitied him then near as much as I had once despised him. He was arrayed in finery, as of old. But the finery was some thing shabby; the lace was frayed at the edges, there was a neat but obvious patch in his small-clothes, and two more in his coat. His air was what distressed me most of all, being that of a man who spends his days seeking favours and getting none. I had seen too many of the type not to know the sign of it. He ran forward and gave me his hand, which I grasped as heartily as my weakness would permit. "They would not let me see you until to-day, my dear Richard," he exclaimed. "I bid you welcome to what is left of our home. 'Tis not Arlington Street, my lad." "But more of a home than was that grander house, Mr. Manners." He sighed heavily. "Alas!" said he, "poverty is a bitter draught, and we have drunk deep of it since last we beheld you. My great friends know me no more, and will not take my note for a shilling. They do not remember the dinners and suppers I gave them. Faith, this war has brought nothing but misery, and how we are to get through it, God knows!" Now I understood it was not the war, but Mr. Marmaduke himself, which had carried his family to this pass. And some of my old resentment rekindled. "I know that I have brought you great additional anxiety and expense, Mr. Manners," I answered somewhat testily. "The care I have been to Mrs. Manners and Dorothy I may never repay. But it gives me pleasure to feel, sir, that I am in a position to reimburse you, and likewise to loan you something until your lands begin to pay again." "There the Carvel speaks," he cried, "and the true son of our generous province. You can have no conception of the misfortunes come to me out of this quarrel. The mortgages on my Western Shore tobacco lands are foreclosed, and Wilmot House itself is all but gone. You well know, of course, that I would do the same by you, Richard." I smiled, but more in sadness than amusement. Hardship had only degraded Mr. Marmaduke the more, and even in trouble his memory was convenient as is that of most people in prosperity. I was of no mind to jog his recollection. But I wanted badly to ask about his Grace. Where had my fine nobleman been at the critical point of his friend's misfortunes? For I had had many a wakeful night over that same query since my talk with McAndrews. "So you have come to your own again, Richard, my lad," said Mr. Marmaduke, breaking in upon my train. "I have felt for you deeply, and talked many a night with Margaret and Dorothy over the wrong done you. Between you and me," he whispered, "that uncle of yours is an arrant knave, whom the patriots have served with justice. To speak truth, sir, I begin myself to have a little leaning to that cause which you have so bravely espoused." This time I was close to laughing outright. But he was far too serious to remark my mirth. He commenced once more, with an ahem, which gave me a better inkling than frankness of what bothered him. "You will have an agent here, Richard, I take it," said he. "Your grandfather had one. Ahem! Doubtless this agent will advance you all you shall have need of, when you are well enough to see him. Fact is, he might come here." "You forget, Mr. Manners, that I am a pirate and an outlaw, and that you are the shielder of such." That thought shook the pinch of Holland he held all over him. But he recovered. "My dear Richard, men of business are of no faction and of no nation. Their motto is discretion. And to obtain the factorship in London of a like estate to yours one of them would wear a plaster over his mouth, I'll warrant you. You have but to summon one of the rascals, promise him a bit of war interest, and he will leave you as much as you desire, and nothing spoken." "To talk plainly, Mr. Manners," I replied, "I think 'twould be the height of folly to resort to such means. When I am better, we shall see what can be done." His face plainly showed his disappointment. "To be sure," he said, in a whining tone, "I had forgotten your friends, Lord Comyn and Mr. Fox. They may do something for you, now you own your estate. My dear sir, I dislike to say aught against any man. Mrs. Manners will tell you of their kindness to us, but I vow I have not been able to see it. With all the money at their command they will not loan me a penny in my pressing need. And I shame to say it, my own daughter prevents me from obtaining the money to keep us out of the Fleet. I know she has spoken to Dulany. Think of it, Richard, my own daughter, upon whom I lavished all when I had it, who might have made a score of grand matches when I gave her the opportunity, and now we had all been rolling in wealth. I'll be sworn I don't comprehend her, nor her mother either, who abets her. For they prefer to cook Maryland dainties for a living, to put in the hands of the footmen of the ladies whose houses they once visited. And how much of that money do you suppose I get, sir? Will you believe it that I--" (he was shrieking now), "that I, the man of the family, am allowed only my simple meals, a farthing for snuff, and not a groat for chaise-hire? At my age I am obliged to walk to and from their lordships' side entrances in patched clothes, egad, when a new suit might obtain us a handsome year's income!" I turned my face to the wall, completely overcome, and the tears scalding in my eyes, at the thought of Dorothy and her mother bending over the stove cooking delicacies for their livelihood, and watching at my bedside night and day despite their weariness of body. And not a word out of these noble women of their sacrifice, nor of the shame and trouble and labour of their lives, who always had been used to every luxury! Nothing but cheer had they brought to the sickroom, and not a sign of their poverty and hardship, for they knew that their broths and biscuit and jellies must have choked me. No. It remained for this contemptible cur of a husband and father to open my eyes. He had risen when I had brought myself to look at him. And as I hope for heaven he took my emotion for pity of himself. "I have worried you enough for one day with my troubles, my lad," said he. "But they are very hard to bear, and once in a while it does me good to speak of them." I did not trust myself to reply. It was Aunt Lucy who spent the morning with me, and Mrs. Manners brought my dinner. I observed a questioning glance as she entered, which I took for an attempt to read whether Mr. Marmaduke had spoke more than he ought. But I would have bitten off my tongue rather than tell her of my discoveries, though perhaps my voice may have betrayed an added concern. She stayed to talk on the progress of the war, relating the gallant storming of Stony Point by Mad Anthony in July, and the latest Tory insurrection on our own Eastern Shore. She passed from these matters to a discussion of General Washington's new policy of the defensive, for Mrs. Manners had always been at heart a patriot. And whilst I lay listening with a deep interest, in comes my lady herself. So was it ever, when you least expected her, even as Mammy had said. She curtseyed very prettily, with her chin tilted back and her cheeks red, and asked me how I did. "And where have you been these days gone, Miss Will-o'the-Wisp, since the doctor has given me back my tongue?" I cried. "I like you better when you are asleep," says she. "For then you are sometimes witty, though I doubt not the wit is other people's." So I saw that she had tricked me, and taken her watch at night. For I slept like a trooper after a day's forage. As to what I might have said in my dreams--that thought made me red as an apple. "Dorothy, Dorothy," says her mother, smiling, "you would provoke a saint." "Which would be better fun than teasing a sinner," replies the minx, with a little face at me. "Mr. Carvel, a gentleman craves the honour of an audience from your Excellency." "A gentleman!" "Even so. He presents a warrant from your Excellency's physician." With that she disappeared, Mrs. Manners going after her. And who should come bursting in at the door but my Lord Comyn? He made one rush at me, and despite my weakness bestowed upon me a bear's hug. "Oh, Richard," cried he, when he had released me, "I give you my oath that I never hoped to see you rise from that bed when we laid you there. But they say that love works wondrous cures, and, egad, I believe that now. 'Tis love is curing you, my lad." He held me off at arm's length, the old-time affection beaming from his handsome face. "What am I to say to you, Jack?" I answered. And my voice was all but gone, for the sight of him revived the memory of every separate debt of the legion I owed him. "How am I to piece words enough together to thank you for this supreme act of charity?" "'Od's, you may thank your own devilish thick head," said my Lord Comyn. "I should never have bothered my own about you were it not for her. Had it not been for her happiness do you imagine I would have picked you out of that crew of half-dead pirates in the Texel fort?" I must needs brush my cheek, then, with the sleeve of my night-rail. "And will you give me some account of this last prodigious turn you have done her?" I said. He laughed, and pinched me playfully. "Now are you coming to your senses," said he. "There was cursed little to the enterprise, Richard, and that's the truth. I got down to Dover, and persuaded the master of a schooner to carry me to Rotterdam. That was not so difficult, since your Terror of the Seas was locked up safe enough in the Texel. In Rotterdam I had a travelling-chaise stripped, and set off at the devil's pace for the Texel. You must know that the whole Dutch nation was in an uproar--as much of an uproar as those boors ever reach--over the arrival of your infamous squadron. The Court Party and our ambassador were for having you kicked out, and the Republicans for making you at home. I heard that their High Mightinesses had given Paul Jones the use of the Texel fort for his wounded and his prisoners, and thither I ran. And I was even cursing the French sentry at the drawbridge in his own tongue, when up comes your commodore himself. You may quarter me if wasn't knocked off my feet when I recognized the identical peacock of a sea-captain we had pulled out of Castle Yard along with you, and offered a commission in the Royal Navy." "Dolly hadn't told you?" "Dolly tell me!" exclaimed his Lordship, scornfully. "She was in a state to tell me nothing the morning I left, save only to bring you to England alive, and repeat it over and over. But to return to your captain,--he, too, was taken all aback. But presently he whipt out my name, and I his, without the Jones. And when I told him my errand, he wept on my neck, and said he had obtained unlimited leave of absence for you from the Paris commissioners. He took me up into a private room in the fort, where you were; and the surgeon, who was there at the time, said that your chances were as slim as any man's he had ever seen. Faith, you looked it, my lad. At sight of your face I took one big gulp, for I had no notion of getting you back to her. And rather than come without you, and look into her eyes, I would have drowned myself in the Straits of Dover. "Despite the host of troubles he had on his hands, your commodore himself came with us to Rotterdam. Now I protest I love that man, who has more humanity in him than most of the virtuous people in England who call him hard names. If you could have seen him leaning over you, and speaking to you, and feeling every minute for your heart-beats, egad, you would have cried. And when I took you off to the schooner, he gave me an hundred directions how to care for you, and then his sorrow bowled him all in a heap." "And is the commodore still at the Texel?" I asked, after a space. "Ay, that he is, with our English cruisers thick as gulls outside' waiting for a dead fish. But he has spurned the French commission they have offered him, saying that of the Congress is good enough for him. And he declares openly that when he gets ready he will sail out in the Alliance under the Stars and Stripes. And for this I honour him," added he, "and Charles honours him, and so must all Englishmen honour him when they come to their senses. And by Gads life, I believe he will get clear, for he is a marvel at seamanship." "I pray with all my heart that he may," said I, fervently. "God help him if they catch him!" my Lord exclaimed. "You should see the bloody piratical portraits they are scattering over London." "Has the risk you ran getting me into England ever occurred to you, Jack?" I asked, with some curiosity. "Faith, not until the day after we got back, Richard," says he, "when I met Mr. Attorney General on the street. 'Sdeath, I turned and ran the other way like the devil was after me. For Charles Fox vows that conscience makes cowards of the best of us." "So that is some of Charles's wisdom!" I cried, and laughed until I was forced to stop from pain. "Come, my hearty," says Jack, "you owe me nothing for fishing you out of Holland--that is her debt. But I declare that you must one day pay me for saving her for you. What! have I not always sworn that she loved you? Did I not pull you into the coffee-room of the Star and Garter years ago, and tell you that same?" My face warmed, though I said nothing. "Oh, you sly dog! I'll warrant there has been many a tender talk just where I'm sitting." "Not one," said I. "'Slife, then, what have you been doing," he cries, "seeing her every day and not asking her to marry you, my master of Carvel Hall?" "Since I am permitted to use my tongue, she has not come near me, save when I slept," I answered ruefully. "Nor will she, I'll be sworn," says he, shaken with laughter. "'Ods, have you no invention? Egad, you must feign sleep, and seize her unawares." I did not inform his Lordship how excellent this plan seemed to me. "And I possessed the love of such a woman, Richard," he said, in another tone, "I think I should die of happiness. She will never tell you how these weeks past she has scarce left your side. The threats combined of her mother and the doctor, and Charles and me, would not induce her to take any sleep. And time and time have I walked from here to Brook Street without recognizing a step of the way, lifted clear out of myself by the sight of her devotion." What was my life, indeed, that such a blessing should come into it! "When the crash came," he continued, "'twas she took command, and 'tis God's pity she had not done so long before. Mr. Marmaduke was pushed to the bottom of the family, where he belongs, and was given only snuff-money. She would give him no opportunity to contract another debt, and even charged Charles and me to loan him nothing. Nor would she receive aught from us, but" (he glanced at me uneasily)--"but she and Mrs. Manners must take to cooking delicacies--" "Yes, yes, I know," I faltered. "What! has the puppy told you?" cried he. I nodded. "He was in here this morning, with his woes." "And did he speak of the bargain he tried to make with our old friend, his Grace of Chartersea?" "He tried to sell her again?" I cried, my breath catching. "I have feared as much since I heard of their misfortunes." "Yes," replied Comyn, "that was the first of it. 'Twas while they were still in Arlington Street, and before Mrs. Manners and Dorothy knew. Mr. Marmaduke goes posting off to Nottinghamshire, and comes back inside the duke's own carriage. And his Grace goes to dine in Arlington Street for the first time in years. Dorothy had wind of the trouble then, Charles having warned her. And not a word would she speak to Chartersea the whole of the dinner, nor look to the right or left of her plate. And when the servants are gone, up gets my lady with a sweep and confronts him. "'Will your Grace spare me a minute in the drawing-room?' says she. "He blinked at her in vast astonishment, and pushed back his chair. When she was come to the door, she turns with another sweep on Mr. Marmaduke, who was trotting after. "'You will please to remain here, father,' she said; 'what I am to say is for his Grace's ear alone.' "Of what she spoke to the duke I can form only an estimate, Richard," my Lord concluded, "but I'll lay a fortune 'twas greatly to the point. For in a little while Chartersea comes stumbling down the steps. And he has never darkened the door since. And the cream of it is," said Comyn, "that her father gave me this himself, with a face a foot long, for me to sympathize. The little beast has strange bursts of confidence." "And stranger confidants," I ejaculated, thinking of the morning, and of Courtenay's letter, long ago. But the story had made my blood leap again with pride of her. The picture in my mind had followed his every sentence, and even the very words she must have used were ringing in my ears. Then, as we sat talking in low tones, the door opened, and a hearty voice cried out: "Now where is this rebel, this traitor? They tell me one lies hid in this house. 'Slife, I must have at him!" "Mr. Fox!" I exclaimed. He took my hands in his, and stood regarding me. "For the convenience of my friends, I was christened Charles," said he. I stared at him in amazement. He was grown a deal stouter, but my eye was caught and held by the blue coat and buff waistcoat he wore. They were frayed and stained and shabby, yet they seemed all of a piece with some new grandeur come upon the man. "Is all the world turning virtuous? Is the millennium arrived?" I cried. He smiled, with his old boyish smile. "You think me changed some since that morning we drove together to Holland House--do you remember it after the night at St. Stephen's?" "Remember it!" I repeated, with emphasis, "I'll warrant I can give you every bit of our talk." "I have seen many men since, but never have I met your equal for a most damnable frankness, Richard Carvel. Even Jack, here, is not half so blunt and uncompromising. But you took my fancy--God knows why!--that first night I clapped eyes on you in Arlington Street, and I loved you when your simplicity made us that speech at Brooks's Club. So you have not forgotten that morning under the trees, when the dew was on the grass. Faith, I am glad of it. What children we were!" he said, and sighed. "And yet you were a Junior Lord," I said. "Which is more than I am now," he answered. "Somehow--you may laugh --somehow I have never been able to shake off the influence of your words, Richard. Your cursed earnestness scared me." "Scared you?" I cried, in astonishment. "Just that," said Charles. "Jack will bear witness that I have said so to Dolly a score of times. For I had never imagined such a single character as yours. You know we were all of us rakes at fifteen, to whom everything good in the universe was a joke. And do you recall the teamster we met by the Park, and how he arrested his salute when he saw who it was? At another time I should have laughed over that, but it cut me to have it happen when you were along." "And I'll lay an hundred guineas to a farthing the fellow would put his head on the block for Charles now," cut in his Lordship, with his hand on Mr. Fox's shoulder. "Behold, O Prophet," he cried, "one who is become the champion of the People he reviled! Behold the friend of Rebellion and 'Lese Majeste', the viper in Britannia's bosom!" "Oh, have done, Jack," said Mr. Fox, impatiently, "you have no more music in your soul than a cow. Damned little virtue attaches to it, Richard," he went on. "North threw me out, and the king would have nothing to do with me, so I had to pick up with you rebels and traitors." "You will not believe him, Richard," cried my Lord; "you have only to look at him to see that he lies. Take note of the ragged uniform of the rebel army he carries, and then think of him 'en petite maitre', with his cabriolet and his chestnuts. Egad, he might be as rich as Rigby were it not for those principles which he chooses to deride. And I have seen him reduced to a crown for them. I tell you, Richard," said my Lord, "by espousing your cause Charles is become greater than the King. For he has the hearts of the English people, which George has not, and the allegiance of you Americans, which George will never have. And if you once heard him, in Parliament, you should hear him now, and see the Speaker wagging his wig like a man bewitched, and hear friends and enemies calling out for him to go on whenever he gives the sign of a pause." This speech of his Lordship's may seem cold in the writing, my dears, and you who did not know him may wonder at it. It had its birth in an admiration few men receive, and which in Charles Fox's devoted coterie was dangerously near to idolatry. During the recital of it Charles walked to the window, and there stood looking out upon the gray prospect, seemingly paying but little attention. But when Comyn had finished, he wheeled on us with a smile. "Egad, he will be telling you next that I have renounced the devil and all his works, Richard," said he. "'Oohs, that I will not," his Lordship made haste to declare. "For they were born in him, and will die with him." "And you, Jack," I asked, "how is it that you are not in arms for the King, and commanding one of his frigates?" "Why, it is Charles's fault," said my Lord, smiling. "Were it not for him I should be helping Sir George Collier lay waste to your coast towns." CHAPTER LV "THE LOVE OF A MAID FOR A MAN" The next morning, when Dr. Barry had gone, Mrs. Manners propped me up in bed and left me for a little, so she said. Then who should come in with my breakfast on a tray but my lady herself, looking so fresh and beautiful that she startled me vastly. "A penny for your thoughts, Richard," she cried. "Why, you are as grave as a screech-owl this brave morning." "To speak truth, Dolly," said I, "I was wondering how the commodore is to get away from the Texel, with half the British navy lying in wait outside." "Do not worry your head about that," said she, setting down the tray; "it will be mere child's play to him. Oh but I should like to see your commodore again, and tell him how much I love him. "I pray that you may have the chance," I replied. With a marvellous quickness she had tied the napkin beneath my chin, not so much as looking at the knot. Then she stepped to the mantel and took down one of Mr. Wedgwood's cups and dishes, and wiping them with her apron, filled the cup with fragrant tea, which she tendered me with her eyes sparkling. "Your Excellency is the first to be honoured with this service," says she, with a curtsey. I was as a man without a tongue, my hunger gone from sheer happiness--and fright. And yet eating the breakfast with a relish because she had made it. She busied herself about the room, dusting here and tidying there, and anon throwing a glance at me to see if I needed anything. My eyes followed her hither and thither. When I had finished, she undid the napkin, and brushed the crumbs from the coverlet. "You are not going?" I said, with dismay. "Did you wish anything more, sir?" she asked. "Oh, Dorothy," I cried, "it is you I want, and you will not come near me." For an instant she stood irresolute. Then she put down the tray and came over beside me. "Do you really want me, sir?" "Dorothy," I began, "I must first tell you that I have some guess at the sacrifice you are making for my sake, and of the trouble and danger which I bring you." Without more ado she put her hand over my mouth. "No," she said, reddening, "you shall tell me nothing of the sort." I seized her hand, however it struggled, and holding it fast, continued: "And I have learned that you have been watching with me by night, and working by day, when you never should have worked at all. To think that you should be reduced to that, and I not know it!" Her eyes sought mine for a fleeting second. "Why, you silly boy, I have made a fortune out of my cookery. And fame, too, for now am I known from Mary-le-bone to Chelsea, while before my name was unheard of out of little Mayfair. Indeed, I would not have missed the experience for a lady-in-waiting-ship. I have learned a deal since I saw you last, sir. I know that the world, like our Continental money, must not be taken for the price that is stamped upon it. And as for the watching with you," said my lady, "that had to be borne with as cheerfully as might be. Since I had sent off for you, I was in duty bound to do my share toward your recovery. I was even going to add that this watching was a pleasure,--our curate says the sense of duty performed is sure to be. But you used to cry out the most terrifying things to frighten me: the pattering of blood and the bumping of bodies on the decks, and the black rivulets that ran and ran and ran and never stopped; and strange, rough commands I could not understand; and the name of your commodore whom you love so much. And often you would repeat over and over: 'I have not yet begun, to fight, I have not yet begun to fight!'" "Yes, 'twas that he answered when they asked him if he had struck," I exclaimed. "It must have been an awful scene," she said, and her shoulders quivered. "When you were at your worst you would talk of it, and sometimes of what happened to you in London, of that ride in Hyde Park, or--or of Vauxhall," she continued hurriedly. "And when I could bear it no longer, I would take your hand and call you by name, and often quiet you thus." "And did I speak of aught else?" I asked eagerly. "Oh, yes. When you were caliper, it would be of your childhood, of your grandfather and your birthdays, of Captain Clapsaddle, and of Patty and her father." "And never of Dolly, I suppose." She turned away her head. "And never of Dolly?" "I will tell you what you said once, Richard," she answered, her voice dropping very low. "I was sitting by the window there, and the dawn was coming. And suddenly I heard you cry: 'Patty, when I return will you be my wife?' I got up and came to your side, and you said it again, twice." The room was very still. And the vision of Patty in the parlour of Gordon's Pride, knitting my woollen stocking, rose before me. "Yes," I said at length, "I asked her that the day before I left for the war. God bless her! She has the warmest heart in the world, and the most generous nature. Do you know what her answer was, Dorothy?" "No." 'Twas only her lips moving that formed the word. She was twisting absently the tassel of the bed curtain. "She asked me if I loved her." My lady glanced up with a start, then looked me searchingly through and through. "And you?" she said, in the same inaudible way. "I could answer nothing. 'Twas because of her father's dying wish I asked her, and she guessed that same. I would not tell her a lie, for only the one woman lives whom I love, and whom I have loved ever since we were children together among the strawberries. Need I say that that woman is you, Dorothy? I loved you before we sailed to Carvel Hall between my grandfather's knees, and I will love you till death claims me." Then it seemed as if my heart had stopped beating. But the snowy apron upon her breast fluttered like a sail stirring in the wind, her head was high, and her eyes were far away. Even my voice sounded in the distance as I continued: "Will you be the mistress of Carvel Hall, Dorothy? Hallowed is the day that I can ask it." What of this earth may excel in sweetness the surrender of that proud and noble nature! And her words, my dears, shall be sacred to you, too, who are descended from her. She bent forward a little, those deep blue eyes gazing full into my own with a fondness to make me tremble. "Dear Richard," she said, "I believe I have loved you always. If I have been wilful and wicked, I have suffered more than you know--even as I have made you suffer." "And now our suffering is over, Dorothy." "Oh, don't say that, my dear!" she cried, "but let us rather make a prayer to God." Down she got on her knees close beside me, and I took both of her hands between my own. But presently I sought for a riband that was around my neck, and drew out a locket. Within it were pressed those lilies of the valley I had picked for her long years gone by on my birthday. And she smiled, though the tears shone like dewdrops on her lashes. "When Jack brought you to us for dead, we did not take it off, dear," she said gently. "I wept with sorrow and joy at sight of it, for I remembered you as you were when you picked those flowers, and how lightly I had thought of leaving you as I wound them into my hair. And then, when I had gone aboard the 'Annapolis', I knew all at once that I would have given anything to stay, and I thought my heart would break when we left the Severn cliffs behind. But that, sir, has been a secret until this day," she added, smiling archly through her tears. She took out one of the withered flowers, and then as caressingly put it back beside the others, and closed the locket. "I forbade Dr. Barry to take it off, Richard, when you lay so white and still. I knew then that you had been true to me, despite what I had heard. And if you were to die--" her voice broke a little as she passed her hand over my brow, "if you were to die, my single comfort would have been that you wore it then." "And you heard rumours of me, Dorothy?" "George Worthington and others told me how ably you managed Mr. Swain's affairs, and that you had become of some weight with the thinking men of the province. Richard, I was proud to think that you had the courage to laugh at disaster and to become a factor. I believe," she said shyly, "twas that put the cooking into my head, and gave me courage. And when I heard that Patty was to marry you, Heaven is my witness that I tried to be reconciled and think it for the best. Through my own fault I had lost you, and I knew well she would make you a better wife than I." "And you would not even let Jack speak for me!" "Dear Jack!" she cried; "were it not for Jack we should not be here, Richard." "Indeed, Dolly, two people could scarce fall deeper in debt to another than are you and I to my Lord Viscount," I answered, with feeling. "His honesty and loyalty to us both saved you for me at the very outset." "Yes," she replied thoughtfully, "I believed you dead. And I should have married him, I think. For Dr. Courtenay had sent me that piece from the Gazette telling of the duel between you over Patty Swain--" "Dr. Courtenay sent you that!" I interrupted. "I was a wild young creature then, my dear, with little beside vanity under my cap. And the notion that you could admire and love any girl but me was beyond endurance. Then his Lordship arrived in England, brimming with praise of you, to assure me that the affair was not about Patty at all. This was far from making me satisfied that you were not in love with her, and I may say now that I was miserable. Then, as we were setting out for Castle Howard, came the news of your death on the road to Upper Marlboro. I could not go a step. Poor Jack, he was very honest when he proposed," she added, with a sigh. "He loved you, Dorothy." She did not hear me, so deep was she in thought. "'Twas he who gave me news of you, when I was starving at Gordon's." "And I--I starved, too, Richard," she answered softly. "Dearest, I slid very wrong. There are some matters that must be spoken of between us, whatever the pain they give. And my heart aches now when I think of that dark day in Arlington Street when I gave you the locket, and you went out of my life. I knew that I had done wrong then, Richard, as soon as ever the door closed behind you. I should have gone with you, for better for worse, for richer for poorer. I should have run after you in the rain and thrown myself at your feet. And that would have been best for my father and for me." She covered her face with her hands, and her words were stifled by a sob. "Dorothy, Dorothy!" I cried, drawing her to me. "Another time. Not now, when we are so happy." "Now, and never again, dear," she said. "Yes, I saw and heard all that passed in the drawing-room. And I did not blame, but praised you for it. I have never spoken a word beyond necessity to my father since. God forgive me!" she cried, "but I have despised him from that hour. When I knew that he had plotted to sell me to that detestable brute, working upon me to save his honour, of which he has not the smallest spark; that he had recognized and denied you, friendless before our house, and sent you into the darkness at Vauxhall to be murdered, then he was no father of mine. I would that you might know what my mother has suffered from such a man, Richard." "My dear, I have often pitied her from my soul," I said. "And now I shall tell you something of the story of the Duke of Chartersea," she went on, and I felt her tremble as she spoke that name. "I think of all we have Lord Comyn to thank for, next to saving your life twice, was his telling you of the danger I ran. And, Richard, after refusing you that day on the balcony over the Park, I had no hope left. You may thank your own nobility and courage that you remained in London after that. Richard," she said, "do you recall my asking you in the coach, on the way from Castle Yard, for the exact day you met my father in Arlington Street?" "Yes," I replied, in some excitement, "yes." For I was at last to come at the bottom of this affair. "The duke had made a formal offer for me when first we came to London. I think my father wrote of that to Dr. Courtenay." (I smiled at the recollection, now.) "Then his Grace persisted in following me everywhere, and vowed publicly that he would marry me. I ordered him from our house, since my father would not. At last one afternoon he came back to dine with us, insolent to excess. I left the table. He sat with my father two hours or more, drinking and singing, and giving orders to the servants. I shut my door, that I might not hear. After a while my mother came up to me, crying, saying that Mr. Manners would be branded with dishonour and I did not consent to marry his Grace,--a most terrible dishonour, of which she could not speak. That the duke had given my father a month to win my consent. And that month was up, Richard, the very afternoon you appeared with Mr. Dix in Arlington Street." "And you agreed to marry him, Dolly?" I asked breathlessly. "By the grace of Heaven, I did not," she answered quickly. "The utmost that I would consent to was a two months' respite, promising to give my hand to no one in that interval. And so I was forced to refuse you, Richard. You must have seen even then that I loved you, dear, though I was so cruel when you spoke of saving me from his Grace. I could not bear to think that you knew of any stain upon our family. I think--I think I would rather have died, or have married him. That day I threw Chartersea's presents out of the window, but my father made the servants gather them all which escaped breaking, and put them in the drawing-room. Then I fell ill." She was silent, I clinging to her, and shuddering to think how near I had been to losing her. "It was Jack who came to cheer me," I said presently. "His faith in you was never shaken, sweetheart. But I went to Newmarket and Ampthill, and behaved like the ingrate I was. I richly deserved the scolding he had for me when I got back to town, which sent me running to Arlington Street. There I met Dr. James coming out, who asked me if I was Mr. Carvel, and told me that you had called my name." "And, you goose, you never suspected," says she, smiling. "How was I to suspect that you loved a provincial booby like me, when you had the choice of so many accomplished gentlemen with titles and estates?" "How were you to perceive, indeed, that you had qualities which they lacked?" "And you were forever vowing that you would marry a nobleman, my lady. For you said to me once that I should call you so, and ride in the coach with the coroneted panels when I came home on a visit." "And I said, too," retorted Dolly, with mischief in her eyes, "do you remember what I told you the New Year's eve when we sat out by the sundial at Carvel Hall, when I was so proud of having fixed Dr. Courtenay's attentions? I said that I should never marry you, sir, who was so rough and masterful, and thrashed every lad that did not agree with you." "Alas, so you did, and a deal more!" I exclaimed. With that she broke away from me and, getting to her feet, made me a low curtsey with the grace that was hers alone. "You are my Lord and my King, sir," she said, "and my rough Patriot squire, all in one." "Are you happy, Dolly?" I asked, tremulous from my own joy. "I have never been happy in all my life before, Richard dear," she said. In truth, she was a being transformed, and more wondrous fair than ever. And even then I pictured her in the brave gowns and jewels I would buy her when times were mended, when our dear country would be free. All at once, ere I could draw a breath, she had stooped and kissed me ever so lightly on the forehead. The door opened upon Aunt Lucy. She had but to look at us, and her black face beamed at our blushes. My lady threw her arms about her neck, and hid her face in the ample bosom. "Now praise de good Lawd!" cried Mammy; "I knowed it dis longest time. What's I done tole you, Miss Dolly? What's I done tole you, honey?" But my lady flew from the room. Presently I heard the spinet playing softly, and the words of that air came out of my heart from long ago. "Love me little, love me long, Is the burthen of my song. Love that is too hot and strong Burneth soon to waste. Still, I would not have thee cold, Nor too backward, nor too bold. Love that lasteth till 'tis old Fadeth not in haste." CHAPTER LVI HOW GOOD CAME OUT OF EVIL 'Twas about candlelight when I awoke, and Dorothy was sitting alone beside me. Her fingers were resting upon my arm, and she greeted me with a smile all tenderness. "And does my Lord feel better after--after his excitement to-day?" she asked. "Dorothy, you have made me a whole man again. I could walk to Windsor and back." "You must have your dinner, or your supper first, sir," she answered gayly, "and do you rest quiet until I come back to feed you. Oh, Richard dear," she cried, "how delightful that you should be the helpless one, and dependent on me!" As I lay listening for the rustle of her gown, the minutes dragged eternally. Every word and gesture of the morning passed before my mind, and the touch of her lips still burned on my forehead. At last, when I was getting fairly restless, the distant tones of a voice, deep and reverberating, smote upon my ear, jarring painfully some long-forgotten chord. That voice belonged to but one man alive, and yet I could not name him. Even as I strained, the tones drew nearer, and they were mixed with sweeter ones I knew well, and Dorothy's mother's voice. Whilst I was still searching, the door opened, the voices fell calm, and Dorothy came in bearing a candle in each hand. As she set them down on the table, I saw an agitation in her face, which she strove to hide as she addressed me. "Will you see a visitor, Richard?" "A visitor!" I repeated, with misgiving. 'Twas not so she had announced Comyn. "Will you see Mr. Allen?"-- "Mr. Allen, who was the rector of St. Anne's? Mr. Allen in London, and here?" "Yes." Her breath seemed to catch at the word. "He says he must see you, dear, and will not be denied. How he discovered you were with us I know not." "See him!" I cried. "And I had but the half of my strength I would fling him downstairs, and into the kennel. Will you tell him so for me, Dorothy?" And I raised up in bed, shaken with anger against the man. In a trice she was holding me, fearfully. "Richard, Richard, you will open your wound. I pray you be quiet." "And Mr. Allen has the impudence to ask to see me!" "Listen, Richard. Your anger makes you forget many things. Remember that he is a dangerous man, and now that he knows you are in London he holds your liberty, perhaps your life, in his hands." It was true. And not mine alone, but the lives and liberty of others. "Do you know what he wishes, Dorothy?" "No, he will not tell us. But he is greatly excited, and says he must see you at once, for your own good. For your own good, Richard!" "I do not trust the villain, but he may come in," I said, at length. She gave me the one lingering, anxious look, and opened the door. Never had I beheld such a change in mortal man as there was in Mr. Allen, my old tutor, and rector of St. Anne's. And 'twas a baffling, intangible change. 'Twas as if the mask bad been torn from his face, for he was now just a plain adventurer that need not have imposed upon a soul. The coarse wine and coarse food of the lower coffee-houses of London had replaced the rich and abundant fare of Maryland. The next day was become one of the terrors of his life. His clothes were of poor stuff, but aimed at the fashion. And yet--and yet, as I looked upon him, a something was in his face to puzzle me entirely. I had seen many stamps of men, but this thing I could not recognize. He stepped forward with all of his old confidence, and did not regard a farthing my cold stare. "'Tis like gone days to see you again, Richard," he cried. "And I perceive you have as ever fallen into the best of hands." "I am Mr. Carvel to my enemies, if they must speak to me at all," I said. "But, my dear fellow, I am not your enemy, or I should not be here this day. And presently I shall prove that same." He took snuff. "But first I must congratulate you on coming alive out of that great battle off Flamborough. You look as though you had been very near to death, my lad. A deal nearer than I should care to get." What to say to the man! What to do save to knock him down, and I could not do that. "There can be no passing the time of day between you and me, Mr. Allen," I answered hotly. "You, whose machinations have come as near to ruining me as a man's can." "And that was your own fault, my dear sir," said he, as he brushed himself. "You never showed me a whit of consideration, which is very dear to men in my position." My head swam. Then I saw Dolly by the door regarding me curiously, with something of a smile upon her lips, but anxiety still in her eyes. With a "by your leave, ma'am," to her, Mr. Allen took the chair abreast me. "You have but to call me when you wish, Richard," said she. "Nay, Dorothy, Mr. Allen can have nothing to say to me that you may not hear," I said instantly. "And you will do me a favour to remain." She sat down without a word, where I could look at her. Mr. Allen raised his eyebrows at the revelation in our talk, but by the grace of God he kept his mouth shut. "And now, Mr. Allen," I said, "to what do I owe the pain of this visit?" "The pain!" he exclaimed, and threw back his head and gave way to a fit of laughter. "By the mass! your politeness drowns me. But I like you, Richard, as I have said more than once. I believe your brutal straight-dealing has more to do with my predilection than aught else. For I have seen a deal of rogues in my day." "And they have seen a deal of you, Mr. Allen." "So they have," he cried, and laughed the more. "Egad, Miss Dorothy, you have saved all of him, I think." Then he swung round upon me, very careless. "Has your Uncle Grafton called to express his sympathies, Richard?" he asked. That name brought a cry out of my head, Dolly seizing the arm of her chair. "Grafton Carvel in London?" I exclaimed. "Ay, in very pretty lodgings in Jermyn Street, for he has put by enough, I'll warrant you, despite the loss of his lands. Your aunt is with him, and his dutiful son, Philip, now broken of his rank in the English army. They arrived, before yesterday, from New York." "And to what is this an introduction?" I demanded. "I merely thought it strange," said Mr. Allen, imperturbably, "that he had not called to inquire after his nephew's health." Dolly was staring at him, with eyes wide open. "And pray, how did he discover I was in London, sir?" I said. "I was about to ask how you knew of it, but that is one and the same thing." He shot at me a look not to be solved. "It is not well to bite the hand that lifts you out of the fire, Richard," said he. "You had not gained admission to this house were I not on my back, Mr. Allen." "And that same circumstance is a blessing for you," he cried. 'Twas then I saw Dorothy making me mute signals of appeal. "I cannot think why you are here, Mr. Allen," I said. "When you consider all the harm you have done me, and all the double-dealing I may lay at your door, can you blame me for my feelings?" "No," he answered, with more soberness than he had yet used; "I honour you for them. And perchance I am here to atone for some of that harm. For I like you, my lad, and that's God's truth." "All this is neither here nor there, Mr. Allen," I exclaimed, wholly out of patience. "If you have come with a message, let me have it. If not, I beg you get out of my sight, for I have neither the will nor the desire for palavering." "Oh, Richard, do keep your temper!" implored Dorothy. "Can you not see that Mr. Allen desires to do us--to do you--a service?" "Of that I am not so sure," I replied. "It is his way, Miss Manners," said the rector, "and I hold it not against him. To speak truth, I looked for a worse reception, and came steeled to withstand it. And had my skin been thin, I had left ere now." He took more snuff. "It was Mr. Dix," he said to me slowly, "who informed Mr. Carvel of your presence in London." "And how the devil did Mr. Dix know?" He did not reply, but glanced apprehensively at Dorothy. And I have wondered since at his consideration. "Miss Manners may not wish to hear," he said uneasily. "Miss Manners hears all that concerns me," I answered. He shrugged his shoulders in comprehension. "It was Mr. Manners, then, who went to Mr. Dix, and told him under the pledge of secrecy." Not a sound came from Dorothy, nor did I dare to look at her face. The whole matter was clear to me now. After his conversation with me, Mr. Marmaduke had lost no time in seeing Mr. Dix, in order to raise money on my prospects. And the man of business had gone straight to Grafton with the intelligence. The suspicion flashed through me that Mr. Allen had been sent to spy, but his very next words disarmed it. "And now, Richard," he continued, "before I say what I have come to say, and since you cannot now prosecute me, I mean to confess to you something which you probably know almost to a certainty. I was in the plot to carry you off and deprive you of your fortune. I have been paid for it, though not very handsomely. Fears for my own safety alone kept me from telling you and Mr. Swain. And I swear to you that I was sorry for the venture almost before I had embarked, and ere I had received a shilling. The scheme was laid out before I took you for a pupil; indeed, that was part of it, as you no doubt have guessed. As God hears me, I learned to love you, Richard, in those days at the rectory. You were all of a man, and such an one as I might have hoped to be had I been born like you. You said what you chose, and spoke from your own convictions, and catered to no one. You did not whine when the luck went against you, but lost like a gentleman, and thought no more of it. You had no fear of the devil himself. Why should you? While your cousin Philip, with his parrot talk and sneaking ways, turned my stomach. I was sick of him, and sick of Grafton, I tell you. But dread of your uncle drove me on, and I had debts to frighten me." He paused. "Twas with a strange medley of emotions I looked at him. And Dorothy, too, was leaning forward, her lips parted and her eyes riveted upon his face. "Oh, I am speaking the truth," he said bitterly. "And I assume no virtue for the little justice it remains in my power to do. It is the lot of my life that I must be false to some one always, and even now I am false to your uncle. Yes, I am come to do justice, and 'tis a strange errand for me. I know that estates have been restored to you by the Maryland Legislature, Richard, and I believe in my heart that you will win this war." Here he fetched a memorandum from his pocket. "But to make you secure," said he, "in the year 1710, and on the 9th of March, old style, your great-grandfather, Mr. George Carvel, drew up a document entailing the lands of Carvel Hall. By this they legally pass to you." "The family settlement Mr. Swain suspected!" I exclaimed. "Just so," he answered. "And what am I to pay for this information?" I asked. Hardly were the words spoken, when Dorothy ran to my bedside, and seizing my hand, faced him. "He--he is not well, Mr. Allen," she cried. The rector had risen, and stood gazing down at us with the whole of his life written on his face. That look was fearful to see, and all of hell was expressed therein. For what is hell if it is not hope dead and buried, and galling regret for what might have been? With mine own great happiness so contrasted against his torture, my heart melted. "I am not well, indeed, Mr. Allen," I said. "God knows how hard it is for me to forgive, but I forgive you this night." One brief instant he stared at me, and then tumbled suddenly down into his chair, his head falling forward on his arms. And the long sobs by which his frame was shaken awed our very souls. Dorothy drew back against me, clasping my shoulder, the tears wet upon her cheeks. What we looked on, there in the candlelight, was the Revelation itself. How long it, endured none of us might say. And when at last he raised his face, it was haggard and worn in truth, but the evil of it seemed to have fled. Again and again he strove to speak. The words would not obey. And when he had mastered himself, his voice was shattered and gone. "Richard, I have sinned heavily in my time, and preached God's holy word with a sneer and unbelief in my heart. He knows what I have suffered, and what I shall yet suffer before His judgment comes for us all. But I beg it is no sin to pray to Him for your happiness and Miss Dorothy's." He stumbled there, and paused, and then continued with more steadiness: "I came here to-night to betray you, and might have gone hence to your uncle to claim my pieces of silver. I remain to tell you that Grafton has an appointment at nine with his Majesty's chief Secretary of State. I need not mention his motives, nor dwell upon your peril. For the King's sentiments toward Paul Jones are well known. You must leave London without delay, and so must Mr. Manners and his family." Is it the generations which decide? When I remember bow Dorothy behaved that night, I think so. Scarce had the rector ceased when she had released me and was standing erect before him. Pity was in her eyes, but in her face that courage which danger itself begets in heroic women. "You have acted a noble part this day, Mr. Allen," she said, "to atone for the wrongs you have done Richard. May God forgive you, and make you happier than you have been!" He struggled to his feet, listening as to a benediction. Then, with a single glance to give me confidence, she was gone. And for a minute there was silence between us. "How may you be directed to?" I asked. He leaped as out of a trance. "Just 'the world,' Richard," said he. "For I am adrift again, and not very like to find a harbour, now." "You were to have been paid for this, Mr. Allen," I replied. "And a man must live." "A man must live!" he cried. "The devil coined that line, and made it some men's history." "I have you on my conscience, Mr. Allen," I went on, "for I have been at fault as well as you. I might have treated you better, even as you have said. And I command you to assign a place in London whence you may be reached." "A letter to the Mitre coffee-house will be delivered," he said. "You shall receive it," I answered. "And now I bid you good-by, and thank you." He seized and held my hand. Then walked blindly to the door and turned abruptly. "I do not tell you that I shall change my life, Richard, for I have said that too many times before. Indeed, I warn you that any money you may send will be spent in drink, and--and worse. I will be no hypocrite to you. But I believe that I am better this hour than I have been since last I knelt at my mother's knee in the little Oxfordshire cottage where I was born." When Dorothy returned to me, there was neither haste in her step nor excitement in her voice. Her very coolness inspired me. "Do you feel strong enough for a journey, Richard?" she asked. "To the world's end, Dolly, if you will but go with me." She smiled faintly. "I have sent off for my Lord and Mr. Fox, and pray that one of them may be here presently." Scarcely greater were the visible signs of apprehension upon Mrs. Manners. Her first care, and Dorothy's, was to catechise me most particularly on my state. And whilst they were so occupied Mr. Marmaduke entered, wholly frenzied from fright, and utterly oblivious to his own blame in the matter. He was sent out again directly. After that, with Aunt Lucy to assist, they hurriedly packed what few things might be taken. The costly relics of Arlington Street were untouched, and the French clock was left on the mantel to tick all the night, and for days to come, in a silent and forsaken room; or perhaps to greet impassively the King's officers when they broke in at the door. But I caught my lady in the act of wrapping up the Wedgwood cups and dishes. In the midst of these preparations Mr. Fox was heard without, and was met at the door by Dorothy. Two sentences sufficed her to tell him what had occurred, and two seconds for this man of action to make his decision. "In an hour you shall have travelling chaises here, Dorothy," he said. "You must go to Portsmouth, and take ship for Lisbon. And if Jack does not arrive, I will go with you." "No, Charles, you must not!" she cried, her emotion conquering her for the nonce. "That might be to ruin your career, and perchance to lose your life. And suppose we were to escape, what would they say of you!" "Fish!" Charles retorted, to hide some feelings of his own; "once our rebel is out of the country, they may speak their minds. They have never lacked for names to call me, and I have been dubbed a traitor before now, my dear lady." He stepped hastily to the bed, and laid his hand on me with affection. "Charles," I said, "this is all of a piece with your old recklessness. You were ever one to take any risk, but I will not hear of such a venture as this. Do you think I will allow the hope of all England to be staked for a pirate? And would you break our commander of her rank? All that Dorothy need do at Portsmouth is to curtsey to the first skipper she meets, and I'll warrant he will carry us all to the antipodes." "Egad, but that is more practical than it sounds," he replied, with a glance of admiration at my lady, as she stood so tall before us. "She has a cool head, Richard Carvel, and a long head, and--and I'm thinking you are to come out of this the best of all of us. You cannot get far off your course, my lad, with her at the helm." It was there his voice belied the jest in his words, and he left us with precipitation. They lifted me out of my sheets (I was appalled to discover my weakness), and bundled me with tender care in a dozen shawls and blankets. My feet were thrust into two pairs of heavy woollen stockings, and Dorothy bound her own silk kerchief at my throat, whispering anxious questions the while. And when her mother and mammy went from the room, her arms flew around my neck in a passion of solicitude. Then she ran away to dress for the journey, and in a surprising short time was back again, with her muff and her heavy cloak, and bending over me to see if I gave any signs of failure. Fifty and five minutes had been registered by the French clock, when the rattle of wheels and the clatter of hoofs sounded below, and Charles Fox panted up the stairs, muffled in a huge wrap-rascal. 'Twas he and Aunt Lucy carried me down to the street, Dorothy walking at my side, and propped me up in the padded corner of one of the two vehicles in waiting. This was an ample travelling-carriage with a lamp hanging from its top, by the light of which my lady tucked me in from head to foot, and then took her place next me. Aunt Lucy filled most of the seat opposite. The baggage was hoisted up behind, and Charles was about to slam the door, when a hackney-chaise turned the corner at a gallop and pulled up in the narrow street abreast, and the figure of my Lord Comyn suddenly leaped within the compass of the lanthorn's rays. He was dressed as for a ball, with only a thin rain-cloak over his shoulders, for the night was thick with mist. He threw at us a startled look that was a question. "Jack, Richard is to be betrayed to-night by his uncle," said Charles, shortly. "And I am taking them to Portsmouth to get them off for Lisbon." "Charles," said his Lordship, sternly, "give me that greatcoat." It was just the one time that ever I saw uncertainty on Mr. Fox's face. He threw an uneasy glance into the chaise. "I have brought money," his Lordship went on rapidly; "'Twas that kept me, for I guessed at something of this kind. Give me the coat, I say." Mr. Fox wriggled out of it, and took the oiled cape in return. "Thank you, Jack," he said simply, and stepped into the carriage. "Who is to mend my waistcoats now?" he cried. "Faith, I shall treasure this against you, Richard. Good-by, my lad, and obey your rebel general. Alas! I must even ask your permission to salute her." And he kissed the unresisting Dorothy on both her cheeks. "God keep the two of you," he said, "for I love you with all my heart." Before we could answer he was gone into the night; and my Lord, standing without, had closed the carriage door. And that was the last I saw of this noble man, the true friend of America, who devoted his glorious talents and his life to fighting the corruption that was rotting the greatness of England. He who was followed by the prayers of the English race was ever remembered in our own humble ones. CHAPTER LVII I COME TO MY OWN AGAIN 'Twas a rough, wild journey we made to Portsmouth, my dears, and I think it must have killed me had not my lady been at my side. We were no sooner started than she pulled the curtains and opened her portmanteau, which I saw was near filled with things for my aid and comfort. And I was made to take a spoonful of something. Never, I believe, was medicine swallowed with a greater willingness. Talk was impossible, so I lay back in the corner and looked at her; and now and anon she would glance at my face, with a troubled guess in her own as to how I might stand the night. For we were still in London. That I knew by the trot of our horses, and by the granite we traversed from time to time. But at length we rumbled over a bridge, there was a sharp call back from our post-boy to him of the chaise behind, and then began that rocking and pitching and swaying and creaking, which was to last the whole night long, save for the brief stops at the post-houses. After an hour of it, I was holding my breath against the lurches, like a sea-sick man against that bottomless fall of the ship's bows on the ocean. I had no pain,--only an over whelming exhaustion,--but the joy of her touch and her presence kept me from failing. And though Aunt Lucy dozed, not a wink of sleep did my lady get through all of those weary twelve hours. Always alert was she, solicitous beyond belief, scanning ever the dial of her watch to know when to give me brandy and physic; or reaching across to feel my temples for the fever. The womanliness of that last motion was a thing for a man to wonder at. But most marvellous of all was the instinct which told her of my chief sickening discomfort, --of the leathery, travelled smell of the carriage. As a relief for this she charged her pocket-napkin with a most delicate perfume, and held it to my face. When we drew up to shift horses, Jack would come to the door to inquire if there was aught she wanted, and to know how I was bearing up. And often Mrs. Manners likewise. At first I was for talking with them, but this Dorothy would not allow. Presently, indeed, it was beyond my power, and I could only smile feebly at my Lord when I heard Dolly asking him that the hostlers might be more quiet. Toward morning a lethargy fell upon me. Once I awoke when the lamp had burned low, to perceive the curtains drawn back, a black blotch of trees without, and the moonlight streaming in on my lady's features. With the crack of a whip I was off again. When next consciousness came, the tarry, salt smell of a ship was in my nostrils, and I knew that we were embarked. I lay in a clean bunk in a fair-sized and sun-washed cabin, and I heard the scraping of ropes and the tramp of feet on the deck above my head. Framed against the irregular glass of the cabin window, which was greened by the water beyond, Dorothy and my Lord stood talking in whispers. "Jack!" I said. At the sound they turned and ran toward me, asking how I felt. "I feel that words are very empty, Jack, to express such a gratitude as mine," I answered. "Twice you have saved me from death, you have paid my debts, and have been stanch to us both in our troubles. And--" The effort was beyond me, and I glanced appealingly at Dolly. "And it is to you, dear Jack," she finished, "it is to you alone that we owe the great joy of our lives." Her eyes were shining through her tears, and her smile was like the sun out of a rain-swept sky. His Lordship took one of her hands in his own, and one of mine. He scanned our faces in a long, lingering look. "You will cherish her, Richard," he said brokenly, "for her like is not to be found in this world. I knew her worth when first she came to London, as arrant a baggage as ever led man a dance. I saw then that a great love alone was needed to make her the highest among women, and from the night I fought with you at the Coffee House I have felt upon whom that love would fall. O thou of little faith," he cried, "what little I may have done has been for her. No, Richard, you do not deserve her, but I would rather think of her as your wife than that of any man living." I shall not dwell upon that painful farewell which wrung our hearts, and made us silent for a long, long while after the ship was tossing in the short seas of the Channel. Nor is it my purpose to tell you of that long voyage across the Atlantic. We reached Lisbon in safety, and after a week of lodgings in that city by the best of fortune got passage in a swift bark bound for Baltimore. For the Chesapeake commerce continued throughout the war, and kept alive the credit of the young nation. There were many excitements ere we sighted the sand-spits of Virginia, and off the Azores we were chased for a day and a night by a British sloop of war. Our captain, however, was a cool man and a seaman, and slipped through the cruisers lying in wait off the Capes very triumphantly. But the remembrance of those fair days at sea fills my soul with longing. The weather was mild and bright for the season, and morning upon morning two stout topmen would carry me out to a sheltered spot on the deck, always chosen by my lady herself. There I sat by the hour, swathed in many layers of wool, and tended by her hands alone. Every nook and cranny of our lives were revealed to the other. She loved to hear of Patty and my years at Gordon's, and would listen with bated breath to the stories of the Ranger and the Bonhomme Richard, and of that strange man whom we both loved, whose genius had made those cruises famous. Sometimes, in low voices, we talked of our future; but often, when the wind blew and the deck rocked and the sun flashed upon the waters, a silence would fall between us that needed no word to interpret. Mrs. Manners yielded to my wish for us all to go to Carvel Hall. It was on a sparkling morning in February that we sighted the familiar toe of Kent Island, and the good-natured skipper put about and made for the mouth of our river. Then, as of old, the white cupola of Carvel House gleamed a signal of greeting, to which our full hearts beat a silent response. Once again the great windmill waved its welcome, and the same memory was upon us both as we gazed. Of a hale old gentleman in the sheets of a sailing pinnace, of a boy and a girl on his knees quivering with excitement of the days to come. Dorothy gently pressed my hand as the bark came into the wind, and the boat was dropped into the green water. Slowly they lowered me into it, for I was still helpless, Dorothy and her mother and Aunt Lucy were got down, and finally Mr. Marmaduke stepped gingerly from the sea-ladder over the gunwale. The cutter leaped under the strong strokes up the river with the tide. Then, as we rounded the bend, we were suddenly astonished to see people gathered on the landing at the foot of the lawn, where they had run, no doubt, in a flurry at sight of the ship below. In the front of the group stood out a strangely familiar figure. "Why," exclaimed Dolly, "it is Ivie Rawlinson!" Ivie it was, sure enough. And presently, when we drew a little closer, he gave one big shout and whipped off the hat from his head; and off, too, came the caps from the white heads of Scipio and Chess and Johnson behind him. Our oars were tossed, Ivie caught our bows, and reached his hand to Dorothy. It was fitting that she should be the first to land at Carvel Hall. "'Twas yere bonny face I seed first, Miss Dolly," he cried, the tears coursing down the scars of his cheeks. "An' syne I kennt weel the young master was here. Noo God be praised for this blythe day, that Mr. Richard's cam to his ain at last!" But Scipio and Chess could only blubber as they helped him to lift me out, Dolly begging them to be careful. As they carried me up the familiar path to the pillared porch, the first I asked Ivie was of Patty, and next why he had left Gordon's. She was safe and well, despite the Tories, and herself had sent him to take charge of Carvel Hall as soon as ever Judge Bordley had brought her the news of its restoration to me. He had supplied her with another overseer. Thanks to the good judge and to Colonel Lloyd, who had looked to my interests since Grafton was fled, Ivie had found the old place in good order, all the negroes quiet, and impatient with joy against my arrival. It is time, my children, to bring this story to a close. I would I might write of those delicious spring days I spent with Dorothy at Carvel Hall, waited on by the old servants of my grandfather. At our whim my chair would be moved from one to another of the childhood haunts; on cool days we sat in the sun by the dial, where the flowers mingled their odours with the salt breezes off the Chesapeake; or anon, when it was warmer, in the summer-house my mother loved, or under the shade of the great trees on the lawn, looking out over the river. And once my lady went off very mysteriously, her eyes brimful of mischief, to come back with the first strawberries of the year staining her apron. We were married on the fifteenth of June, already an anniversary for us both, in the long drawing-room. General Clapsaddle was there from the army to take Dorothy in his arms, even as he had embraced another bride on the same spot in years gone by. She wore the wedding gown that was her mother's, but when the hour was come to dress her Aunt Lucy and Aunt Hester failed in their task, and it was Patty who performed the most of that office, and hung the necklace of pearls about her neck. Dear Patty! She hath often been with us since. You have heard your mothers and fathers speak of Aunt Patty, my dears, and they will tell you how she spoiled them when they went a-visiting to Gordon's Pride. Ere I had regained my health, the war for Independence was won. I pray God that time may soften the bitterness it caused, and heal the breach in that noble race whose motto is Freedom. That the Stars and Stripes and the Union Jack may one day float together to cleanse this world of tyranny! AFTERWORD The author makes most humble apologies to any who have, or think they have, an ancestor in this book. He has drawn the foregoing with a very free hand, and in the Maryland scenes has made use of names rather than of actual personages. His purpose, however poorly accomplished, was to give some semblance of reality to this part of the story. Hence he has introduced those names in the setting, choosing them entirely at random from the many prominent families of the colony. No one may read the annals of these men, who were at once brave and courtly, and of these women, who were ladies by nature as well as by birth, and not love them. The fascination of that free and hospitable life has been so strong on the writer of this novel that he closes it with a genuine regret and the hope that its perusal may lead others to the pleasure he has derived from the history of Maryland. As few liberties as possible have been taken with the lives of Charles James Fox and of John Paul Jones. The latter hero actually made a voyage in the brigantine 'John' about the time he picked up Richard Carvel from the Black Moll, after the episode with Mungo Maxwell at Tobago. The Scotch scene, of course, is purely imaginary. Accuracy has been aimed at in the account of the fight between the 'Bonhomme Richard' and the 'Serapis', while a little different arrangement might have been better for the medium of the narrative. To be sure, it was Mr. Mease, the purser, instead of Richard Carvel, who so bravely fought the quarter-deck guns; and in reality Midshipman Mayrant, Commodore Jones's aide, was wounded by a pike in the thigh after the surrender. No injustice is done to the second and third lieutenants, who were absent from the ship during the action. The author must acknowledge that the only good anecdote in the book and the only verse worth printing are stolen. The story on page concerning Mr. Garrick and the Archbishop of York may be found in Fitzgerald's life of the actor, much better told. The verse (in Chapter X) is by an unknown author in the Annapolis Gazette, and is republished in Mr. Elihu Riley's excellent "History of Annapolis." 
5369	----	RICHARD CARVEL By Winston Churchill Volume 5. XXVI. The Part Horatio played XXVII. In which I am sore tempted XXVIII. Arlington Street XXIX. I meet a very Great Young Man XXX. A Conspiracy XXXI. "Upstairs into the World" XXXII. Lady Tankerville's Drum-major XXXIII. Drury Lane CHAPTER XXVI THE PART HORATIO PLAYED The bailiff's business was quickly settled. I heard the heavy doors close at our backs, and drew a deep draught of the air God has made for all His creatures alike. Both the captain and I turned to the windows to wave a farewell to the sad ones we were leaving behind, who gathered about the bars for a last view of us, for strange as it may seem, the mere sight of happiness is often a pleasure for those who are sad. A coach in private arms and livery was in waiting, surrounded by a crowd. They made a lane for us to pass, and stared at the young lady of queenly beauty coming out of the sponging-house until the coachman snapped his whip in their faces and the footman jostled them back. When we were got in, Dolly and I on the back seat, Comyn told the man to go to Mr. Manners's. "Oh, no!" I cried, scarce knowing what I said; "no, not there!" For the thought of entering the house in Arlington Street was unbearable. Both Comyn and Dorothy gazed at me in astonishment. "And pray, Richard, why not'?" she asked. "Have not your old friends the right to receive you." It was my Lord who saved me, for I was in agony what to say. "He is still proud, and won't go to Arlington Street dressed like a bargeman. He must needs plume, Miss Manners." I glanced anxiously at Dorothy, and saw that she was neither satisfied nor appeased. Well I remembered every turn of her head, and every curve of her lip! In the meantime we were off through Cursitor Street at a gallop, nearly causing the death of a ragged urchin at the corner of Chancery Lane. I had forgotten my eagerness to know whence they had heard of my plight, when some words from Comyn aroused me. "The carriage is Mr. Horace Walpole's, Richard. He has taken a great fancy to you." "But I have never so much as clapped eyes upon him!" I exclaimed in perplexity. "How about his honour with whom you supped at Windsor? how about the landlord you spun by the neck? You should have heard the company laugh when Horry told us that! And Miss Dolly cried out that she was sure it must be Richard, and none other. Is it not so, Miss Manners?" "Really, my Lord, I can't remember," replied Dolly, looking out of the coach window. "Who put those frightful skulls upon Temple Bar?" Then the mystery of their coming was clear to me, and the superior gentleman at the Castle Inn had been the fashionable dabbler in arts and letters and architecture of Strawberry Hill, of whom I remembered having heard Dr. Courtenay speak, Horace Walpole. But I was then far too concerned about Dorothy to listen to more. Her face was still turned away from me, and she was silent. I could have cut out my tongue for my blunder. Presently, when we were nearly out of the Strand, she turned upon me abruptly. "We have not yet heard, Richard," she said, "how you got into such a predicament." "Indeed, I don't know myself, Dolly. Some scoundrel bribed the captain of the slaver. For I take it Mr. Walpole has told you I was carried off on a slaver, if he recalled that much of the story." "I don't mean that," answered Dolly, impatiently. "There is something strange about all this. How is it that you were in prison?" "Mr. Dix, my grandfather's agent, took me for an impostor and would advance me no money," I answered, hard pushed. But Dorothy had a woman's instinct, which is often the best of understanding. And I was beginning to think that a suspicion was at the bottom of her questions. She gave her head an impatient fling, and, as I feared, appealed to John Paul. "Perhaps you can tell me, captain, why he did not come to his friends in his trouble." And despite my signals to him he replied: "In truth, my dear lady, he haunted the place for a sight of you, from the moment he set foot in London." Comyn laughed, and I felt the blood rise to my face, and kicked John Paul viciously. Dolly retained her self-possession. "Pho!" says she; "for a sight of me! You seamen are all alike. For a sight of me! And had you not strength enough to lift a knocker, sir, --you who can raise a man from the ground with one hand?" "'Twas before his tailor had prepared him, madam, and he feared to disgrace you," the captain gravely continued, and I perceived how futile it were to attempt to stop him. "And afterward--" "And afterward?" repeated Dorothy, leaning forward. "And afterward he went to Arlington Street with Mr. Dix to seek Mr. Manners, that he might be identified before that gentleman. He encountered Mr. Manners and his Grace of Something." "Chartersea," put in Comyn, who had been listening eagerly. "Getting out of a coach," said the captain. "When was this?" demanded Dorothy of me, interrupting him. Her voice was steady, but the colour had left her face. "About three weeks ago." "Please be exact, Richard." "Well, if you must," said I, "the day was Tuesday, and the time about half an hour after two." She said nothing for a while, trying to put down an agitation which was beginning to show itself in spite of her effort. As for me, I was almost wishing myself back in the sponginghouse. "Are you sure my father saw you?" she asked presently. "As clearly as you do now, Dolly," I said. "But your clothes? He might have gone by you in such." "I pray that he did, Dorothy," I replied. But I was wholly convinced that Mr. Manners had recognized me. "And--and what did he say?" she asked. For she had the rare courage that never shrinks from the truth. I think I have never admired and pitied her as at that moment. "He said to the footman," I answered, resolved to go through with it now, "'Give the man a shilling.' That was his Grace's suggestion." My Lord uttered something very near an oath. And she spoke not a word more until I handed her out in Arlington Street. The rest of us were silent, too, Comyn now and again giving me eloquent glances expressive of what he would say if she were not present; the captain watching her with a furtive praise, and he vowed to me afterward she was never so beautiful as when angry, that he loved her as an avenging Diana. But I was uneasy, and when I stood alone with her before the house I begged her not to speak to her father of the episode. "Nay, he must be cleared of such an imputation, Richard," she answered proudly. "He may have made mistakes, but I feel sure he would never turn you away when you came to him in trouble--you, the grandson of his old friend, Lionel Carvel." "Why bother over matters that are past and gone? I would have borne an hundred such trials to have you come to me as you came to-day, Dorothy. And I shall surely see you again," I said, trying to speak lightly; "and your mother, to whom you will present my respects, before I sail for America." She looked up at me, startled. "Before you sail for America!" she exclaimed, in a tone that made me thrill at once with joy and sadness. "And are you not, then, to see London now you are here?" "Are you never coming back, Dolly?" I whispered; for I feared Mr. Marmaduke might appear at any moment; "or do you wish to remain in England always?" For an instant I felt her pressure on my hand, and then she had fled into the house, leaving me standing by the steps looking after her. Comyn's voice aroused me. "To the Star and Garter!" I heard him command, and on the way to Pall Mall he ceased not to rate Mr. Manners with more vigour than propriety. "I never liked the little cur, d--n him! No one likes him, Richard," he declared. "All the town knows how Chartersea threw a bottle at him, and were it not for his daughter he had long since been put out of White's. Were it not for Miss Dolly I would call him out for this cowardly trick, and then publish him." "Nay, my Lord, I had held that as my privilege," interrupted the captain, "were it not, as you say, for Miss Manners." His Lordship shot a glance at John Paul somewhat divided between surprise, resentment, and amusement. "Now you have seen the daughter, captain, you perceive it is impossible," I hastened to interpose. "How in the name of lineage did she come to have such a father?" Comyn went on. "I thank Heaven he's not mine. He's not fit to be her lackey. I would sooner twenty times have a profligate like my Lord Sandwich for a parent than a milk and water sop like Manners, who will risk nothing over a crown piece at play or a guinea at Newmarket. By G--, Richard," said his Lordship, bringing his fist against the glass with near force enough to break the pane, "I have a notion why he did not choose to see you that day. Why, he has no more blood than a louse!" I had come to the guess as soon as he, but I dared not give it voice, nor anything but ridicule. And so we came to the hotel, the red of departing day fading in the sky above the ragged house-line in St. James's Street. It was a very different reception we got than when we had first come there. You, my dears, who live in this Republic can have no notion of the stir and bustle caused by the arrival of Horace Walpole's carriage at a fashionable hotel, at a time when every innkeeper was versed in the arms of every family of note in the three kingdoms. Our friend the chamberlain was now humility itself, and fairly ran in his eagerness to anticipate Comyn's demands. It was "Yes, my Lord," and "To be sure, your Lordship," every other second, and he seized the first occasion to make me an elaborate apology for his former cold conduct, assuring me that had our honours been pleased to divulge the fact that we had friends in London, such friends as my Lord Comyn and Mr. Walpole, whose great father he had once had the distinction to serve as linkman, all would have been well. And he was desiring me particularly to comprehend that he had been acting under most disagreeable orders when he sent for the bailiff, before I cut him short. We were soon comfortably installed in our old rooms; Comyn had sent post-haste for Davenport, who chanced to be his own tailor, and for the whole army of auxiliaries indispensable to a gentleman's make-up; and Mr. Dix was notified that his Lordship would receive him at eleven on the following morning, in my rooms. I remembered the faithful Banks with a twinge of gratitude, and sent for him. And John Paul and I, having been duly installed in the clothes made for us, all three of us sat down merrily to such a supper as only the cook of the Star and Garter, who had been chef to the Comte de Maurepas, could prepare. Then I begged Comyn to relate the story of our rescue, which I burned to hear. "Why, Richard," said he, filling his glass, "had you run afoul any other man in London, save perchance Selwyn, you'd have been drinking the bailiff's triple-diluted for a month to come. I never knew such a brace of fools as he and Horry for getting hold of strange yarns and making them stranger; the wonder was that Horry told this as straight as he did. He has written it to all his friends on the Continent, and had he not been in dock with the gout ever since he reached town, he would have told it at the opera, and at a dozen routs and suppers. Beg pardon, captain," said he, turning to John Paul, "but I think 'twas your peacock coat that saved you both, for it caught Horry's eye through the window, as you got out of the chaise, and down he came as fast as he could hobble. "Horry had a little dinner to-day in Arlington Street, where he lives, and Miss Dorothy was there. I have told you, Richard, there has been no sensation in town equal to that of your Maryland beauty, since Lady Sarah Lennox. You may have some notion of the old beau Horry can be when he tries, and he is over-fond of Miss Dolly--she puts him in mind of some canvas or other of Sir Peter's. He vowed he had been saving this piece de resistance, as he was pleased to call it, expressly for her, since it had to do somewhat with Maryland. 'What d'ye think I met at Windsor, Miss Manners?' he cries, before we had begun the second course. "'Perhaps a repulse from his Majesty,' says Dolly, promptly. "'Nay,' says Mr. Walpole, making a face, for he hates a laugh at his cost; nothing less than a young American giant, with the attire of Dr. Benjamin Franklin and the manner of the Fauxbourg Saint Germain. But he had a whiff of deer leather about him, and shoulders and back and legs to make his fortune at Hockley in the Hole, had he lived two generations since. And he had with him a strange, Scotch sea-captain, who had rescued him from pirates, bless you, no less. That is, he said he was a sea-captain; but he talked French like a Parisian, and quoted Shakespeare like Mr. Burke or Dr. Johnson. He may have been M. Caron de Beaumarchais, for I never saw him, or a soothsayer, or Cagliostro the magician, for he guessed my name.' "'Guessed your name!' we cried, for the story was out of the ordinary. "'Just that,' answered he, and repeated some damned verse I never heard, with Horatio in it, and made them all laugh." John Paul and I looked at each other in astonishment, and we, too, laughed heartily. It was indeed an odd coincidence. His Lordship continued: "'Well, be that as it may,' said Horry, 'he was an able man of sagacity, this sea-captain, and, like many another, had a penchant for being a gentleman. But he was more of an oddity than Hertford's beast of Gevaudan, and was dressed like Salvinio, the monkey my Lord Holland brought back from his last Italian tour.'" I have laughed over this description since, my dears, and so has John Paul. But at that time I saw nothing funny in it, and winced with him when Comyn repeated it with such brutal unconsciousness. However, young Englishmen of birth and wealth of that day were not apt to consider the feelings of those they deemed below them. "Come to your story. Comyn," I cut in testily. But his Lordship missed entirely the cause of my displeasure. "Listen to him!" he exclaimed good-naturedly. "He will hear of nothing but Miss Dolly. Well, Richard, my lad, you should have seen her as Horry went on to tell that you had been taken from Maryland, with her head forward and her lips parted, and a light in those eyes of hers to make a man fall down and worship. For Mr. Lloyd, or some one in your Colony, had written of your disappearance, and I vow bliss Dorothy has not been the same since. Nor have I been the only one to remark it," said he, waving off my natural protest at such extravagance. "We have talked of you more than once, she and I, and mourned you for dead. But I am off my course again, as we sailors say, captain. Horry was describing how Richard lifted little Goble by one hand and spun all the dignity out of him, when Miss Manners broke in, being able to contain herself no longer. "'An American, Mr. Walpole, and from Maryland?' she demanded. And the way she said it made them all look at her. "'Assurement, mademoiselle,' replied Horry, in his cursed French; and perhaps you know him. He would gladden the heart of Frederick of Prussia, for he stands six and three if an inch. I took such a fancy to the lad that I invited him to sup with me, and he gave me back a message fit for Mr. Wilkes to send to his Majesty, as haughty as you choose, that if I desired him I must have his friend in the bargain. You Americans are the very devil for independence, Miss Manners! 'Ods fish, I liked his spirit so much I had his friend, Captain something or other--'and there he stopped, caught by Miss Manners's appearance, for she was very white. "'The name is Richard Carvel!' she cried. "'I'll lay a thousand it was!' I shouted, rising in my chair. And the company stared, and Lady Pembroke vowed I had gone mad. "'Bless me, bless me, here's a romance for certain!' cried Horry; 'it throws my "Castle of Otranto" in the shade' ("that's some damned book he has written," Comyn interjected). "You may not believe me, Richard, when I say that Miss Dolly ate but little after that, and her colour came and went like the red of a stormy sunset at sea. 'Here's this dog Richard come to spill all our chances,' I swore to myself. The company had been prodigiously entertained by the tale, and clamoured for more, and when Horry had done I told how you had fought me at Annapolis, and had saved my life. But Miss Manners sat very still, biting her lip, and I knew she was sadly vexed that you had not gone to her in Arlington Street. For a woman will reason thus," said his Lordship, winking wisely. "But I more than suspected something to have happened, so I asked Horry to send his fellow Favre over to the Star and Garter to see if you were there, tho' I was of three minds to let you go to the devil. You should have seen her face when he came back to say that you had been for three weeks in a Castle Yard sponging-house! Then Horry said he would lend me his coach, and when it was brought around Miss Manners took our breaths by walking downstairs and into it, nor would she listen to a word of the objections cried by my Lady Pembroke and the rest. You must know there is no stopping the beauty when she has made her mind. And while they were all chattering on the steps I jumped in, and off we drove, and you will be the most talked-of man in London to-morrow. I give you Miss Manners!" cried his Lordship, as he ended. We all stood to the toast, I with my blood a-tingle and my brain awhirl, so that I scarce knew what I did. CHAPTER XXVII IN WHICH I AM SORE TEMPTED "Who the devil is this John Paul, and what is to become of him?" asked Comyn, as I escorted him downstairs to a chair. "You must give him two hundred pounds, or a thousand, if you like, and let him get out. He can't be coming to the clubs with you." And he pulled me into the coffee room after him. "You don't understand the man, Comyn," said I; "he isn't that kind, I tell you. What he has done for me is out of friendship, as he says, and he wouldn't touch a farthing save what I owe him." "Cursed if he isn't a rum sea-captain," he answered, shrugging his shoulders; "cursed if I ever ran foul of one yet who would refuse a couple of hundred and call quits. What's he to do? Is he to live like a Lord of the Treasury upon a master's savings?" "Jack," said I, soberly, resolved not to be angry, "I would willingly be cast back in Castle Yard to-night rather than desert him, who might have deserted me twenty times to his advantage. Mr. Carvel has not wealth enough, nor I gratitude enough, to reward him. But if our family can make his fortune, it shall be made. And I am determined to go with him to America by the first packet I can secure." He clutched my arm with an earnestness to startle me. "You must not leave England now," he said. "And why?" "Because she will marry Chartersea if you do. And take my oath upon it, you alone can save her from that." "Nonsense!" I exclaimed, but my breath caught sharply. "Listen, Richard. Mr. Manners's manoeuvres are the talk of the town, and the beast of a duke is forever wining and dining in Arlington Street. At first people ridiculed, now they are giving credit. It is said," he whispered fearfully, "it is said that his Grace has got Mr. Manners in his power,--some question of honour, you understand, which will ruin him,--and that even now the duke is in a position to force the marriage." He leaned forward and searched me with his keen gray eyes, as tho' watching the effect of the intelligence upon me. I was, indeed, stunned. "Now, had she refused me fifty times instead of only twice," my Lord continued, "I could not wish her such a fate as that vicious scoundrel. And since she will not have me, I would rather it were you than any man alive. For she loves you, Richard, as surely as the world is turning." "Oh, no!" I replied passionately; "you are deceived by the old liking she has always had for me since we were children together." I was deeply touched by his friendship. "But tell me how that could affect this marriage with Chartersea. I believe her pride capable of any sacrifice for the family honour." He made a gesture of impatience that knocked over a candlestick. "There, curse you, there you are again!" he said, "showing how little you know of women and of their pride. If she were sure that you loved her, she would never marry Chartersea or any one else. She has had near the whole of London at her feet, and toyed with it. Now she has been amusing herself with Charles Fox, but I vow she cares for none of them. Titles, fame, estates, will not move her." "If she were sure that I loved her!" I repeated, dazed by what he was saying. "How you are talking, Comyn!" "Just that. Ah, how I know her, Richard! She can be reckless beyond notion. And if it were proved to her that you were in love with Miss Swain, the barrister's daughter, over whom we were said to have fought, she would as soon marry Chartersea, or March, or the devil, to show you how little she cared." "With Patty Swain!" I exclaimed. "But if she knew you did not care a rope's end for Patty, Mr. Marmaduke and his reputation might go into exile together," he continued, without heeding. "So much for a woman's pride, I say. The day the news of your disappearance arrived, Richard, she was starting out with a party to visit Lord Carlisle's seat, Castle Howard. Not a step would she stir, though Mr. Marmaduke whined and coaxed and threatened. And I swear to you she has never been the same since, though few but I know why. I might tell you more, my lad, were it not a breach of confidence." "Then don't," I said; for I would not let my feelings run. "Egad, then, I will!" he cried impetuously, "for the end justifies it. You must know that after the letter came from Mr. Lloyd, we thought you dead. I could never get her to speak of you until a fortnight ago. We both had gone with a party to see Wanstead and dine at the Spread Eagle upon the Forest, and I stole her away from the company and led her out under the trees. My God, Richard, how beautiful she was in the wood with the red in her cheeks and the wind blowing her black hair! For the second time I begged her to be Lady Comyn. Fool that I was, I thought she wavered, and my heart beat as it never will again. Then, as she turned away, from her hand slipped a little gold-bound purse, and as I picked it up a clipping from a newspaper fluttered out. 'Pon my soul, it was that very scandalous squib of the Maryland Gazette about our duel! I handed it back with a bow. I dared not look up at her face, but stood with my eyes on the ground, waiting. "'Lord Comyn,' says she, presently, with a quiver in her voice, 'before I give you a reply you must first answer, on your word as a gentleman, what I ask you.' "I bowed again. "'Is it true that Richard Carvel was in love with Miss Swain?' she asked." "And you said, Comyn," I broke in, unable longer to contain myself, "you said--" "I said: 'Dorothy, if I were to die to-morrow, I would swear Richard Carvel loved you, and you only.'" His Lordship had spoken with that lightness which hides only the deepest emotion. "And she refused you?" I cried. "Oh, surely not for that!" "And she did well," said my Lord. I bowed my head on my arms, for I had gone through a great deal that day, and this final example of Comyn's generosity overwhelmed me. Then I felt his hand laid kindly on my shoulder, and I rose up and seized it. His eyes were dim, as were mine. "And now, will you go to Maryland and be a fool?" asked his Lordship. I hesitated, sadly torn between duty and inclination. John Paul could, indeed, go to America without me. Next the thought came over me in a flash that my grandfather might be ill, or even dead, and there would be no one to receive the captain. I knew he would never consent to spend the season at the Star and Garter at my expense. And then the image of the man rose before me, of him who had given me all he owned, and gone with me so cheerfully to prison, though he knew me not from the veriest adventurer and impostor. I was undecided no longer. "I must go, Jack," I said sadly; "as God judges, I must." He looked at me queerly, as if I were beyond his comprehension, picked up his hat, called out that he would see me in the morning, and was gone. I went slowly upstairs, threw off my clothes mechanically, and tumbled into bed. The captain had long been asleep. By the exertion of all the will power I could command, I was able gradually to think more and more soberly, and the more I thought, the more absurd, impossible, it seemed that I, a rough provincial not yet of age, should possess the heart of a beauty who had but to choose from the best of all England. An hundred times I went over the scene of poor Comyn's proposal, nay, saw it vividly, as though the whole of it had been acted before me: and as I became calmer, the plainer I perceived that Dorothy, thinking me dead, was willing to let Comyn believe that she had loved me, and had so eased the soreness of her refusal. Perhaps, in truth, a sentiment had sprung up in her breast when she heard of my disappearance, which she mistook for love. But surely the impulse that sent her to Castle Yard was not the same as that Comyn had depicted: it was merely the survival of the fancy of a little girl in a grass-stained frock, who had romped on the lawn at Carvel Hall. I sighed as I remembered the sun and the flowers and the blue Chesapeake, and recalled the very toss of her head when she had said she would marry nothing less than a duke. Alas, Dolly, perchance it was to be nothing more than a duke! The bloated face and beady eyes and the broad crooked back I had seen that day in Arlington Street rose before me,--I should know his Grace of Chartersea again were I to meet him in purgatory. Was it, indeed, possible that I could prevent her marriage with this man? I fell asleep, repeating the query, as the dawn was sifting through the blinds. I awakened late. Banks was already there to dress me, to congratulate me as discreetly as a well-trained servant should; nor did he remind me of the fact that he had offered to lend me money, for which omission I liked him the better. In the parlour I found the captain sipping his chocolate and reading his morning Chronicle, as though all his life he had done nothing else. "Good morning, captain." And fetching him a lick on the back that nearly upset his bowl, I cried as heartily as I could: "Egad, if our luck holds, we'll be sailing before the week is out." But he looked troubled. He hemmed and hawed, and finally broke out into Scotch: "Indeed, laddie, y'ell no be leaving Miss Dorothy for me." "What nonsense has Comyn put into your head?" I demanded, with a stitch in my side; I am no more to Miss Manners than--" "Than John Paul! Faith, y'ell not make me believe that. Ah, Richard," said he, "ye're a sly dog. You and I have been as thick these twa months as men can well live, and never a word out of you of the most sublime creature that walks. I have seen women in many countries, lad, beauties to set thoughts afire and swords a-play,--and 'tis not her beauty alone. She hath a spirit for a queen to covet, and air and carriage, too." This eloquent harangue left me purple. "I grant it all, captain. She has but to choose her title and estate." "Ay, and I have a notion which she'll be choosing." "The knowledge is worth a thousand pounds at the least," I replied. "I will lend you the sum, and warrant no lack of takers." "Now the devil fly off with such temperament! And I had half the encouragement she has given you, I would cast anchor on the spot, and they might hang and quarter me to move me. But I know you well," he exclaimed, his manner changing, "you are making this great sacrifice on my account. And I will not be a drag on your pleasures, Richard, or stand in the way of your prospects." "Captain Paul," I said, sitting down beside him, "have I deserved this from you? Have I shown a desire to desert you now that my fortunes have changed? I have said that you shall taste of our cheer at Carvel Hall, and have looked forward this long while to the time when I shall take you to my grandfather and say: 'Mr. Carvel, this is he whose courage and charity have restored you to me, and me to you.' And he will have changed mightily if you do not have the best in Maryland. Should you wish to continue on the sea, you shall have the Belle of the Wye, launched last year. 'Tis time Captain Elliott took to his pension." The captain sighed, and a gleam I did not understand came into his dark eyes. "I would that God had given me your character and your heart, Richard," he said, "in place of this striving thing I have within me. But 'tis written that a leopard cannot change his spots." "The passage shall be booked this day," I said. That morning was an eventful one. Comyn arrived first, dressed in a suit of mauve French cloth that set off his fine figure to great advantage. He regarded me keenly as he entered, as if to discover whether I had changed my mind over night. And I saw he was not in the best of tempers. "And when do you sail?" he cried. "I have no doubt you have sent out already to get passage." "I have been trying to persuade Mr. Carvel to remain in London, my Lord," said the captain. "I tell him he is leaving his best interests behind him." "I fear that for once you have undertaken a task beyond your ability, Captain Paul," was the rather tart reply. "The captain has a ridiculous idea that he is the cause of my going," I said quickly. John Paul rose somewhat abruptly, seized his hat and bowed to his Lordship, and in the face of a rain sallied out, remarking that he had as yet seen nothing of the city. "Jack, you must do me the favour not to talk of this in John Paul's presence," I said, when the door had closed. "If he doesn't suspect why you are going, he has more stupidity than I gave him credit for," Comyn answered gruffly. "I fear he does suspect," I said. His Lordship went to the table and began to write, leaving me to the Chronicle, the pages of which I did not see. Then came Mr. Dix, and such a change I had never beheld in mortal man. In place of the would-be squire I had encountered in Threadneedle Street, here was an unctuous person of business in sober gray; but he still wore the hypocritical smirk with no joy in it. His bow was now all respectful obedience. Comyn acknowledged it with a curt nod. Mr. Dix began smoothly, where a man of more honesty would have found the going difficult. "Mr. Carvel," he said, rubbing his hands, "I wish first to express my profound regrets for what has happened." "Curse your regrets," said Comyn, bluntly. "You come here on business. Mr. Carvel does not stand in need of regrets at present." "I was but on the safe side of Mr. Carvel's money, my Lord." "Ay, I'll warrant you are always on the safe side of money," replied Comyn, with a laugh. "What I wish to know, Mr. Dix," he continued, "is whether you are willing to take my word that this is Mr. Richard Carvel, the grandson and heir of Lionel Carvel, Esquire, of Carvel Hall in Maryland?" "I am your Lordship's most obedient servant," said Mr. Dix. "Confound you, sir! Can you or can you not answer a simple question?" Mr. Dix straightened. He may have spoken elsewhere of asserting his dignity. "I would not presume to doubt your Lordship's word." "Then, if I were to be personally responsible for such sums as Mr. Carvel may need, I suppose you would be willing to advance them to him." "Willingly, willingly, my Lord," said Mr. Dix, and added immediately: "Your Lordship will not object to putting that in writing? Merely a matter of form, as your Lordship knows, but we men of affairs are held to a strict accountability." Comyn made a movement of disgust, took up a pen and wrote out the indorsement. "There," he said. "You men of affairs will at least never die of starvation." Mr. Dix took the paper with a low bow, began to shower me with protestations of his fidelity to my grandfather's interests, which were one day to be my own,--he hoped, with me, not soon,--drew from his pocket more than sufficient for my immediate wants, said that I should have more by a trusty messenger, and was going on to clear himself of his former neglect and indifference, when Banks announced: "His honour, Mr. Manners!" Comyn and I exchanged glances, and his Lordship gave a low whistle. Nor was the circumstance without its effect upon Mr. Dix. With my knowledge of the character of Dorothy's father I might have foreseen this visit, which came, nevertheless, as a complete surprise. For a moment I hesitated, and then made a motion to show him up. Comyn voiced my decision. "Why let the little cur stand in the way?" he said; "he counts for nothing." Mr. Marmaduke was not long in ascending, and tripped into the room as Mr. Dix backed out of it, as gayly as tho' he had never sent me about my business in the street. His clothes, of a cherry cut velvet, were as ever a little beyond the fashion, and he carried something I had never before seen, then used by the extreme dandies in London,--an umbrella. "What! Richard Carvel! Is it possible?" he screamed in his piping voice. "We mourned you for dead, and here you turn up in London alive and well, and bigger and stronger than ever. Oons! one need not go to Scripture for miracles. I shall write my congratulations to Mr. Carvel this day, sir." And he pushed his fingers into my waistcoat, so that Comyn and I were near to laughing in his face. For it was impossible to be angry with a little coxcomb of such pitiful intelligence. "Ah, good morning, my Lord. I see your Lordship has risen early in the same good cause, I myself am up two hours before my time. You will pardon the fuss I am making over the lad, Comyn, but his grandfather is my very dear friend, and Richard was brought up with my daughter Dorothy. They were like brother and sister. What, Richard, you will not take my hand! Surely you are not so unreasonable as to hold against me that unfortunate circumstance in Arlington Street! Yes, Dorothy has shocked me. She has told me of it." Comyn winked at me as I replied:-- "We shan't mention it, Mr. Manners. I have had my three weeks in prison, and perhaps know the world all the better for them." He held up his umbrella in mock dismay, and stumbled abruptly into a chair. There he sat looking at me, a whimsical uneasiness on his face. "We shall indeed mention it, sir. Three weeks in prison, to think of it! And you would not so much as send me a line. Ah, Richard, pride is a good thing, but I sometimes think we from Maryland have too much of it. We shall indeed speak of the matter. Out of justice to me you must understand how it occurred. You must know that I am deucedly absentminded, and positively lost without my glass. And I had somebody with me, so Dorothy said. Chartersea, I believe. And his Grace made me think you were a cursed beggar. I make a point never to have to do with 'em." "You are right, Mr. Manners," Comyn cut in dryly; "for I have known them to be so persistently troublesome, when once encouraged, as to interfere seriously with our arrangements." "Eh!" Mr. Manners ejaculated, and then came to an abrupt pause, while I wondered whether the shot had told. To relieve him I inquired after Mrs. Manners's health. "Ah, to be sure," he replied, beginning to fumble in his skirts; "London agrees with her remarkably, and she is better than she has been for years. And she is overjoyed at your most wonderful escape, Richard, as are we all." And he gave me a note. I concealed my eagerness as I took it and broke the seal, to discover that it was not from Dorothy, but from Mrs. Manners herself. "My dear Richard" (so it ran), "I thank God with your dear Grandfather over y'r Deliverance, & you must bring y'r Deliverer, whom Dorothy describes as Courtly and Gentlemanly despite his Calling, to dine with us this very Day, that we may express to him our Gratitude. I know you are far too Sensible not to come to Arlington Street. I subscribe myself, Richard, y'r sincere Friend, "MARGARET MANNERS." There was not so much as a postscript from Dolly, as I had hoped. But the letter was whole-souled, like Mrs. Manners, and breathed the affection she had always had for me. I honoured her the more that she had not attempted to excuse Mr. Manners's conduct. "You will come, Richard?" cried Mr. Marmaduke, with an attempt at heartiness. "You must come, and the captain, too. For I hear, with regret, that you are not to be long with us." I caught another significant look from Comyn from between the window curtains. But I accepted for myself, and conditionally for John Paul. Mr. Manners rose to take his leave. "Dorothy will be glad to see you," he said. "I often think, Richard, that she tires of these generals and King's ministers, and longs for a romp at Wilmot House again. Alas," he sighed, offering us a pinch of snuff (which he said was the famous Number 37), "alas, she has had a deal too much of attention, with his Grace of Chartersea and a dozen others would to marry her. I fear she will go soon," and he sighed again. "Upon my soul I cannot make her out. I'll lay something handsome, my Lord, that the madcap adventure with you after Richard sets the gossips going. One day she is like a schoolgirl, and I blame myself for not taking her mother's advice to send her to Mrs. Terry, at Campden House; and the next, egad, she is as difficult to approach as a crowned head. Well, gentlemen, I give you good day, I have an appointment at White's. I am happy to see you have fallen in good hands, Richard. My Lord, your most obedient!" "He'll lay something handsome!" said my Lord, when the door had closed behind him. CHAPTER XXVIII ARLINGTON STREET The sun having come out, and John Paul not returning by two,--being ogling, I supposed, the ladies in Hyde Park,--I left him a message and betook myself with as great trepidation as ever to Dorothy's house. The door was opened by the identical footman who had so insolently offered me money, and I think he recognized me, for he backed away as he told me the ladies were not at home. But I had not gone a dozen paces in my disappointment when I heard him running after me, asking if my honour were Mr. Richard Carvel. "The ladies will see your honour," he said, and conducted me back into the house and up the wide stairs. I had heard that Arlington Street was known as the street of the King's ministers, and I surmised that Mr. Manners had rented this house, and its furniture, from some great man who had gone out of office, plainly a person of means and taste. The hall, like that of many of the great town-houses, was in semi-darkness, but I remarked that the stair railing was of costly iron-work and polished brass; and, as I went up, that the stone niches in the wall were filled with the busts of statesmen, and I recognized among these, that of the great Walpole. A great copper gilt chandelier hung above. But the picture of the drawing-room I was led into, with all its colours, remains in the eye of my mind to this day. It was a large room, the like of which I had never seen in any private residence of the New World, situated in the back of the house. Its balcony overlooked the fresh expanse of the Green Park. Upon its high ceiling floated Venus and the graces, by Zucchi; and the mantel, upon which ticked an antique and curious French clock, was carved marble. On the gilt panels of the walls were wreaths of red roses. At least a half-dozen tall mirrors, framed in rococos, were placed about, the largest taking the space between the two high windows on the park side. And underneath it stood a gold cabinet, lacquered by Martin's inimitable hand, in the centre of which was set a medallion of porcelain, with the head in dark blue of his Majesty, Charles the First. The chairs and lounges were marquetry,--satin-wood and mahogany,--with seats and backs of blue brocade. The floor was polished to the degree of danger, and on the walls hung a portrait by Van Dycke, another, of a young girl, by Richardson, a landscape by the Dutch artist Ruysdael, and a water-colour by Zaccarelli. I had lived for four months the roughest of lives, and the room brought before me so sharply the contrast between my estate and the grandeur and elegance in which Dorothy lived, that my spirits fell as I looked about me. In front of me was a vase of flowers, and beside them on the table lay a note "To Miss Manners, in Arlington Street," and sealed with a ducal crest. I was unconsciously turning it over, when something impelled me to look around. There, erect in the doorway, stood Dolly, her eyes so earnestly fixed upon me that I dropped the letter with a start. A faint colour mounted to her crown of black hair. "And so you have come, Richard," she said. Her voice was low, and tho' there was no anger in it, the tone seemed that of reproach. I wondered whether she thought the less of me for coming. "Can you blame me for wishing to see you before I leave, Dolly?" I cried, and crossed quickly over to her. But she drew a step backward. "Then it is true that you are going," said she, this time with a plain note of coldness. "I must, Dorothy." "When?" "As soon as I can get passage." She passed me and seated herself on the lounge, leaving me to stand like a lout before her, ashamed of my youth and of the clumsiness of my great body. "Ah, Richard," she laughed, "confess to your old play mate! I should like to know how many young men of wealth and family would give up the pleasures of a London season were there not a strong attraction in Maryland." How I longed to tell her that I would give ten years of my life to remain in England: that duty to John Paul took me home. But I was dumb. "We should make a macaroni of you to amaze our colony," said Dolly, lightly, as I sat down a great distance away; "to accept my schooling were to double your chances when you return, Richard. You should have cards to everything, and my Lord Comyn or Mr. Fox or some one would introduce you at the clubs. I vow you would be a sensation, with your height and figure. You should meet all the beauties of England, and perchance," she added mischievously, "perchance you might be taking one home with you." "Nay, Dolly," I answered; "I am not your match in jesting." "Jesting!" she exclaimed, "I was never more sober. But where is your captain?" I said that I hoped that John Paul would be there shortly. "How fanciful he is! And his conversation,--one might think he had acquired the art at Marly or in the Fauxbourg. In truth, he should have been born on the far side of the Channel. And he has the air of the great man," said she, glancing up at ms, covertly. "For my part, I prefer a little more bluntness." I was nettled at the speech. Dorothy had ever been quick to seize upon and ridicule the vulnerable oddities of a character, and she had all the contempt of the great lady for those who tried to scale by pleasing arts. I perceived with regret that she had taken a prejudice. "There, Dorothy," I cried, "not even you shall talk so of the captain. For you have seen him at his worst. There are not many, I warrant you, born like him a poor gardener's son who rise by character and ability to be a captain at three and twenty. And he will be higher yet. He has never attended any but a parish school, and still has learning to astonish Mr. Walpole, learning which he got under vast difficulties. He is a gentleman, I say, far above many I have known, and he is a man. If you would know a master, you should see him on his own ship. If you would know a gentleman, you have been with me in his mother's cottage." And, warming as I talked, I told her of that saddest of all homecomings to the little cabin under Criffel's height. Small wonder that I adored Dorothy! Would that I could paint her moods, that I might describe the strange light in her eyes when I had finished, that I might tell how in an instant she was another woman. She rose impulsively and took a chair at my side, and said:-- "'Tis so I love to hear you speak, Richard, when you uphold the absent. For I feel it is so you must champion me when I am far away. My dear old playmate is ever the same, strong to resent, and seeing ever the best in his friends. Forgive me, Richard, I have been worse than silly. And will you tell me that story of your adventures which I long to learn?" Ay, that I would. I told it her, and she listened silently, save only now and then a cry of wonder or of sympathy that sounded sweet to my ears,--just as I had dreamed of her listening when I used to pace the deck of the brigantine John, at sea. And when at length I had finished, she sat looking out over the Green Park, as tho' she had forgot my presence. And so Mrs. Manners came in and found us. It had ever pleased me to imagine that Dorothy's mother had been in her youth like Dorothy. She had the same tall figure, grace in its every motion, and the same eyes of deep blue, and the generous but well-formed mouth. A man may pity, but cannot conceive the heroism that a woman of such a mould must have gone through who has been married since early girlhood to a man like Mr. Manners. Some women would have been driven quickly to frivolity, and worse, but this one had struggled year after year to maintain an outward serenity to a critical world, and had succeeded, tho' success had cost her dear. Each trial had deepened a line of that face, had done its share to subdue the voice which had once rung like Dorothy's; and in the depths of her eyes lingered a sadness indefinable. She gazed upon me with that kindness and tenderness I had always received since the days when, younger and more beautiful than now, she was the companion of my mother. And the unbidden shadow of a thought came to me that these two sweet women had had some sadness in common. Many a summer's day I remembered them sewing together in the spring-house, talking in subdued voices which were hushed when I came running in. And lo! the same memory was on Dorothy's mother then, half expressed as she laid her hands upon my shoulders. "Poor Elizabeth!" she said,--not to me, nor yet to Dorothy; "I wish that she might have lived to see you now. It is Captain Jack again." She sighed, and kissed me. And I felt at last that I had come home after many wanderings. We sat down, mother and daughter on the sofa with their fingers locked. She did not speak of Mr. Manners's conduct, or of my stay in the sponging-house. And for this I was thankful. "I have had a letter from Mr. Lloyd, Richard," she said. "And my grandfather?" I faltered, a thickness in my throat. "My dear boy," answered Mrs. Manners, gently, "he thinks you dead. But you have written him?" she added hurriedly. I nodded. "From Dumfries." "He will have the letter soon," she said cheerfully. "I thank Heaven I am able to tell you that his health is remarkable under the circumstances. But he will not quit the house, and sees no one except your uncle, who is with him constantly." It was what I expected. But the confirmation of it brought me to my feet in a torrent of indignation, exclaiming: "The villain! You tell me he will allow Mr. Carvel to see no one?" She started forward, laying her hand on my arm, and Dorothy gave a little cry. "What are you saying, Richard? What are you saying?" "Mrs. Manners," I answered, collecting myself, "I must tell you that I believe it is Grafton Carvel himself that is responsible for my abduction. He meant that I should be murdered." Then Dorothy rose, her eyes flashing and her head high. "He would have murdered you--you, Richard?" she cried, in such a storm of anger as I had never seen her. "Oh, he should hang for the thought of it! I have always suspected Grafton Carvel capable of any crime!" "Hush, Dorothy," said her mother; "it is not seemly for a young girl to talk so." "Seemly!" said Dorothy. "If I were a man I would bring him to justice, and it took me a lifetime. Nay, if I were a man and could use a sword--" "Dorothy! Dorothy!" interrupted Mrs. Manners. Dorothy sat down, the light lingering in her eyes. She had revealed more of herself in that instant than in all her life before. "It is a grave charge, Richard," said Mrs. Manners, at length. "And your uncle is a man of the best standing in Annapolis." "You must remember his behaviour before my mother's marriage, Mrs. Manners." "I do, I do, Richard," she said sadly. "And I have never trusted him since. I suppose you are not making your accusation without cause?" "I have cause enough," I answered bitterly. "And proof?" she added. She should have been the man in her family. I told her how Harvey had overheard the bits of the plot at Carvel Hall near two years gone; and now that I had begun, I was going through with Mr. Allen's part in the conspiracy, when Dorothy startled us both by crying: "Oh, there is so much wickedness in the world, I wish I had never been born!" She flung herself from the room in a passion of tears to shock me. As if in answer to my troubled look, Mrs. Manners said, with a sigh: "She has not been at all well, lately, Richard. I fear the gayety of this place is too much for her. Indeed, I am sorry we ever left Maryland." I was greatly disturbed, and thought involuntarily of Comyn's words. Could it be that Mr. Manners was forcing her to marry Chartersea? "And has Mr. Lloyd said nothing of my uncle?" I asked after a while. "I will not deny that ugly rumours are afloat," she answered. "Grafton, as you know, is not liked in Annapolis, especially by the Patriot party. But there is not the slightest ground for suspicion. The messenger--" "Yes?" "Your uncle denies all knowledge of. He was taken to be the tool of the captain of the slaver, and he disappeared so completely that it was supposed he had escaped to the ship. The story goes that you were seized for a ransom, and killed in the struggle. Your black ran all the way to town, crying the news to those he met on the Circle and in West Street, but by the mercy of God he was stopped by Mr. Swain and some others before he had reached your grandfather. In ten minutes a score of men were galloping out of the Town Gate, Mr. Lloyd and Mr. Singleton ahead. They found your horse dead, and the road through the woods all trampled down, and they spurred after the tracks down to the water's edge. Singleton recalled a slaver, the crew of which had been brawling at the Ship tavern a few nights before. But the storm was so thick they could not see the ship's length out into the river. They started two fast sloops from the town wharves in chase, and your uncle has been moving heaven and earth to obtain some clew of you. He has put notices in the newspapers of Charlestown, Philadelphia, New York, and even Boston, and offered a thousand pounds reward." CHAPTER XXIX I MEET A VERY GREAT YOUNG MAN The French clock had struck four, and I was beginning to fear that, despite my note, the captain's pride forbade his coming to Mr. Manners's house, when in he walked, as tho' 'twere no novelty to have his name announced. And so straight and handsome was he, his dark eye flashing with the self-confidence born in the man, that the look of uneasiness I had detected upon Mrs. Manners's face quickly changed to one of surprise and pleasure. Of course the good lady had anticipated a sea-captain of a far different mould. He kissed her hand with a respectful grace, and then her daughter's, for Dorothy had come back to us, calmer. And I was filled with joy over his fine appearance. Even Dorothy was struck by the change the clothes had made in him. Mrs. Manners thanked him very tactfully for restoring me to them, as she was pleased to put it, to which John Paul modestly replied that he had done no more than another would under the same circumstances. And he soon had them both charmed by his address. "Why, Richard," said Dorothy's mother aside to me, "surely this cannot be your sea-captain!" I nodded merrily. But John Paul's greatest triumph was yet to come. For presently Mr. Marmaduke arrived from White's, and when he had greeted me with effusion he levelled his glass at the corner of the room. "Ahem!" he exclaimed. "Pray, my dear, whom have you invited to-day?" And without awaiting her reply, as was frequently his habit, he turned to me and said: "I had hoped we were to have the pleasure of Captain Paul's company, Richard. For I must have the chance before you go of clasping the hand of your benefactor." "You shall have the chance, at least, sir," I replied, a fiery exultation in my breast. "Mr. Manners, this is my friend, Captain Paul." The captain stood up and bowed gravely at the little gentleman's blankly amazed countenance. "Ahem," said he; "dear me, is it possible!" and advanced a step, but the captain remained immovable. Mr. Marmaduke fumbled for his snuff-box, failed to find it, halted, and began again, for he never was known to lack words for long: "Captain, as one of the oldest friends of Mr. Lionel Carvel, I claim the right to thank you in his name for your gallant conduct. I hear that you are soon to see him, and to receive his obligations from him in person. You will not find him lacking, sir, I'll warrant." Such was Mr. Marmaduke's feline ingenuity! I had a retort ready, and I saw that Mrs. Manners, long tried in such occasions, was about to pour oil on the waters. But it was Dorothy who exclaimed: "What captain! are you, too, going to Maryland?" John Paul reddened. "Ay, that he is, Dolly," I cut in hurriedly. "Did you imagine I would let him escape so easily? Henceforth as he has said, he is to be an American." She flashed at me such a look as might have had a dozen different meanings, and in a trice it was gone again under her dark lashes. Dinner was got through I know not how. Mr. Manners led the talk, and spoke more than was needful concerning our approaching voyage. He was at great pains to recommend the Virginia packet, which had made the fastest passage from the Capes; and she sailed, as was no doubt most convenient, the Saturday following. I should find her a comfortable vessel, and he would oblige me with a letter to Captain Alsop. Did Captain Paul know him? But the captain was describing West Indian life to Mrs. Manners. Dorothy had little to say; and as for me, I was in no very pleasant humour. I gave a deaf ear to Mr. Marmaduke's sallies, to speculate on the nature of the disgrace which Chartersea was said to hold over his head. And twenty times, as I looked upon Dolly's beauty, I ground my teeth at the notion of returning home. I have ever been slow of suspicion, but suddenly it struck me sharply that Mr. Manners's tactics must have a deeper significance than I had thought. Why was it that he feared my presence in London? As we made our way back to the drawing-room, I was hoping for a talk with Dolly (alas! I should not have many more), when I heard a voice which sounded strangely familiar. "You know, Comyn," it was saying, "you know I should be at the Princess's were I not so completely worn out. I was up near all of last night with Rosette." Mr. Marmaduke, entering before us, cried:-- "The dear creature! I trust you have had medical attendance, Mr. Walpole." "Egad!" quoth Horry (for it was he), "I sent Favre to Hampstead to fetch Dr. Pratt, where he was attending some mercer's wife. It seems that Rosette had got into the street and eaten something horrible out of the kennel. I discharged the footman, of course." "A plague on your dog, Horry," said my Lord, yawning, and was about to add something worse, when he caught sight of Dorothy. Mr. Walpole bowed over her hand. "And have you forgotten so soon your Windsor acquaintances, Mr. Walpole?" she asked, laughing. "Bless me," said Horry, looking very hard at me, "so it is, so it is. Your hand, Mr. Carvel. You have only to remain in London, sir, to discover that your reputation is ready-made. I contributed my mite. For you must know that I am a sort of circulating library of odd news which those devils, the printers, contrive to get sooner or later--Heaven knows how! And Miss Manners herself has completed your fame. Yes, the story of your gallant rescue is in all the clubs to-day. Egad, sir, you come down heads up, like a loaded coin. You will soon be a factor in Change Alley." And glancing slyly at the blushing Dolly, he continued: "I have been many things, Miss Manners, but never before an instrument of Providence. And so you discovered your rough diamond yesterday, and have polished him in a day. O that Dr. Franklin had profited as well by our London tailors! The rogue never told me, when he was ordering me about in his swan-skin, that he had a friend in Arlington Street, and a reigning beauty. But I like him the better for it." "And I the worse," said Dolly. "I perceive that he still retains his body-guard," said Mr. Walpole; "Captain--" "Paul," said Dolly, seeing that we would not help him out. "Ah, yes. These young princes from the New World must have their suites. You must bring them both some day to my little castle at Strawberry Hill." "Unfortunately, Mr. Walpole, Mr. Carvel finds that he must return to America," Mr. Marmaduke interjected. He had been waiting to get in this word. Comyn nudged me. And I took the opportunity, in the awkward silence that followed, to thank Mr. Walpole for sending his coach after us. "And pray where did you get your learning?" he demanded abruptly of the captain, in his most patronizing way. "Your talents are wasted at sea, sir. You should try your fortune in London, where you shall be under my protection, sir. They shall not accuse me again of stifling young genius. Stay," he cried, warming with generous enthusiasm, "stay, I have an opening. 'Twas but yesterday Lady Cretherton told me that she stood in need of a tutor for her youngest son, and you shall have the position." "Pardon me, sir, but I shall not have the position," said John Paul, coolly. And Horry might have heeded the danger signal. I had seen it more than once on board the brigantine John, and knew what was coming. "Faith, and why not, sir? If I recommend you, why not, sir?" "Because I shall not take it," he said. "I have my profession, Mr. Walpole, and it is an honourable one. And I would not exchange it, sir, were it in your power to make me a Gibbon or a Hume, or tutor to his Royal Highness, which it is not." Thus, for the second time, the weapon of the renowned master of Strawberry was knocked from his hand at a single stroke of his strange adversary. I should like to describe John Paul as he made that speech, --for 'twas not so much the speech as the atmosphere of it. Those who heard and saw were stirred with wonder, for Destiny lay bare that instant, just as the powers above are sometimes revealed at a single lightning-bolt. Mr. Walpole made a reply that strove hard to be indifferent; Mr. Marmaduke stuttered, for he was frightened, as little souls are apt to be at such times. But my Lord Comyn, forever natural, forever generous, cried out heartily:-- "Egad, captain, there you are a true sailor! Which would you rather have been, I say, William Shakespeare or Sir Francis?" "Which would you rather be, Richard," said Dolly to me, under her breath, "Horace Walpole or Captain John Paul? I begin to like your captain better." Willy nilly, Mr. Walpole was forever doing me a service. Now, in order to ignore the captain more completely, he sat him down to engage Mr. and Mrs. Manners. Comyn was soon hot in an argument with John Paul concerning the seagoing qualities of a certain frigate, every rope and spar of which they seemed to know. And so I stole a few moments with Dorothy. "You are going to take the captain to Maryland, Richard?" she asked, playing with her fan. "I intend to get him the Belle of the Tye. 'Tis the least I can do. For I am at my wits' end how to reward him, Dolly. And when are you coming back?" I whispered earnestly, seeing her silent. "I would that I knew, Richard," she replied, with a certain sadness that went to my heart, as tho' the choice lay beyond her. Then she changed. "Richard, there was more in Mr. Lloyd's letter than mamma told you of. There was ill news of one of your friends." "News!" She looked at me fixedly, and then continued, her voice so low that I was forced to bend over: "Yes. You were not told that Patty Swain fell in a faint when she heard of your disappearance. You were not told that the girl was ill for a week afterwards. Ah, Richard, I fear you are a sad flirt. Nay, you may benefit by the doubt,--perchance you are going home to be married." You may be sure that this intelligence, from Dorothy's lips, only increased my trouble and perplexity. "You say that Patty has been ill?" "Very ill," says she, with her lips tight closed. "Indeed, I grieve to hear of it," I replied; "but I cannot think that my accident had anything to do with the matter." "Young ladies do not send their fathers to coffee-houses to prevent duels unless their feelings are engaged," she flung back. "You have heard the story of that affair, Dorothy. At least enough of it to do me justice." She was plainly agitated. "Has Lord Comyn--" "Lord Comyn has told you the truth," I said; "so much I know." Alas for the exits and entrances of life! Here comes the footman. "Mr. Fox," said he, rolling the name, for it was a great one. Confound Mr. Fox! He might have waited five short minutes. It was, in truth, none other than that precocious marvel of England who but a year before had taken the breath from the House of Commons, and had sent his fame flying over the Channel and across the wide Atlantic; the talk of London, who set the fashions, cringed not before white hairs, or royalty, or customs, or institutions, and was now, at one and twenty, Junior Lord of the Admiralty--Charles James Fox. His face was dark, forbidding, even harsh--until he smiled. His eyebrows were heavy and shaggy, and his features of a rounded, almost Jewish mould. He put me in mind of the Stuarts, and I was soon to learn that he was descended from them. As he entered the room I recall remarking that he was possessed of the supremest confidence of any man I had ever met. Mrs. Manners he greeted in one way, Mr. Marmaduke in another, and Mr. Walpole in still another. To Comyn it was "Hello, Jack," as he walked by him. Each, as it were, had been tagged with a particular value. Chagrined as I was at the interruption, I was struck with admiration. For the smallest actions of these rare men of master passions so compel us. He came to Dorothy, whom he seemed not to have perceived at first, and there passed between them such a look of complete understanding that I suddenly remembered Comyn's speech of the night before, "Now it is Charles Fox." Here, indeed, was the man who might have won her. And yet I did not hate him. Nay, I loved him from the first time he addressed me. It was Dorothy who introduced us. "I think I have heard of you, Mr. Carvel," he said, making a barely perceptible wink at Comyn. "And I think I have heard of you, Mr. Fox," I replied. "The deuce you have, Mr. Carvel!" said he, and laughed. And Comyn laughed, and Dorothy laughed, and I laughed. We were friends from that moment. "Richard has appeared amongst us like a comet," put in the ubiquitous Mr. Manners, "and, I fear, intends to disappear in like manner." "And where is the tail of this comet?" demanded Fox, instantly; "for I understood there was a tail." John Paul was brought up, and the Junior Lord of the Admiralty looked him over from head to toe. And what, my dears, do you think he said to him? "Have you ever acted, Captain Paul?" The captain started back in surprise. "Acted!" he exclaimed; "really, sir, I do not know. I have never been upon the boards." Mr. Fox vowed that he could act: that he was sure of it, from the captain's appearance. "And I, too, am sure of it, Mr. Fox," cried Dorothy; clapping her hands. "Persuade him to stay awhile in London, that you may have him at your next theatricals at Holland House. Why, he knows Shakespeare and Pope and--and Chaucer by heart, and Ovid and Horace,--is it not so, Mr. Walpole?" "Is not what so, my dear young lady?" asked Mr. Walpole, pretending not to have heard. "There!" exclaimed Dolly, pouting, when the laughter had subsided; "you make believe to care something about me, and yet will not listen to what I say." I had seen at her feet our own Maryland gallants, the longest of whose reputations stretched barely from the James to the Schuylkill; but here in London men were hanging on her words whose names were familiarly spoken in Paris, and Rome, and Geneva. Not a topic was broached by Mr. Walpole or Mr. Fox, from the remonstrance of the Archbishop against masquerades and the coming marriage of my Lord Albemarle to the rights and wrongs of Mr. Wilkes, but my lady had her say. Mrs. Manners seemed more than content that she should play the hostess, which she did to perfection. She contrived to throw poisoned darts at the owner of Strawberry that started little Mr. Marmaduke to fidgeting in his seat, and he came to the rescue with all the town-talk at his command. He knew little else. Could Mr. Walpole tell him of this club of both sexes just started at Almack's? Mr. Walpole could tell a deal, tho' he took the pains first to explain that he was becoming too old for such frivolous and fashionable society. He could not, for the life of him, say why he was included. But, in spite of Mr. Walpole, John Paul was led out in the paces that best suited him, and finally, to the undisguised delight of Mr. Fox, managed to trip Horry upon an obscure point in Athenian literature. And this broke up the company. As we took our leave Dorothy and Mr. Fox were talking together with lowered voices. "I shall see you before I go," I said to her. She laughed, and glanced at Mr. Fox. "You are not going, Richard Carvel," said she. "That you are not, Richard Carvel," said Mr. Fox. I smiled, rather lamely, I fear, and said good night. CHAPTER XXX A CONSPIRACY "Banks, where is the captain?" I asked, as I entered the parlour the next morning. "Gone, sir, since seven o'clock," was the reply. "Gone!" I exclaimed; "gone where?" "Faith, I did not ask his honour, sir." I thought it strange, but reflected that John Paul was given to whims. Having so little time before him, he had probably gone to see the sights he had missed yesterday: the Pantheon, which was building, an account of which had appeared in all the colonial papers; or the new Blackfriars Bridge; or the Tower; or perhaps to see his Majesty ride out. The wonders of London might go hang, for all I cared. Who would gaze at the King when he might look upon Dorothy! I sighed. I bade Banks dress me in the new suit Davenport had brought that morning, and then sent him off to seek the shipping agent of the Virginia packet to get us a cabin. I would go to Arlington Street as soon as propriety admitted. But I had scarce finished my chocolate and begun to smoke in a pleasant revery, when I was startled by the arrival of two gentlemen. One was Comyn, and the other none less than Mr. Charles Fox. "Now where the devil has your captain flown to?" said my Lord, tossing his whip on the table. "I believe he must be sight-seeing," I said. "I dare swear he has taken a hackney coach to the Tower." "To see the liberation of the idol of the people, I'll lay ten guineas. But they say the great Mr. Wilkes is to come out quietly, and wishes no demonstration," said Mr. Fox. "I believe the beggar has some sense, if the--Greek--would only let him have his way. So your captain is a Wilkite, Mr. Carvel?" he demanded. "I fear you run very fast to conclusions, Mr. Fox," I answered, laughing, tho' I thought his guess was not far from wrong. "I'll lay you the ten guineas he has been to the Tower," said Mr. Fox, promptly. "Done, sir," said I. "Hark ye, Richard," said Comyn, stretching himself in an arm-chair; "we are come to take the wind out of your sails, and leave you without an excuse for going home. And we want your captain, alive or dead. Charles, here, is to give him a commission in his Majesty's Navy." Then I knew why Dorothy had laughed when I had spoken of seeing her again. Comyn--bless him!--had told her of his little scheme. "Egad, Charles!" cried his Lordship, "to look at his glum face, one might think we were a couple of Jews who had cornered him." Alas for the perversity of the heart! Instead of leaping for joy, as no doubt they had both confidently expected, I was both troubled and perplexed by this unlooked-for news. Oak, when bent, is even harder to bend back again. And so it has ever been with me. I had determined, after a bitter struggle, to go to Maryland, and had now become used to that prospect. I was anxious to see my grandfather, and to confront Grafton Carvel with his villany. And there was John Paul. What would he think? "What ails you, Richard?" Comyn demanded somewhat testily. "Nothing, Jack," I replied. "I thank you from my heart, and you, Mr. Fox. I know that commissions are not to be had for the asking, and I rejoice with the captain over his good fortune. But, gentlemen," I said soberly, "I had most selfishly hoped that I might be able to do a service to John Paul in return for his charity to me. You offer him something nearer his deserts, something beyond my power to give him." Fox's eyes kindled. "You speak like a man, Mr. Carvel," said he. "But you are too modest. Damn it, sir, don't you see that it is you, and no one else, who has procured this commission? Had I not been taken with you, sir, I should scarce have promised it to your friend Comyn, through whose interest you obtain it for your protege." I remembered what Mr. Fox's enemies said of him, and smiled at the plausible twist he had given the facts. "No," I said; "no, Mr. Fox; never that. The captain must not think that I wish to be rid of him. I will not stand in the way, though if it is to be offered him, he must comprehend that I had naught to do with the matter. But, sir," I continued curiously, "what do you know of John Paul's abilities as an officer?" Mr. Fox and Comyn laughed so immoderately as to bring the blood to my face. "Damme!" cried the Junior Lord, "but you Americans have odd consciences! Do you suppose Rigby was appointed Paymaster of the Forces because of his fitness? Why was North himself made Prime Minister? For his abilities?" And he broke down again. "Ask Jack, here, how he got into the service, and how much seamanship he knows." "Faith," answered Jack, unblushingly, "Admiral Lord Comyn, my father, wished me to serve awhile. And so I have taken two cruises, delivered some score of commands, and scarce know a supple jack from a can of flip. Cursed if I see the fun of it in these piping times o' peace, so I have given it up, Richard. For Charles says this Falkland business with Spain will blow out of the touch-hole." I could see little to laugh over. For the very rottenness of the service was due to the miserable and servile Ministry and Parliament of his Majesty, by means of which instruments he was forcing the colonies to the wall. Verily, that was a time when the greatness of England hung in the balance! How little I suspected that the young man then seated beside me, who had cast so unthinkingly his mighty powers on the side of corruption, was to be one of the chief instruments of her salvation! We were to fight George the Third across the seas. He was to wage no less courageous a battle at home, in the King's own capital. And the cause? Yes, the cause was to be the same as that of the Mr. Wilkes he reviled, who obtained his liberty that day. At length John Paul came in, calling my name. He broke off abruptly at sight of the visitors. "Now we shall decide," said Mr. Fox. "Captain, I have bet Mr. Carvel ten guineas you have been to the Tower to see Squinting Jack (John Wilkes) get his liberty at last." The captain looked astonished. "Anan, then, you have lost, Richard," said he. "For I have been just there." "And helped, no doubt, to carry off the champion on your shoulders," said Mr. Fox, sarcastically, as I paid the debt. "Mr. Wilkes knows full well the value of moderation, sir," replied the captain, in the same tone. "Well, damn the odds!" exclaimed the Junior Lord, laughing. "You may have the magic number tattooed all over your back, for all I care. You shall have the commission." "The commission?" "Yes," said Fox, carelessly; "I intend making you a lieutenant, sir, in the Royal Navy." The moment the words were out I was a-tremble as to how he would take the offer. For he had a certain puzzling pride, which flew hither and thither. But there was surely no comparison between the situations of the master of the Belle of the Wye and an officer in the Royal Navy. There, his talents would make him an admiral, and doubtless give him the social position he secretly coveted. He confounded us all by his answer. "I thank you, Mr. Fox. But I cannot accept your kindness." "Slife!" said Fox, "you refuse? And you know what you are doing?" "I know usually, sir." Comyn swore. My exclamation had something of relief in it. "Captain," I said, "I felt that I could not stand in the way of this. It has been my hope that you will come with me, and I have sent this morning after a cabin on the Virginia. You must know that Mr. Fox's offer is his own, and Lord Comyn's." "I know it well, Richard. I have not lived these three months with you for nothing." His voice seemed to fail him. He drew near me and took my hand. "But did you think I would require of you the sacrifice of leaving London now?" "It is my pleasure as well as my duty, captain." "No," he said, "I am not like that. Yesterday I went to the city to see a shipowner whose acquaintance I made when he was a master in the West India trade. He has had some reason to know that I can handle a ship. Never mind what. And he has given me the bark 'Betsy', whose former master is lately dead of the small-pox. Richard, I sail to-morrow." In Dorothy's coach to Whitehall Stairs, by the grim old palace out of whose window Charles the Martyr had walked to his death. For Dorothy had vowed it was her pleasure to see John Paul off, and who could stand in her way? Surely not Mr. Marmaduke! and Mrs. Manners laughingly acquiesced. Our spirits were such that we might have been some honest mercer's apprentice and his sweetheart away for an outing. "If we should take a wherry, Richard," said Dolly, "who would know of it? I have longed to be in a wherry ever since I came to London." The river was smiling as she tripped gayly down to the water, and the red-coated watermen were smiling, too, and nudging one another. But little cared we! Dolly in holiday humour stopped for naught. "Boat, your honour! Boat, boat! To Rotherhithe--Redriff? Two and six apiece, sir." For that intricate puzzle called human nature was solved out of hand by the Thames watermen. Here was a young gentleman who never heard of the Lord Mayor's scale of charges. And what was a shilling to such as he! Intricate puzzle, indeed! Any booby might have read upon the young man's face that secret which is written for all,--high and low, rich and poor alike. My new lace handkerchief was down upon the seat, lest Dolly soil her bright pink lutestring. She should have worn nothing else but the hue of roses. How the bargemen stared, and the passengers craned their necks, and the longshoremen stopped their work as we shot past them! On her account a barrister on the Temple Stairs was near to letting fall his bag in the water. A lady in a wherry! Where were the whims of the quality to lead them next? Past the tall water-tower and York Stairs, the idlers under the straight row of trees leaning over the high river wall; past Adelphi Terrace, where the great Garrick lived; past the white columns of Somerset House, with its courts and fountains and alleys and architecture of all ages, and its river gate where many a gilded royal barge had lain, and many a fine ambassador had arrived in state over the great highway of England; past the ancient trees in the Temple Gardens. And then under the new Blackfriars Bridge to Southwark, dingy with its docks and breweries and huddled houses, but forever famous,--the Southwark of Shakespeare and Jonson and Beaumont and Fletcher. And the shelf upon which they stood in the library at Carvel Hall was before my eyes. "Yes," said Dolly; "and I recall your mother's name written in faded ink upon the fly-leaves." Ah, London Town, by what subtleties are you tied to the hearts of those born across the sea? That is one of the mysteries of race. Under the pointed arches of old London Bridge, with its hooded shelters for the weary, to where the massive Tower had frowned for ages upon the foolish river. And then the forest of ships, and the officious throng of little wherries and lighters that pressed around them, seeming to say, "You clumsy giants, how helpless would you be without us!" Soon our own wherry was dodging among them, ships brought hither by the four winds of the seas; many discharging in the stream, some in the docks then beginning to be built, and hugging the huge warehouses. Hides from frozen Russia were piled high beside barrels of sugar and rum from the moist island cane-fields of the Indies, and pipes of wine from the sunny hillsides of France, and big boxes of tea bearing the hall-mark of the mysterious East. Dolly gazed in wonder. And I was commanded to show her a schooner like the Black Moll, and a brigantine like the John. "And Captain Paul told me you climbed the masts, Richard, and worked like a common seaman. Tell me," says she, pointing at the royal yard of a tall East Indiaman, "did you go as high as that when it was rough?" And, hugely to the boatman's delight, the minx must needs put her fingers on the hard welts on my hands, and vow she would be a sailor and she were a man. But at length we came to a trim-built bark lying off Redriff Stairs, with the words "Betsy, of London," painted across her stern. In no time at all, Captain Paul was down the gangway ladder and at the water-side, too hand Dorothy out. "This honour overwhelms me, Miss Manners," he said; "but I know whom to thank for it." And he glanced slyly at me. Dorothy stepped aboard with the air of Queen Elizabeth come to inspect Lord Howard's flagship. "Then you will thank me," said she. "Why, I could eat my dinner off your deck, captain! Are all merchantmen so clean?" John Paul smiled. "Not all, Miss Manners," he said. "And you are still sailing at the ebb?" I asked. "In an hour, Richard, if the wind holds good." With what pride he showed us over his ship, the sailors gaping at the fine young lady. It had taken him just a day to institute his navy discipline. And Dolly went about exclaiming, and asking an hundred questions, and merrily catechising me upon the run of the ropes. All was order and readiness for dropping down the stream when he led us into his cabin, where he had a bottle of wine and some refreshments laid out against my coming. "Had I presumed to anticipate your visit, Miss Manners, I should have had something more suitable for a lady," he said. "What, you will not eat, either, Richard?" I could not, so downcast had I become at the thought of parting. I had sat up half the night before with him in restless argument and indecision, and even when he had left for Rotherhithe, early that morning, my mind had not been made. My conscience had insisted that I should sail with John Paul; that I might never see my deaf grandfather on earth again. I had gone to Arlington Street that morning resolved to say farewell to Dorothy. I will not recount the history of that defeat, my dears. Nay, to this day I know not how she accomplished the matter. Not once had she asked me to remain, or referred to my going. Nor had I spoken of it, weakling that I was. She had come down in the pink lutestring, smiling but pale; and traces of tears in her eyes, I thought. From that moment I knew that I was defeated. It was she herself who had proposed going with me to see the Betsy sail. "I will drink some Madeira to wish you Godspeed, captain," I said. "What is the matter with you, Richard?" Dolly cried; "you are as sour as my Lord Sandwich after a bad Newmarket. Why, captain," said she, "I really believe he wants to go, too. The swain pines for his provincial beauty." Poor John Paul! He had not yet learned that good society is seldom literal. "Upon my soul, Miss Manners, there you do him wrong," he retorted, with ludicrous heat; "you, above all, should know for whom he pines." "He has misled you by praising me. This Richard, despite his frank exterior, is most secretive." "There you have hit him, Miss Manners," he declared; "there you have hit him! We were together night and day, on the sea and on the road, and, while I poured out my life to him, the rogue never once let fall a hint of the divine Miss Dorothy. 'Twas not till I got to London that I knew of her existence, and then only by a chance. You astonish me. You speak of a young lady in Maryland?" Dorothy swept aside my protest. "Captain," says she, gravely, "I leave you to judge. What is your inference, when he fights a duel about a Miss with my Lord Comyn?" "A duel!" cried the captain, astounded. "Miss Manners persists in her view of the affair, despite my word to the contrary," I put in rather coldly. "But a duel!" cried the captain again; "and with Lord Comyn! Miss Manners, I fondly thought I had discovered a constant man, but you make me fear he has had as many flames as I. And yet, Richard," he added meaningly, "I should think shame on my conduct and I had had such a subject for constancy as you." Dorothy's armour was pierced, and my ill-humour broken down, by this characteristic speech. We both laughed, greatly to his discomfiture. "You had best go home with him, Richard," said Dolly. "I can find my way back to Arlington Street alone." "Nay; gallantry forbids his going with me now," answered John Paul; "and I have my sailing orders. But had I known of this, I should never have wasted my breath in persuading him to remain." "And did he stand in need of much persuasion, captain?" asked Dolly, archly. Time was pressing, and the owner came aboard, puffing,--a round-faced, vociferous, jolly merchant, who had no sooner got his breath than he lost it again upon catching sight of Dolly. While the captain was giving the mate his final orders, Mr. Orchardson, for such was his name, regaled us with a part of his life's history. He had been a master himself, and mangled and clipped King George's English as only a true master might. "I like your own captain better than ever, Richard," whispered Dolly, while Mr. Orchardson relieved himself of his quid over the other side; "how commanding he is! Were I to take passage in the Betsy, I know I should be in love with him long before we got to Norfolk." I took it upon myself to tell Mr. Orchardson, briefly and clearly as I could, the lamentable story of John Paul's last cruise. For I feared it might sooner or later reach his ears from prejudiced mouths. And I ended by relating how the captain had refused a commission in the navy because he had promised to take the Betsy. This appeared vastly to impress him, and he forgot Dorothy's presence. "Passion o' my 'eart, Mr. Carvel," cried he, excitedly, "John Paul's too big a man, an' too good a seaman, to go into the navy without hinflooence. If flag horfocers I roots of is booted haside to rankle like a lump o' salt butter in a gallipot, 'ow will a poor Scotch lieutenant win hadvancement an' he be not o' the King's friends? 'Wilkes an' Liberty,' say I; 'forever,' say I. An' w'en I see 'im goin' to the Tower to be'old the Champion, 'Captain Paul,' says I, 'yere a man arfter my hown 'eart.' My heye, sir, didn't I see 'im, w'n a mere lad, take the John into Kingston 'arbour in the face o' the worst gale I hever seed blowed in the Caribbees? An' I says, 'Bill Horchardson, an' ye Never 'ave ships o' yere own, w'ich I 'ope will be, y'ell know were to look for a marster.' An' I tells 'im that same, Mr. Carvel. I means no disrespect to the dead, sir, but an' John Paul 'ad discharged the Betsy, I'd not 'a' been out twenty barrels or more this day by Thames mudlarks an' scuffle hunters. 'Eave me flat, if 'e'll be two blocks wi' liquor an' dischargin' cargo. An' ye may rest heasy, Mr. Carvel, I'll not do wrong by 'im, neither." He told me that if I would honour him in Maid Lane, Southwark, I should have as many pounds as I liked of the best tobacco ever cured in Cuba. And so he left me to see that the mate had signed all his lighter bills, shouting to the captain not to forget his cockets at Gravesend. Dolly and I stood silent while the men hove short, singing a jolly song to the step. With a friendly wave the round figure of Mr. Orchardson disappeared over the side, and I knew that the time had come to say farewell. I fumbled in my waistcoat for the repeater I had bought that morning over against Temple Bar, in Fleet Street, and I thrust it into John Paul's hand as he came up. "Take this in remembrance of what you have suffered so unselfishly for my sake, Captain Paul," I said, my voice breaking. "And whatever befalls you, do not forget that Carvel Hall is your home as well as mine." He seemed as greatly affected as was I. Tears forced themselves to his eyes as he held the watch, which he opened absently to read the simple inscription I had put there. "Oh, Dickie lad!" he cried, "I'll be missing ye sair three hours hence, and thinking of ye for months to come in the night watches. But something tells me I'll see ye again." And he took me in his arms, embracing me with such fervour that there was no doubting the sincerity of his feelings. "Miss Dorothy," said he, when he was calmer, "I give ye Richard for a leal and a true heart. Few men are born with the gift of keeping the affections warm despite absence, and years, and interest. But have no fear of Richard Carvel." Dorothy stood a little apart, watching us, her eyes that faraway blue of the deepening skies at twilight. "Indeed, I have no fear of him, captain," she said gently. Then, with a quick movement, impulsive and womanly, she unpinned a little gold brooch at her throat, and gave it to him, saying: "In token of my gratitude for bringing him back to us." John Paul raised it to his lips. "I shall treasure it, Miss Manners, as a memento of the greatest joy of my life. And that has been," gracefully taking her hand and mine, "the bringing you two together again." Dorothy grew scarlet as she curtseyed. As for me, I could speak never a word. He stepped over the side to hand her into the wherry, and embraced me once again. And as we rowed away he waved his hat in a last good-by from the taffrail. Then the Betsy floated down the Thames. CHAPTER XXXI "UPSTAIRS INTO THE WORLD" It will be difficult, my dears, without bulging this history out of all proportion, to give you a just notion of the society into which I fell after John Paul left London. It was, above all, a gaming society. From that prying and all-powerful God of Chance none, great or small, escaped. Guineas were staked and won upon frugal King George and his beef and barley-water; Charles Fox and his debts; the intrigues of Choiseul and the Du Barry and the sensational marriage of the Due d'Orleans with Madame de Montesson (for your macaroni knew his Paris as well as his London); Lord March and his opera singer; and even the doings of Betty, the apple-woman of St. James's Street, and the beautiful barmaid of Nando's in whom my Lord Thurlow was said to be interested. All these, and much more not to be repeated, were duly set down in the betting-books at White's and Brooks's. Then the luxury of the life was something to startle a provincial, even tho' he came, as did I, from one of the two most luxurious colonies of the thirteen. Annapolis might be said to be London on a small scale, --but on a very small scale. The historian of the future need look no farther than our houses (if any remain), to be satisfied that we had more than the necessities of existence. The Maryland aristocrat with his town place and his country place was indeed a parallel of the patrician at home. He wore his English clothes, drove and rode his English horses, and his coaches were built in Long Acre. His heavy silver service came from Fleet Street, and his claret and Champagne and Lisbon and Madeira were the best that could be bought or smuggled. His sons were often educated at home, at Eton or Westminster and Oxford or Cambridge. So would I have been if circumstances had permitted. So was James Fotheringay, the eldest of the family, and later the Dulany boys, and half a dozen others I might mention. And then our ladies! 'Tis but necessary to cite my Aunt Caroline as an extreme dame of fashion, who had her French hairdresser, Piton. As was my aunt to the Duchess of Kingston, so was Annapolis to London. To depict the life of Mayfair and of St. James's Street during a season about the year of grace 1770 demands a mightier pen than wields the writer of these simple memoirs. And who was responsible for all this luxury and laxity? Who but the great Mr. Pitt, then the Earl of Chatham, whose wise policy had made Britain the ruler of the world, and rich beyond compare. From all corners of the earth her wealth poured in upon her. Nabob and Caribbee came from East and West to spend their money in the capital. And fortunes near as great were acquired by the City merchants themselves. One by one these were admitted within that charmed circle, whose motto for ages had been "No Trade," to leaven it with their gold. And to keep the pace,--nay, to set it, the nobility and landed gentry were sore pressed. As far back as good Queen Anne, and farther, their ancestors had gamed and tippled away the acres; and now that John and William, whose forebears had been good tenants for centuries, were setting their faces to Liverpool and Birmingham and Leeds, their cottages were empty. So Lord and Squire went to London to recuperate, and to get their share of the game running. St. James's Street and St. Stephen's became their preserves. My Lord wormed himself into a berth in the Treasury, robbed the country systematically for a dozen of years, and sold the places and reversions under him to the highest bidder. Boroughs were to be had somewhat dearer than a pair of colours. And my Lord spent his spare time--he had plenty of it--in fleecing the pigeons at White's and Almack's. Here there was no honour, even amongst thieves. And young gentlemen were hurried through Eton and Oxford, where they learned to drink and swear and to call a main as well as to play tennis and billiards and to write Latin, and were thrust into Brooks's before they knew the difference in value between a farthing and a banknote: at nineteen they were hardened rake, or accomplished men of the world, or both. Dissipated noblemen of middle age like March and Sandwich, wits and beaus and fine gentlemen like Selwyn and Chesterfield and Walpole, were familiarly called by their first names by youngsters like Fox and Carlisle and Comyn. Difference of age was no difference. Young Lord Carlisle was the intimate of Mr. Selwyn, born thirty years before him. And whilst I am speaking of intimacies, that short one which sprang up between me and the renowned Charles Fox has always seemed the most unaccountable: not on my part, for I fell a victim to him at once. Pen and paper, brush and canvas, are wholly inadequate to describe the charm of the man. When he desired to please, his conversation and the expression of his face must have moved a temperament of stone itself. None ever had more devoted friends or more ardent admirers. They saw his faults, which he laid bare before them, but they settled his debts again and again, vast sums which he lost at Newmarket and at Brooks's. And not many years after the time of which I now write Lord Carlisle was paying fifteen hundred a year on the sum he had loaned him, cheerfully denying himself the pleasures of London as a consequence. It was Mr. Fox who discovered for me my lodgings in Dover Street, vowing that I could not be so out of fashion as to live at an inn. The brief history of these rooms, as given by him, was this: "A young cub had owned them, whose mamma had come up from Berkshire on Thursday, beat him soundly on Friday, paid his debts on Saturday, and had taken him back on Sunday to hunt with Sir Henry the rest of his life." Dorothy came one day with her mother and swept through my apartments, commanded all the furniture to be moved about, ordered me to get pictures for the walls, and by one fell decree abolished all the ornaments before the landlady, used as she was to the ways of quality, had time to gasp. "Why, Richard," says my lady, "you will be wanting no end of pretty things to take back to Maryland when you go. You shall come with me to-morrow to Mr. Josiah Wedgwood's, to choose some of them." "Dorothy!" says her mother, reprovingly. "And he must have the Chippendale table I saw yesterday at the exhibition, and chairs to match. And every bachelor should have a punch bowl--Josiah has such a beauty!" But I am running far ahead. Among the notes with which my table was laden, Banks had found a scrawl. This I made out with difficulty to convey that Mr. Fox was not attending Parliament that day. If Mr. Carvel would do him the honour of calling at his lodging, over Mackie's Italian Warehouse in Piccadilly, at four o'clock, he would take great pleasure in introducing him at Brooks's Club. In those days 'twas far better for a young gentleman of any pretensions to remain at home than go to London and be denied that inner sanctuary,--the younger club at Almack's. Many the rich brewer's son has embittered his life because it was not given him to see more than the front of the house from the far side of Pall Mall. But to be taken there by Charles Fox was an honour falling to few. I made sure that Dolly was at the bottom of it. Promptly at four I climbed the stairs and knocked at Mr. Fox's door. The Swiss who opened it shook his head dubiously when I asked for his master, and said he had not been at home that day. "But I had an appointment to meet him," I said, thinking it very strange. The man's expression changed. "An appointment, sir! Ah, sir, then you are to step in here." And to my vast astonishment he admitted me into a small room at one side of the entrance. It was bare as poverty, and furnished with benches, and nothing more. On one of these was seated a person with an unmistakable nose and an odour of St. Giles's, who sprang to his feet and then sat down again dejectedly. I also sat down, wondering what it could mean, and debating whether to go or stay. "Exguse me, your honour," said the person, "but haf you seen Mister Fox?" I said that I, too, was waiting for him, whereat he cast at me a cunning look beyond my comprehension. Surely, I thought, a man of Fox's inherited wealth and position could not be living in such a place! Before the truth and humour of the situation had dawned upon me, I heard a ringing voice without, swearing in most forcible English, and the door was thrown open, admitting a tall young gentleman, as striking as I have ever seen. He paid not the smallest attention to the Jew, who was bowing and muttering behind me. "Mr. Richard Carvel?" said he, with a merry twinkle in his eye. I bowed. "Gad's life, Mr. Carvel, I'm deuced sorry this should have happened. Will you come with me?" "Exguse me, your honour!" cried the other visitor. "Now, what the plague, Aaron!" says he; "you wear out the stairs. Come to-morrow, or the day after." "Ay, 'tis always 'to-morrow' with you fine gentlemen. But I vill bring the bailiffs, so help me--" "Damn 'em!" says the tall young gentleman, as he slammed the door and so shut off the wail. "Damn 'em, they worry Charles to death. If he would only stick to quinze and picquet, and keep clear of the hounds*, he need never go near a broker." [*"The "hounds," it appears, were the gentlemen of sharp practices at White's and Almack's.--D. C. C.] "Do you have Jews in America, Mr. Carvel?" Without waiting for an answer, he led me through a parlour, hung with pictures, and bewilderingly furnished with French and Italian things, and Japan and China ware and bronzes, and cups and trophies. "My name is Fitzpatrick, Mr. Carvel, --yours to command, and Charles's. I am his ally for offence and defence. We went to school together," he explained simply. His manner was so free, and yet so dignified, as to charm me completely. For I heartily despised all that fustian trumpery of the age. Then came a voice from beyond, calling:-- "That you, Carvel? Damn that fellow Eiffel, and did he thrust you into the Jerusalem Chamber?" "The Jerusalem Chamber!" I exclaimed. "Where I keep my Israelites," said he; "but, by Gad's life! I think they are one and all descended from Job, and not father Abraham at all. He must have thought me cursed ascetic, eh, Fitz? Did you find the benches hard? I had 'em made hard as the devil. But if they were of stone, I vow the flock could find their own straw to sit on." "Curse it, Charles," cut in Mr. Fitzpatrick, in some temper, "can't you be serious for once! He would behave this way, Mr. Carvel, if he were being shriven by the Newgate ordinary before a last carting to Tyburn. Charles, Charles, it was Aaron again, and the dog is like to snap at last. He is talking of bailiffs. Take my advice and settle with him. Hold Cavendish off another fortnight and settle with him." Mr. Fox's reply was partly a laugh, and the rest of it is not to be printed. He did not seem in the least to mind this wholesale disclosure of his somewhat awkward affairs. And he continued to dress, or to be dressed, alternately swearing at his valet and talking to Fitzpatrick and to me. "You are both of a name," said he. "Let a man but be called Richard, and I seem to take to him. I' faith, I like the hunchback king, and believe our friend Horry Walpole is right in defending him, despite Davie Hume. I vow I shall like you, Mr. Carvel." I replied that I certainly hoped so. "Egad, you come well enough recommended," he said, pulling on his breeches. "No, Eiffel, cursed if I go en petit maitre to-day. How does that strike you for a demi saison, Mr. Buckskin? I wore three of 'em through the customs last year, and March's worked olive nightgown tucked under my greatcoat, and near a dozen pairs of shirts and stockings. And each of my servants had on near as much. O Lud, we were amazing-like beef-eaters or blower pigeons. Sorry you won't meet my brother,--he that will have the title. He's out of town." Going on in this discursory haphazard way while he dressed, he made me feel much at home. For the young dictator--so Mr. Fitzpatrick informed me afterward--either took to you or else he did not, and stood upon no ceremony. After he had chosen a coat with a small pattern and his feet had been thrust into the little red shoes with the high heels, imported by him from France, he sent for a hackney-chaise. And the three of us drove together to Pall Mall. Mr. Brooks was at the door, and bowed from his hips as we entered. "A dozen vin de Graves, Brooks!" cries Mr. Fox, and ushers me into a dining room, with high curtained windows and painted ceiling, and chandeliers throwing a glitter of light. There, at a long table, surrounded by powdered lackeys, sat a bevy of wits, mostly in blue and silver, with point ruffles, to match Mr. Fox's costume. They greeted my companions uproariously. It was "Here's Charles at last!" "Howdy, Charles!" "Hello, Richard!" and "What have you there? a new Caribbee?" They made way for Mr. Fox at the head of the table, and he took the seat as though it were his right. "This is Mr. Richard Carvel, gentlemen, of Carvel Hall, in Maryland." They stirred with interest when my name was called, and most of them turned in their chairs to look at me. I knew well the reason, and felt my face grow hot. Although you may read much of the courtesy of that age, there was a deal of brutal frankness among young men of fashion. "Egad, Charles, is this he the Beauty rescued from Castle Yard?" A familiar voice relieved my embarrassment. "Give the devil his due, Bully. You forget that I had a hand in that." "Faith, Jack Comyn," retorted the gentleman addressed, "you're already famous for clinging to her skirt." "But cling to mine, Bully, and we'll all enter the temple together. But I bid you welcome, Richard," said his Lordship; "you come with two of the most delightful vagabonds in the world." Mr. Fox introduced me in succession to Colonel St. John, known in St. James's Street as the Baptist; to my Lord Bolingbroke, Colonel St. John's brother, who was more familiarly called Bully; to Mr. Fitzpatrick's brother, the Earl of Upper Ossory, who had come up to London, so he said, to see a little Italian dance at the Garden; to Gilly Williams; to Sir Charles Bunbury, who had married Lady Sarah Lennox, Fox's cousin, the beauty who had come so near to being queen of all England; to Mr. Storer, who was at once a Caribbee and a Crichton; to Mr. Uvedale Price. These I remember, but there are more that escape me. Most good-naturedly they drank my health in Charles's vin de grave, at four shillings the bottle; and soon I was astonished to find myself launched upon the story of my adventures, which they had besought me to tell them. When I had done, they pledged me again, and, beginning to feel at home, I pledged them handsomely in return. Then the conversation began. The like of it I have never heard anywhere else in the world. There was a deal that might not be written here, and a deal more that might, to make these pages sparkle. They went through the meetings, of course, and thrashed over the list of horses entered at Ipswich, and York, and Newmarket, and how many were thought to be pulled. Then followed the recent gains and losses of each and every individual of the company. After that there was a roar of merriment over Mr. Storer cracking mottoes with a certain Lady Jane; and how young Lord Stavordale, on a wager, tilted the candles and set fire to the drawing-room at Lady Julia's drum, the day before. Mr. Price told of the rage Topham Beauclerk had got Dr. Johnson into, by setting down a mark for each oyster the sage had eaten, and showing him the count. But Mr. Fox, who was the soul of the club, had the best array of any. He related how he had gone post from Paris to Lyons, to order, among other things, an embroidered canary waistcoat for George Selwyn from Jabot. "' Et quel dessin, monsieur?' 'Beetles and frogs, in green.' 'Escargots! grenouilles!' he cries, with a shriek; 'Et pour Monsieur Selwyn! Monsieur Fox badine!' It came yesterday, by Crawford, and I sent it to Chesterfield Street in time for George to wear to the Duchess's. He has been twice to Piccadilly after me, and twice here, and swears he will have my heart. And I believe he is now gone to Matson in a funk." After that they fell upon politics. I knew that Mr. Fox was already near the head of the King's party, and that he had just received a substantial reward at his Majesty's hands; and I went not far to guess that every one of these easy-going, devil-may-care macaronies was a follower or sympathizer with Lord North's policy. But what I heard was a revelation indeed. I have dignified it by calling it politics. All was frankness here amongst friends. There was no attempt made to gloss over ugly transactions with a veneer of morality. For this much I honoured them. But irresistibly there came into my mind the grand and simple characters of our own public men in America, and it made me shudder to think that, while they strove honestly for our rights, this was the type which opposed them. Motives of personal spite and of personal gain were laid bare, and even the barter and sale of offices of trust took place before my very eyes. I was silent, though my tongue burned me, until one of the gentlemen, thinking me neglected, said: "What a-deuce is to be done with those unruly countrymen of yours, Mr. Carvel? Are they likely to be pacified now that we have taken off all except the tea? You who are of our party must lead a sorry life among them. Tell me, do they really mean to go as far as rebellion?" The blood rushed to my face. "It is not a question of tea, sir," I answered hotly; "nor yet of tuppence. It is a question of principle, which means more to Englishmen than life itself. And we are Englishmen." I believe I spoke louder than I intended, for a silence followed my words. Fox glanced at Comyn, who of all of them at the table was not smiling, and said: "I thought you came of a loyalist family, Mr. Carvel." "King George has no more loyal servants than the Americans, Mr. Fox, be they Tory or Whig. And he has but to read our petitions to discover it," I said. I spoke calmly, but my heart was thumping with excitement and resentment. The apprehension of the untried is apt to be sharp at such moments, and I looked for them to turn their backs upon me for an impertinent provincial. Indeed, I think they would have, all save Comyn, had it not been for Fox himself. He lighted a pipe, smiled, and began easily, quite dispassionately, to address me. "I wish you would favour us with your point of view, Mr. Carvel," said he; "for, upon my soul, I know little about the subject." "You know little about the subject, and you in Parliament!" I cried. This started them all to laughing. Why, I did not then understand. But I was angry enough. "Come, let's have it!" said he. They drew their chairs closer, some wearing that smile of superiority which to us is the Englishman's most maddening trait. I did not stop to think twice, or to remember that I was pitted against the greatest debater in all England. I was to speak that of which I was full, and the heart's argument needs no logic to defend it. If it were my last word, I would pronounce it. I began by telling them that the Americans had paid their share of the French war, in blood and money, twice over. And I had the figures in my memory. Mr. Fox interrupted. For ten minutes at a space he spoke, and in all my life I have never talked to a man who had the English of King James's Bible, of Shakespeare, and Milton so wholly at his command. And his knowledge of history, his classical citations, confounded me. I forgot myself in wondering how one who had lived so fast had acquired such learning. Afterward, when I tried to recall what he said, I laughed at his surprising ignorance of the question at issue, and wondered where my wits could have gone that I allowed myself to be dazzled and turned aside at every corner. As his speech came faster he twisted fact into fiction and fiction into fact, until I must needs close my mind and bolt the shutters of it, or he had betrayed me into confessing the right of Parliament to quarter troops among us. Though my head swam, I clung doggedly to my text. And that was my salvation. He grew more excited, and they applauded him. In truth, I myself felt near to clapping. And then, as I stared him in the eye, marvelling how a man of such vast power and ability could stand for such rotten practices, the thought came to me (I know not whence) of Saint Paul the Apostle. "Mr. Fox," I said, when he had paused, "before God, do you believe what you are saying?" I saw them smiling at my earnestness and simplicity. Fox seemed surprised, and laughed evasively,--not heartily as was his wont. "My dear Mr. Carvel," he said, glancing around the circle, political principles are not to be swallowed like religion, but taken rather like medicine, experimentally. If they agree with you, very good. If not, drop them and try others. We are always ready to listen to remedies, here." "Ay, if they agree with you!" I exclaimed. "But food for one is poison for another. Do you know what you are doing? You are pushing home injustice and tyranny to the millions, for the benefit of the thousands. For is it not true, gentlemen, that the great masses of England are against the measures you impose upon us? Their fight is our fight. They are no longer represented in Parliament; we have never been. Taxation without representation is true of your rotten boroughs as well as of your vast colonies. You are helping the King to crush freedom abroad in order that he may the more easily break it at home. You are committing a crime. "I tell you we would give up all we own were the glory or honour of England at stake. And yet you call us rebels, and accuse us of meanness and of parsimony. If you wish money, leave the matter to our colonial assemblies, and see how readily you will get it. But if you wish war, persist in trying to grind the spirit from a people who have in them the pride of your own ancestors. Yes, you are estranging the colonies, gentlemen. A greater man than I has warned you" And with that I rose, believing that I had given them all mortal offence. To my astonishment several got to their feet in front of me, huzzaing, and Comyn and Lord Ossory grasped my hands. And Charles Fox reached out over the corner of the table and pulled me back into my chair. "Bravo, Richard Carvel!" he cried. "Cursed if I don't love a man who will put up a fight against odds. Who will stand bluff to what he believes, and won't be talked out of his boots. We won't quarrel with any such here, my buckskin, I can tell you." And that is the simple story, my dears, of the beginning of my friendship with one who may rightly be called the Saint Paul of English politics. He had yet some distance to go, alas, ere he was to begin that sturdy battle for the right for which his countrymen and ours will always bless him. I gave him my hand with a better will than I had ever done anything, and we pressed our fingers numb. And his was not the only hand I clasped. And honest Jack Comyn ordered more wine, that they might drink to a speedy reconciliation with America. "A pint bumper to Richard Carvel!" said Mr. Fitzpatrick. I pledged Brooks's Club in another pint. Upon which they swore that I was a good fellow, and that if all American Whigs were like me, all cause of quarrel was at an end. Of this I was not so sure, nor could I see that the question had been settled one way or another. And that night I had reason to thank the Reverend Mr. Allen, for the first and last time in my life, that I could stand a deal of liquor, and yet not roll bottom upward. The dinner was settled on the Baptist, who paid for it without a murmur. And then we adjourned to the business of the evening. The great drawing-room, lighted by an hundred candles, was filled with gayly dressed macaronies, and the sound of their laughter and voices in contention mingled with the pounding of the packs on the mahogany and the rattle of the dice and the ring of the gold pieces. The sight was dazzling, and the noise distracting. Fox had me under his especial care, and I was presented to young gentlemen who bore names that had been the boast of England through the centuries. Lands their forebears had won by lance and sword, they were squandering away as fast as ever they could. I, too, was known. All had heard the romance of the Beauty and Castle Yard, and some had listened to Horry Walpole tell that foolish story of Goble at Windsor, on which he seemed to set such store. They guessed at my weight. They betted upon it. And they wished to know if I could spin Mr. Brooks, who was scraping his way from table to table. They gave me choice of whist, or picquet, or quinze, or hazard. I was carried away. Nay, I make no excuse. Tho' the times were drinking and gaming ones, I had been brought up that a gentleman should do both in moderation. We mounted, some dozen of us, to the floor above, and passed along to a room of which Fox had the key; and he swung me in on his arm, the others pressing after. And the door was scarce closed and locked again, before they began stripping off their clothes. To my astonishment, Fox handed me a great frieze coat, which he bade me don, as the others were doing. Some were turning their coats inside out; for luck, said they; and putting on footman's leather guards to save their ruffles. And they gave me a hat with a high crown, and a broad brim to save my eyes from the candle glare. We were as grotesque a set as ever I laid my eyes upon. But I hasten over the scene; which has long become distasteful to me. I mention it only to show to what heights of folly the young men had gone. I recall a gasp when they told me they played for rouleaux of ten pounds each, but I took out my pocket-book as boldly as tho' I had never played for less, and laid my stake upon the board. Fox lost, again and again; but he treated his ill-luck with such a raillery of contemptuous wit, that we must needs laugh with him. Comyn, too, lost, and at supper excused himself, saying that he had promised his mother, the dowager countess, not to lose more than a quarter's income at a sitting. But I won and won, until the fever of it got into my blood, and as the first faint light of that morning crept into the empty streets, we were still at it, Fox vowing that he never waked up until daylight. That the best things he said in the House came to him at dawn. CHAPTER XXXII LADY TANKERVILLE'S DRUM-MAJOR The rising sun, as he came through the little panes of the windows, etched a picture of that room into my brain. I can see the twisted candles with their wax smearing the sticks, the chairs awry, the tables littered with blackened pipes, and bottles, and spilled wine and tobacco among the dice; and the few that were left of my companions, some with dark lines under their eyes, all pale, but all gay, unconcerned, witty, and cynical; smoothing their ruffles, and brushing the ashes and snuff from the pattern of their waistcoats. As we went downstairs, singing a song Mr. Foote had put upon the stage that week, they were good enough to declare that I should never be permitted to go back to Maryland. That my grandfather should buy me a certain borough, which might be had for six thousand pounds. The drawing-room made a dismal scene, too, after the riot and disorder of the night. Sleepy servants were cleaning up, but Fox vowed that they should bring us yet another bottle before going home. So down we sat about the famous old round table, Fox fingering the dents the gold had made in the board, and philosophizing; and reciting Orlando Furioso in the Italian, and Herodotus in the original Greek. Suddenly casting his eyes about, they fell upon an ungainly form stretched on a lounge, that made us all start. "Bully!" he cried; "I'll lay you fifty guineas that Mr. Carvel gets the Beauty, against Chartersea." This roused me. "Nay, Mr. Fox, I beg of you," I protested, with all the vehemence I could muster. "Miss Manners must not be writ down in such a way." For answer he snapped his fingers at the drowsy Brooks, who brought the betting book. "There!" says he; "and there, and there," turning over the pages; "her name adorns a dozen leaves, my fine buckskin. And it will be well to have some truth about her. Enter the wager, Brooks." "Hold!" shouts Bolingbroke; "I haven't accepted." You may be sure I was in an agony over this desecration, which I was so powerless to prevent. But as I was thanking my stars that the matter had blown over with Bolingbroke's rejection, there occurred a most singular thing. The figure on the lounge, with vast difficulty, sat up. To our amazement we beheld the bloated face of the Duke of Chartersea staring stupidly. "Damme, Bully, you refushe bet like tha'!" he said. "I'll take doshen of 'em-doshen, egad. Gimme the book, Brooksh. Cursh Fox--lay thousand d--d provinshial never getsh 'er--I know--" I sat very still, seized with a loathing beyond my power to describe to thick that this was the man Mr. Manners was forcing her to marry. Fox laughed. "Help his Grace to his coach," he said to two of the footmen. "Kill fellow firsht!" cried his Grace, with his hand on his sword, and instantly fell over, and went sound asleep. "His Grace has sent his coach home, your honour," said one of the men, respectfully. "The duke is very quarrelsome, sir." "Put him in a chair, then," said Charles. So they fearfully lifted his Grace, who was too far gone to resist, and carried him to a chair. And Mr. Fox bribed the chairmen with two guineas apiece, which he borrowed from me, to set his Grace down amongst the marketwomen at Covent Garden. The next morning Banks found in my pockets something over seven hundred pounds more than I had had the day before. I rose late, my head swimming with mains and nicks, and combinations of all the numbers under the dozen; debated whether or no I would go to Arlington Street, and decided that I had not the courage. Comyn settled it by coming in his cabriolet, proposed that we should get the air in the park, dine at the Cocoa Tree, and go afterwards to Lady Tankerville's drum-major, where Dolly would undoubtedly be. "Now you are here, Richard," said his Lordship, with his accustomed bluntness, "and your sea-captain has relieved your Quixotic conscience, what the deuce do you intend to do? "Win a thousand pounds every night at Brooks's, or improve your time and do your duty, and get Miss Manners out of his Grace's clutches? I'll warrant something will come of that matter this morning." "I hope so," I said shortly. Comyn looked at me sharply. "Would you fight him?" he asked. "If he gave me the chance." His Lordship whistled. "Egad, then," said he, "I shall want to be there to see. In spite of his pudding-bag shape he handles the sword as well as any man in England. I have crossed with him at Angelo's. And he has a devilish tricky record, Richard." I said nothing to that. "Hope you do--kill him," Comyn continued. "He deserves it richly. But that will be a cursed unpleasant way of settling the business, --unpleasant for you, unpleasant for her, and cursed unpleasant for him, too, I suppose. Can't you think of any other way of getting her? Ask Charles to give you a plan of campaign. You haven't any sense, and neither have I." "Hang you, Jack, I have no hopes of getting her," I replied, for I was out of humour with myself that day. "In spite of what you say, I know she doesn't care a brass farthing to marry me. So let's drop that." Comyn made a comic gesture of deprecation. I went on: "But I am going to stay here and find out the truth, though it may be a foolish undertaking. And if he is intimidating Mr. Manners--" "You may count on me, and on Charles," said my Lord, generously; "and there are some others I know of. Gad! You made a dozen of friends and admirers by what you said last night, Richard. And his Grace has a few enemies. You will not lack support." We dined very comfortably at the Cocoa Tree, where Comyn had made an appointment for me with two as diverting gentlemen as had ever been my lot to meet. My Lord Carlisle was the poet and scholar of the little clique which had been to Eton with Charles Fox, any member of which (so 'twas said) would have died for him. His Lordship, be it remarked in passing, was as lively a poet and scholar as can well be imagined. He had been recently sobered, so Comyn confided; which I afterwards discovered meant married. Charles Fox's word for the same was fallen. And I remembered that Jack had told me it was to visit Lady Carlisle at Castle Howard that Dorothy was going when she heard of my disappearance. Comyn's other guest was Mr. Topham Beauclerk, the macaroni friend of Dr. Johnson. He, too, had been recently married, but appeared no more sobered than his Lordship. Mr. Beauclerk's wife, by the way, was the beautiful Lady Diana Spencer, who had been divorced from Lord Bolingbroke, the Bully I had met the night before. These gentlemen seemed both well acquainted with Miss Manners, and vowed that none but American beauties would ever be the fashion in London more. Then we all drove to Lady Tankerville's drum-major near Chesterfield House. "You will be wanting a word with her when she comes in," said Comyn, slyly divining. Poor fellow! I fear that I scarcely appreciated his feelings as to Dorothy, or the noble unselfishness of his friendship for me. We sat aside in a recess of the lower hall, watching the throng as they passed: haughty dowagers, distorted in lead and disfigured in silk and feathers nodding at the ceiling; accomplished beaus of threescore or more, carefully mended for the night by their Frenchmen at home; young ladies in gay brocades with round skirts and stiff, pear-shaped bodices; and youngsters just learning to ogle and to handle their snuff-boxes. One by one their names were sent up and solemnly mouthed by the footman on the landing. At length, when we had all but given her up, Dorothy arrived. A hood of lavender silk heightened the oval of her face, and out from under it crept rebellious wisps of her dark hair. But she was very pale, and I noticed for the first time a worn expression that gave me a twinge of uneasiness. 'Twas then I caught sight of the duke, a surly stamp on his leaden features. And after him danced Mr. Manners. Dolly gave a little cry when she saw me. "Oh! Richard, I am so glad you are here. I was wondering what had become of you. And Comyn, too." Whispering to me, "Mamma has had a letter from Mrs. Brice; your grandfather has been to walk in the garden." "And Grafton?" "She said nothing of your uncle," she replied, with a little shudder at the name; "but wrote that Mr. Carvel was said to be better. So there! your conscience need not trouble you for remaining. I am sure he would wish you to pay a visit home. "And I have to scold you, sir. You have not been to Arlington Street for three whole days." It struck me suddenly that her gayety was the same as that she had worn to my birthday party, scarce a year agone. "Dolly, you are not well!" I said anxiously. She flung her head saucily for answer. In the meantime his Grace, talking coldly to Comyn, had been looking unutterable thunders at me. I thought of him awaking in the dew at Covent Garden, and could scarce keep from laughing in his face. Mr. Marmaduke squirmed to the front. "Morning, Richard," he said, with a marked cordiality. "Have you met the Duke of Chartersea? No! Your Grace, this is Mr. Richard Carvel. His family are dear friends of ours in the colonies." To my great surprise, the duke saluted me quite civilly. But I had the feeling of facing a treacherous bull which would gore me as soon as ever my back was turned. He was always putting me in mind of a bull, with his short neck and heavy, hunched shoulders,--and with the ugly tinge of red in the whites of his eyes. "Mr. Manners tells me you are to remain awhile in London, Mr. Carvel," he said, in his thick voice. I took his meaning instantly, and replied in kind. "Yes, your Grace, I have some business to attend to here." "Ah," he answered; "then I shall see you again." "Probably, sir," said I. His Lordship watched this thrust and parry with an ill-concealed delight. Dorothy's face was impassive, expressionless. As the duke turned to mount the stairs, he stumbled clumsily across a young man coming to pay his respects to Miss Manners, and his Grace went sprawling against the wall. "Confound you, sir!" he cried. For the ducal temper was no respecter of presences. Then a title was a title to those born lower, and the young man plainly had a vast honour for a coronet. "I beg your Grace's pardon," said he. "Who the deuce is he?" demanded the duke petulantly of Mr. Manners, thereby setting the poor little man all a-tremble. "Why, why,--" he replied, searching for his spyglass. For an instant Dolly's eyes shot scorn. Chartersea had clearly seen and heeded that signal before. "The gentleman is a friend of mine," she said. Tho' I were put out of the Garden of Eden as a consequence, I itched to have it out with his Grace then and there. I knew that I was bound to come into collision with him sooner or later. Such, indeed, was my mission in London. But Dorothy led the way upstairs, a spot of colour burning each of her cheeks. The stream of guests had been arrested until the hall was packed, and the curious were peering over the rail above. "Lord, wasn't she superb!" exclaimed Comyn, exultingly, as we followed. In the drawing-room the buzzing about the card tables was hushed a moment as she went in. But I soon lost sight of her, thanks to Comyn. He drew me on from group to group, and I was duly presented to a score of Lady So-and-sos and honourable misses, most of whom had titles, but little else. Mammas searched their memories, and suddenly discovered that they had heard their parents speak of my grandfather. But, as it was a fair presumption that most colonial gentlemen made a visit home at least once in their lives, I did not allow the dust to get into my eyes. I was invited to dinners, and fairly showered with invitations to balls and drums and garden parties. I was twitted about the Beauty, most often with only a thin coating of amiability covering the spite of the remark. In short, if my head had not been so heavily laden with other matters, it might well have become light under the strain. Had I been ambitious to enter the arena I should have had but little trouble, since eligibility then might be reduced to guineas and another element not moral. I was the only heir of one of the richest men in the colony, vouched for by the Manners and taken up by Mr. Fox and my Lord Comyn. Inquiries are not pushed farther. I could not help seeing the hardness of it all, or refrain from contrasting my situation with that of the penniless outcast I had been but a little time before. The gilded rooms, the hundred yellow candles multiplied by the mirrors, the powder, the perfume, the jewels,--all put me in mind of the poor devils I had left wasting away their lives in Castle Yard. They, too, had had their times of prosperity, their friends who had faded with the first waning of fortune. Some of them had known what it was to be fawned over. And how many of these careless, flitting men of fashion I looked upon could feel the ground firm beneath their feet; or could say with certainty what a change of ministers, or one wild night at White's or Almack's, would bring forth? Verily, one must have seen the under side of life to know the upper! Presently I was sought out by Mr. Topham Beauclerk, who had heard of the episode below and wished to hear more. He swore at the duke. "He will be run through some day, and serve him jolly right," said he. "Bet you twenty pounds Charles Fox does it! His Grace knows he has the courage to fight him." "The courage!" I repeated. "Yes. Angelo says the duke has diabolical skill. And then he won't fight fair. He killed young Atwater on a foul, you know. Slipped on the wet grass, and Chartersea had him pinned before he caught his guard. But there is Lady Di a-calling, a-calling." "Do all the women cheat in America too?" asked Topham, as we approached. I thought of my Aunt Caroline, and laughed. "Some," I answered. "They will game, d--n 'em," said Topham, as tho' he had never gamed in his life. "And they will cheat, till a man has to close his eyes to keep from seeing their pretty hands. And they will cry, egad, oh so touchingly, if the luck goes against them in spite of it all. Only last week I had to forgive Mrs Farnham an hundred guineas. She said she'd lost her pin-money twice over, and was like to have wept her eyes out." Thus primed in Topham's frank terms, I knew what to expect. And I found to my amusement he had not overrun the truth. I lost like a stoic, saw nothing, and discovered the straight road to popularity. "The dear things expect us to make it up at the clubs," whispered he. I discovered how he had fallen in love with his wife, Lady Diana, and pitied poor Bolingbroke heartily for having lost her. She was then in her prime,--a beauty, a wit, and a great lady, with a dash of the humanities about her that brought both men and women to her feet. "You must come to see me, Mr. Carvel," said she. "I wish to talk to you of Dorothy." "Your Ladyship believes me versed in no other subject?" I asked. "None other worth the mention," she replied instantly; "Topham tells me you can talk horses, and that mystery of mysteries, American politics. But look at Miss Manners Dow. I'll warrant she is making Sir Charles see to his laurels, and young Stavordale is struck dumb." I looked up quickly and beheld Dolly surrounded by a circle of admirers. "Mark the shot strike!" Lady Di continued, between the deals; "that time Chartersea went down. I fancy he is bowled over rather often," she said slyly. "What a brute it is. And they say that that little woman she has for a father imagines a union with the duke will redound to his glory." "They say," remarked Mrs. Meynel, sitting next me, "that the duke has thumbscrews of some kind on Mr. Manners." "Miss Manners is able to take care of herself," said Topham. "'On dit', that she has already refused as many dukes as did her Grace of Argyle," said Mrs. Meynel. I had lost track of the cards, and knew I was losing prodigiously. But my eyes went back again and again to the group by the doorway, where Dolly was holding court and dispensing justice, and perchance injustice. The circle increased. Ribands, generals whose chests were covered with medals of valour, French noblemen, and foreign ambassadors stopped for a word with the Beauty and passed on their way, some smiling, some reflecting, to make room for others. I overheard from the neighbouring tables a spiteful protest that a young upstart from the colonies should turn Lady Tankerville's drum into a levee. My ears tingled as I listened. But not a feathered parrot in the carping lot of them could deny that Miss Manners had beauty and wit enough to keep them all at bay. Hers was not an English beauty: every line of her face and pose of her body proclaimed her of that noble type of Maryland women, distinctly American, over which many Englishmen before and since have lost their heads and hearts. "Egad!" exclaimed Mr. Storer, who was looking on; "she's already defeated some of the Treasury Bench, and bless me if she isn't rating North himself." Half the heads in the room were turned toward Miss Manners, who was exchanging jokes with the Prime Minister of Great Britain. I saw a corpulent man, ludicrously like the King's pictures, with bulging gray eyes that seemed to take in nothing. And this was North, upon whose conduct with the King depended the fate of our America. Good-natured he was, and his laziness was painfully apparent. He had the reputation of going to sleep standing, like a horse. "But the Beauty contrives to keep him awake," said Storer. "If you stay among us, Mr. Carvel," said Topham, "she will get you a commissionership for the asking." "Look," cried Lady Di, "there comes Mr. Fox, the precocious, the irresistible. Were he in the Bible, we should read of him passing the time of day with King Solomon." "Or instructing Daniel in the art of lion-taming," put in Mrs. Meynel. There was Mr. Fox in truth, and the Beauty's face lighted up at sight of him. And presently, when Lord North had made his bow and passed on, he was seen to lead her out of the room, leaving her circle to go to pieces, like an empire without a head. CHAPTER XXXIII DRURY LANE After a night spent in making resolutions, I set out for Arlington Street, my heart beating a march, as it had when I went thither on my arrival in London. Such was my excitement that I was near to being run over in Piccadilly like many another country gentleman, and roundly cursed by a wagoner for my stupidity. I had a hollow bigness within me, half of joy, half of pain, that sent me onward with ever increasing steps and a whirling storm of contradictions in my head. Now it was: Dolly loved me in spite of all the great men in England. Why, otherwise, had she come to the sponging-house? Berating myself: had her affection been other than that of a life-long friendship she would not have come an inch. But why had she made me stay in London? Why had she spoken so to Comyn? What interpretation might be put upon a score of little acts of hers that came a-flooding to mind, each a sacred treasure of memory? A lover's interpretation, forsooth. Fie, Richard! what presumption to think that you, a raw lad, should have a chance in such a field! You have yet, by dint of hard knocks and buffets, to learn the world. By this I had come in sight of her house, and suddenly I trembled like a green horse before a cannon. My courage ran out so fast that I was soon left without any, and my legs had carried me as far as St. James's Church before I could bring them up. Then I was sure, for the first time, that she did not love me. In front of the church I halted, reflecting that I had not remained in England with any hope of it, but rather to discover the truth about Chartersea's actions, and to save her, if it were possible. I turned back once more, and now got as far as the knocker, and lifted it as a belfry was striking the hour of noon. I think I would have fled again had not the door been immediately opened. Once more I found myself in the room looking out over the Park, the French windows open to the balcony, the sunlight flowing in with the spring-scented air. On the table was lying a little leather book, stamped with gold,--her prayerbook. Well I remembered it! I opened it, to read: "Dorothy, from her Mother. Annapolis, Christmas, 1768." The sweet vista of the past stretched before my eyes. I saw her, on such a, Mayday as this, walking to St. Anne's under the grand old trees, their budding leaves casting a delicate tracery at her feet. I followed her up the aisle until she disappeared in the high pew, and then I sat beside my grandfather and thought of her, nor listened to a word of Mr. Allen's sermon. Why had they ever taken her to London? When she came in I sought her face anxiously. She was still pale; and I thought, despite her smile, that a trace of sadness lingered in her eyes. "At last, sir, you have come," she said severely. "Sit down and give an account of yourself at once. You have been behaving very badly." "Dorothy--" "Pray don't 'Dorothy' me, sir. But explain where you have been for this week past." "But, Dolly--" "You pretend to have some affection for your old playmate, but you do not trouble yourself to come to see her." "Indeed, you do me wrong." "Do you wrong! You prefer to gallivant about town with Comyn and Charles Fox, and with all those wild gentlemen who go to Brooks's. Nay, I have heard of your goings-on. I shall write to Mr. Carvel to-day, and advise him to send for you. And tell him that you won a thousand pounds in one night--" "It was only seven hundred," I interrupted sheepishly. I thought she smiled faintly. And will probably lose twenty thousand before you have done. And I shall say to him that you have dared to make bold rebel speeches to a Lord of the Admiralty and to some of the King's supporters. I shall tell your grandfather you are disgracing him." "Rebel speeches!" I cried. "Yes, rebel speeches at Almack's. Who ever heard of such a thing! No doubt I shall hear next of your going to a drawing-room and instructing his Majesty how to subdue the colonies. And then, sir, you will be sent to the Tower, and I shan't move a finger to get you out." "Who told you of this, Dolly?" I demanded. "Mr. Fox, himself, for one. He thought it so good,--or so bad,--that he took me aside last night at Lady Tankerville's, asked me why I had let you out of Castle Yard, and told me I must manage to curb your tongue. I replied that I had about as much influence with you as I have with Dr. Franklin." I laughed. "I saw Fox lead you off," I said. "Oh, you did, did you!" she retorted. "But you never once came near me yourself, save when I chanced to meet you in the hall, tho' I was there a full three hours." "How could I!" I exclaimed. "You were surrounded by prime ministers and ambassadors, and Heaven knows how many other great people." "When you wish to do anything, Richard, you usually find a way." "Nay," I answered, despairing, "I can never explain anything to you, Dolly. Your tongue is too quick for mine." "Why didn't you go home with your captain?" she asked mockingly. "Do you know why I stayed?" "I suppose because you want to be a gay spark and taste of the pleasures of London. That is, what you men are pleased to call pleasures. I can think of no other season." "There is another," I said desperately. "Ah," said Dolly. And in her old aggravating way she got up and stood in the window, looking out over the park. I rose and stood beside her, my very temples throbbing. "We have no such springs at home," she said. "But oh, I wish I were at Wilmot House to-day!" "There is another reason," I repeated. My voice sounded far away, like that of another. I saw the colour come into her cheeks again, slowly. The southwest wind, with a whiff of the channel salt in it, blew the curtains at our backs. "You have a conscience, Richard," she said gently, without turning. "So few of us have." I was surprised. Nor did I know what to make of that there were so many meanings. "You are wild," she continued, "and impulsive, as they say your father was. But he was a man I should have honoured. He stood firm beside his friends. He made his enemies fear him. All strong men must have enemies, I suppose. They must make them." I looked at her, troubled, puzzled, but burning at her praise of Captain Jack. "Dolly," I cried, "you are not well. Why won't you come back to Maryland?" She did not reply to that. Then she faced me suddenly. "Richard, I know now why you insisted upon going back. It was because you would not desert your sea-captain. Comyn and Mr. Fox have told me, and they admire you for it as much as I." What language is worthy to describe her as she was then in that pose, with her head high, as she was wont to ride over the field after the hounds. Hers was in truth no beauty of stone, but the beauty of force, --of life itself. "Dorothy," I cried; "Dorothy, I stayed because I love you. There, I have said it again, what has not passed my lips since we were children. What has been in my heart ever since." I stopped, awed. For she had stepped back, out on the balcony. She hid her head in her hands, and I saw her breast shaken as with sobs. I waited what seemed a day,--a year. Then she raised her face and looked at me through the tears shining in her eyes. "Richard," she said sadly, "why, why did you ever tell me? Why can we not always be playmates?" The words I tried to say choked me. I could not speak for sorrow, for very bitterness. And yet I might have known! I dared not look at her again. "Dear Richard," I heard her say, "God alone understands how it hurts me to give you pain. Had I only foreseen--" "Had you only foreseen," I said quickly. "I should never have let you speak." Her words came steadily, but painfully. And when I raised my eyes she met them bravely. "You must have seen," I cried. "These years I have loved you, nor could I have hidden it if I had wished. But I have little--to offer you," I went on cruelly, for I knew not what I said; "you who may have English lands and titles for the consenting. I was a fool." Her tears started again. And at sight of them I was seized with such remorse that I could have bitten my tongue in two. "Forgive me, Dorothy, if you can," I implored. "I did not mean it. Nor did I presume to think you loved me. I have adored,--I shall be content to adore from far below. And I stayed,--I stayed that I might save you if a danger threatened." "Danger!" she exclaimed, catching her breath. "I will come to the point," I said. "I stayed to save you from the Duke of Chartersea." She grasped the balcony rail, and I think would have fallen but for my arm. Then she straightened, and only the quiver of her lip marked the effort. "To save me from the Duke of Chartersea?" she said, so coldly that my conviction was shaken. "Explain yourself, sir." "You cannot love him!" I cried, amazed. She flashed upon me a glance I shall never forget. "Richard Carvel," she said, "you have gone too far. Though you have been my friend all my life, there are some things which even you cannot say to me." And she left me abruptly and went into the house, her head flung back. And I followed in a tumult of mortification and wounded pride, in such a state of dejection that I wished I had never been born. But hers was a nature of surprises, and impulsive, like my own. Beside the cabinet she turned, calm again, all trace of anger vanished from her face. Drawing a hawthorn sprig from a porcelain vase I had given her, she put it in my hand. "Let us forget this, Richard," said she; "we have both been very foolish." Forget, indeed! Unless Heaven had robbed me of reason, had torn the past from me at a single stroke. I could not have forgotten. When I reached my lodgings I sent the anxious Banks about his business and threw myself in a great chair before the window, the chair she had chosen. Strange to say, I had no sensation save numbness. The time must have been about two of the clock: I took no account of it. I recall Banks coming timidly back with the news that two gentlemen had called. I bade him send them away. Would my honour not have Mrs. Marble cook my dinner, and be dressed for Lady Pembroke's ball? I sent him off again, harshly. After a long while the slamming of a coach door roused me, and I was straightway seized with such an agony of mind that I could have cried aloud. 'Twas like the pain of blood flowing back into a frozen limb. Darkness was fast gathering as I reached the street and began to walk madly. Word by word I rehearsed the scene in the drawing-room over the Park, but I could not think calmly, for the pain of it. Little by little I probed, writhing, until far back in my boyhood I was tearing at the dead roots of that cherished plant, which was the Hope of Her Love. It had grown with my own life, and now with its death to-day I felt that I had lost all that was dear to me. Then, in the midst of this abject self-pity, I was stricken with shame. I thought of Comyn, who had borne the same misfortune as a man should. Had his pain been the less because he had not loved her from childhood? Like Comyn, I resolved to labour for her happiness. What hour of the night it was I know not when a man touched me on the shoulder, and I came to myself with a start. I was in a narrow street lined by hideous houses, their windows glaring with light. Each seemed a skull, with rays darting from its grinning eye-holes. Within I caught glimpses of debauchery that turned me sick. Ten paces away three women and a man were brawling, the low angry tones of his voice mingling with the screeches of their Billingsgate. Muffled figures were passing and repassing unconcernedly, some entering the houses, others coming out, and a handsome coach, without arms and with a footman in plain livery, lumbered along and stopped farther on. All this I remarked before I took notice of him who had intercepted me, and demanded what he wanted. "Hey, Bill!" he cried with an oath to a man who stood on the steps opposite; "'ere's a soft un as has put 'is gill in." The man responded, and behind him came two more of the same feather, and suddenly I found myself surrounded by an ill-smelling crowd of flashy men and tawdry women. They jostled me, and I reached for my sword, to make the discovery that I had forgotten it. Regaining my full senses, I struck the man nearest me a blow that sent him sprawling in the dirt. A blade gleamed under the sickly light of the fish-oil lamp overhead, but a man crashed through from behind and caught the ruffian's sword-arm and flung him back in the kennel. "The watch!" he cried, "the watch!" They vanished like rats into their holes at the shout, leaving me standing alone with him. The affair had come and gone so quickly that I scarce caught my breath. "Pardon, sir," he said, knuckling, "but I followed you." It was Banks. For a second time he had given me an affecting example of his faithfulness. I forgot that he was my servant, and I caught his hand and pressed it. "You have saved my life at the risk of your own," I said; "I shall not forget it." But Banks had been too well trained to lose sight of his position. He merely tipped his hat again and said imperturbably: "Best get out of here, your honour. They'll be coming again directly." "Where are we?" I asked. "Drury Lane, sir," he replied, giving me just the corner of a glance; "shall I fetch a coach, sir?" No, I preferred to walk. Before we had turned into Long Acre I had seen all of this Sodom of London that it should be given a man to see, if indeed we must behold some of the bestiality of this world. Here alone, in the great city, high and low were met equal. Sin levels rank. The devil makes no choice between my lord and his kitchen wench who has gone astray. Here, in Sodom, painted vice had lain for an hundred years and bred half the crime of a century. How many souls had gone hence in that time to meet their Maker! Some of these brazen creatures who leered at me had known how long ago! --a peaceful home and a mother's love; had been lured in their innocence to this place of horrors, never to leave it until death mercifully overtakes them. Others, having fallen, had been driven hither by a cruel world that shelters all save the helpless, that forgives all save the truly penitent. I shuddered as I thought of Mr. Hogarth's prints, which, in the library in Marlboro' Street at home, had had so little meaning for me. Verily he had painted no worse than the reality. As I strode homeward, my own sorrow subdued by the greater sorrow I had looked upon, the craving I had had to be alone was gone, and I would have locked arms with a turnspit. I called to Banks, who was behind at a respectful distance, and bade him come talk to me. His presence of mind in calling on the watch had made even a greater impression upon me than his bravery. I told him that he should have ten pounds, and an increase of wages. And I asked him where I had gone after leaving Dover Street, and why he had followed me. He answered this latter question first. He had seen gentlemen in the same state, or something like it, before: his Lordship, his late master, after he had fought with Mr. Onslow, of the Guards, and Sir Edward Minturn, when he had lost an inheritance and a reversion at Brooks's, and was forced to give over his engagement to marry the Honourable Miss Swift. "Lord, sir," he said, "but that was a sad case, as set all London agog. And Sir Edward shot hisself at Portsmouth not a se'nnight after." And he relapsed into silence, no doubt longing to ask the cause of my own affliction. Presently he surprised me by saying: "And I might make so bold, Mr. Carvel, I would like to tell your honour something." I nodded. And he hawed awhile and then burst out: "Your honour must know then that I belongs to the footman's club in Berkeley Square, where I meets all the servants o' quality--" "Yes," I said, wondering what footman's tale he had to tell. "And Whipple, he's a hintimate o' mine, sir." He stopped again. "And who may Whipple be?" "With submission, sir. Whipple's his Grace o' Chartersea's man--and, you'll forgive me, sir--Whipple owns his Grace is prodigious ugly, an' killed young Mr. Atwater unfair, some think. Whipple says he would give notice had he not promised the old duke--" "Drat Whipple!" I cried. "Yes, sir. To be sure, sir. His Grace was in a bloody rage when he found hisself in a fruit bin at Covent Carding. An' two redbreasts had carried him to the round house, sir, afore they discovered his title. An' since his Grace ha' said time an' time afore Whipple, that he'll ha' Mr. Carvel's heart for that, and has called you most disgustin' bad names, sir. An' Whipple he says to me: 'Banks, drop your marster a word, an' you get the chance. His Grace'll speak him fair to's face, but let him look behind him.'" "I thank you again, Banks. I shall bear in mind your devotion," I replied. "But I had nothing to do with sending the duke to Covent Garden." "Ay, sir, so I tells Whipple." "Pray, how did you know?" I demanded curiously. "Lord, sir! All the servants at Almack's is friends o' mine," says he. "But Whipple declares his Grace will be sworn you did it, sir, tho' the Lord Mayor hisself made deposition 'twas not." "Then mark me, Banks, you are not to talk of this." "Oh, Lord, no, your honour," he said, as he fell back. But I was not so sure of his discretion as of his loyalty. And so I was led to perceive that I was not to be the only aggressor in the struggle that was to come. That his Grace did me the honour to look upon me as an obstacle. And that he intended to seize the first opportunity to make way with me, by fair means or foul. 
39346	----	[Illustration: MAP SHOWING ROUTE OF RAIL ROAD THROUGH BALTIMORE FROM PRESIDENT ST. STATION TO CAMDEN ST. STATION.] BALTIMORE AND THE NINETEENTH OF APRIL, 1861 A Study of the War By GEORGE WILLIAM BROWN _Chief Judge of the Supreme Bench of Baltimore, and Mayor of the City in 1861_ BALTIMORE N. MURRAY, PUBLICATION AGENT, JOHNS HOPKINS UNIVERSITY 1887 COPYRIGHT, 1887, BY N. MURRAY. ISAAC FRIEDENWALD, PRINTER, BALTIMORE. CONTENTS. Page CHAPTER I. 1. INTRODUCTION, 9 2. THE FIRST BLOOD SHED IN THE WAR, 10 3. THE SUPPOSED PLOT TO ASSASSINATE THE INCOMING PRESIDENT, 11 4. THE MIDNIGHT RIDE TO WASHINGTON, 17 CHAPTER II. 1. THE COMPROMISES OF THE CONSTITUTION IN REGARD TO SLAVERY, 20 2. A DIVIDED HOUSE, 23 3. THE BROKEN COMPACT, 25 4. THE RIGHT OF REVOLUTION, 27 CHAPTER III. 1. MARYLAND'S DESIRE FOR PEACE, 30 2. EVENTS WHICH FOLLOWED THE ELECTION OF PRESIDENT LINCOLN, 31 3. HIS PROCLAMATION CALLING FOR TROOPS, 32 4. THE CITY AUTHORITIES AND POLICE OF BALTIMORE, 34 5. INCREASING EXCITEMENT IN BALTIMORE, 39 CHAPTER IV. 1. THE SIXTH MASSACHUSETTS REGIMENT IN BALTIMORE, 42 2. THE FIGHT, 47 3. THE DEPARTURE FOR WASHINGTON, 52 4. CORRESPONDENCE IN REGARD TO THE KILLED AND WOUNDED, 54 5. PUBLIC MEETING, 56 6. TELEGRAM TO THE PRESIDENT, 57 7. NO REPLY, 58 8. BURNING OF BRIDGES, 59 CHAPTER V. 1. APRIL 20th--INCREASING EXCITEMENT, 60 2. APPROPRIATION OF $500,000 FOR DEFENSE OF THE CITY, 60 3. CORRESPONDENCE WITH PRESIDENT AND GOVERNOR, 61 4. MEN ENROLLED, 63 5. APPREHENDED ATTACK ON FORT McHENRY, 66 6. MARSHAL KANE, 69 7. INTERVIEW WITH PRESIDENT, CABINET, AND GENERAL SCOTT, 71 8. GENERAL BUTLER, WITH THE EIGHTH MASSACHUSETTS, PROCEEDS TO ANNAPOLIS AND WASHINGTON, 76 9. BALTIMORE IN A STATE OF ARMED NEUTRALITY, 77 CHAPTER VI. 1. SESSION OF THE GENERAL ASSEMBLY, 79 2. REPORT OF THE BOARD OF POLICE, 80 3. SUPPRESSION OF THE FLAGS, 82 4. ON THE 5th OF MAY GENERAL BUTLER TAKES POSITION SIX MILES FROM BALTIMORE, 83 5. ON THE 13th OF MAY HE ENTERS BALTIMORE AND FORTIFIES FEDERAL HILL, 84 6. THE GENERAL ASSEMBLY WILL TAKE NO STEPS TOWARD SECESSION, 85 7. MANY YOUNG MEN JOIN THE ARMY OF THE CONFEDERACY, 85 CHAPTER VII. 1. CHIEF JUSTICE TANEY AND THE WRIT OF HABEAS CORPUS, 87 2. A UNION CONVENTION, 92 3. CONSEQUENCE OF THE SUSPENSION OF THE WRIT, 93 4. INCIDENTS OF THE WAR, 95 5. THE WOMEN IN THE WAR, 95 CHAPTER VIII. 1. GENERAL BANKS IN COMMAND, 97 2. MARSHAL KANE ARRESTED, 97 3. POLICE COMMISSIONERS SUPERSEDED, 97 4. RESOLUTIONS PASSED BY THE GENERAL ASSEMBLY, 98 5. POLICE COMMISSIONERS ARRESTED, 98 6. RESOLUTIONS PASSED BY THE GENERAL ASSEMBLY, 100 7. GENERAL DIX IN COMMAND, 100 8. ARREST OF THE MEMBERS OF THE GENERAL ASSEMBLY, THE MAYOR, AND OTHERS, 102 9. RELEASE OF PRISONERS, 108 10. COLONEL DIMICK, 111 CHAPTER IX.--A PERSONAL CHAPTER. 113 APPENDIX I. ACCOUNT OF THE ALLEGED CONSPIRACY TO ASSASSINATE ABRAHAM LINCOLN ON HIS JOURNEY TO BALTIMORE, FROM THE "LIFE OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN," BY WARD H. LAMON, pp. 511-526, 120 APPENDIX II. EXTRACT FROM THE OPINION OF THE SUPREME COURT OF THE UNITED STATES, DELIVERED BY CHIEF JUSTICE TANEY, IN THE CASE OF DRED SCOTT VS. SANFORD (19 HOW. 407), 138 APPENDIX III. THE HABEAS CORPUS CASE.--OPINION OF THE CHIEF JUSTICE OF THE UNITED STATES (_Ex Parte_ JOHN MERRYMAN), 139 APPENDIX IV. MESSAGE OF THE 12th OF JULY, 1861, TO THE FIRST AND SECOND BRANCHES OF THE CITY COUNCIL, REFERRING TO THE EVENTS OF THE 19th OF APRIL AND THOSE WHICH FOLLOWED.--THE FIRST PARAGRAPH AND THE CONCLUDING PARAGRAPHS OF THIS DOCUMENT, 157 APPENDIX V. AS A PART OF THE HISTORY OF THE TIMES, REPRODUCTION FROM THE BALTIMORE "AMERICAN" OF DECEMBER 5, 1860, OF THE RECEPTION OF THE PUTNAM PHALANX, OF HARTFORD, CONNECTICUT, IN THE CITY OF BALTIMORE, 160 APPENDIX VI. VISIT OF A PORTION OF THE MEMBERS OF THE SIXTH MASSACHUSETTS REGIMENT TO BALTIMORE ON THE 19th OF APRIL, 1880, AND AN ACCOUNT OF ITS RECEPTION, FROM THE BALTIMORE "SUN" AND THE BALTIMORE "AMERICAN," 167 INDEX, 171 BALTIMORE AND THE NINETEENTH OF APRIL, 1861. _A STUDY OF THE WAR._ CHAPTER I. INTRODUCTION. -- THE FIRST BLOOD SHED IN THE WAR. -- THE SUPPOSED PLOT TO ASSASSINATE THE INCOMING PRESIDENT. -- THE MIDNIGHT RIDE TO WASHINGTON. I have often been solicited by persons of widely opposite political opinions to write an account of the events which occurred in Baltimore on the 19th of April, 1861, about which much that is exaggerated and sensational has been circulated; but, for different reasons, I have delayed complying with the request until this time. These events were not isolated facts, but were the natural result of causes which had roots deep in the past, and they were followed by serious and important consequences. The narrative, to be complete, must give some account of both cause and consequence, and to do this briefly and with a proper regard to historical proportion is no easy task. Moreover, it is not pleasant to disturb the ashes of a great conflagration, which, although they have grown cold on the surface, cover embers still capable of emitting both smoke and heat; and especially is it not pleasant when the disturber of the ashes was himself an actor in the scenes which he is asked to describe. But more than twenty-five years have passed, and with them have passed away most of the generation then living; and, as one of the rapidly diminishing survivors, I am admonished by the lengthening shadows that anything I may have to say should be said speedily. The nation has learned many lessons of wisdom from its civil war, and not the least among them is that every truthful contribution to its annals or to its teachings is not without some value. I have accordingly undertaken the task, but not without reluctance, because it necessarily revives recollections of the most trying and painful experiences of my life--experiences which for a long time I have not unwillingly permitted to fade in the dim distance. There was another 19th of April--that of Lexington in 1775--which has become memorable in history for a battle between the Minute Men of Massachusetts and a column of British troops, in which the first blood was shed in the war of the Revolution. It was the heroic beginning of that contest. The fight which occurred in the streets of Baltimore on the 19th of April, 1861, between the 6th Regiment of Massachusetts Volunteers and a mob of citizens, was also memorable, because then was shed the first blood in a conflict between the North and the South; then a step was taken which made compromise or retreat almost impossible; then passions on both sides were aroused which could not be controlled.[1] In each case the outbreak was an explosion of conflicting forces long suppressed, but certain, sooner or later, to occur. Here the coincidence ends. The Minute Men of Massachusetts were so called because they were prepared to rise on a minute's notice. They had anticipated and had prepared for the strife. The attack by the mob in Baltimore was a sudden uprising of popular fury. The events themselves were magnified as the tidings flashed over the whole country, and the consequences were immediate. The North became wild with astonishment and rage, and the South rose to fever-heat from the conviction that Maryland was about to fall into line as the advance guard of the Southern Confederacy. [Footnote 1: At Fort Sumter, it is true, one week earlier, the first collision of arms had taken place; but strangely, that bombardment was unattended with loss of life. And it did not necessarily mean war between North and South: accommodation still seemed possible.] * * * * * In February, 1861, when Mr. Lincoln was on his way to Washington to prepare for his inauguration as President of the United States, an unfortunate incident occurred which had a sinister influence on the State of Maryland, and especially on the city of Baltimore. Some superserviceable persons, carried away, honestly no doubt, by their own frightened imaginations, and perhaps in part stimulated by the temptation of getting up a sensation of the first class, succeeded in persuading Mr. Lincoln that a formidable conspiracy existed to assassinate him on his way through Maryland. It was announced publicly that he was to come from Philadelphia, not by the usual route through Wilmington, but by a circuitous journey through Harrisburg, and thence by the Northern Central Railroad to Baltimore. Misled by this statement, I, as Mayor of the city, accompanied by the Police Commissioners and supported by a strong force of police, was at the Calvert-street station on Saturday morning, February 23d, at half-past eleven o'clock, the appointed time of arrival, ready to receive with due respect the incoming President. An open carriage was in waiting, in which I was to have the honor of escorting Mr. Lincoln through the city to the Washington station, and of sharing in any danger which he might encounter. It is hardly necessary to say that I apprehended none. When the train came it appeared, to my great astonishment, that Mrs. Lincoln and her three sons had arrived safely and without hindrance or molestation of any kind, but that Mr. Lincoln could not be found. It was then announced that he had passed through the city _incognito_ in the night train by the Philadelphia, Wilmington and Baltimore Railroad, and had reached Washington in safety at the usual hour in the morning. For this signal deliverance from an imaginary peril, those who devised the ingenious plan of escape were of course devoutly thankful, and they accordingly took to themselves no little amount of credit for its success. If Mr. Lincoln had arrived in Baltimore at the time expected, and had spoken a few words to the people who had gathered to hear him, expressing the kind feelings which were in his heart with the simple eloquence of which he was so great a master, he could not have failed to make a very different impression from that which was produced not only by the want of confidence and respect manifested towards the city of Baltimore by the plan pursued, but still more by the manner in which it was carried out. On such an occasion as this even trifles are of importance, and this incident was not a trifle. The emotional part of human nature is its strongest side and soonest leads to action. It was so with the people of Baltimore. Fearful accounts of the conspiracy flew all over the country, creating a hostile feeling against the city, from which it soon afterwards suffered. A single specimen of the news thus spread will suffice. A dispatch from Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, to the New York _Times_, dated February 23d, 8 A. M., says: "Abraham Lincoln, the President-elect of the United States, is safe in the capital of the nation." Then, after describing the dreadful nature of the conspiracy, it adds: "The list of the names of the conspirators presented a most astonishing array of persons high in Southern confidence, and some whose fame is not confined to this country alone." Of course, the list of names was never furnished, and all the men in buckram vanished in air. This is all the notice which this matter would require except for the extraordinary narrative contributed by Mr. Samuel M. Felton, at that time President of the Philadelphia, Wilmington and Baltimore Railroad Company, to the volume entitled "A History of Massachusetts in the Civil War," published in 1868. Early in 1861, Mr. Felton had made, as he supposed, a remarkable discovery of "a deep-laid conspiracy to capture Washington and break up the Government." Soon afterwards Miss Dix, the philanthropist, opportunely came to his office on a Saturday afternoon, stating that she had an important communication to make to him personally, and then, with closed doors and for more than an hour, she poured into his ears a thrilling tale, to which he attentively listened. "The sum of all was (I quote the language of Mr. Felton) that there was then an extensive and organized conspiracy throughout the South to seize upon Washington, with its archives and records, and then declare the Southern conspirators _de facto_ the Government of the United States. The whole was to be a _coup d'état_. At the same time they were to cut off all modes of communication between Washington and the North, East or West, and thus prevent the transportation of troops to wrest the capital from the hands of the insurgents. Mr. Lincoln's inauguration was thus to be prevented, or his life was to fall a sacrifice to the attempt at inauguration. In fact, troops were then drilling on the line of our own road, and the Washington and Annapolis line and other lines." It was clear that the knowledge of a treasonable conspiracy of such vast proportions, which had already begun its operations, ought not to be confined solely to the keeping of Mr. Felton and Miss Dix. Mr. N. P. Trist, an officer of the road, was accordingly admitted into the secret, and was dispatched in haste to Washington, to lay all the facts before General Scott, the Commander-in-Chief. The General, however, would give no assurances except that he would do all he could to bring sufficient troops to Washington to make it secure. Matters stood in this unsatisfactory condition for some time, until a new rumor reached the ears of Mr. Felton. A gentleman from Baltimore, he says, came out to Back River Bridge, about five miles east of the city, and told the bridgekeeper that he had information which had come to his knowledge, of vital importance to the road, which he wished communicated to Mr. Felton. The nature of this communication was that a party was then organized in Baltimore to burn the bridges in case Mr. Lincoln came over the road, or in case an attempt was made to carry troops for the defense of Washington. The party at that time had combustible materials prepared to pour over the bridges, and were to disguise themselves as negroes and be at the bridge just before the train in which Mr. Lincoln travelled had arrived. The bridge was then to be burned, the train attacked, and Mr. Lincoln to be put out of the way. The man appeared several times, always, it seems, to the bridgekeeper, and he always communicated new information about the conspirators, but he would never give his name nor place of abode, and both still remain a mystery. Mr. Felton himself then went to Washington, where he succeeded in obtaining from a prominent gentleman from Baltimore whom he there saw, the judicious advice to apply to Marshal Kane, the Chief of Police in Baltimore, with the assurance that he was a perfectly reliable person. Marshal Kane was accordingly seen, but he scouted the idea that there was any such thing on foot as a conspiracy to burn the bridges and cut off Washington, and said he had thoroughly investigated the whole matter, and there was not the slightest foundation for such rumors. Mr. Felton was not satisfied, but he would have nothing more to do with Marshal Kane. He next sent for a celebrated detective in the West, whose name is not given, and through this chief and his subordinates every nook and corner of the road and its vicinity was explored. They reported that they had joined the societies of the conspirators in Baltimore and got into their secrets, and that the secret working of secession and treason was laid bare, with all its midnight plottings and daily consultations. The conspiracy being thus proved to Mr. Felton's satisfaction, he at once organized and armed a force of two hundred men and scattered them along the line of the railroad between the Susquehanna and Baltimore, principally at the bridges. But, strange to say, all that was accomplished by this formidable body was an enormous job of whitewashing. The narrative proceeds: "These men were drilled secretly and regularly by drill-masters, and were apparently employed in whitewashing the bridges, patting on some six or seven coats of whitewash saturated with salt and alum, to make the outside of the bridges as nearly fireproof as possible. This whitewashing, so extensive in its application, became (continues Mr. Felton) the nine days' wonder of the neighborhood." And well it might. After the lapse of twenty-five years the wonder over this feat of strategy can hardly yet have ceased in that rural and peaceful neighborhood. But, unfortunately for Mr. Felton's peace of mind, the programme of Mr. Lincoln's journey was suddenly changed. He had selected a different route. He had decided to go to Harrisburg from Philadelphia, and thence by day to Baltimore, over another and a rival road, known as the Northern Central. Then the chief detective discovered that the attention of the conspirators was suddenly turned to the Northern Central road. The mysterious unknown gentleman from Baltimore appeared again on the scene and confirmed this statement. He gave warning that Mr. Lincoln was to be waylaid and his life sacrificed on that road, on which no whitewash had been used, and where there were no armed men to protect him. Mr. Felton hurried to Philadelphia, and there, in a hotel, joined his chief detective, who was registered under a feigned name. Mr. Lincoln, cheered by a dense crowd, was, at that moment, passing through the streets of Philadelphia. A sub-detective was sent to bring Mr. Judd, Mr. Lincoln's intimate friend, to the hotel to hold a consultation. Mr. Judd was in the procession with Mr. Lincoln, but the emergency admitted no delay. The eagerness of the sub-detective was so great that he was three times arrested and carried out of the crowd by the police before he could reach Mr. Judd. The fourth attempt succeeded, and Mr. Judd was at last brought to the hotel, where he met both Mr. Felton and the chief detective. The narrative then proceeds in the words of Mr. Felton: "We lost no time in making known to him (Mr. Judd) all the facts which had come to our knowledge in reference to the conspiracy, and I most earnestly advised sleeping-car. Mr. Judd fully entered into the plan, and said he would urge Mr. Lincoln to adopt it. On his communicating with Mr. Lincoln, after the services of the evening were over, he answered that he had engaged to go to Harrisburg and speak the next day, and that he would not break his engagement, even in the face of such peril, but that after he had fulfilled his engagement he would follow such advice as we might give him in reference to his journey to Washington." Mr. Lincoln accordingly went to Harrisburg the next day and made an address. After that the arrangements for the journey were shrouded in the profoundest mystery. It was given out that he was to go to Governor Curtin's house for the night, but he was, instead, conducted to a point about two miles out of Harrisburg, where an extra car and engine waited to take him to Philadelphia. The telegraph lines east, west, north and south from Harrisburg were cut, so that no message as to his movements could be sent off in any direction. But all this caused a detention, and the night train from Philadelphia to Baltimore had to be held back until the arrival of Mr. Lincoln at the former place. If, however, the delay proved to be considerable, when Mr. Lincoln reached Baltimore the connecting train to Washington might leave without him. But Mr. Felton was equal to the occasion. He devised a plan which was communicated to only three or four on the road. A messenger was sent to Baltimore by an earlier train to say to the officials of the Washington road that a very important package must be delivered in Washington early in the morning, and to request them to wait for the night train from Philadelphia. To give color to this statement, a package of old railroad reports, done up with great care, and with a large seal attached, marked by Mr. Felton's own hand, "Very Important," was sent in the train which carried Mr. Lincoln on his famous night ride from Philadelphia through Maryland and Baltimore to the city of Washington. The only remarkable incident of the journey was the mysterious behavior of the few officials who were entrusted with the portentous secret. I do not know how others may be affected by this narrative, but I confess even now to a feeling of indignation that Mr. Lincoln, who was no coward, but proved himself on many an occasion to be a brave man, was thus prevented from carrying out his original intention of journeying to Baltimore in the light of day, in company with his wife and children, relying as he always did on the honor and manhood of the American people. It is true we have, to our sorrow, learned by the manner of his death, as well as by the fate of still another President, that no one occupying so high a place can be absolutely safe, even in this country, from the danger of assassination, but it is still true that as a rule the best way to meet such danger is boldly to defy it. Mr. C. C. Felton, son of Mr. Samuel M. Felton, in an article entitled "The Baltimore Plot," published in December, 1885, in the _Harvard Monthly_, has attempted to revive this absurd story. He repeats the account of whitewashing the bridges, and of the astonishment created among the good people of the neighborhood. He has faith in "the unknown Baltimorean" who visited the bridgekeeper, but would never give his name, and in the spies employed, who, he tells us, were "the well-known detective Pinkerton and eight assistants," and he leaves his readers to infer that Mr. Lincoln's life was saved by the extraordinary vigilance which had been exercised and the ingenious plan which had been devised by his worthy father, but alas!-- "The earth hath bubbles as the water has," and this was of them. Colonel Lamon, a close friend of President Lincoln, and the only person who accompanied him on his night ride to Washington, has written his biography, a very careful and conscientious work, which unfortunately was left unfinished, and he of course had the strongest reasons for carefully examining the subject. After a full examination of all the documents, Colonel Lamon pronounces the conspiracy to be a mere fiction, and adds in confirmation the mature opinion of Mr. Lincoln himself. Colonel Lamon says:[2] "Mr. Lincoln soon learned to regret the midnight ride. His friends reproached him, his enemies taunted him. He was convinced that he had committed a grave mistake in yielding to the solicitations of a professional spy and of friends too easily alarmed. He saw that he had fled from a danger purely imaginary, and felt the shame and mortification natural to a brave man under such circumstances. But he was not disposed to take all the responsibility to himself, and frequently upbraided the writer for having aided and assisted him to demean himself at the very moment in all his life when his behavior should have exhibited the utmost dignity and composure." As Colonel Lamon's biography, a work of absorbing interest, is now out of print, and as his account of the ride and of the results of the investigation of the conspiracy is too long to be inserted here, it is added in an Appendix. The account above given has its appropriateness here, for the midnight ride through Baltimore, and the charge that its citizens were plotting the President's assassination, helped to feed the flame of excitement which, in the stirring events of that time, was already burning too high all over the land, and especially in a border city with divided sympathies. [Footnote 2: The Life of Abraham Lincoln, p. 526; and see Appendix I.] CHAPTER II. THE COMPROMISES OF THE CONSTITUTION IN REGARD TO SLAVERY. -- A DIVIDED HOUSE. -- THE BROKEN COMPACT. -- THE RIGHT OF REVOLUTION. For a period the broad provisions of the Constitution of the United States, as expounded by the wise and broad decisions of the Supreme Court, had proved to be equal to every emergency. The thirteen feeble colonies had grown to be a great Republic, and no external obstacle threatened its majestic progress; foreign wars had been waged and vast territories had been annexed, but every strain on the Constitution only served to make it stronger. Yet there was a canker in a vital part which nothing could heal, which from day to day became more malignant, and which those who looked beneath the surface could perceive was surely leading, and at no distant day, to dissolution or war, or perhaps to both. The canker was the existence of negro slavery. In colonial days, kings, lords spiritual and temporal, and commons, all united in favoring the slave trade. In Massachusetts the Puritan minister might be seen on the Sabbath going to meeting in family procession, with his negro slave bringing up the rear. Boston was largely engaged in building ships and manufacturing rum, and a portion of the ships and much of the rum were sent to Africa, the rum to buy slaves, and the ships to bring them to a market in America. Newport was more largely, and until a more recent time, engaged in the same traffic. In Maryland, even the Friends were sometimes owners of slaves; and it is charged, and apparently with reason, that Wenlock Christison, the Quaker preacher, after being driven from Massachusetts by persecution and coming to Maryland by way of Barbadoes, sent or brought in with him a number of slaves, who cultivated his plantation until his death. In Georgia, the Calvinist Whitefield blessed God for his negro plantation, which was generously given to him to establish his "Bethesda" as a refuge for orphan children. In the Dred Scott case, Chief Justice Taney truly described the opinion, which he deplored, prevailing at the time of the adoption of the Constitution, as being that the colored man had no rights which the white man was bound to respect.[3] [Footnote 3: Judge Taney's utterance on this subject has been frequently and grossly misrepresented. In Appendix II. will be found what he really did say.] The Constitution had endeavored to settle the question of slavery by a compromise. As the difficulty in regard to it arose far more from political than moral grounds, so in the settlement the former were almost exclusively considered. It was, however, the best that could be made at that time. It is certain that without such a compromise the Constitution would not have been adopted. The existence of slavery in a State was left in the discretion of the State itself. If a slave escaped to another State, he was to be returned to his master. Laws were passed by Congress to carry out this provision, and the Supreme Court decided that they were constitutional. For a long time the best people at the North stood firmly by the compromise. It was a national compact, and must be respected. But ideas, and especially moral ideas, cannot be forever fettered by a compact, no matter how solemn may be its sanctions. The change of opinion at the North was first slow, then rapid, and then so powerful as to overwhelm all opposition. John Brown, who was executed for raising a negro insurrection in Virginia, in which men were wounded and killed, was reverenced by many at the North as a hero, a martyr and a saint. It had long been a fixed fact that no fugitive slave could by process of law be returned from the North into slavery. With the advent to power of the Republican party--a party based on opposition to slavery--another breach in the outworks of the Constitution, as interpreted by the Supreme Court, had been made. Sooner or later the same hands would capture the citadel. Sooner or later it was plain that slavery was doomed. In the memorable Senatorial campaign in Illinois between Stephen A. Douglas and Abraham Lincoln, the latter, in his speech before the Republican State Convention at Springfield, June 17, 1858, struck the keynote of his party by the bold declaration on the subject of slavery which he then made and never recalled. This utterance was the more remarkable because on the previous day the convention had passed unanimously a resolution declaring that Mr. Lincoln was their first and only choice for United States Senator, to fill the vacancy about to be created by the expiration of Mr. Douglas's term of office, but the convention had done nothing which called for the advanced ground on which Mr. Lincoln planted himself in that speech. It was carefully prepared. The narrative of Colonel Lamon in his biography of Lincoln is intensely interesting and dramatic.[4] [Footnote 4: Lamon's Life of Lincoln, p. 808.] About a dozen gentlemen, he says, were called to meet in the library of the State House. After seating them at the round table, Mr. Lincoln read his entire speech, dwelling slowly on that part which speaks of a divided house, so that every man fully understood it. After he had finished, he asked for the opinion of his friends. All but William H. Herndon, the law partner of Mr. Lincoln, declared that the whole speech was too far in advance of the times, and they especially condemned that part which referred to a divided house. Mr. Herndon sat still while they were giving their respective opinions; then he sprang to his feet and said: "Lincoln, deliver it just as it reads. If it is in advance of the times, let us--you and I, if no one else--lift the people to the level of this speech now, higher hereafter. The speech is true, wise and politic, and will succeed now, or in the future. Nay, it will aid you, if it will not make you President of the United States."... "Mr. Lincoln sat still a short moment, rose from his chair, walked backward and forward in the hall, stopped and said: 'Friends, I have thought about this matter a great deal, have weighed the question well from all corners, and am thoroughly convinced the time has come when it should be uttered; and if it must be that I must go down because of this speech, then let me go down linked to truth--die in the advocacy of what is right and just. This nation cannot live on injustice. A house divided against itself cannot stand, I say again and again.'" The opening paragraph of the speech is as follows: "If we could first know where we are and whither we are tending, we could then better judge what to do and how to do it. We are now far on into the fifth year since a policy was initiated with the avowed object and confident promise of putting an end to slavery agitation. Under the operation of that policy that agitation has not only not ceased, but is constantly augmented. In my opinion, it will not cease until a crisis shall have been reached and passed. A house divided against itself cannot stand. I believe this Government can not endure permanently half slave and half free. I do not expect the Union to be dissolved. I do not expect the house to fall; but I do expect it will cease to be divided. It will become all one thing, or all the other. Either the opponents of slavery will arrest the further spread of it, and place it where the public mind shall rest in the belief that it is in the course of ultimate extinction, or its advocates will push it forward till it shall become alike lawful in all the States, old as well as new, North as well as South." The blast of the trumpet gave no uncertain sound. The far-seeing suggestion of Mr. Herndon came true to the letter. I believe this speech made Abraham Lincoln President of the United States. But the founders of the Constitution of the United States had built a house which was divided against itself from the beginning. They had framed a union of States which was part free and part slave, and that union was intended to last forever. Here was an irreconcilable conflict between the Constitution and the future President of the United States. When the Republican Convention assembled at Chicago in May, 1860, in the heat of the contest, which soon became narrowed down to a choice between Mr. Seward and Mr. Lincoln, the latter dispatched a friend to Chicago with a message in writing, which was handed either to Judge Davis or Judge Logan, both members of the convention, which runs as follows: "Lincoln agrees with Seward in his irrepressible-conflict idea, and in negro equality; but he is opposed to Seward's higher law." But there was no substantial difference between the position of the two: Lincoln's "divided house" and Seward's "higher law" placed them really in the same attitude. The seventh resolution in the Chicago platform condemned what it described as the "new dogma that the Constitution, of its own force, carries slavery into any or all of the Territories of the United States." This resolution was a direct repudiation by a National Convention of the decision of the Supreme Court in the Dred Scott case. On the 6th of November, 1860, Abraham Lincoln was elected President of the United States. Of the actual votes cast there was a majority against him of 930,170. Next came Mr. Douglas, who lost the support of the Southern Democrats by his advocacy of the doctrine of "squatter sovereignty," as it was called, which was in effect, although not in form, as hostile to the decision of the Supreme Court in the Dred Scott case as the seventh resolution of the Chicago Convention itself. Mr. Breckinridge, of Kentucky, the candidate of the Southern Democracy, fell very far, and Mr. Bell, of Tennessee, the candidate of the Union party, as it was called, a short-lived successor of the old Whig party, fell still farther in the rear of the two Northern candidates. The great crisis had come at last. The Abolition party had become a portion of the victorious Republican party. The South, politically, was overwhelmed. Separated now from its only ally, the Northern Democracy, it stood at last alone. It matters not that Mr. Lincoln, after his election, in sincerity of heart held out the olive branch to the nation, and that during his term of office the South, so far as his influence could avail, would have been comparatively safe from direct aggressions. Mr. Lincoln was not known then as he is known now, and, moreover, his term of office would be but four years. What course, then, was left to the South if it was determined to maintain its rights under the Constitution? What but the right of self-defense? The house of every man is his castle, and he may defend it to the death against all aggressors. When a hostile hand is raised to strike a blow, he who is assaulted need not wait until the blow falls, but on the instant may protect himself as best he can. These are the rights of self-defense known, approved and acted on by all freemen. And where constitutional rights of a people are in jeopardy, a kindred right of self-defense belongs to them. Although revolutionary in its character, it is not the less a right. Wendell Phillips, abolitionist as he was, in a speech made at New Bedford on the 9th of April, 1861, three days before the bombardment of Fort Sumter, fully recognized this right. He said: "Here are a series of States girding the Gulf, who think that their peculiar institutions require that they should have a separate government. They have a right to decide that question without appealing to you or me. A large body of the people, sufficient to make a nation, have come to the conclusion that they will have a government of a certain form. Who denies them the right? Standing with the principles of '76 behind us, who can deny them the right? What is a matter of a few millions of dollars or a few forts? It is a mere drop in the bucket of the great national question. It is theirs just as much as ours. I maintain, on the principles of '76, that Abraham Lincoln has no right to a soldier in Fort Sumter." And such was the honest belief of the people who united in establishing the Southern Confederacy. Wendell Phillips was not wrong in declaring the principles of '76 to be kindred to those of '61. The men of '76 did not fight to get rid of the petty tax of three pence a pound on tea, which was the only tax left to quarrel about. They were determined to pay no taxes, large or small, then or thereafter. Whether the tax was lawful or not was a doubtful question, about which there was a wide difference of opinion, but they did not care for that. Nothing would satisfy them but the relinquishment of any claim of right to tax the colonies, and this they could not obtain. They maintained that their rights were violated. They were, moreover, embittered by a long series of disputes with the mother country, and they wanted to be independent and to have a country of their own. They thought they were strong enough to maintain that position. Neither were the Southern men of '61 fighting for money. And they too were deeply embittered, not against a mother country, but against a brother country. The Northern people had published invectives of the most exasperating character broadcast against the South in their speeches, sermons, newspapers and books. The abolitionists had proceeded from words to deeds and were unwearied in tampering with the slaves and carrying them off. The Southern people, on their part, were not less violent in denunciation of the North. The slavery question had divided the political parties throughout the nation, and on this question the South was practically a unit. They could get no security that the provisions of the Constitution would be kept either in letter or in spirit, and this they demanded as their right. The Southern men thought that they also were strong enough to wage successfully a defensive war. Like the men of '76, they in great part were of British stock; they lived in a thinly settled country, led simple lives, were accustomed to the use of arms, and knew how to protect themselves. Such men make good soldiers, and when their armies were enrolled the ranks were filled with men of all classes, the rich as well as the poor, the educated as well as the ignorant. It is a mistake to suppose that they were inveigled into secession by ambitious leaders. On the contrary, it is probable that they were not as much under the influence of leaders as the men of '76, and that there were fewer disaffected among them. At times the scales trembled in the balance. There are always mistakes in war. It is an easy and ungrateful task to point them out afterward. We can now see that grave errors, both financial and military, were made, and that opportunities were thrown away. How far these went to settle the contest, we can never certainly know, but it does not need great boldness to assert that the belief which the Southern people entertained that they were strong enough to defend themselves, was not unreasonable. The determination of the South to maintain slavery was undoubtedly the main cause of secession, but another deep and underlying cause was the firm belief of the Southern people in the doctrine of States' rights, and their jealousy of any attack upon those rights. Devotion to their State first of all, a conviction that paramount obligation--in case of any conflict of allegiance--was due not to the Union but to the State, had been part of the political creed of very many in the South ever since the adoption of the Constitution. An ignoble love of slavery was not the general and impelling motive. The slaveholders, who were largely in the minority, acted as a privileged class always does act. They were determined to maintain their privileges at all hazards. But they, as well as the great mass of the people who had no personal interest in slavery, fought the battles of the war with the passionate earnestness of men who believed with an undoubting conviction that they were the defenders not only of home rule and of their firesides, but also of their constitutional rights. And behind the money question, the constitutional question and the moral question, there was still another of the gravest import. Was it possible for two races nearly equal in number, but widely different in character and civilization, to live together in a republic in peace and equality of rights without mingling in blood? The answer of the Southern man was, "It is not possible." CHAPTER III. MARYLAND'S DESIRE FOR PEACE. -- EVENTS WHICH FOLLOWED THE ELECTION OF PRESIDENT LINCOLN. -- HIS PROCLAMATION CALLING FOR TROOPS. -- THE CITY AUTHORITIES AND POLICE OF BALTIMORE. -- INCREASING EXCITEMENT IN BALTIMORE. I now come to consider the condition of affairs in Maryland. As yet the Republican party had obtained a very slight foothold. Only 2,294 votes had in the whole State been cast for Mr. Lincoln. Her sympathies were divided between the North and the South, with a decided preponderance on the Southern side. For many years her conscience had been neither dead nor asleep on the subject of slavery. Families had impoverished themselves to free their slaves. In 1860 there were 83,942 free colored people in Maryland and 87,189 slaves, the white population being 515,918. Thus there were nearly as many free as slaves of the colored race. Emancipation, in spite of harsh laws passed to discountenance it, had rapidly gone on. In the northern part of the State and in the city of Baltimore there were but few slaveholders, and the slavery was hardly more than nominal. The patriarchal institution, as it has been derisively called, had a real existence in many a household. Not a few excellent people have I known and respected who were born and bred in slavery and had been freed by their masters. In 1831 the State incorporated the Maryland Colonization Society, which founded on the west coast of Africa a successful republican colony of colored people, now known as the State of Maryland in Liberia, and for twenty-six years, and until the war broke out, the State contributed $10,000 a year to its support. This amount was increased by the contributions of individuals. The board, of which Mr. John H. B. Latrobe was for many years president, was composed of our best citizens. A code of laws for the government of the colony was prepared by the excellent and learned lawyer, Hugh Davey Evans. While there was on the part of a large portion of the people a deep-rooted and growing dislike to slavery, agitation on the subject had not commenced. It was in fact suppressed by reason of the violence of Northern abolitionists with whom the friends of emancipation were not able to unite. It is not surprising that Maryland was in no mood for war, but that her voice was for compromise and peace--compromise and peace at any price consistent with honor. The period immediately following the election of Mr. Lincoln in November, 1860, was throughout the country one of intense agitation and of important events. A large party at the North preferred compromise to war, even at the cost of dissolution of the Union. If dissolution began, no one could tell where it would stop. South Carolina seceded on the 17th of December, 1860. Georgia and the five Gulf States soon followed. On the 6th of January, 1861, Fernando Wood, mayor of the city of New York, sent a message to the common council advising that New York should secede and become a free city.[5] [Footnote 5: John P. Kennedy, of Baltimore, the well-known author, who had been member of Congress and Secretary of the Navy, published early in 1861 a pamphlet entitled "The Border States, Their Power and Duty in the Present Disordered Condition of the Country." His idea was that if concert of action could be had between the Border States and concurring States of the South which had not seceded, stipulations might be obtained from the Free States, with the aid of Congress, and, if necessary, an amendment of the Constitution, which would protect the rights of the South; but if this failed, that the Border States and their allies of the South would then be forced to consider the Union impracticable and to organize a separate confederacy of the Border States, with the association of such of the Southern and Free States as might be willing to accede to the proposed conditions. He hoped that the Union would thus be "reconstructed by the healthy action of the Border States." The necessary result, however, would have been that in the meantime three confederacies would have been in existence. And yet Mr. Kennedy had always been a Union man, and when the war broke out was its consistent advocate. These proposals, from such different sources as Fernando Wood and John P. Kennedy, tend to show the uncertainty and bewilderment which had taken possession of the minds of men, and in which few did not share to a greater or less degree.] On February the 9th, Jefferson Davis was elected President of the Southern Confederacy, a Confederacy to which other States would perhaps soon be added. But the Border States were as yet debatable ground; they might be retained by conciliation and compromise or alienated by hostile measures, whether directed against them or against the seceded States. In Virginia a convention had been called to consider the momentous question of union or secession, and an overwhelming majority of the delegates chosen were in favor of remaining in the Union. Other States were watching Virginia's course, in order to decide whether to stay in the Union or go out of it with her. On the 12th and 13th of April occurred the memorable bombardment and surrender of Fort Sumter. On the 15th of April, President Lincoln issued his celebrated proclamation calling out seventy-five thousand militia, and appealing "to all loyal citizens to favor, facilitate and aid this effort to maintain the honor, the integrity and existence of our National Union, and the perpetuity of popular government, and to redress wrongs already long enough endured." What these wrongs were is not stated. "The first service assigned to the forces hereby called forth," said the proclamation, "will probably be to re-possess the forts, places and property which have been seized from the Union." On the same day there was issued from the War Department a request addressed to the Governors of the different States, announcing what the quota of each State would be, and that the troops were to serve for three months unless sooner discharged. Maryland's quota was four regiments. The proclamation was received with exultation at the North--many dissentient voices being silenced in the general acclaim--with defiance at the South, and in Maryland with mingled feelings in which astonishment, dismay and disapprobation were predominant. On all sides it was agreed that the result must be war, or a dissolution of the Union, and I may safely say that a large majority of our people then preferred the latter. An immediate effect of the proclamation was to intensify the feeling of hostility in the wavering States, and to drive four of them into secession. Virginia acted promptly. On April 17th her convention passed an ordinance of secession--subject to ratification by a vote of the people--and Virginia became the head and front of the Confederacy. North Carolina, Tennessee and Arkansas soon followed her lead. Meanwhile, and before the formal acts of secession, the Governors of Virginia, North Carolina and Tennessee sent prompt and defiant answers to the requisition, emphatically refusing to furnish troops, as did also the Governors of Kentucky and Missouri. The position of Maryland was most critical. This State was especially important, because the capital of the nation lay within her borders, and all the roads from the North leading to it passed through her territory. After the President's proclamation was issued, no doubt a large majority of her people sympathized with the South; but even had that sentiment been far more preponderating, there was an underlying feeling that by a sort of geographical necessity her lot was cast with the North, that the larger and stronger half of the nation would not allow its capital to be quietly disintegrated away by her secession. Delaware and Maryland were the only Border States which did not attempt to secede. Kentucky at first took the impossible stand of an armed neutrality. When this failed, a portion of her people passed an ordinance of secession, and a portion of the people of Missouri passed a similar ordinance. It is now proper to give some explanation of the condition of affairs in Baltimore, at that time a city of 215,000 inhabitants. Thomas Holliday Hicks, who had been elected by the American, or Know-Nothing party, three years before, was the Governor of the State. The city authorities, consisting of the mayor and city council, had been elected in October, 1860, a few weeks before the Presidential election, not as representatives of any of the national parties, but as the candidates of an independent reform party, and in opposition to the Know-Nothing party. This party, which then received its quietus, had been in power for some years, and had maintained itself by methods which made its rule little better than a reign of terror.[6] No one acquainted with the history of that period can doubt that the reform was greatly needed. A large number of the best men of the American party united in the movement, and with their aid it became triumphantly successful, carrying every ward in the city. The city council was composed of men of unusually high character. "Taken as a whole" (Scharf's "History of Maryland," Vol. III., p. 284), "a better ticket has seldom, if ever, been brought out. In the selection of candidates all party tests were discarded, and all thought of rewarding partisan services repudiated." Four police commissioners, appointed by the Legislature--Charles Howard, William H. Gatchell, Charles D. Hinks and John W. Davis--men of marked ability and worth, had, with the mayor, who was _ex officio_ a member of the board, the appointment and control of the police force. Mr. S. Teackle Wallis was the legal adviser of the board. The entire police force consisted of 398 men, and had been raised to a high degree of discipline and efficiency under the command of Marshal Kane. They were armed with revolvers. [Footnote 6: The culmination of this period of misrule was at the election in November, 1859, when the fraud and violence were so flagrant that the Legislature of the State unseated the whole Baltimore delegation--ten members. The city being thus without representation, it became necessary, when a special session of the Legislature was called in April, 1861, that a new delegation from Baltimore should be chosen. It was this same Legislature (elected in 1859), which took away from the mayor of the city the control of its police, and entrusted that force to a board of police commissioners. This change, a most fortunate one for the city at that crisis, resulted in the immediate establishment of good order, and made possible the reform movement of the next autumn.] Immediately after the call of the President for troops, including four regiments from Maryland, a marked division among the people manifested itself. Two large and excited crowds, eager for news, and nearly touching each other, stood from morning until late at night before two newspaper offices on Baltimore street which advocated contrary views and opinions. Strife was in the air. It was difficult for the police to keep the peace. Business was almost suspended. Was there indeed to be war between the sections, or could it yet, by some unlooked-for interposition, be averted? Would the Border States interfere and demand peace? There was a deep and pervading impression of impending evil. And now an immediate fear was as to the effect on the citizens of the passage of Northern troops through the city. Should they be permitted to cross the soil of Maryland, to make war on sister States of the South, allied to her by so many ties of affection, as well as of kindred institutions? On the other hand, when the capital of the nation was in danger, should not the kindest greeting and welcome be extended to those who were first to come to the rescue? Widely different were the answers given to these questions. The Palmetto flag had several times been raised by some audacious hands in street and harbor, but it was soon torn down. The National flag and the flag of the State, with its black and orange, the colors of Lord Baltimore, waved unmolested, but not side by side, for they had become symbols of different ideas, although the difference was, as yet, not clearly defined. On the 17th of April, the state of affairs became so serious that I, as mayor, issued a proclamation earnestly invoking all good citizens to refrain from every act which could lead to outbreak or violence of any kind; to refrain from harshness of speech, and to render in all cases prompt and efficient aid, as by law they were required to do, to the public authorities, whose constant efforts would be exerted to maintain unbroken the peace and order of the city, and to administer the laws with fidelity and impartiality. I cannot flatter myself that this appeal produced much effect. The excitement was too great for any words to allay it. On the 18th of April, notice was received from Harrisburg that two companies of United States artillery, commanded by Major Pemberton, and also four companies of militia, would arrive by the Northern Central Railroad at Bolton Station, in the northern part of the city, at two o'clock in the afternoon. The militia had neither arms nor uniforms. Before the troops arrived at the station, where I was waiting to receive them, I was suddenly called away by a message from Governor Hicks stating that he desired to see me on business of urgent importance, and this prevented my having personal knowledge of what immediately afterward occurred. The facts, however, are that a large crowd assembled at the station and followed the soldiers in their march to the Washington station with abuse and threats. The regulars were not molested, but the wrath of the mob was directed against the militia, and an attack would certainly have been made but for the vigilance and determination of the police, under the command of Marshal Kane. "These proceedings," says Mr. Scharf, in the third volume of his "History of Maryland," page 401, "were an earnest of what might be expected on the arrival of other troops, the excitement growing in intensity with every hour. Numerous outbreaks occurred in the neighborhood of the newspaper offices during the day, and in the evening a meeting of the States Rights Convention was held in Taylor's building, on Fayette street near Calvert, where, it is alleged, very strong ground was taken against the passage of any more troops through Baltimore, and armed resistance to it threatened. On motion of Mr. Ross Winans, the following resolutions were unanimously adopted: "_Resolved_, That in the opinion of this convention the prosecution of the design announced by the President in his late proclamation, of recapturing the forts in the seceded States, will inevitably lead to a sanguinary war, the dissolution of the Union, and the irreconcilable estrangement of the people of the South from the people of the North. "_Resolved_, That we protest in the name of the people of Maryland against the garrisoning of Southern forts by militia drawn from the free States; or the quartering of militia from the free States in any of the towns or places of the slaveholding States. "_Resolved_, That in the opinion of this convention the massing of large bodies of militia, exclusively from the free States, in the District of Columbia, is uncalled for by any public danger or exigency, is a standing menace to the State of Maryland, and an insult to her loyalty and good faith, and will, if persisted in, alienate her people from a government which thus attempts to overawe them by the presence of armed men and treats them with contempt and distrust. "_Resolved_, That the time has arrived when it becomes all good citizens to unite in a common effort to obliterate all party lines which have heretofore unhappily divided us, and to present an unbroken front in the preservation and defense of our interests, our homes and our firesides, to avert the horrors of civil war, and to repel, if need be, any invader who may come to establish a military despotism over us. "A. C. ROBINSON, _Chairman_." "G. HARLAN WILLIAMS, "ALBERT RITCHIE, "_Secretaries_." The names of the members who composed this convention are not given, but the mover of the resolutions and the officers of the meeting were men well known and respected in this community. The bold and threatening character of the resolutions did not tend to calm the public mind. They did not, however, advocate an attack on the troops. In Putnam's "Record of the Rebellion," Volume I, page 29, the following statement is made of a meeting which was held on the morning of the 18th of April: "An excited secession meeting was held at Baltimore, Maryland. T. Parkin Scott occupied the chair, and speeches denunciatory of the Administration and the North were made by Wilson C. N. Carr, William Byrne [improperly spelled Burns], President of the National Volunteer Association, and others." An account of the meeting is before me, written by Mr. Carr, lately deceased, a gentleman entirely trustworthy. He did not know, he says, of the existence of such an association, but on his way down town having seen the notice of a town meeting to be held at Taylor's Hall, to take into consideration the state of affairs, he went to the meeting. Mr. Scott was in the chair and was speaking. He was not making an excited speech, but, on the contrary, was urging the audience to do nothing rashly, but to be moderate and not to interfere with any troops that might attempt to pass through the city. As soon as he had finished, Mr. Carr was urged to go up to the platform and reply to Mr. Scott. I now give Mr. Carr's words. "I went up," he says, "but had no intention of saying anything in opposition to what Mr. Scott had advised the people to do. I was not there as an advocate of secession, but was anxious to see some way opened for reconciliation between the North and South. I did not make an excited speech nor did I denounce the Administration. I saw that I was disappointing the crowd. Some expressed their disapprobation pretty plainly and I cut my speech short. As soon as I finished speaking the meeting adjourned." After the war was over, Mr. Scott was elected Chief Judge of the Supreme Bench of Baltimore City. He was a strong sympathizer with the South, and had the courage of his convictions, but he had been also an opponent of slavery, and I have it from his own lips that years before the war, on a Fourth of July, he had persuaded his mother to liberate all her slaves, although she depended largely on their services for her support. And yet he lived and died a poor man. On the 16th of April, Marshal Kane addressed a letter to William Crawford, the Baltimore agent of the Philadelphia, Wilmington and Baltimore Railroad Company, in the following terms: "_Dear Sir_:--Is it true as stated that an attempt will be made to pass the volunteers from New York intended to war upon the South over your road to-day? It is important that we have explicit understanding on the subject. Your friend, GEORGE P. KANE." This letter was not submitted to me, nor to the board of police. If it had been, it would have been couched in very different language. Mr. Crawford forwarded it to the President of the road, who, on the same day, sent it to Simon Cameron, the Secretary of War. Mr. Cameron, on April 18th, wrote to Governor Hicks, giving him notice that there were unlawful combinations of citizens of Maryland to impede the transit of United States troops across Maryland on their way to the defense of the capital, and that the President thought it his duty to make it known to the Governor, so that all loyal and patriotic citizens might be warned in time, and that he might be prepared to take immediate and effective measures against it. On the afternoon of the 18th, Governor Hicks arrived in town. He had prepared a proclamation as Governor of the State, and wished me to issue another as mayor of the city, which I agreed to do. In it he said, among other things, that the unfortunate state of affairs now existing in the country had greatly excited the people of Maryland; that the emergency was great, and that the consequences of a rash step would be fearful. He therefore counselled the people in all earnestness to withhold their hands from whatever might tend to precipitate us into the gulf of discord and ruin gaping to receive us. All powers vested in the Governor of the State would be strenuously exerted to preserve peace and maintain inviolate the honor and integrity of Maryland. He assured the people that no troops would be sent from Maryland, unless it might be for the defense of the national capital. He concluded by saying that the people of this State would in a short time have the opportunity afforded them, in a special election for members of Congress, to express their devotion to the Union, or their desire to see it broken up. This proclamation is of importance in several respects. It shows the great excitement of the people and the imminent danger of domestic strife. It shows, moreover, that even the Governor of the State had then little idea of the course which he himself was soon about to pursue. If this was the case with the Governor, it could not have been different with thousands of the people. Very soon he became a thorough and uncompromising upholder of the war. In my proclamation I concurred with the Governor in his determination to preserve the peace and maintain inviolate the honor and integrity of Maryland, and added that I could not withhold my expression of satisfaction at his resolution that no troops should be sent from Maryland to the soil of any other State. Simultaneously with the passage of the first Northern regiments on their way to Washington, came the news that Virginia had seceded. Two days were crowded with stirring news--a proclamation from the President of the Southern Confederacy offering to issue commissions or letters of marque to privateers, President Lincoln's proclamation declaring a blockade of Southern ports, the Norfolk Navy Yard abandoned, Harper's Ferry evacuated and the arsenal in the hands of Virginia troops. These events, so exciting in themselves, and coming together with the passage of the first troops, greatly increased the danger of an explosion. CHAPTER IV. THE SIXTH MASSACHUSETTS REGIMENT IN BALTIMORE. -- THE FIGHT. -- THE DEPARTURE FOR WASHINGTON. -- CORRESPONDENCE IN REGARD TO THE KILLED AND WOUNDED. -- PUBLIC MEETING. -- TELEGRAM TO THE PRESIDENT. -- NO REPLY. -- BURNING OF BRIDGES. The Sixth Massachusetts Regiment had the honor of being the first to march in obedience to the call of the President, completely equipped and organized. It had a full band and regimental staff. Mustered at Lowell on the morning of the 16th, the day after the proclamation was issued, four companies from Lowell presented themselves, and to these were added two from Lawrence, one from Groton, one from Acton, and one from Worcester; and when the regiment reached Boston, at one o'clock, an additional company was added from that city and another from Stoneham, making eleven in all--about seven hundred men.[7] It was addressed by the Governor of the State in front of the State House. In the city and along the line of the railroad, on the 17th, everywhere, ovations attended them. In the march down Broadway, in New York, on the 18th, the wildest enthusiasm inspired all classes. Similar scenes occurred in the progress through New Jersey and through the city of Philadelphia. At midnight on the 18th, reports reached Philadelphia that the passage of the regiment through Baltimore would be disputed. [Footnote 7: Hanson's Sixth Massachusetts Regiment, p. 14.] An unarmed and un-uniformed Pennsylvania regiment, under Colonel Small, was added to the train, either in Philadelphia or when the train reached the Susquehanna--it has been stated both ways, and I am not sure which account is correct--and the two regiments made the force about seventeen hundred men. The proper course for the Philadelphia, Wilmington and Baltimore Railroad Company was to have given immediate notice to the mayor or board of police of the number of the troops, and the time when they were expected to arrive in the city, so that preparation might have been made to receive them, but no such notice was given. On the contrary, it was purposely withheld, and no information could be obtained from the office of the company, although the marshal of police repeatedly telegraphed to Philadelphia to learn when the troops were to be expected. No news was received until from a half hour to an hour of the time at which they were to arrive. Whatever was the reason that no notice of the approach of the troops was given, it was not because they had no apprehensions of trouble. Mr. Felton, the president of the railroad company, says that _before_ the troops left Philadelphia he called the colonel and principal officers into his office, and told them of the dangers they would probably encounter, and advised that each soldier should load his musket before leaving and be ready for any emergency. Colonel Jones's official report, which is dated, "Capitol, Washington, April 22, 1861," says, "_After_ leaving Philadelphia, I received intimation that the passage through the city of Baltimore would be resisted. I caused ammunition to be distributed and arms loaded, and went personally through the cars, and issued the following order--viz.: "'The regiment will march through Baltimore in columns of sections, arms at will. You will undoubtedly be insulted, abused, and perhaps assaulted, to which you must pay no attention whatever, but march with your faces square to the front, and pay no attention to the mob, even if they throw stones, bricks, or other missiles; but if you are fired upon, and any of you are hit, your officers will order you to fire. Do not fire into any promiscuous crowds, but select any man whom you may see aiming at you, and be sure you drop him.'" If due notice had been given, and if this order had been carried out, the danger of a serious disturbance would have been greatly diminished. The plainest dictates of prudence required the Massachusetts and Pennsylvania regiments to march through the city in a body. The Massachusetts regiment was armed with muskets, and could have defended itself, and would also have had aid from the police; and although the Pennsylvania troops were unarmed, they would have been protected by the police just as troops from the same State had been protected on the day before. The mayor and police commissioners would have been present, adding the sanction and authority of their official positions. But the plan adopted laid the troops open to be attacked in detail when they were least able to defend themselves and were out of the reach of assistance from the police. This plan was that when the train reached the President-street or Philadelphia station, in the southeastern part of Baltimore, each car should, according to custom, be detached from the engine and be drawn through the city by four horses for the distance of more than a mile to the Camden-street or Washington station, in the southwestern part of the city. Some one had blundered. The train of thirty-five cars arrived at President-street Station at about eleven o'clock. The course which the troops had to take was first northerly on President street, four squares to Pratt street, a crowded thoroughfare leading along the heads of the docks, then along Pratt street west for nearly a mile to Howard street, and then south, on Howard street, one square to the Camden-street station. Drawn by horses across the city at a rapid pace, about nine[8] cars, containing seven companies of the Massachusetts Sixth, reached the Camden-street station, the first carloads being assailed only with jeers and hisses; but the last car, containing Company "K" and Major Watson, was delayed on its passage--according to one account was thrown off the track by obstructions, and had to be replaced with the help of a passing team; paving-stones and other missiles were thrown, the windows were broken, and some of the soldiers were struck. Colonel Jones was in one of the cars which passed through. Near Gay street, it happened that a number of laborers were at work repaving Pratt street, and had taken up the cobble-stones for the purpose of relaying them. As the troops kept passing, the crowd of bystanders grew larger, the excitement and--among many--the feeling of indignation grew more intense; each new aggressive act was the signal and example for further aggression. A cart coming by with a load of sand, the track was blocked by dumping the cartload upon it--I have been told that this was the act of some merchants and clerks of the neighborhood--and then, as a more effectual means of obstruction, some anchors lying near the head of the Gay-street dock were dragged up to and placed across the track.[9] [Footnote 8: According to some of the published accounts _seven_ cars got through, which would have been one to each company, but I believe that the number of the cars and of the companies did not correspond. Probably the larger companies were divided.] [Footnote 9: For participation in placing this obstruction, a wealthy merchant of long experience, usually a very peaceful man, was afterward indicted for treason by the Grand Jury of the Circuit Court of the United States in Baltimore, but his trial was not pressed.] The next car being stopped by these obstructions, the driver attached the horses to the rear end of the car and drove it back, with the soldiers, to the President-street station, the rest of the cars also, of course, having to turn back, or--if any of them had not yet started--to remain where they were at the depot. In the cars thus stopped and turned back there were four companies, "C," "D," "I" and "L," under Captains Follansbee, Hart, Pickering and Dike; also the band, which, I believe, did not leave the depot, and which remained there with the unarmed Pennsylvania regiment. These four companies, in all about 220 men, formed on President street, in the midst of a dense and angry crowd, which threatened and pressed upon the troops, uttering cheers for Jefferson Davis and the Southern Confederacy, and groans for Lincoln and the North, with much abusive language. As the soldiers advanced along President street, the commotion increased; one of the band of rioters appeared bearing a Confederate flag, and it was carried a considerable distance before it was torn from its staff by citizens. Stones were thrown in great numbers, and at the corner of Fawn street two of the soldiers were knocked down by stones and seriously injured. In crossing Pratt-street bridge, the troops had to pick their way over joists and scantling, which by this time had been placed on the bridge to obstruct their passage. Colonel Jones's official report, from which I have already quoted, thus describes what happened after the four companies left the cars. As Colonel Jones was not present during the march, but obtained the particulars from others, it is not surprising that his account contains errors. These will be pointed out and corrected later: "They proceeded to march in accordance with orders, and had proceeded but a short distance before they were furiously attacked by a shower of missiles, which came faster as they advanced. They increased their step to double-quick, which seemed to infuriate the mob, as it evidently impressed the mob with the idea that the soldiers dared not fire or had no ammunition, and pistol-shots were numerously fired into the ranks, and one soldier fell dead. The order "Fire!" was given, and it was executed; in consequence several of the mob fell, and the soldiers again advanced hastily. The mayor of Baltimore placed himself at the head of the column beside Captain Follansbee, and proceeded with them a short distance, assuring him that he would protect them, and begging him not to let the men fire. But the mayor's patience was soon exhausted, and he seized a musket from the hands of one of the men, and killed a man therewith; and a policeman, who was in advance of the column, also shot a man with a revolver. They at last reached the cars, and they started immediately for Washington. On going through the train I found there were about one hundred and thirty missing, including the band and field music. Our baggage was seized, and we have not as yet been able to recover any of it. I have found it very difficult to get reliable information in regard to the killed and wounded, but believe there were only three killed. "As the men went into the cars" [meaning the men who had marched through the city to Camden Station], "I caused the blinds to the cars to be closed, and took every precaution to prevent any shadow of offense to the people of Baltimore, but still the stones flew thick and fast into the train, and it was with the utmost difficulty that I could prevent the troops from leaving the cars and revenging the death of their comrades. After a volley of stones, some one of the soldiers fired and killed a Mr. Davis, who, I ascertained by reliable witnesses, threw a stone into the car." This is incorrectly stated, as will hereafter appear. It is proper that I should now go back and take up the narration from my own point of view. On the morning of the 19th of April I was at my law office in Saint Paul street after ten o'clock, when three members of the city council came to me with a message from Marshal Kane, informing me that he had just received intelligence that troops were about to arrive--I did not learn how many--and that he apprehended a disturbance, and requesting me to go to the Camden-street station. I immediately hastened to the office of the board of police, and found that they had received a similar notice. The Counsellor of the City, Mr. George M. Gill, and myself then drove rapidly in a carriage to the Camden-street station. The police commissioners followed, and, on reaching the station, we found Marshal Kane on the ground and the police coming in in squads. A large and angry crowd had assembled, but were restrained by the police from committing any serious breach of the peace. After considerable delay seven of the eleven companies of the Massachusetts regiment arrived at the station, as already mentioned, and I saw that the windows of the last car were badly broken. No one to whom I applied could inform me whether more troops were expected or not. At this time an alarm was given that the mob was about to tear up the rails in advance of the train on the Washington road, and Marshal Kane ordered some of his men to go out the road as far as necessary to protect the track. Soon afterward, and when I was about to leave the Camden-street station, supposing all danger to be over, news was brought to Police Commissioner Davis and myself, who were standing together, that some troops had been left behind, and that the mob was tearing up the track on Pratt street, so as to obstruct the progress of the cars, which were coming to the Camden-street station. Mr. Davis immediately ran to summon the marshal, who was at the station with a body of police, to be sent to the point of danger, while I hastened alone in the same direction. On arriving at about Smith's Wharf, foot of Gay street, I found that anchors had been placed on the track, and that Sergeant McComas and four policemen who were with him were not allowed by a group of rioters to remove the obstruction. I at once ordered the anchors to be removed, and my authority was not resisted. I hurried on, and, approaching Pratt-street bridge, I saw a battalion, which proved to be four companies of the Massachusetts regiment which had crossed the bridge, coming towards me in double-quick time. They were firing wildly, sometimes backward, over their shoulders. So rapid was the march that they could not stop to take aim. The mob, which was not very large, as it seemed to me, was pursuing with shouts and stones, and, I think, an occasional pistol-shot. The uproar was furious. I ran at once to the head of the column, some persons in the crowd shouting, "Here comes the mayor." I shook hands with the officer in command, Captain Follansbee, saying as I did so, "I am the mayor of Baltimore." The captain greeted me cordially. I at once objected to the double-quick, which was immediately stopped. I placed myself by his side, and marched with him. He said, "We have been attacked without provocation," or words to that effect. I replied, "You must defend yourselves." I expected that he would face his men to the rear, and, after giving warning, would fire if necessary. But I said no more, for I immediately felt that, as mayor of the city, it was not my province to volunteer such advice. Once before in my life I had taken part in opposing a formidable riot, and had learned by experience that the safest and most humane manner of quelling a mob is to meet it at the beginning with armed resistance. The column continued its march. There was neither concert of action nor organization among the rioters. They were armed only with such stones or missiles as they could pick up, and a few pistols. My presence for a short time had some effect, but very soon the attack was renewed with greater violence. The mob grew bolder. Stones flew thick and fast. Rioters rushed at the soldiers and attempted to snatch their muskets, and at least on two occasions succeeded. With one of these muskets a soldier was killed. Men fell on both sides. A young lawyer, then and now known as a quiet citizen, seized a flag of one of the companies and nearly tore it from its staff. He was shot through the thigh, and was carried home apparently a dying man, but he survived to enter the army of the Confederacy, where he rose to the rank of captain, and he afterward returned to Baltimore, where he still lives. The soldiers fired at will. There was no firing by platoons, and I heard no order given to fire. I remember that at the corner of South street several citizens standing in a group fell, either killed or wounded. It was impossible for the troops to discriminate between the rioters and the by-standers, but the latter seemed to suffer most, because, as the main attack was from the mob pursuing the soldiers from the rear, they, in their march, could not easily face backward to fire, but could shoot at those whom they passed on the street. Near the corner of Light street a soldier was severely wounded, who afterward died, and a boy on a vessel lying in the dock was killed, and about the same place three soldiers at the head of the column leveled their muskets and fired into a group standing on the sidewalk, who, as far as I could see, were taking no active part. The shots took effect, but I cannot say how many fell. I cried out, waving my umbrella to emphasize my words, "For God's sake don't shoot!" but it was too late. The statement that I begged Captain Follansbee not to let the men fire is incorrect, although on this occasion I did say, "Don't shoot." It then seemed to me that I was in the wrong place, for my presence did not avail to protect either the soldiers or the citizens, and I stepped out from the column. Just at this moment a boy ran forward and handed to me a discharged musket which had fallen from one of the soldiers. I took it from him and hastened into the nearest shop, asking the person in charge to keep it safely, and returned immediately to the street. This boy was far from being alone in his sympathy for the troops, but their friends were powerless, except to care for the wounded and remove the dead. The statement in Colonel Jones's report that I seized a musket and killed one of the rioters is entirely incorrect. The smoking musket seen in my hands was no doubt the foundation for it. There is no foundation for the other statement that one of the police shot a man with a revolver. At the moment when I returned to the street, Marshal Kane, with about fifty policemen (as I then supposed, but I have since ascertained that in fact there were not so many), came at a run from the direction of the Camden-street station, and throwing themselves in the rear of the troops, they formed a line in front of the mob, and with drawn revolvers kept it back. This was between Light and Charles streets. Marshal Kane's voice shouted, "Keep back, men, or I shoot!" This movement, which I saw myself, was gallantly executed, and was perfectly successful. The mob recoiled like water from a rock. One of the leading rioters, then a young man, now a peaceful merchant, tried, as he has himself told me, to pass the line, but the marshal seized him and vowed he would shoot if the attempt was made. This nearly ended the fight, and the column passed on under the protection of the police, without serious molestation, to Camden Station.[10] I had accompanied the troops for more than a third of a mile, and regarded the danger as now over. At Camden-street Station there was rioting and confusion. Commissioner Davis assisted in placing the soldiers in the cars for Washington. Some muskets were pointed out of the windows by the soldiers. To this he earnestly objected, as likely to bring on a renewal of the fight, and he advised the blinds to be closed. The muskets were then withdrawn and the blinds closed, by military order, as stated by Colonel Jones. [Footnote 10: The accounts in some of our newspapers describe serious fighting at a point beyond this, but I am satisfied they are incorrect.] At last, about a quarter before one o'clock, the train, consisting of thirteen cars filled with troops, moved out of Camden Station amid the hisses and groans of the multitude, and passed safely on to Washington. At the outskirts of the city, half a mile or more beyond the station, occurred the unfortunate incident of the killing of Robert W. Davis. This gentleman, a well-known dry-goods merchant, was standing on a vacant lot near the track with two friends, and as the train went by they raised a cheer for Jefferson Davis and the South, when he was immediately shot dead by one of the soldiers from a car-window, several firing at once. There were no rioters near them, and they did not know that the troops had been attacked on their march through the city. There was no "volley of stones" thrown just before Mr. Davis was killed, nor did he or his friends throw any.[11] This was the last of the casualties of the day, and was by far the most serious and unfortunate in its consequences, for it was not unnaturally made the most of to inflame the minds of the people against the Northern troops. Had it not been for this incident, there would perhaps have been among many of our people a keener sense of blame attaching to themselves as the aggressors. Four of the Massachusetts regiment were killed and thirty-six wounded. Twelve citizens were killed, including Mr. Davis. The number of wounded among the latter has never been ascertained. As the fighting was at close quarters, the small number of casualties shows that it was not so severe as has generally been supposed. [Footnote 11: Testimony of witnesses at the coroner's inquest.] But peace even for the day had not come. The unarmed Pennsylvanians and the band of the Massachusetts regiment were still at the President-street station, where a mob had assembled, and the police at that point were not sufficient to protect them. Stones were thrown, and some few of the Pennsylvania troops were hurt, not seriously, I believe. A good many of them were, not unnaturally, seized with a panic, and scattered through the city in different directions. Marshal Kane again appeared on the scene with an adequate force, and an arrangement was made with the railroad company by which the troops were sent back in the direction of Philadelphia. During the afternoon and night a number of stragglers sought the aid of the police and were cared for at one of the station-houses. The following card of Captain Dike, who commanded Company "C" of the Sixth Massachusetts Regiment, appeared in the Boston _Courier_: "BALTIMORE, _April 25, 1861_. "It is but an act of justice that induces me to say to my friends who may feel any interest, and to the community generally, that in the affair which occurred in this city on Friday, the 19th instant, the mayor and city authorities should be exonerated from blame or censure, as they did all in their power, as far as my knowledge extends, to quell the riot, and Mayor Brown attested the sincerity of his desire to preserve the peace, and pass our regiment safely through the city, by marching at the head of its column, and remaining there at the risk of his life. Candor could not permit me to say less, and a desire to place the conduct of the authorities here on the occasion in a right position, as well as to allay feelings, urges me to this sheer act of justice. JOHN H. DIKE, "_Captain Company 'C,' Seventh Regiment, attached to Sixth Regiment Massachusetts V. M._" In a letter to Marshal Kane, Colonel Jones wrote as follows: "HEADQUARTERS SIXTH REGIMENT M. V. M. "WASHINGTON, D. C., _April 28, 1861_. "_Marshal Kane, Baltimore, Maryland._ "Please deliver the bodies of the deceased soldiers belonging to my regiment to Murrill S. Wright, Esq., who is authorized to receive them, and take charge of them through to Boston, and thereby add one more to the many favors for which, in connection with this matter, I am, with my command, much indebted to you. Many, many thanks for the Christian conduct of the authorities of Baltimore in this truly unfortunate affair. "I am, with much respect, your obedient servant, "EDWARD F. JONES, "_Colonel Sixth Regiment M. V. M._" The following correspondence with the Governor of Massachusetts seems to be entitled to a place in this paper. Gov. Andrew's first telegram cannot be found. The second, which was sent by me in reply, is as follows: "BALTIMORE, _April 20, 1861_. "_To the Honorable John A. Andrew, Governor of Massachusetts._ "_Sir_:--No one deplores the sad events of yesterday in this city more deeply than myself, but they were inevitable. Our people viewed the passage of armed troops to another State through the streets as an invasion of our soil, and could not be restrained. The authorities exerted themselves to the best of their ability, but with only partial success. Governor Hicks was present, and concurs in all my views as to the proceedings now necessary for our protection. When are these scenes to cease? Are we to have a war of sections? God forbid! The bodies of the Massachusetts soldiers could not be sent out to Boston, as you requested, all communication between this city and Philadelphia by railroad and with Boston by steamer having ceased, but they have been placed in cemented coffins, and will be placed with proper funeral ceremonies in the mausoleum of Greenmount Cemetery, where they shall be retained until further directions are received from you. The wounded are tenderly cared for. I appreciate your offer, but Baltimore will claim it as her right to pay all expenses incurred." "Very respectfully, your obedient servant, "GEO. WM. BROWN, "_Mayor of Baltimore._" To this the following reply was returned by the Governor: "_To His Honor George W. Brown, Mayor of Baltimore._ "_Dear Sir_:--I appreciate your kind attention to our wounded and our dead, and trust that at the earliest moment the remains of our fallen will return to us. I am overwhelmed with surprise that a peaceful march of American citizens over the highway to the defense of our common capital should be deemed aggressive to Baltimoreans. Through New York the march was triumphal. JOHN A. ANDREW, "_Governor of Massachusetts._" This correspondence carries the narrative beyond the nineteenth of April, and I now return to the remaining events of that day. After the news spread through the city of the fight in the streets, and especially of the killing of Mr. Davis, the excitement became intense. It was manifest that no more troops, while the excitement lasted, could pass through without a bloody conflict. All citizens, no matter what were their political opinions, appeared to agree in this--the strongest friends of the Union as well as its foes. However such a conflict might terminate, the result would be disastrous. In each case it might bring down the vengeance of the North upon the city. If the mob succeeded, it would probably precipitate the city, and perhaps the State, into a temporary secession. Such an event all who had not lost their reason deprecated. The immediate and pressing necessity was that no more troops should arrive. Governor Hicks called out the military for the preservation of the peace and the protection of the city. An immense public meeting assembled in Monument Square. Governor Hicks, the mayor, Mr. S. Teackle Wallis, and others, addressed it. In my speech I insisted on the maintenance of peace and order in the city. I denied that the right of a State to secede from the Union was granted by the Constitution. This was received with groans and shouts of disapproval by a part of the crowd, but I maintained my ground. I deprecated war on the seceding States, and strongly expressed the opinion that the South could not be conquered. I approved of Governor Hicks's determination to send no troops from Maryland to invade the South. I further endeavored to calm the people by informing them of the efforts made by Governor Hicks and myself to prevent the passage of more troops through the city. Governor Hicks said: "I coincide in the sentiment of your worthy mayor. After three conferences we have agreed, and I bow in submission to the people. I am a Marylander; I love my State and I love the Union, but I will suffer my right arm to be torn from my body before I will raise it to strike a sister State." A dispatch had previously been sent by Governor Hicks and myself to the President of the United States as follows: "A collision between the citizens and the Northern troops has taken place in Baltimore, and the excitement is fearful. Send no troops here. We will endeavor to prevent all bloodshed. A public meeting of citizens has been called, and the troops of the State have been called out to preserve the peace. They will be enough." Immediately afterward, Messrs. H. Lennox Bond, a Republican, then Judge of the Criminal Court of Baltimore, and now Judge of the Circuit Court of the United States; George W. Dobbin, an eminent lawyer, and John C. Brune, President of the Board of Trade, went to Washington at my request, bearing the following letter to the President: "MAYOR'S OFFICE, BALTIMORE, _April 19, 1861_. "_Sir_:--This will be presented to you by the Hon. H. Lennox Bond, and George W. Dobbin, and John C. Brune, Esqs., who will proceed to Washington by an express train at my request, in order to explain fully the fearful condition of affairs in this city. The people are exasperated to the highest degree by the passage of troops, and the citizens are universally decided in the opinion that no more should be ordered to come. The authorities of the city did their best to-day to protect both strangers and citizens and to prevent a collision, but in vain, and, but for their great efforts, a fearful slaughter would have occurred. Under these circumstances it is my solemn duty to inform you that it is not possible for more soldiers to pass through Baltimore unless they fight their way at every step. I therefore hope and trust and most earnestly request that no more troops be permitted or ordered by the Government to pass through the city. If they should attempt it, the responsibility for the blood shed will not rest upon me. "With great respect, your obedient servant, "GEO. WM. BROWN, _Mayor_. "_To His Excellency Abraham Lincoln, President United States._" To this Governor Hicks added: "I have been in Baltimore City since Tuesday evening last, and coöperated with Mayor G. W. Brown in his untiring efforts to allay and prevent the excitement and suppress the fearful outbreak as indicated above, and I fully concur in all that is said by him in the above communication." No reply came from Washington. The city authorities were left to act on their own responsibility. Late at night reports came of troops being on their way both from Harrisburg and Philadelphia. It was impossible that they could pass through the city without fighting and bloodshed. In this emergency, the board of police, including the mayor, immediately assembled for consultation, and came to the conclusion that it was necessary to burn or disable the bridges on both railroads so far as was required to prevent the ingress of troops. This was accordingly done at once, some of the police and a detachment of the Maryland Guard being sent out to do the work. Governor Hicks was first consulted and urged to give his consent, for we desired that he should share with us the responsibility of taking this grave step. This consent he distinctly gave in my presence and in the presence of several others, and although there was an attempt afterward to deny the fact that he so consented, there can be no doubt whatever about the matter. He was in my house at the time, where, on my invitation, he had taken refuge, thinking that he was in some personal danger at the hotel where he was staying. Early the next morning the Governor returned to Annapolis, and after this the city authorities had to bear alone the responsibilities which the anomalous state of things in Baltimore had brought upon them. On the Philadelphia Railroad the detachment sent out by special train for the purpose of burning the bridges went as far as the Bush River, and the long bridge there, and the still longer one over the wide estuary of the Gunpowder, a few miles nearer Baltimore, were partially burned. It is an interesting fact that just as this party arrived at the Bush River bridge, a volunteer party of five gentlemen from Baltimore reached the same place on the same errand. They had ridden on horseback by night to the river, and had then gone by boat to the bridge for the purpose of burning it, and in fact they stayed at the bridge and continued the work of burning until the afternoon. CHAPTER V. APRIL 20th, INCREASING EXCITEMENT. -- APPROPRIATION OF $500,000 FOR DEFENSE OF THE CITY. -- CORRESPONDENCE WITH PRESIDENT AND GOVERNOR. -- MEN ENROLLED. -- APPREHENDED ATTACK ON FORT McHENRY. -- MARSHAL KANE. -- INTERVIEW WITH PRESIDENT, CABINET AND GENERAL SCOTT. -- GENERAL BUTLER, WITH THE EIGHTH MASSACHUSETTS, PROCEEDS TO ANNAPOLIS AND WASHINGTON. -- BALTIMORE IN A STATE OF ARMED NEUTRALITY. On Saturday morning, the 20th, the excitement and alarm had greatly increased. Up to this time no answer had been received from Washington. The silence became unbearable. Were more troops to be forced through the city at any cost? If so, how were they to come, by land or water? Were the guns of Fort McHenry to be turned upon the inhabitants? Was Baltimore to be compelled at once to determine whether she would side with the North or with the South? Or was she temporarily to isolate herself and wait until the frenzy had in some measure spent its force and reason had begun to resume its sway? In any case it was plain that the authorities must have the power placed in their hands of controlling any outbreak which might occur. This was the general opinion. Union men and disunion men appeared on the streets with arms in their hands. A time like that predicted in Scripture seemed to have come, when he who had no sword would sell his garment to buy one. About ten A. M. the city council assembled and immediately appropriated $500,000, to be expended under my direction as mayor, for the purpose of putting the city in a complete state of defense against any description of danger arising or which might arise out of the present crisis. The banks of the city promptly held a meeting, and a few hours afterward a committee appointed by them, consisting of three bank presidents, Johns Hopkins, John Clark and Columbus O'Donnell, all wealthy Union men, placed the whole sum in advance at my disposal. Mr. Scharf, in his "History of Maryland," Volume 3, page 416, says, in a footnote, that this action of the city authorities was endorsed by the editors of the _Sun_, _American_, _Exchange_, _German Correspondent_, _Clipper_, _South_, etc. Other considerable sums were contributed by individuals and firms without respect to party. On the same morning I received a dispatch from Messrs. Bond, Dobbin and Brune, the committee who had gone to Washington, which said: "We have seen the President and General Scott. We have from the former a letter to the mayor and Governor declaring that no troops shall be brought to Baltimore, if, in a military point of view and without interruption from opposition, they can be marched around Baltimore." As the Governor had left Baltimore for Annapolis early in the morning, I telegraphed him as follows: "BALTIMORE, _April 20, 1861_. "_To Governor Hicks._ "Letter from President and General Scott. No troops to pass through Baltimore if as a military force they can march around. I will answer that every effort will be made to prevent parties leaving the city to molest them, but cannot guarantee against acts of individuals not organized. Do you approve? GEO. WM. BROWN." This telegram was based on that from Messrs. Bond, Dobbin and Brune. The letter referred to had not been received when my telegram to Governor Hicks was dispatched. I was mistaken in supposing that General Scott had signed the letter as well as the President. President Lincoln's letter was as follows: "WASHINGTON, _April 20, 1861_. "_Governor Hicks and Mayor Brown._ "_Gentlemen_:--Your letter by Messrs. Bond, Dobbin and Brune is received. I tender you both my sincere thanks for your efforts to keep the peace in the trying situation in which you are placed. For the future troops _must_ be brought here, but I make no point of bringing them _through_ Baltimore. "Without any military knowledge myself, of course I must leave details to General Scott. He hastily said this morning, in presence of these gentlemen, 'March them _around_ Baltimore, and not through it.' "I sincerely hope the General, on fuller reflection, will consider this practical and proper, and that you will not object to it. "By this, a collision of the people of Baltimore with the troops will be avoided unless they go out of their way to seek it. I hope you will exert your influence to prevent this. "Now and ever I shall do all in my power for peace consistently with the maintenance of government. "Your obedient servant, A. LINCOLN." Governor Hicks replied as follows to my telegram: "ANNAPOLIS, _April 20, 1861_. "_To the Mayor of Baltimore._ "Your dispatch received. I hoped they would send no more troops through Maryland, but as we have no right to demand that, I am glad no more are to be sent through Baltimore. I know you will do all in your power to preserve the peace. THOS. H. HICKS." I then telegraphed to the President as follows: "BALTIMORE, MARYLAND, _April 20, 1861_. "_To President Lincoln._ "Every effort will be made to prevent parties leaving the city to molest troops marching to Washington. Baltimore seeks only to protect herself. Governor Hicks has gone to Annapolis, but I have telegraphed to him. "GEO. WM. BROWN, _Mayor of Baltimore_." After the receipt of the dispatch from Messrs. Bond, Dobbin and Brune, another committee was sent to Washington, consisting of Messrs. Anthony Kennedy, Senator of the United States, and J. Morrison Harris, member of the House of Representatives, both Union men, who sent a dispatch to me saying that they "had seen the President, Secretaries of State, Treasury and War, and also General Scott. The result is the transmission of orders that will stop the passage of troops through or around the city." Preparations for the defense of the city were nevertheless continued. With this object I issued a notice in which I said: "All citizens having arms suitable for the defense of the city, and which they are willing to contribute for the purpose, are requested to deposit them at the office of the marshal of police." The board of police enrolled temporarily a considerable number of men and placed them under the command of Colonel Isaac R. Trimble. He informs me that the number amounted to more than fifteen thousand, about three-fourths armed with muskets, shotguns and pistols. This gentleman was afterward a Major-General in the Confederate Army, where he distinguished himself. He lost a leg at Gettysburg. By this means not only was the inadequate number of the police supplemented, but many who would otherwise have been the disturbers of the peace became its defenders. And, indeed, not a few of the men enrolled, who thought and hoped that their enrollment meant war, were disappointed to find that the prevention of war was the object of the city authorities, and afterwards found their way into the Confederacy. For some days it looked very much as if Baltimore had taken her stand decisively with the South; at all events, the outward expressions of Southern feeling were very emphatic, and the Union sentiment temporarily disappeared. Early on the morning of Saturday, the 20th, a large Confederate flag floated from the headquarters of a States Rights club on Fayette street near Calvert, and on the afternoon of the same day the Minute Men, a Union club, whose headquarters were on Baltimore street, gave a most significant indication of the strength of the wave of feeling which swept over our people by hauling down the National colors and running up in their stead the State flag of Maryland, amid the cheers of the crowd.[12] Everywhere on the streets men and boys were wearing badges which displayed miniature Confederate flags, and were cheering the Southern cause. Military companies began to arrive from the counties. On Saturday, first came a company of seventy men from Frederick, under Captain Bradley T. Johnson, afterward General in the Southern Army, and next two cavalry companies from Baltimore County, and one from Anne Arundel County. These last, the Patapsco Dragoons, some thirty men, a sturdy-looking body of yeomanry, rode straight to the City Hall and drew up, expecting to be received with a speech of welcome from the mayor. I made them a very brief address, and informed them that dispatches received from Washington had postponed the necessity for their services, whereupon they started homeward amid cheers, their bugler striking up "Dixie," which was the first time I heard that tune. A few days after, they came into Baltimore again. On Sunday came in the Howard County Dragoons, and by steamboat that morning two companies from Talbot County, and soon it was reported that from Harford, Cecil, Carroll and Prince George's, companies were on their way. All the city companies of uniformed militia were, of course, under arms. Three batteries of light artillery were in the streets, among them the light field-pieces belonging to the military school at Catonsville, but these the reverend rector of the school, a strong Union man, had thoughtfully spiked. [Footnote 12: Baltimore _American_, April 22.] The United States arsenal at Pikesville, at the time unoccupied, was taken possession of by some Baltimore County troops. From the local columns of the _American_ of the 22d, a paper which was strongly on the Union side, I take the following paragraph: "WAR SPIRIT ON SATURDAY. "The war spirit raged throughout the city and among all classes during Saturday with an ardor which seemed to gather fresh force each hour.... All were united in a determination to resist at every hazard the passage of troops through Baltimore.... Armed men were marching through the streets, and the military were moving about in every direction, and it is evident that Baltimore is to be the battlefield of the Southern revolution." And from the _American_ of Tuesday, 23d: "At the works of the Messrs. Winans their entire force is engaged in the making of pikes, and in casting balls of every description for cannon, the steam gun,[13] rifles, muskets, etc., which they are turning out very rapidly." [Footnote 13: Winans's steam gun, a recently invented, and, it was supposed, very formidable engine, was much talked about at this time. It was not very long afterwards seized and confiscated by the military authorities.] And a very significant paragraph from the _Sun_ of the same day: "Yesterday morning between 300 and 400 of our most respectable colored residents made a tender of their services to the city authorities. The mayor thanked them for their offer, and informed them that their services will be called for if they can be made in any way available." Officers from Maryland in the United States Army were sending in their resignations. Colonel (afterward General) Huger, of South Carolina, who had recently resigned, and was in Baltimore at the time, was made Colonel of the Fifty-third Regiment, composed of the Independent Greys and the six companies of the Maryland Guard. On Monday morning, the 22d, I issued an order directing that all the drinking-saloons should be closed that day, and the order was enforced. On Saturday, April 20th, Captain John C. Robinson, now Major-General, then in command at Fort McHenry, which stands at the entrance of the harbor, wrote to Colonel L. Thomas, Adjutant-General of the United States Army, that he would probably be attacked that night, but he believed he could hold the fort. In the September number, for the year 1885, of _American History_ there is an article written by General Robinson, entitled "Baltimore in 1861," in which he speaks of the apprehended attack on the fort, and of the conduct of the Baltimore authorities. He says that about nine o'clock on the evening of the 20th, Police Commissioner Davis called at the fort, bringing a letter, dated eight o'clock P. M. of the same evening, from Charles Howard, the president of the board, which he quotes at length, and which states that, from rumors that had reached the board, they were apprehensive that the commander of the fort might be annoyed by lawless and disorderly characters approaching the walls of the fort, and they proposed to send a guard of perhaps two hundred men to station themselves on Whetstone Point, of course beyond the outer limits of the fort, with orders to arrest and hand over to the civil authorities any evil-disposed and disorderly persons who might approach the fort. The letter further stated that this duty would have been confided to the police force, but their services were so imperatively required elsewhere that it would be impossible to detail a sufficient number, and this duty had therefore been entrusted to a detachment of the regular organized militia of the State, then called out pursuant to law, and actually in the service of the State. It was added that the commanding officer of the detachment would be ordered to communicate with Captain Robinson. The letter closed with repeating the assurance verbally given to Captain Robinson in the morning that no disturbance at or near the post should be made with the sanction of any of the constituted authorities of the city of Baltimore; but, on the contrary, all their powers should be exerted to prevent anything of the kind by any parties. A postscript stated that there might perhaps be a troop of volunteer cavalry with the detachment. General Robinson continues: "I did not question the good faith of Mr. Howard, but Commissioner Davis verbally stated that they proposed to send the Maryland Guards to help protect the fort. Having made the acquaintance of some of the officers of that organization, and heard them freely express their opinions, I declined the offered support, and then the following conversation occurred: "_Commandant._ I am aware, sir, that we are to be attacked to-night. I received notice of it before sundown. If you will go outside with me you will see we are prepared for it. You will find the guns loaded, and men standing by them. As for the Maryland Guards, they cannot come here. I am acquainted with some of those gentlemen, and know what their sentiments are. "_Commissioner Davis._ Why, Captain, we are anxious to avoid a collision. "_Commandant._ So am I, sir. If you wish to avoid a collision, place your city military anywhere between the city and that chapel on the road, but if they come this side of it, I shall fire on them. "_Commissioner Davis._ Would you fire into the city of Baltimore? "_Commandant._ I should be sorry to do it, sir, but if it becomes necessary in order to hold this fort, I shall not hesitate for one moment. "_Commissioner Davis_ (excitedly). I assure you, Captain Robinson, if there is a woman or child killed in that city, there will not be one of you left alive here, sir. "_Commandant._ Very well, sir, I will take the chances. Now, I assure you, Mr. Davis, if your Baltimore mob comes down here to-night, you will not have another mob in Baltimore for ten years to come, sir." Mr. Davis is a well-known and respected citizen of Baltimore, who has filled various important public offices with credit, and at present holds a high position in the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad Company. According to his recollection, the interview was more courteous and less dramatic than would be supposed from the account given by General Robinson. Mr. Davis says that the people of Baltimore were acquainted with the defenseless condition of the fort, and that in the excited state of the public mind this fact probably led to the apprehension and consequent rumor that an attempt would be made to capture it. The police authorities believed, and, as it turned out, correctly, that the rumor was without foundation; yet, to avoid the danger of any disturbance whatever, the precautions were taken which are described in the letter of Mr. Howard, and Mr. Davis went in person to deliver it to Captain Robinson. His interview was not, however, confined to Captain Robinson, but included also other officers of the fort, and Mr. Davis was hospitably received. A conversation ensued in regard to the threatened attack, and, with one exception, was conducted without asperity. A junior officer threatened, in case of an attack, to direct the fire of a cannon on the Washington Monument, which stands in the heart of the city, and to this threat Mr. Davis replied with heat, "If you do that, and if a woman or child is killed, there will be nothing left of you but your brass buttons to tell who you were." The commandant insisted that the military sent by the board should not approach the fort nearer than the Roman Catholic chapel, a demand to which Mr. Davis readily assented, as that situation commanded the only approach from the city to the fort. In the midst of the conversation the long roll was sounded, and the whole garrison rushed to arms. For a long time, and until the alarm was over, Mr. Davis was left alone. General Robinson was mistaken in his conjecture, "when it seemed to him that for hours of the night mounted men from the country were crossing the bridges of the Patapsco." There was but one bridge over the Patapsco, known as the Long Bridge, from which any sound of passing horsemen or vehicles of any description could possibly have been heard at the fort. The sounds which did reach the fort from the Long Bridge during the hours of the night were probably the market wagons of Anne Arundel County passing to and from the city on their usual errand, and the one or two companies from that county, which came to Baltimore during the period of disturbance, no doubt rode in over the Long Bridge by daylight. General Robinson, after describing in his paper the riot of the 19th of April and the unfortunate event of the killing of Mr. Davis, adds: "It is impossible to describe the intense excitement that now prevailed. Only those who saw and felt it can understand or conceive any adequate idea of its extent"; and in this connection he mentions the fact that Marshal Kane, chief of the police force, on the evening of the 19th of April, telegraphed to Bradley T. Johnson, at Frederick, as follows: "Streets red with Maryland blood; send expresses over the mountains of Maryland and Virginia for the riflemen to come without delay. Fresh hordes will be down on us to-morrow. We will fight them and whip them, or die." The sending of this dispatch was indeed a startling event, creating a new complication and embarrassing in the highest degree to the city authorities. The marshal of police, who had gallantly and successfully protected the national troops on the 18th and 19th, was so carried away by the frenzy of the hour that he had thus on his own responsibility summoned volunteers from Virginia and Maryland to contest the passage of national troops through the city. Different views were taken by members of the board of police. It was considered, on the one hand, that the services of Colonel Kane were, in that crisis, indispensable, because no one could control as he could the secession element of the city, which was then in the ascendant and might get control of the city, and, on the other, that his usefulness had ceased, because not only had the gravest offense been given to the Union sentiment of the city by this dispatch, but the authorities in Washington, while he was at the head of the police, could no longer have any confidence in the police, or perhaps in the board itself. The former consideration prevailed. It is due to Marshal Kane to say that subsequently, and while he remained in office, he performed his duty to the satisfaction of the Board. Some years after the war was over he was elected sheriff, and still later mayor of the city, and in both capacities he enjoyed the respect and regard of the community. It may with propriety be added that the conservative position and action of the police board were so unsatisfactory to many of the more heated Southern partisans, that a scheme was at one time seriously entertained by them to suppress the board, and transfer the control of the police force to other hands. Happily for all parties, better counsels prevailed. On Sunday, the 21st of April, with three prominent citizens of Baltimore, I went to Washington, and we there had an interview with the President and Cabinet and General Scott. This interview was of so much importance, that a statement of what occurred was prepared on the same day and was immediately published. It is here given at length: BALTIMORE, _April 21_. Mayor Brown received a dispatch from the President of the United States at three o'clock A. M. (this morning), directed to himself and Governor Hicks, requesting them to go to Washington by special train, in order to consult with Mr. Lincoln for the preservation of the peace of Maryland. The mayor replied that Governor Hicks was not in the city, and inquired if he should go alone. Receiving an answer by telegraph in the affirmative, his Honor, accompanied by George W. Dobbin, John C. Brune and S. T. Wallis, Esqs., whom he had summoned to attend him, proceeded at once to the station. After a series of delays they were enabled to procure a special train about half-past seven o'clock, in which they arrived at Washington about ten. They repaired at once to the President's house, where they were admitted to an immediate interview, to which the Cabinet and General Scott were summoned. A long conversation and discussion ensued. The President, upon his part, recognized the good faith of the city and State authorities, and insisted upon his own. He admitted the excited state of feeling in Baltimore, and his desire and duty to avoid the fatal consequences of a collision with the people. He urged, on the other hand, the absolute, irresistible necessity of having a transit through the State for such troops as might be necessary for the protection of the Federal capital. The protection of Washington, he asserted with great earnestness, was the sole object of concentrating troops there, and he protested that none of the troops brought through Maryland were intended for any purposes hostile to the State, or aggressive as against the Southern States. Being now unable to bring them up the Potomac in security, the President must either bring them through Maryland or abandon the capital. He called on General Scott for his opinion, which the General gave at length, to the effect that troops might be brought through Maryland without going through Baltimore, by either carrying them from Perryville to Annapolis, and thence by rail to Washington, or by bringing them to the Relay House on the Northern Central Railroad [about seven miles north of the city], and marching them to the Relay House on the Washington Railroad [about seven miles south-west of the city], and thence by rail to the capital. If the people would permit them to go by either of these routes uninterruptedly, the necessity of their passing through Baltimore would be avoided. If the people would not permit them a transit thus remote from the city, they must select their own best route, and, if need be, fight their own way through Baltimore--a result which the General earnestly deprecated. The President expressed his hearty concurrence in the desire to avoid a collision, and said that no more troops should be ordered through Baltimore if they were permitted to go uninterrupted by either of the other routes suggested. In this disposition the Secretary of War expressed his participation. Mayor Brown assured the President that the city authorities would use all lawful means to prevent their citizens from leaving Baltimore to attack the troops in passing at a distance; but he urged, at the same time, the impossibility of their being able to promise anything more than their best efforts in that direction. The excitement was great, he told the President, the people of all classes were fully aroused, and it was impossible for any one to answer for the consequences of the presence of Northern troops anywhere within our borders. He reminded the President also that the jurisdiction of the city authorities was confined to their own population, and that he could give no promises for the people elsewhere, because he would be unable to keep them if given. The President frankly acknowledged this difficulty, and said that the Government would only ask the city authorities to use their best efforts with respect to those under their jurisdiction. The interview terminated with the distinct assurance on the part of the President that no more troops would be sent through Baltimore, unless obstructed in their transit in other directions, and with the understanding that the city authorities should do their best to restrain their own people. The Mayor and his companions availed themselves of the President's full discussion of the day to urge upon him respectfully, but in the most earnest manner, a course of policy which would give peace to the country, and especially the withdrawal of all orders contemplating the passage of troops through any part of Maryland. On returning to the cars, and when just about to leave, about 2 P. M., the Mayor received a dispatch from Mr. Garrett (the President of the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad) announcing the approach of troops to Cockeysville [about fourteen miles from Baltimore on the Northern Central Railroad], and the excitement consequent upon it in the city. Mr. Brown and his companions returned at once to the President and asked an immediate audience, which was promptly given. The Mayor exhibited Mr. Garrett's dispatch, which gave the President great surprise. He immediately summoned the Secretary of War and General Scott, who soon appeared with other members of the Cabinet. The dispatch was submitted. The President at once, in the most decided way, urged the recall of the troops, saying he had no idea they would be there. Lest there should be the slightest suspicion of bad faith on his part in summoning the Mayor to Washington and allowing troops to march on the city during his absence, he desired that the troops should, if it were practicable, be sent back at once to York or Harrisburg. General Scott adopted the President's views warmly, and an order was accordingly prepared by the Lieutenant-General to that effect, and forwarded by Major Belger, of the Army, who also accompanied the Mayor to this city. The troops at Cockeysville, the Mayor was assured, were not brought there for transit through the city, but were intended to be marched to the Relay House on the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad. They will proceed to Harrisburg, from there to Philadelphia, and thence by the Chesapeake and Delaware Canal or by Perryville, as Major-General Patterson may direct. This statement is made by the authority of the Mayor and Messrs. George W. Dobbin, John C. Brune and S. T. Wallis, who accompanied Mr. Brown, and who concurred with him in all particulars in the course adopted by him in the two interviews with Mr. Lincoln. GEO. WM. BROWN, _Mayor_. This statement was written by Mr. Wallis, at the request of his associates, on the train, and was given to the public immediately on their return to the city. In the course of the first conversation Mr. Simon Cameron called my attention to the fact that an iron bridge on the Northern Central Railway, which, he remarked, belonged to the city of Baltimore, had been disabled by a skilled person so as to inflict little injury on the bridge, and he desired to know by what authority this had been done. Up to this time nothing had been said about the disabling of the bridges. In reply I addressed myself to the President, and said, with much earnestness, that the disabling of this bridge, and of the other bridges, had been done by authority, as the reader has already been told, and that it was a measure of protection on a sudden emergency, designed to prevent bloodshed in the city of Baltimore, and not an act of hostility towards the General Government; that the people of Maryland had always been deeply attached to the Union, which had been shown on all occasions, but that they, including the citizens of Baltimore, regarded the proclamation calling for 75,000 troops as an act of war on the South, and a violation of its constitutional rights, and that it was not surprising that a high-spirited people, holding such opinions, should resent the passage of Northern troops through their city for such a purpose. Mr. Lincoln was greatly moved, and, springing up from his chair, walked backward and forward through the apartment. He said, with great feeling, "Mr. Brown, I am not a learned man! I am not a learned man!" that his proclamation had not been correctly understood; that he had no intention of bringing on war, but that his purpose was to defend the capital, which was in danger of being bombarded from the heights across the Potomac. I am giving here only a part of a frank and full conversation, in which others present participated. The telegram of Mr. Garrett to me referred to in the preceding statement is in the following words: "Three thousand Northern troops are reported to be at Cockeysville. Intense excitement prevails. Churches have been dismissed and the people are arming in mass. To prevent terrific bloodshed, the result of your interview and arrangement is awaited." To this the following reply to Mr. Garrett was made by me: "Your telegram received on our return from an interview with the President, Cabinet and General Scott. Be calm and do nothing until you hear from me again. I return to see the President at once and will telegraph again. Wallis, Brune and Dobbin are with me." Accordingly, after the second interview, the following dispatch was sent by me to Mr. Garrett: "We have again seen the President, General Scott, Secretary of War and other members of the Cabinet, and the troops are ordered to return forthwith to Harrisburg. A messenger goes with us from General Scott. We return immediately." Mr. Garrett's telegram was not exaggerated. It was a fearful day in Baltimore. Women and children, and men, too, were wild with excitement. A certainty of a fight in the streets if Northern troops should enter was the pressing danger. Those who were arming in hot haste to resist the passage of Northern troops little recked of the fearful risk to which they were exposing themselves and all they held dear. It was well for the city and State that the President had decided as he did. When the President gave his deliberate decision that the troops should pass around Baltimore and not through it, General Scott, stern soldier as he sometimes was, said with emotion, "Mr. President, I thank you for this, and God will bless you for it." From the depth of our hearts my colleagues and myself thanked both the General and the President. The troops on the line of the Northern Central Railway--some 2400 men, about half of them armed--did not receive their orders to return to Pennsylvania until after several days. As they had expected to make the journey to Washington by rail, they were naturally not well equipped or supplied for camp life. I take the following from the _Sun_ of April 23d: "By order of Marshal Kane, several wagon-loads of bread and meat were sent to the camp of the Pennsylvania troops, it being understood that a number were sick and suffering for proper food and nourishment.... One of the Pennsylvanians died on Sunday and was buried within the encampment. Two more died yesterday and a number of others were on the sick list. The troops were deficient in food, having nothing but crackers to feed upon." The Eighth Massachusetts Regiment, under command of General Butler, was the next which passed through Maryland. It reached Perryville, on the Susquehanna, by rail on the 20th, and there embarked on the steamboat _Maryland_, arriving at Annapolis early on the morning of the 21st. Governor Hicks addressed the General a note advising that he should not land his men, on account of the great excitement there, and stated that he had telegraphed to that effect to the Secretary of War. The Governor also wrote to the President, advising him to order elsewhere the troops then off Annapolis, and to send no more through Maryland, and added the surprising suggestion that Lord Lyons, the British Minister, be requested to act as mediator between the contending parties of the country. The troops, however, were landed without opposition. The railway from Annapolis leading to the Washington road had, in some places, been torn up, but it was promptly repaired by the soldiers, and by the 25th an unobstructed route was opened through Annapolis to Washington. Horace Greeley, in his book called "The American Conflict," denounces with characteristic vehemence and severity of language the proceedings of the city authorities. He scouts "the demands" of the Mayor and his associates, whom he designates as "Messrs. Brown & Co." He insists that practically on the morning of the 20th of April Maryland was a member of the Southern Confederacy, and that her Governor spoke and acted the bidding of a cabal of the ablest and most envenomed traitors. It is true that the city then, and for days afterwards, was in an anomalous condition, which may be best described as one of "armed neutrality"; but it is not true that in any sense it was, on the 20th of April, or at any other time, a member of the Southern Confederacy. On the contrary, while many, especially among the young and reckless, were doing their utmost to place it in that position, regardless of consequences, and would, if they could, have forced the hands of the city authorities, it was their conduct which prevented such a catastrophe. Temporizing and delay were necessary. As soon as passions had time to cool, a strong reaction set in and the people rapidly divided into two parties--one on the side of the North, and the other on the side of the South; but whatever might be their personal or political sympathies, it was clear to all who had not lost their reason that Maryland, which lay open from the North by both land and sea, would be kept in the Union for the sake of the national capital, even if it required the united power of the nation to accomplish the object. The telegraph wires on the lines leading to the North had been cut, and for some days the city was without regular telegraphic connection. For a longer time the mails were interrupted and travel was stopped. The buoys in the harbor were temporarily removed. The business interests of the city of course suffered under these interruptions, and would be paralyzed if such isolation were to continue, and the merchants soon began to demand that the channels of trade should be reopened to the north and east. The immediate duty of the city authorities was to keep the peace and protect the city, and, without going into details or discussing the conduct of individuals, I shall leave others to speak of the manner in which it was performed. Colonel Scharf, in his "History of Maryland," Volume III, p. 415, sums up the matter as follows: "In such a period of intense excitement, many foolish and unnecessary acts were undoubtedly done by persons in the employment of the city, as well as by private individuals, but it is undoubtedly true that the Mayor and board of police commissioners were inflexibly determined to resist all attempts to force the city into secession or into acts of hostility to the Federal Government, and that they successfully accomplished their purpose. If they had been otherwise disposed, they could easily have effected their object." CHAPTER VI. SESSION OF THE GENERAL ASSEMBLY. -- REPORT OF THE BOARD OF POLICE. -- SUPPRESSION OF THE FLAGS. -- ON THE 5th OF MAY, GENERAL BUTLER TAKES POSITION SEVEN MILES FROM BALTIMORE. -- ON THE 13TH OF MAY, HE ENTERS BALTIMORE AND FORTIFIES FEDERAL HILL. -- THE GENERAL ASSEMBLY WILL TAKE NO STEPS TOWARDS SECESSION. -- MANY YOUNG MEN JOIN THE ARMY OF THE CONFEDERACY. On the 22d of April, Governor Hicks convened the General Assembly of the State, to meet in special session at Annapolis on the 26th, to deliberate and consider of the condition of the State, and to take such measures as in their wisdom they might deem fit to maintain peace and order and security within its limits. On the 24th of April, "in consequence of the extraordinary state of affairs," Governor Hicks changed the meeting of the Assembly to Frederick. The candidates for the House of Delegates for the city of Baltimore, who had been returned as elected to the General Assembly in 1859, had been refused their seats, as previously stated, and a new election in the city had therefore become necessary to fill the vacancy. A special election for that purpose was accordingly held in the city on the 24th instant. Only a States Rights ticket was presented, for which nine thousand two hundred and forty-four votes were cast. The candidates elected were: John C. Brune, Ross Winans, Henry M. Warfield, J. Hanson Thomas, T. Parkin Scott, H. M. Morfit, S. Teackle Wallis, Charles H. Pitts, William G. Harrison and Lawrence Sangston, well-known and respected citizens, and the majority of them nominated because of their known conservatism and declared opposition to violent measures. This General Assembly, which contained men of unusual weight and force of character, will ever remain memorable in Maryland for the courage and ability with which it maintained the constitutional rights of the State. On the 3d of May, the board of police made a report of its proceedings to the Legislature of the State, signed by Charles Howard, President. After speaking of the disabling of the railroads, it concludes as follows: "The absolute necessity of the measures thus determined upon by the Governor, Mayor and Police Board, is fully illustrated by the fact that early on Sunday morning reliable information reached the city of the presence of a large body of Pennsylvania troops, amounting to about twenty-four hundred men, who had reached Ashland, near Cockeysville, by the way of the Northern Central Railroad, and was stopped in their progress towards Baltimore by the partial destruction of the Ashland bridge. Every intelligent citizen at all acquainted with the state of feeling then existing, must be satisfied that if these troops had attempted to march through the city, an immense loss of life would have ensued in the conflict which would necessarily have taken place. The bitter feelings already engendered would have been intensely increased by such a conflict; all attempts at conciliation would have been vain, and terrible destruction would have been the consequence, if, as is certain, other bodies of troops had insisted on forcing their way through the city. "The tone of the whole Northern press and the mass of the population was violent in the extreme. Incursions upon our city were daily threatened, not only by troops in the service of the Federal Government, but by the vilest and most reckless desperadoes, acting independently, and, as they threatened, in despite of the Government, backed by well-known influential citizens, and sworn to the commission of all kinds of excesses. In short, every possible effort was made to alarm this community. In this condition of things the Board felt it to be their solemn duty to continue the organization which had already been commenced, for the purpose of assuring the people of Baltimore that no effort would be spared to protect all within its borders, to the extent of their ability. All the means employed were devoted to this end, and with no view of producing a collision with the General Government, which the Board were particularly anxious to avoid, and an arrangement was happily effected by the Mayor with the General Government that no troops should be passed through the city. As an evidence of the determination of the Board to prevent such collision, a sufficient guard was sent in the neighborhood of Fort McHenry several nights to arrest all parties who might be engaged in a threatened attack upon it, and a steam-tug was employed, properly manned, to prevent any hostile demonstration upon the receiving-ship _Alleghany_, lying at anchor in the harbor, of all which the United States officers in command were duly notified. "Property of various descriptions belonging to the Government and individuals was taken possession of by the police force with a view to its security. The best care has been taken of it. Every effort has been made to discover the rightful owners, and a portion of it has already been forwarded to order. Arrangements have been made with the Government agents satisfactory to them for the portion belonging to it, and the balance is held subject to the order of its owners. "Amidst all the excitement and confusion which has since prevailed, the Board take great pleasure in stating that the good order and peace of the city have been preserved to an extraordinary degree. Indeed, to judge from the accounts given by the press of other cities of what has been the state of things in their own communities, Baltimore, during the whole of the past week and up to this date, will compare favorably, as to the protection which persons and property have enjoyed, with any other large city in the United States." Much has been said in regard to the suppression of the national flag in Baltimore during the disturbances, and it is proper that the facts should here be stated. General Robinson, in his description of the occurrences which took place after the 19th of April, says that meetings were held under the flag of the State of Maryland, at which the speeches were inflammatory secession harangues, and that the national flag disappeared, and no man dared to display it. Whether or not this statement exactly represents the condition of things, it at least approximates it, and on the 26th of April, an order was issued by the board of police reciting that the peace of the city was likely to be disturbed by the display of various flags, and directing that no flag of any description should be raised or carried through the streets. On April 29th, the city council passed an ordinance, signed by the Mayor, authorizing him, when in his opinion the peace of the city required it, to prohibit by proclamation for a limited period, to be designated by him, the public display of all flags or banners in the city of Baltimore, except on buildings or vessels occupied or employed by the Government of the United States. On the same day I, in pursuance of the ordinance, issued a proclamation prohibiting the display of flags for thirty days, with the exception stated in the ordinance, and on the 10th of May, when I was satisfied that all danger was over, I issued a proclamation removing the prohibition. The only violation of the order which came under my notice during the period of suppression was on the part of a military company which had the Maryland flag flying at its headquarters, on Lexington street near the City Hall. On my directing this flag to be taken down, the request was at once complied with. General Robinson says that "the first demonstration of returning loyalty was on the 28th day of April, when a sailing vessel came down the river crowded with men, and covered from stem to stern with national flags. She sailed past the fort, cheered and saluted our flag, which was dipped in return, after which she returned to the city." He then adds: "The tide had turned. Union men avowed themselves, the stars and stripes were again unfurled, and order was restored. Although after this time arrests were made of persons conspicuous for disloyalty, the return to reason was almost as sudden as the outbreak of rebellion. The railroads were repaired, trains ran regularly, and troops poured into Washington without hindrance or opposition of any sort. Thousands of men volunteered for the Union Army. Four regiments of Maryland troops afterwards served with me, and constituted the Third Brigade of my division. They fought gallantly the battles of the Union, and no braver soldiers ever marched under the flag." The tide indeed soon turned, but not quite so rapidly as this statement seems to indicate. On the 5th of May, General Butler, with two regiments and a battery of artillery, came from Washington and took possession of the Relay House on the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad at the junction of the Washington branch, about seven miles from Baltimore, and fortified the position. One of his first proceedings was highly characteristic. He issued a special order declaring that he had found well-authenticated evidence that one of his soldiers had "been poisoned by means of strychnine administered in the food brought into the camp," and he warned the people of Maryland that he could "put an agent, with a word, into every household armed with this terrible weapon." This statement sent a thrill of horror through the North, and the accompanying threat of course excited the indignation and disgust of our people. The case was carefully examined by the city physician, and it turned out that the man had an ordinary attack of cholera morbus, the consequence of imprudent diet and camp life, but the General never thought proper to correct the slander. On the evening of the 11th of May, General Butler being then at Annapolis, I received a note from Edward G. Parker, his aide-de-camp, stating that he had received intimations from many sources that an attack by the Baltimore roughs was intended that night; that these rumors had been confirmed by a gentleman from Baltimore, who gave his name and residence; that the attack would be made by more than a thousand men, every one sworn to kill a man; that they were coming in wagons, on horses and on foot, and that a considerable force from the west, probably the Point of Rocks in Maryland, was also expected, and I was requested to guard every avenue from the city, so as to prevent the Baltimore rioters from leaving town. Out of respect to the source from which the application came, I immediately sent for the marshal of police, and requested him to throw out bodies of his men so as to guard every avenue leading to the Relay House. No enemy, however, appeared. The threatened attack proved to be merely a groundless alarm, as I knew from the beginning it was. On the night of the 13th of May, when the city was as peaceful as it is to-day, General Butler, in the midst of a thunderstorm of unusual violence, entered Baltimore and took possession of Federal Hill, which overlooks the harbor and commands the city, and which he immediately proceeded to fortify. There was nobody to oppose him, and nobody thought of doing so; but, for this exploit, which he regarded as the capture of Baltimore, he was made a Major-General. He immediately issued a proclamation, as if he were in a conquered city subject to military law. Meantime, on the 26th of April, the General Assembly of the State had met at Frederick. "As soon as the General Assembly met" (Scharf's History of Maryland, Vol. III, p. 444), "the Hon. James M. Mason, formerly United States Senator from Virginia, waited on it as commissioner from that State, authorized to negotiate a treaty of alliance offensive and defensive with Maryland on her behalf." This proposition met with no acceptance. On the 27th, the Senate, by a unanimous vote, issued an address for the purpose of allaying the apprehensions of the people, declaring that it had no constitutional authority to take any action leading to secession, and on the next day the House of Delegates, by a vote of 53 to 12, made a similar declaration. Early in May, the General Assembly, by a vote in the House of 43 to 12, and in the Senate of 11 to 3, passed a series of resolutions proclaiming its position in the existing crisis. The resolutions protested against the war as unjust and unconstitutional, and announced a determination to take no part in its prosecution. They expressed a desire for the immediate recognition of the Confederate States; and while they protested against the military occupation of the State, and the arbitrary restrictions and illegalities with which it was attended, they called on all good citizens to abstain from violent and unlawful interference with the troops, and patiently and peacefully to leave to time and reason the ultimate and certain re-establishment and vindication of the right; and they declared it to be at that time inexpedient to call a Sovereign Convention of the State, or to take any measures for the immediate organization or arming of the militia. After it became plain that no movement would be made towards secession, a large number of young men, including not a few of the flower of the State, and representing largely the more wealthy and prominent families, escaped across the border and entered the ranks of the Confederacy. The number has been estimated at as many as twenty thousand, but this, perhaps, is too large a figure, and there are no means of ascertaining the truth. The muster-rolls have perished with the Confederacy. The great body of those who sympathized with the South had no disposition to take arms against the Union so long as Maryland remained a member of it. This was subsequently proved by their failure to enlist in the Southern armies on the different occasions in 1862, 1863 and 1864 when they crossed the Potomac and transferred the seat of war to Maryland and Pennsylvania, under the command twice of General Lee and once of General Early. The first of these campaigns ended in the bloody battle of Antietam. The Maryland men, as a tribute to their good conduct, were placed at the head of the army, and crossed the river with enthusiasm, the band playing and the soldiers singing "My Maryland." Great was their disappointment that the recruits did not even suffice to fill the gaps in their shattered ranks. CHAPTER VII. CHIEF JUSTICE TANEY AND THE WRIT OF HABEAS CORPUS. -- A UNION CONVENTION. -- CONSEQUENCE OF THE SUSPENSION OF THE WRIT. -- INCIDENTS OF THE WAR. -- THE WOMEN IN THE WAR. The suspension of the writ of _habeas corpus_, by order of the President, without the sanction of an Act of Congress, which had not then been given, was one of the memorable events of the war. On the 4th of May, 1861, Judge Giles, of the United States District Court of Maryland, issued a writ of _habeas corpus_ to Major Morris, then in command of Fort McHenry, to discharge a soldier who was under age. Major Morris refused to obey the writ. On the 14th of May the General Assembly adjourned, and Mr. Ross Winans, of Baltimore, a member of the House of Delegates, while returning to his home, was arrested by General Butler on a charge of high treason. He was conveyed to Annapolis, and subsequently to Fort McHenry, and was soon afterwards released. A case of the highest importance next followed. On the 25th of May, Mr. John Merryman, of Baltimore County, was arrested by order of General Keim, of Pennsylvania, and confined in Fort McHenry. The next day (Sunday, May 26th) his counsel, Messrs. George M. Gill and George H. Williams, presented a petition for the writ of _habeas corpus_ to Chief Justice Taney, who issued the writ immediately, directed to General Cadwallader, then in command in Maryland, ordering him to produce the body of Merryman in court on the following day (Monday, May 27th). On that day Colonel Lee, his aide-de-camp, came into court with a letter from General Cadwallader, directed to the Chief Justice, stating that Mr. Merryman had been arrested on charges of high treason, and that he (the General) was authorized by the President of the United States in such cases to suspend the writ of _habeas corpus_ for the public safety. Judge Taney asked Colonel Lee if he had brought with him the body of John Merryman. Colonel Lee replied that he had no instructions except to deliver the letter. _Chief Justice._--The commanding officer, then, declines to obey the writ? _Colonel Lee._--After making that communication my duty is ended, and I have no further power (rising and retiring). _Chief Justice._--The Court orders an attachment to issue against George Cadwallader for disobedience to the high writ of the Court, returnable at twelve o'clock to-morrow. The order was accordingly issued as directed. A startling issue was thus presented. The venerable Chief Justice had come from Washington to Baltimore for the purpose of issuing a writ of _habeas corpus_, and the President had thereupon authorized the commander of the fort to hold the prisoner and disregard the writ. A more important occasion could hardly have occurred. Where did the President of the United States acquire such a power? Was it true that a citizen held his liberty subject to the arbitrary will of any man? In what part of the Constitution could such a power be found? Why had it never been discovered before? What precedent existed for such an act? Judge Taney was greatly venerated in Baltimore, where he had formerly lived. The case created a profound sensation. On the next morning the Chief Justice, leaning on the arm of his grandson, walked slowly through the crowd which had gathered in front of the court-house, and the crowd silently and with lifted hats opened the way for him to pass. Roger B. Taney was one of the most self-controlled and courageous of judges. He took his seat with his usual quiet dignity. He called the case of John Merryman and asked the marshal for his return to the writ of attachment. The return stated that he had gone to Fort McHenry for the purpose of serving the writ on General Cadwallader; that he had sent in his name at the outer gate; that the messenger had returned with the reply that there was no answer to send; that he was not permitted to enter the gate, and, therefore, could not serve the writ, as he was commanded to do. The Chief Justice then read from his manuscript as follows: I ordered the attachment of yesterday because upon the face of the return the detention of the prisoner was unlawful upon two grounds: 1st. The President, under the Constitution and laws of the United States, cannot suspend the privilege of the writ of _habeas corpus_, nor authorize any military officer to do so. 2d. A military officer has no right to arrest and detain a person not subject to the rules and articles of war, for an offense against the laws of the United States, except in aid of the judicial authority and subject to its control; and if the party is arrested by the military, it is the duty of the officer to deliver him over immediately to the civil authority, to be dealt with according to law. I forbore yesterday to state the provisions of the Constitution of the United States which make these principles the fundamental law of the Union, because an oral statement might be misunderstood in some portions of it, and I shall therefore put my opinion in writing, and file it in the office of the clerk of this court, in the course of this week. The Chief Justice then orally remarked: In relation to the present return, it is proper to say that of course the marshal has legally the power to summon the _posse comitatus_ to seize and bring into court the party named in the attachment; but it is apparent he will be resisted in the discharge of that duty by a force notoriously superior to the _posse_, and, this being the case, such a proceeding can result in no good, and is useless. I will not, therefore, require the marshal to perform this duty. If, however, General Cadwallader were before me, I should impose on him the punishment which it is my province to inflict--that of fine and imprisonment. I shall merely say, to-day, that I shall reduce to writing the reasons under which I have acted, and which have led me to the conclusions expressed in my opinion, and shall direct the clerk to forward them with these proceedings to the President, so that he may discharge his constitutional duty "to take care that the laws are faithfully executed." It is due to my readers that they should have an opportunity of reading this opinion, and it is accordingly inserted in an Appendix. After the court had adjourned, I went up to the bench and thanked Judge Taney for thus upholding, in its integrity, the writ of _habeas corpus_. He replied, "Mr. Brown, I am an old man, a very old man" (he had completed his eighty-fourth year), "but perhaps I was preserved for this occasion." I replied, "Sir, I thank God that you were." He then told me that he knew that his own imprisonment had been a matter of consultation, but that the danger had passed, and he warned me, from information he had received, that my time would come. The charges against Merryman were discovered to be unfounded and he was soon discharged by military authority. The nation is now tired of war, and rests in the enjoyment of a harmony which has not been equalled since the days of James Monroe. When Judge Taney rendered this decision the Constitution was only seventy-two years old--twelve years younger than himself. It is now less than one hundred years old--a short period in a nation's life--and yet during that period there have been serious commotions--two foreign wars and a civil war. In the future, as in the past, offenses will come, and hostile parties and factions will arise, and the men who wield power will, if they dare, shut up in fort or prison, without reach of relief, those whom they regard as dangerous enemies. When that period arrives, then will those who wisely love their country thank the great Chief Justice, as I did, for his unflinching defense of _habeas corpus_, the supreme writ of right, and the corner-stone of personal liberty among all English-speaking people. In the Life of Benjamin R. Curtis, Vol. I, p. 240, his biographer says, speaking of Chief Justice Taney, with reference to the case of Merryman, "If he had never done anything else that was high, heroic and important, his noble vindication of the writ of _habeas corpus_ and the dignity and authority of his office against a rash minister of State, who, in the pride of a fancied executive power, came near to the commission of a great crime, will command the admiration and gratitude of every lover of constitutional liberty so long as our institutions shall endure." The crime referred to was the intended imprisonment of the Chief Justice. Although this crime was not committed, a criminal precedent had been set and was ruthlessly followed. "My lord," said Mr. Seward to Lord Lyons, "I can touch a bell on my right hand and order the imprisonment of a citizen of Ohio; I can touch a bell again and order the imprisonment of a citizen of New York; and no power on earth, except that of the President, can release them. Can the Queen of England do so much?" When such a power is wielded by any man, or set of men, nothing is left to protect the liberty of the citizen. On the 24th of May, a Union Convention, consisting of fourteen counties of the State, including the city of Baltimore, and leaving eight unrepresented, met in the city. The counties not represented were Washington, Montgomery, Prince George, Charles, St. Mary's, Dorchester, Somerset, and Worcester. The number of members does not appear to have been large, but it included the names of gentlemen well known and highly respected. The Convention adopted Resolutions which declared, among other things, that the revolution on the part of eleven States was without excuse or palliation, and that the redress of actual or supposed wrongs in connection with the slavery question formed no part of their views or purposes; that the people of this State were unalterably determined to defend the Government of the United States, and would support the Government in all legal and constitutional measures which might be necessary to resist the revolutionists; that the intimations made by the majority of the Legislature at its late session--that the people were humiliated or subjugated by the action of the Government--were gratuitous insults to that people; that the dignity of the State of Maryland, involved in a precise, persistent and effective recognition of all her rights, privileges and immunities under the Constitution of the United States, will be vindicated at all times and under all circumstances by those of her sons who are sincere in their fealty to her and the Government of the Union of which she is part, and to popular constitutional liberty; that while they concurred with the present Executive of the United States that the unity and integrity of the National Union must be preserved, their view of the nature and true principles of the Constitution, of the powers which it confers, and of the duties which it enjoins, and the rights which it secures, as it relates to and affects the question of slavery in many of the essential bearings, is directly opposed to the views of the Executive; that they are fixed in their conviction, amongst others, that a just comprehension of the true principles of the Constitution forbid utterly the formation of political parties on the foundation of the slavery question, and that the Union men will oppose to the utmost of their ability all attempts of the Federal Executive to commingle in any manner its peculiar views on the slavery question with that of maintaining the just powers of the Government. These resolutions are important as showing the stand taken by a large portion of the Union party of the State in regard to any interference, as the result of the war or otherwise, by the General Government with the provisions of the Constitution with regard to slavery. After the writ of _habeas corpus_ had been thus suspended, martial law, as a consequence, rapidly became all-powerful, and it continued in force during the war. That law is by Judge Black, in his argument before the Supreme Court in the case of _ex parte_ Milligan,[14] shown to be simply the rule of irresponsible force. Law becomes helpless before it. _Inter arma silent leges._ [Footnote 14: 4 Wallace Sup. Court R. 2.] On May 25, 1862, Judge Carmichael, an honored magistrate, while sitting in his court in Easton, was, by the provost marshal and his deputies, assisted by a body of military sent from Baltimore, beaten, and dragged bleeding from the bench, and then imprisoned, because he had on a previous occasion delivered a charge to the grand jury directing them to inquire into certain illegal acts and to indict the offenders. His imprisonment in Forts McHenry, Lafayette, and Delaware, lasted more than six months. On December 4, 1862, he was unconditionally released, no trial having been granted him, nor any charges made against him. On June 28, 1862, Judge Bartol, of the Court of Appeals of Maryland, was arrested and confined in Fort McHenry. He was released after a few days, without any charge being preferred against him, or any explanation given. Spies and informers abounded. A rigid supervision was established. Disloyalty, so called, of any kind was a punishable offense. Rebel colors, the red and white, were prohibited. They were not allowed to appear in shop-windows or on children's garments, or anywhere that might offend the Union sentiment. If a newspaper promulgated disloyal sentiments, the paper was suppressed and the editor imprisoned. If a clergyman was disloyal in prayer or sermon, or if he failed to utter a prescribed prayer, he was liable to be treated in the same manner, and was sometimes so treated. A learned and eloquent Lutheran clergyman came to me for advice because he had been summoned before the provost marshal for saying that a nation which incurred a heavy debt in the prosecution of war laid violent hands on the harvests of the future; but his offense was condoned, because it appeared that he had referred to the "Thirty Years' War" and had made no direct reference to the debt of the United States, and perhaps for a better reason--that he had strong Republican friends among his congregation. If horses and fodder, fences and timber, or houses and land, were taken for the use of the Army, the owner was not entitled to compensation unless he could prove that he was a loyal man; and the proof was required to be furnished through some well-known loyal person, who, of course, was usually paid for his services. Very soon no one was allowed to vote unless he was a loyal man, and soldiers at the polls assisted in settling the question of loyalty. Nearly all who approved of the war regarded these things as an inevitable military necessity; but those who disapproved deeply resented them as unwarrantable violations of sacred constitutional rights. The consequence was that friendships were dissolved, the ties of blood severed, and an invisible but well-understood line divided the people. The bitterness and even the common mention of these acts have long since ceased, but the tradition survives and still continues to be a factor, silent, but not without influence, in the politics of the State. History repeats itself. There were deeds done on both sides which bring to mind the wars of England and Scotland and the border strife between those countries. There were flittings to and fro, and adventures and hairbreadth escapes innumerable. Soldiers returned to visit their homes at the risk of their necks. Contraband of every description, and letters and newspapers, found their way across the border. The military lines were long and tortuous, and vulnerable points were not hard to find, and trusty carriers were ready to go anywhere for the love of adventure or the love of gain. The women were as deeply interested as the men, and were less apprehensive of personal consequences. In different parts of the city, not excepting its stateliest square, where stands the marble column from which the father of his country looked down, sadly as it were, on a divided people, there might have been found, by the initiated, groups of women who, with swift and skillful fingers, were fashioning and making garments strangely various in shape and kind--some for Northern prisons where captives were confined, some for destitute homes beyond the Southern border, in which only women and children were left, and some for Southern camps where ragged soldiers were waiting to be clad. The work was carried on not without its risks; but little cared the workers for that. Perhaps the sensation of danger itself, and a spirit of resistance to an authority which they refused to recognize, gave zest to their toil; nor did they always think it necessary to inform the good man of the house in which they were assembled either of their presence or of what was going on beneath his roof. The women who stood by the cause of the Union were not compelled to hide their charitable deeds from the light of day. No need for them to feed and clothe the soldiers of the Union, whose wants were amply supplied by a bountiful Government; but with untiring zeal they visited the military hospitals on missions of mercy, and when the bloody fields of Antietam and Gettysburg were fought, both they and their Southern sisters hastened, though not with a common purpose, to the aid of the wounded and dying, the victims of civil strife and children of a common country. CHAPTER VIII. GENERAL BANKS IN COMMAND. -- MARSHAL KANE ARRESTED. -- POLICE COMMISSIONERS SUPERSEDED. -- RESOLUTIONS PASSED BY THE GENERAL ASSEMBLY. -- POLICE COMMISSIONERS ARRESTED. -- MEMORIAL ADDRESSED BY THE MAYOR AND CITY COUNCIL TO CONGRESS. -- GENERAL DIX IN COMMAND. -- ARREST OF MEMBERS OF THE GENERAL ASSEMBLY, THE MAYOR AND OTHERS. -- RELEASE OF PRISONERS. -- COLONEL DIMICK. On the 10th of June, 1861, Major-General Nathaniel P. Banks, of Massachusetts, was appointed in the place of General Cadwallader to the command of the Department of Annapolis, with headquarters at Baltimore. On the 27th of June, General Banks arrested Marshal Kane and confined him in Fort McHenry. He then issued a proclamation announcing that he had superseded Marshal Kane and the commissioners of police, and that he had appointed Colonel John R. Kenly, of the First Regiment of Maryland Volunteers, provost marshal, with the aid and assistance of the subordinate officers of the police department. The police commissioners, including the mayor, offered no resistance, but adopted and published a resolution declaring that, in the opinion of the board, the forcible suspension of their functions suspended at the same time the active operation of the police law and put the officers and men off duty for the present, leaving them subject, however, to the rules and regulations of the service as to their personal conduct and deportment, and to the orders which the board might see fit thereafter to issue, when the present illegal suspension of their functions should be removed. The Legislature of Maryland, at its adjourned session on the 22d of June, passed a series of resolutions declaring that the unconstitutional and arbitrary proceedings of the Federal Executive had not been confined to the violation of the personal rights and liberties of the citizens of Maryland, but had been so extended that the property of no man was safe, the sanctity of no dwelling was respected, and that the sacredness of private correspondence no longer existed; that the Senate and House of Delegates of Maryland felt it due to her dignity and independence that history should not record the overthrow of public freedom for an instant within her borders, without recording likewise the indignant expression of her resentment and remonstrance, and they accordingly protested against the oppressive and tyrannical assertion and exercise of military jurisdiction within the limits of Maryland over the persons and property of her citizens by the Government of the United States, and solemnly declared the same to be subversive of the most sacred guarantees of the Constitution, and in flagrant violation of the fundamental and most cherished principles of American free government. On the first of July, the police commissioners were arrested and imprisoned by order of General Banks, on the ground, as he alleged in a proclamation, that the commissioners had refused to obey his decrees, or to recognize his appointees, and that they continued to hold the police force for some purpose not known to the Government. General Banks does not say what authority he had to make decrees, or what the decrees were which the commissioners had refused to obey; and as on the 27th of June he had imprisoned the marshal of police, and had put a provost marshal in his place, retaining only the subordinate officers of the police department, and had appointed instead of the men another body of police, all under the control of the provost marshal; and as the commissioners had no right to discharge the police force established by a law of the State, and were left with no duties in relation to the police which they could perform, it is very plain that, whatever motive General Banks may have had for the arrest and imprisonment of the commissioners, it is not stated in his proclamation. One of the commissioners, Charles D. Hinks, was soon released in consequence of failing health. On the day of the arrest of the police commissioners the city was occupied by troops, who in large detachments, infantry and artillery, took up positions in Monument Square, Exchange Place, at Camden-street Station and other points, and they mounted guard and bivouacked in the streets for more than a week. On July 18th, the police commissioners presented to Congress a memorial in which they protested very vigorously against their unlawful arrest and imprisonment. On the 23d day of July, 1861, the mayor and city council of Baltimore addressed a memorial to the Senate and House of Representatives of the United States, in which, after describing the condition of affairs in Baltimore, they respectfully, yet most earnestly, demanded, as matter of right, that their city might be governed according to the Constitution and laws of the United States and of the State of Maryland, that the citizens might be secure in their persons, houses, papers and effects against unreasonable searches and seizures; that they should not be deprived of life, liberty or property without due process of law; that the military should render obedience to the civil authority; that the municipal laws should be respected, the officers released from imprisonment and restored to the lawful exercise of their functions, and that the police government established by law should be no longer impeded by armed force to the injury of peace and order. It is perhaps needless to add that the memorial met with no favor. On the 7th of August, 1861, the Legislature of the State, in a series of resolutions, denounced these proceedings in all their parts, pronouncing them, so far as they affected individuals, a gross and unconstitutional abuse of power which nothing could palliate or excuse, and, in their bearing upon the authority and constitutional powers and privileges of the State herself, a revolutionary subversion of the Federal compact. The Legislature then adjourned, to meet on the 17th of September. On the 24th of July, 1861, General Dix had been placed in command of the Department, with his headquarters in Baltimore. On that day he wrote from Fort McHenry to the Assistant Adjutant-General for re-enforcement of the troops under his command. He said that there ought to be ten thousand men at Baltimore and Annapolis, and that he could not venture to respond for the quietude of the Department with a smaller number. At Fort McHenry, as told by his biographer, he exhibited to some ladies of secession proclivities an immense columbiad, and informed them that it was pointed to Monument Square, and if there was an uprising that this piece would be the first he would fire. But the guns of Fort McHenry were not sufficient. He built on the east of the city a very strong work, which he called Fort Marshall, and he strengthened the earthwork on Federal Hill, in the southern part, so that the city lay under the guns of three powerful forts, with several smaller ones. Not satisfied with this, on the 15th of September, 1862, General Dix, after he had been transferred to another department, wrote to Major-General Halleck, then Commander-in-Chief, advising that the ground on which the earthwork on Federal Hill had been erected should be purchased at a cost of one hundred thousand dollars, and that it should be permanently fortified at an additional expense of $250,000. He was of opinion that although the great body of the people were, as he described them, eminently distinguished for their moral virtues, Baltimore had always contained a mass of inflammable material, which would ignite on the slightest provocation. He added that "Fort Federal Hill completely commanded the city, and is capable, from its proximity to the principal business quarters, of assailing any one without injury to the others. The hill seems to have been placed there by Nature as a site for a permanent citadel, and I beg to suggest whether a neglect to appropriate it to its obvious design would not be an unpardonable dereliction of duty." These views were perhaps extreme even for a major-general commanding in Baltimore, especially as by this time the disorderly element which infests all cities had gone over to the stronger side, and was engaged in the pious work of persecuting rebels. General Halleck, even after this solemn warning, left Federal Hill to the protection of its earthwork. The opinion which General Dix had of Baltimore extended, though in a less degree, to a large portion of the State, and was shared, in part at least, not only by the other military commanders, but by the Government at Washington. On the 11th of September, 1861, Simon Cameron, Secretary of War, wrote the following letter to Major-General Banks, who was at this time in command of a division in Maryland: "WAR DEPARTMENT, _September 11, 1861_. "_General._--The passage of any act of secession by the Legislature of Maryland must be prevented. If necessary, all or any part of the members must be arrested. Exercise your own judgment as to the time and manner, but do the work effectively." On the 12th of September, Major-General McClellan, Commander-in-Chief of the Army of the Potomac, wrote a confidential letter to General Banks reciting that "after full consultation with the President, Secretary of State, War, etc., it has been decided to effect the operation proposed for the 17th." The 17th was the day fixed for the meeting of the General Assembly, and the operation to be performed was the arrest of some thirty members of that body, and other persons besides. Arrangements had been made to have a Government steamer at Annapolis to receive the prisoners and convey them to their destination. The plan was to be arranged with General Dix and Governor Seward, and the letter closes with leaving this exceedingly important affair to the tact and discretion of General Banks, and impressing on him the absolute necessity of secrecy and success. Accordingly, a number of the most prominent members of the Legislature, myself, as mayor of Baltimore, and editors of newspapers, and other citizens, were arrested at midnight. I was arrested at my country home, near the Relay House on the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad, by four policemen and a guard of soldiers. The soldiers were placed in both front and rear of the house, while the police rapped violently on the front door. I had gone to bed, but was still awake, for I had some apprehension of danger. I immediately arose, and opening my bed-room window, asked the intruders what they wanted. They replied that they wanted Mayor Brown. I asked who wanted him, and they answered, the Government of the United States. I then inquired for their warrant, but they had none. After a short time spent in preparation I took leave of my wife and children, and closely guarded, walked down the high hill on which the house stands to the foot, where a carriage was waiting for me. The soldiers went no farther, but I was driven in charge of the police seven miles to Baltimore and through the city to Fort McHenry, where to my surprise I found myself a fellow-prisoner in a company of friends and well-known citizens. We were imprisoned for one night in Fort McHenry, next in Fort Monroe for about two weeks, next in Fort Lafayette for about six weeks, and finally in Fort Warren. Henry May, member of Congress from Baltimore, was arrested at the same time, but was soon released. Col. Scharf, in his "History of Maryland," Volume III, says: "It was originally intended that they (the prisoners) should be confined in the fort at the Dry Tortugas, but as there was no fit steamer in Hampton Roads to make the voyage, the programme was changed."[15] [Footnote 15: See also the "Chronicles of Baltimore" by the same author.] The apprehension that the Legislature intended to pass an act of secession, as intimated by Secretary Cameron, was, in view of the position in which the State was placed, and the whole condition of affairs, so absurd that it is difficult to believe that he seriously entertained it. The blow was no doubt, however, intended to strike with terror the opponents of the war, and was one of the effective means resorted to by the Government to obtain, as it soon did, entire control of the State. As the events of the 19th of April had occurred nearly five months previously, and I was endeavoring to perform my duties as mayor, in obedience to law, without giving offense to either the civil or military authorities of the Government, the only apparent reason for my arrest grew out of a difficulty in regard to the payment of the police appointed by General Banks. In July a law had been passed by Congress appropriating one hundred thousand dollars for the purpose of such payment, but it was plain that a similar expenditure would not long be tolerated by Congress. In this emergency an intimation came to me indirectly from Secretary Seward, through a common acquaintance, that I was expected to pay the Government police out of the funds appropriated by law for the city police. I replied that any such payment would be illegal and was not within my power. Soon afterwards I received the following letter from General Dix, which I insert, together with the correspondence which followed: "HEADQUARTERS DEPARTMENT OF PENNSYLVANIA, "BALTIMORE, MD., _September 8, 1861_. "TO HON. GEO. WM. BROWN, _Mayor of the City of Baltimore_. "_Sir_:--Reasons of state, which I deem imperative, demand that the payment of compensation to the members of the old city police, who were, by a resolution of the Board of Police Commissioners, dated the 27th of Jane last, declared 'off duty,' and whose places were filled in pursuance of an order of Major-General Banks of the same date, should cease. I therefore direct, by virtue of the authority vested in me as commanding officer of the military forces of the United States in Baltimore and its vicinity, that no further payment be made to them. "Independently of all other considerations, the continued compensation of a body of men who have been suspended in their functions by the order of the Government, is calculated to bring its authority into disrespect; and the extraction from the citizens of Baltimore by taxation, in a time of general depression and embarrassment, of a sum amounting to several hundred thousand dollars a year for the payment of nominal officials who render it no service, cannot fail by creating widespread dissatisfaction to disturb the quietude of the city, which I am most anxious to preserve. "I feel assured that the payment would have been voluntarily discontinued by yourself, as a violation of the principle on which all compensation is bestowed--as a remuneration for an equivalent service actually performed--had you not considered yourself bound by existing laws to make it. "This order will relieve you from the embarrassment, and I do not doubt that it will be complied with. "I am, very respectfully, "Your obedient servant, "JOHN A. DIX, "_Major-General Commanding_." "MAYOR'S OFFICE, CITY HALL, "BALTIMORE, _September 5, 1861_. "Major-General JOHN A. DIX, _Baltimore, Md._ "_Sir_:--I was not in town yesterday, and did not receive until this morning your letter of the 3d inst. ordering that no further payment be made to the members of the city police. "The payments have been made heretofore in pursuance of the laws of the State, under the advice of the City Counsellor, by the Register, the Comptroller and myself. "Without entering into a discussion of the considerations which you have deemed sufficient to justify this proceeding, I feel it to be my duty to enter my protest against this interference, by military authority, with the exercise of powers lawfully committed by the State of Maryland to the officers of the city corporation; but it is nevertheless not the intention of the city authorities to offer resistance to the order which you have issued, and I shall therefore give public notice to the officers and men of the city police that no further payments may be expected by them. "There is an arrearage of pay of two weeks due to the force, and the men have by the law and rules of the board been prevented from engaging in any other business or occupation. Most of them have families, who are entirely dependent for support on the pay received. "I do not understand your order as meaning to prohibit the payment of this arrearage, and shall therefore proceed to make it, unless prevented by your further order. "I am, very respectfully, "Your obedient servant, "GEO. WM. BROWN, "_Mayor of Baltimore_." "HEADQUARTERS DEPARTMENT OF PENNSYLVANIA, "BALTIMORE, MD., _September 9, 1861_. "HON. GEO. WM. BROWN, _Mayor of the City of Baltimore_. "_Sir_:--Your letter of the 5th inst. was duly received. I cannot, without acquiescing in the violation of a principle, assent to the payment of an arrearage to the members of the old city police, as suggested in the closing paragraph of your letter. "It was the intention of my letter to prohibit any payment to them subsequently to the day on which it was written. "You will please, therefore, to consider this as the 'further order' referred to by you. "I am, very respectfully, "Your obedient servant, "JOHN A. DIX, "_Major-General Commanding_." "MAYOR'S OFFICE, CITY HALL, "BALTIMORE, _September 11, 1861_. "Major-General JOHN A. DIX, Baltimore. "_Sir_:--I did not come to town yesterday until the afternoon, and then ascertained that my letters had been sent out to my country residence, where, on my return last evening, I found yours of the 9th, in reply to mine of the 5th instant, awaiting me. It had been left at the mayor's office yesterday morning. "Before leaving the mayor's office, about three o'clock P. M. on the 9th instant, and not having received any reply from you, I had signed a check for the payment of arrears due the police, and the money was on the same day drawn out of the bank and handed over to the proper officers, and nearly the entire amount was by them paid to the police force before the receipt of your letter. "The suggestion in your letter as to the 'violation of a principle' requires me to add that I recognize in the action of the Government of the United States in the matter in question nothing but the assertion of superior force. "Out of regard to the great interests committed to my charge as chief magistrate of the city, I have yielded to that force, and do not feel it necessary to enter into any discussion of the principles upon which the Government sees fit to exercise it. "Very respectfully, "Your obedient servant, "GEO. WM. BROWN, "_Mayor_." The reasons which General Dix assigned for prohibiting me from paying the arrearages due the police present a curious combination. First, there were reasons of State; next, the respect due to the Government; third, his concern for the taxpayers of Baltimore; fourth, the danger to the quiet of the city which he apprehended might arise from the payment; and, finally, there was a principle which he must protect from violation, but what that principle was he did not state. A striking commentary on these reasons was furnished on the 11th of December, 1863, by a decision of the Court of Appeals of Maryland in the case of the Mayor, etc., of Baltimore _vs._ Charles Howard and others, reported in 20th Maryland Rep., p. 335. The question was whether the interference by the Government of the United States with the Board of Police and police force established by law in the city of Baltimore was without authority of law and did in any manner affect or impair the rights or invalidate the acts of the board. The court held that, though the board was displaced by a force to which they yielded and could not resist, their power and rights under their organization were still preserved, and that they were amenable for any dereliction of official duty, except in so far as they were excused by uncontrollable events. And the court decided that Mr. Hinks, one of the police commissioners, whose case was alone before the court, was entitled to his salary, which had accrued after the board was so displaced. Subsequently, after the close of the war, the Legislature of the State passed an act for the payment of all arrearages due to the men of the police subsequent to their displacement by the Government of the United States and until their discharge by the Government of the State. It will be perceived that General Dix delayed replying to my letter of the 5th of September until the 9th; that his reply was not left at the mayor's office until the tenth, and that in the meantime, on the afternoon of the 9th, after waiting for his reply for four days, I paid the arrears due the police, as I had good reason to suppose he intended I should. A friend of mine, a lawyer of Baltimore, and a pronounced Union man, has, since then, informed me that General Dix showed him my letter of the 5th before my arrest; that my friend asked him whether he had replied to it, and the General replied he had not. My friend answered that he thought a reply was due to me. From all this it does not seem uncharitable to believe that the purpose of General Dix was to put me in the false position of appearing to disobey his order and thus to furnish an excuse for my imprisonment. This lasted until the 27th of November, 1862, a short time after my term of office had expired, when there was a sudden and unexpected release of all the State prisoners in Fort Warren, where we were then confined. On the 26th of November, 1862, Colonel Justin Dimick, commanding at Fort Warren, received the following telegraphic order from the Adjutant-General's Office, Washington: "The Secretary of War directs that you release all the Maryland State prisoners, also any other State prisoners that may be in your custody, and report to this office." In pursuance of this order, Colonel Dimick on the following day released from Fort Warren the following State prisoners, without imposing any condition upon them whatever: Severn Teackle Wallis, Henry M. Warfield, William G. Harrison, T. Parkin Scott, ex-members of the Maryland Legislature from Baltimore; George William Brown, ex-Mayor of Baltimore; Charles Howard and William H. Gatchell, ex-Police Commissioners; George P. Kane, ex-Marshal of Police; Frank Key Howard, one of the editors of the Baltimore _Exchange_; Thomas W. Hall, editor of the Baltimore _South_; Robert Hull, merchant, of Baltimore; Dr. Charles Macgill, of Hagerstown; William H. Winder, of Philadelphia; and B. L. Cutter, of Massachusetts. General Wool, then in command in Baltimore, issued an order declaring that thereafter no person should be arrested within the limits of the Department except by his order, and in all such cases the charges against the accused party were to be sworn to before a justice of the peace. As it was intimated that these gentlemen had entered into some engagement as the condition of their release, Mr. Wallis, while in New York on his return home, took occasion to address a letter on the subject to the editor of the New York _World_, in which he said: "No condition whatever was sought to be imposed, and none would have been accepted, as the Secretary of War well knew. Speaking of my fellow-prisoners from Maryland, I have a right to say that they maintained to the last the principle which they asserted from the first--namely, that, if charged with crime, they were entitled to be charged, held and tried in due form of law and not otherwise; and that, in the absence of lawful accusation and process, it was their right to be discharged without terms or conditions of any sort, and they would submit to none." Many of our fellow-prisoners were from necessity not able to take this stand. There were no charges against them, but there were imperative duties which required their presence at home, and when the Government at Washington adopted the policy of offering liberty to those who would consent to take an oath of allegiance prepared for the occasion, they had been compelled to accept it. Before this, in December, 1861, the Government at Washington, on application of friends, had granted me a parole for thirty days, that I might attend to some important private business, and for that time I stayed with kind relatives, under the terms of the parole, in Boston. The following correspondence, which then took place, will show the position which I maintained: "BOSTON, _January 4, 1862_. "MARSHAL KEYS, _Boston_. "_Sir_:--I called twice to see you during this week, and in your absence had an understanding with your deputy that I was to surrender myself to you this morning, on the expiration of my parole, in time to be conveyed to Fort Warren, and I have accordingly done so. "As you have not received any instructions from Washington in regard to the course to be pursued with me, I shall consider myself in your custody until you have had ample time to write to Washington and obtain a reply. "I desire it, however, to be expressly understood that no further extension of my parole is asked for, or would be accepted at this time. "It is my right and my wish to return to Baltimore, to resume the performance of my official and private duties. Respectfully, "GEO. WM. BROWN." "DEPARTMENT OF STATE, "WASHINGTON, _January 6, 1862_. "JOHN S. KEYS, Esq., U. S. Marshal, _Boston_. "_Sir_:--Your letter of the 4th inst., relative to George W. Brown, has been received. "In reply, I have to inform you that, if he desires it, you may extend his parole to the period of thirty days. If not, you will please recommit him to Fort Warren and report to this Department. "I am, sir, very respectfully, "Your obedient servant, "F. W. SEWARD, "_Acting Secretary of State_." "BOSTON, _January 10, 1862_. "MARSHAL KEYS, _Boston_. "_Sir_:--In my note to you of the 4th inst. I stated that I did not desire a renewal of my parole, but that it was my right and wish to return to Baltimore, to resume the performance of my private and official duties. "My note was, in substance, as you informed me, forwarded to Hon. W. H. Seward, Secretary of State, in a letter from you to him. "In reply to your communication, F. W. Seward, Acting Secretary of State, wrote to you under date of the 6th inst. that 'you may extend the parole of George W. Brown if he desires it, but if not, you are directed to recommit him to Fort Warren.' "It was hardly necessary to give me the option of an extension of parole which I had previously declined, but the offer renders it proper for me to say that the parole was applied for by my friends, to enable me to attend to important private business, affecting the interests of others as well as myself; that the necessities growing out of this particular matter of business no longer exist, and that I cannot consistently with my ideas of propriety, by accepting a renewal of the parole, place myself in the position of seeming to acquiesce in a prolonged and illegal banishment from my home and duties. Respectfully, "GEO. WM. BROWN." On the 11th of January, 1862, I returned to Fort Warren, and on the 14th an offer was made to renew and extend my parole to ninety days upon condition that I would not pass south of Hudson River. This offer I declined. My term of office expired on the 12th of November, 1862, and soon afterwards I was released, as I have just stated. It is not my purpose to enter into an account of the trials and hardships of prison-life in the crowded forts in which we were successively confined under strict and sometimes very harsh military rule, but it is due to the memory of the commander at Fort Warren, Colonel Justin Dimick, that I should leave on record the warm feelings of respect and friendship with which he was regarded by the prisoners who knew him best, for the unvarying kindness and humanity with which he performed the difficult and painful duties of his office. As far as he was permitted to do so, he promoted the comfort and convenience of all, and after the war was over and he had been advanced to the rank of General, he came to Baltimore as the honored guest of one of his former prisoners, and while there received the warm and hearty greeting of others of his prisoners who still survived. CHAPTER IX. A PERSONAL CHAPTER. I have now completed my task; but perhaps it will be expected that I should clearly define my own position. I have no objection to do so. Both from feeling and on principle I had always been opposed to slavery--the result in part of the teaching and example of my parents, and confirmed by my own reading and observation. In early manhood I became prominent in defending the rights of the free colored people of Maryland. In the year 1846 I was associated with a small number of persons, of whom the Rev. William F. Brand, author of the "Life of Bishop Whittingham," and myself, are the only survivors. The other members of the association were Dr. Richard S. Steuart, for many years President of the Maryland Hospital for the Insane, and himself a slaveholder; Galloway Cheston, a merchant and afterwards President of the Board of Trustees of the Johns Hopkins University; Frederick W. Brune, my brother-in-law and law-partner; and Ramsay McHenry, planter. We were preparing to initiate a movement tending to a gradual emancipation within the State, but the growing hostility between the North and the South rendered the plan wholly impracticable, and it was abandoned. My opinions, however, did not lead me into sympathy with the abolition party. I knew that slavery had existed almost everywhere in the world, and still existed in some places, and that, whatever might be its character elsewhere, it was not in the Southern States "the sum of all villainy." On the contrary, it had assisted materially in the development of the race. Nowhere else, I believe, had negro slaves been so well treated, on the whole, and had advanced so far in civilization. They had learned the necessity, as well as the habit, of labor; the importance--to some extent at least--of thrift; the essential distinctions between right and wrong, and the inevitable difference to the individual between right-doing and wrong-doing; the duty of obedience to law; and--not least--some conception, dim though it might be, of the inspiring teachings of the Christian religion. They had learned also to cherish a feeling of respect and good will towards the best portion of the white race, to whom they looked up, and whom they imitated. I refused to enlist in a crusade against slavery, not only on constitutional grounds, but for other reasons. If the slaves were freed and clothed with the right of suffrage, they would be incapable of using it properly. If the suffrage were withheld, they would be subjected to the oppression of the white race without the protection afforded by their masters. Thus I could see no prospect of maintaining harmony without a disastrous change in our form of government such as prevailed after the war, in what is called the period of reconstruction. If there were entire equality, and an intermingling of the two races, it would not, as it seemed to me, be for the benefit of either. I knew how strong are race prejudices, especially when stimulated by competition and interest; how cruelly the foreigners, as they were called, had been treated by the people in California, and the Indians by our people everywhere; and how, in my own city, citizens were for years ruthlessly deprived by the Know-Nothing party of the right of suffrage, some because they were of foreign birth, and some because they were Catholics. The problem of slavery was to me a Gordian knot which I knew not how to untie, and which I dared not attempt to cut with the sword. Such a severance involved the horrors of civil war, with the wickedness and demoralization which were sure to follow. I was deeply attached to the Union from a feeling imbibed in early childhood and constantly strengthened by knowledge and personal experience. I did not believe in secession as a constitutional right, and in Maryland there was no sufficient ground for revolution. It was clearly for her interest to remain in the Union and to free her slaves. An attempt to secede or to revolt would have been an act of folly which I deprecated, although I did believe that she, in common with the rest of the South, had constitutional rights in regard to slavery which the North was not willing to respect. It was my opinion that the Confederacy would prove to be a rope of sand. I thought that the seceding States should have been allowed to depart in peace, as General Scott advised, and I believed that afterwards the necessities of the situation and their own interest would induce them to return, severally, perhaps, to the old Union, but with slavery peacefully abolished; for, in the nature of things, I knew that slavery could not last forever. Whether or not my opinions were sound and my hopes well founded, is now a matter of little importance, even to myself, but they were at least sincere and were not concealed. There can be no true union in a Republic unless the parts are held together by a feeling of common interest, and also of mutual respect. That there is a common interest no reasonable person can doubt; but this is not sufficient; and, happily, there is a solid basis for mutual respect also. I have already stated the grounds on which, from their point of view, the Southern people were justified in their revolt, and even in the midst of the war I recognized what the South is gradually coming to recognize--that the grounds on which the Northern people waged war--love of the Union and hatred of slavery--were also entitled to respect. I believe that the results achieved--namely, the preservation of the Union and the abolition of slavery--are worth all they have cost. And yet I feel that I am living in a different land from that in which I was born, and under a different Constitution, and that new perils have arisen sufficient to cause great anxiety. Some of these are the consequences of the war, and some are due to other causes. But every generation must encounter its own trials, and should extract benefit from them if it can. The grave problems growing out of emancipation seem to have found a solution in an improving education of the whole people. Perhaps education is the true means of escape from the other perils to which I have alluded. Let me state them as they appear to me to exist. Vast fortunes, which astonish the world, have suddenly been acquired, very many by methods of more than doubtful honesty, while the fortunes themselves are so used as to benefit neither the possessors nor the country. Republican simplicity has ceased to be a reality, except where it exists as a survival in rural districts, and is hardly now mentioned even as a phrase. It has been superseded by republican luxury and ostentation. The mass of the people, who cannot afford to indulge in either, are sorely tempted to covet both. The individual man does not rely, as he formerly did, on his own strength and manhood. Organization for a common purpose is resorted to wherever organization is possible. Combinations of capital or of labor, ruled by a few individuals, bestride the land with immense power both for good and evil. In these combinations the individual counts for little, and is but little concerned about his own moral responsibility. When De Tocqueville, in 1838, wrote his remarkable book on Democracy in America, he expressed his surprise to observe how every public question was submitted to the decision of the people, and that, when the people had decided, the question was settled. Now politicians care little about the opinions of the people, because the people care little about opinions. Bosses have come into existence to ply their vile trade of office-brokerage. Rings are formed in which the bosses are masters and the voters their henchmen. Formerly decent people could not be bought either with money or offices. Political parties have always some honest foundation, but rings are factions like those of Rome in her decline, having no foundation but public plunder. Communism, socialism, and labor strikes have taken the place of slavery agitation. Many people have come to believe that this is a paternal Government from which they have a right to ask for favors, and not a Republic in which all are equal. Hence States, cities, corporations, individuals, and especially certain favored classes, have no scruple in getting money somehow or other, directly or indirectly, out of the purse of the Nation, as if the Nation had either purse or property which does not belong to the people, for the benefit of the whole people, without favor or partiality towards any. In many ways there is a dangerous tendency towards the centralization of power in the National Government, with little opposition on the part of the people. Paper money is held by the Supreme Court to be a lawful substitute for gold and silver coin, partly on the ground that this is the prerogative of European governments.[16] This is strange constitutional doctrine to those who were brought up in the school of Marshall, Story, and Chancellor Kent. [Footnote 16: Legal Tender Case, Vol. 110 U. S. Reports, p. 421.] The administration of cities has grown more and more extravagant and corrupt, thus leading to the creation of immense debts which oppress the people and threaten to become unmanageable. The national Congress, instead of faithfully administering its trust, has become reckless and wasteful of the public money. But, notwithstanding all this, I rejoice to believe that there is a reserve of power in the American people which has never yet failed to redress great wrongs when they have come to be fully recognized and understood. A striking instance of this is to be found in the temperance movement, which, extreme as it may be in some respects, shows that the conscience of the entire country is aroused on a subject of vast difficulty and importance. And other auspicious signs exist, the chief of which I think are that a new zeal is manifested in the cause of education; that people of all creeds come together as they never did before to help in good works; that an independent press, bent on enlightening, not deceiving, the people, is making itself heard and respected; and that younger men, who represent the best hopes and aspirations of the time, are pressing forward to take the place of the politicians of a different school, who represent chiefly their own selfish interests, or else a period of hate and discord which has passed away forever. These considerations give me hope and confidence in the country as it exists to-day. Baltimore is the place of my birth, of my home, and of my affections. No one could be bound to his native city by ties stronger than mine. Perhaps, in view of the incidents of the past, as detailed in this volume, I may be permitted to express to the good people of Baltimore my sincere and profound gratitude for the generous and unsolicited confidence which, on different occasions, they have reposed in me, and for their good will and kind feeling, which have never been withdrawn during the years, now not a few, which I have spent in their service. APPENDIX I. The following account of the alleged conspiracy to assassinate Abraham Lincoln on his journey to Baltimore is taken from the "Life of Abraham Lincoln," by Ward H. Lamon, pp. 511-526: "Whilst Mr. Lincoln, in the midst of his suite and attendants, was being borne in triumph through the streets of Philadelphia, and a countless multitude of people were shouting themselves hoarse, and jostling and crushing each other around his carriage-wheels, Mr. Felton, the President of the Philadelphia, Wilmington and Baltimore Railway, was engaged with a private detective discussing the details of an alleged conspiracy to murder him at Baltimore. Some months before, Mr. Felton, apprehending danger to the bridges along his line, had taken this man into his pay and sent him to Baltimore to spy out and report any plot that might be found for their destruction. Taking with him a couple of other men and a woman, the detective went about his business with the zeal which necessarily marks his peculiar profession. He set up as a stock-broker, under an assumed name, opened an office, and became a vehement secessionist. His agents were instructed to act with the duplicity which such men generally use; to be rabid on the subject of 'Southern Rights'; to suggest all manner of crimes in vindication of them; and if, by these arts, corresponding sentiments should be elicited from their victims, the 'job' might be considered as prospering. Of course they readily found out what everybody else knew--that Maryland was in a state of great alarm; that her people were forming military associations, and that Governor Hicks was doing his utmost to furnish them with arms, on condition that the arms, in case of need, should be turned against the Federal Government. Whether they detected any plan to burn bridges or not, the chief detective does not relate; but it appears that he soon deserted that inquiry and got, or pretended to get, upon a scent that promised a heavier reward. Being intensely ambitious to shine in the professional way, and something of a politician besides, it struck him that it would be a particularly fine thing to discover a dreadful plot to assassinate the President-elect, and he discovered it accordingly. It was easy to get that far; to furnish tangible proofs of an imaginary conspiracy was a more difficult matter. But Baltimore was seething with political excitement; numerous strangers from the far South crowded its hotels and boarding-houses; great numbers of mechanics and laborers out of employment encumbered its streets; and everywhere politicians, merchants, mechanics, laborers and loafers were engaged in heated discussions about the anticipated war, and the probability of Northern troops being marched through Maryland to slaughter and pillage beyond the Potomac. It would seem like an easy thing to beguile a few individuals of this angry and excited multitude into the expression of some criminal desire; and the opportunity was not wholly lost, although the limited success of the detective under such favorable circumstances is absolutely wonderful. He put his 'shadows' upon several persons whom it suited his pleasure to suspect, and the 'shadows' pursued their work with the keen zest and the cool treachery of their kind. They reported daily to their chief in writing, as he reported in turn to his employer. These documents are neither edifying nor useful: they prove nothing but the baseness of the vocation which gave them existence. They were furnished to Mr. Herndon in full, under the impression that partisan feeling had extinguished in him the love of truth and the obligations of candor, as it had in many writers who preceded him on the same subject-matter. They have been carefully and thoroughly read, analyzed, examined and compared, with an earnest and conscientious desire to discover the truth, if, perchance, any trace of truth might be in them. The process of investigation began with a strong bias in favor of the conclusion at which the detective had arrived. For ten years the author implicitly believed in the reality of the atrocious plot which these spies were supposed to have detected and thwarted; and for ten years he had pleased himself with the reflection that he also had done something to defeat the bloody purpose of the assassins. It was a conviction which could scarcely have been overthrown by evidence less powerful than the detective's weak and contradictory account of his own case. In that account there is literally nothing to sustain the accusation, and much to rebut it. It is perfectly manifest that there was no conspiracy--no conspiracy of a hundred, of fifty, of twenty, of three--no definite purpose in the heart of even one man to murder Mr. Lincoln at Baltimore. "The reports are all in the form of personal narratives, and for the most relate when the spies went to bed, when they rose, where they ate, what saloons and brothels they visited, and what blackguards they met and 'drinked' with. One of them shadowed a loud-mouthed drinking fellow named Luckett, and another, a poor scapegrace and braggart named Hilliard. These wretches 'drinked' and talked a great deal, hung about bars, haunted disreputable houses, were constantly half drunk, and easily excited to use big and threatening words by the faithless protestations and cunning management of the spies. Thus Hilliard was made to say that he thought a man who should act the part of Brutus in these times would deserve well of his country; and Luckett was induced to declare that he knew a man who would kill Lincoln. At length the great arch-conspirator--the Brutus, the Orsini of the New World, to whom Luckett and Hilliard, the 'national volunteers,' and all such, were as mere puppets--condescended to reveal himself in the most obliging and confiding manner. He made no mystery of his cruel and desperate scheme. He did not guard it as a dangerous secret, or choose his confidants with the circumspection which political criminals, and especially assassins, have generally thought proper to observe. Very many persons knew what he was about, and levied on their friends for small sums--five, ten and twenty dollars--to further the Captain's plan. Even Luckett was deep enough in the awful plot to raise money for it; and when he took one of the spies to a public bar-room and introduced him to the 'Captain,' the latter sat down and talked it all over without the slightest reserve. When was there ever before such a loud-mouthed conspirator, such a trustful and innocent assassin! His name was Ferrandini, his occupation that of a barber, his place of business beneath Barnum's Hotel, where the sign of the bloodthirsty villain still invites the unsuspecting public to come in for a shave. "'Mr. Luckett,' so the spy relates, 'said that he was not going home this evening; and if I would meet him at Barr's saloon, on South street, he would introduce me to Ferrandini. This was unexpected to me; but I determined to take the chances, and agreed to meet Mr. Luckett at the place named at 7 P. M. Mr. Luckett left about 2.30 P. M., and I went to dinner. "'I was at the office in the afternoon in hopes that Mr. Felton might call, but he did not; and at 6.15 P. M. I went to supper. After supper I went to Barr's saloon, and found Mr. Luckett and several other gentlemen there. He asked me to drink, and introduced me to Captain Ferrandini and Captain Turner. He eulogized me very highly as a neighbor of his, and told Ferrandini that I was the gentleman who had given the twenty-five dollars he (Luckett) had given to Ferrandini. "'The conversation at once got into politics; and Ferrandini, who is a fine-looking, intelligent-appearing person, became very excited. He shows the Italian in, I think, a very marked degree; and, although excited, yet was cooler than what I had believed was the general characteristic of Italians. He has lived South for many years, and is thoroughly imbued with the idea that the South must rule; that they (Southerners) have been outraged in their rights by the election of Lincoln, and freely justified resorting to any means to prevent Lincoln from taking his seat; and, as he spoke, his eyes fairly glared and glistened, and his whole frame quivered; but he was fully conscious of all he was doing. He is a man well calculated for controlling and directing the ardent-minded; he is an enthusiast, and believes that, to use his own words, "murder of any kind is justifiable and right to save the rights of the Southern people." In all his views he was ably seconded by Captain Turner. "'Captain Turner is an American; but although very much of a gentleman, and possessing warm Southern feelings, he is not by any means so dangerous a man as Ferrandini, as his ability for exciting others is less powerful; but that he is a bold and proud man there is no doubt, as also that he is entirely under the control of Ferrandini. In fact, he could not be otherwise, for even I myself felt the influence of this man's strange power; and, wrong though I knew him to be, I felt strangely unable to keep my mind balanced against him. "'Ferrandini said, "Never, never, shall Lincoln be President!" His life (Ferrandini's) was of no consequence; he was willing to give it up for Lincoln's; he would sell it for that abolitionist's; and as Orsini had given his life for Italy, so was he (Ferrandini) ready to die for his country and the rights of the South; and said Ferrandini, turning to Captain Turner, "We shall all die together: we shall show the North that we fear them not. Every man, Captain," said he, "will on that day prove himself a hero. The first shot fired, the main traitor (Lincoln) dead, and all Maryland will be with us, and the South shall be free; and the North must then be ours. Mr. Hutchins," said Ferrandini, "if I alone must do it, I shall: Lincoln shall die in this city." "'Whilst we were thus talking, we (Mr. Luckett, Turner, Ferrandini and myself) were alone in one corner of the bar-room, and, while talking, two strangers had got pretty near us. Mr. Luckett called Ferrandini's attention to this, and intimated that they were listening; and we went up to the bar, drinked again at my expense, and again retired to another part of the room, at Ferrandini's request, to see if the strangers would again follow us. Whether by accident or design, they again got near us; but of course we were not talking of any matter of consequence. Ferrandini said he suspected they were spies, and suggested that he had to attend a secret meeting, and was apprehensive that the two strangers might follow him; and, at Mr. Luckett's request, I remained with him (Luckett) to watch the movements of the strangers. I assured Ferrandini that if they would attempt to follow him, we would whip them. "'Ferrandini and Turner left to attend the meeting, and, anxious as I was to follow them myself, I was obliged to remain with Mr. Luckett to watch the strangers, which we did for about fifteen minutes, when Mr. Luckett said that he should go to a friend's to stay over night, and I left for my hotel, arriving there at about 9 P. M., and soon retired.' "It is in a secret communication between hireling spies and paid informers that these ferocious sentiments are attributed to the poor knight of the soap-pot. No disinterested person would believe the story upon such evidence; and it will appear hereafter that even the detective felt that it was too weak to mention among his strong points, at that decisive moment when he revealed all he knew to the President and his friends. It is probably a mere fiction. If it had had any foundation in fact, we are inclined to believe that the sprightly and eloquent barber would have dangled at a rope's end long since. He would hardly have been left to shave and plot in peace, while the members of the Legislature, the Police Marshal, and numerous private gentlemen, were locked up in Federal prisons. When Mr. Lincoln was actually slain, four years later, and the cupidity of the detectives was excited by enormous rewards, Ferrandini was totally unmolested. But even if Ferrandini really said all that is here imputed to him, he did no more than many others around him were doing at the same time. He drank and talked, and made swelling speeches; but he never took, nor seriously thought of taking, the first step toward the frightful tragedy he is said to have contemplated. "The detectives are cautious not to include in the supposed plot to murder any person of eminence, power, or influence. Their game is all of the smaller sort, and, as they conceived, easily taken--witless vagabonds like Hilliard and Luckett, and a barber, whose calling indicates his character and associations.[17] They had no fault to find with the Governor of the State; he was rather a lively trimmer, to be sure, and very anxious to turn up at last on the winning side; but it was manifestly impossible that one in such an exalted station could meditate murder. Yet, if they had pushed their inquiries with an honest desire to get at the truth, they might have found much stronger evidence against the Governor than that which they pretend to have found against the barber. In the Governor's case the evidence is documentary, written, authentic--over his own hand, clear and conclusive as pen and ink could make it. As early as the previous November, Governor Hicks had written the following letter; and, notwithstanding its treasonable and murderous import, the writer became conspicuously loyal before spring, and lived to reap splendid rewards and high honors, under the auspices of the Federal Government, as the most patriotic and devoted Union man in Maryland. The person to whom the letter was addressed was equally fortunate; and, instead of drawing out his comrades in the field to 'kill Lincoln and his men,' he was sent to Congress by power exerted from Washington at a time when the administration selected the representatives of Maryland, and performed all his duties right loyally and acceptably. Shall one be taken and another left? Shall Hicks go to the Senate and Webster to Congress, while the poor barber is held to the silly words which he is alleged to have sputtered out between drinks in a low groggery, under the blandishments and encouragements of an eager spy, itching for his reward? [Footnote 17: Mr. Ferrandini, now in advanced years, still lives in Baltimore, and declares the charge of conspiracy to be wholly absurd and fictitious, and those who know him will, I think, believe that he is an unlikely person to be engaged in such a plot.] "'STATE OF MARYLAND, "'EXECUTIVE CHAMBER, "'ANNAPOLIS, _November 9, 1860_. "'Hon. E. H. WEBSTER. "'_My Dear Sir_:--I have pleasure in acknowledging receipt of your favor introducing a very clever gentleman to my acquaintance (though a Demo'). I regret to say that we have, at this time, no arms on hand to distribute, but assure you at the earliest possible moment your company shall have arms; they have complied with all required on their part. We have some delay, in consequence of contracts with Georgia and Alabama ahead of us. We expect at an early day an additional supply, and of first received your people shall be furnished. Will they be good men to send out to kill Lincoln and his men? If not, suppose the arms would be better sent South. "'How does late election sit with you? 'Tis too bad. Harford nothing to reproach herself for. "'Your obedient servant, "'THOS. H. HICKS.' "With the Presidential party was Hon. Norman B. Judd; he was supposed to exercise unbounded influence over the new President; and with him, therefore, the detective opened communications. At various places along the route Mr. Judd was given vague hints of the impending danger, accompanied by the usual assurances of the skill and activity of the patriots who were perilling their lives in a rebel city to save that of the Chief Magistrate. When he reached New York, he was met by the woman who had originally gone with the other spies to Baltimore. She had urgent messages from her chief--messages that disturbed Mr. Judd exceedingly. The detective was anxious to meet Mr. Judd and the President, and a meeting was accordingly arranged to take place at Philadelphia. "Mr. Lincoln reached Philadelphia on the afternoon of the 21st. The detective had arrived in the morning, and improved the interval to impress and enlist Mr. Felton. In the evening he got Mr. Judd and Mr. Felton into his room at the St. Louis Hotel, and told them all he had learned. He dwelt at large on the fierce temper of the Baltimore secessionists; on the loose talk he had heard about 'fireballs or hand-grenades'; on a 'privateer' said to be moored somewhere in the bay; on the organization called National Volunteers; on the fact that, eavesdropping at Barnum's Hotel, he had overheard Marshal Kane intimate that he would not supply a police force on some undefined occasion, but what the occasion was he did not know. He made much of his miserable victim, Hilliard, whom he held up as a perfect type of the class from which danger was to be apprehended; but concerning "Captain" Ferrandini and his threats, he said, according to his own account, not a single word. He had opened his case, his whole case, and stated it as strongly as he could. Mr. Judd was very much startled, and was sure that it would be extremely imprudent for Mr. Lincoln to pass through Baltimore in open daylight, according to the published programme. But he thought the detective ought to see the President himself; and, as it was wearing toward nine o'clock, there was no time to lose. It was agreed that the part taken by the detective and Mr. Felton should be kept secret from every one but the President. Mr. Sanford, President of the American Telegraph Company, had also been co-operating in the business, and the same stipulation was made with regard to him. "Mr. Judd went to his own room at the Continental, and the detective followed. The crowd in the hotel was very dense, and it took some time to get a message to Mr. Lincoln. But it finally reached him, and he responded in person. Mr. Judd introduced the detective, and the latter told his story over again, with a single variation: this time he mentioned the name of Ferrandini along with Hilliard's, but gave no more prominence to one than to the other. "Mr. Judd and the detective wanted Lincoln to leave for Washington that night. This he flatly refused to do. He had engagements with the people, he said, to raise a flag over Independence Hall in the morning, and to exhibit himself at Harrisburg in the afternoon, and these engagements he would not break in any event. But he would raise the flag, go to Harrisburg, 'get away quietly' in the evening, and permit himself to be carried to Washington in the way they thought best. Even this, however, he conceded with great reluctance. He condescended to cross-examine the detective on some parts of his narrative, but at no time did he seem in the least degree alarmed. He was earnestly requested not to communicate the change of plan to any member of his party except Mr. Judd, nor permit even a suspicion of it to cross the mind of another. To this he replied that he would be compelled to tell Mrs. Lincoln, 'and he thought it likely that she would insist upon W. H. Lamon going with him; but, aside from that, no one should know.' "In the meantime, Mr. Seward had also discovered the conspiracy. He dispatched his son to Philadelphia to warn the President-elect of the terrible plot into whose meshes he was about to run. Mr. Lincoln turned him over to Judd, and Judd told him they already knew all about it. He went away with just enough information to enable his father to anticipate the exact moment of Mr. Lincoln's surreptitious arrival in Washington. "Early on the morning of the 22d, Mr. Lincoln raised the flag over Independence Hall, and departed for Harrisburg. On the way Mr. Judd 'gave him a full and precise detail of the arrangements that had been made' the previous night. After the conference with the detective, Mr. Sanford, Colonel Scott, Mr. Felton, railroad and telegraph officials, had been sent for, and came to Mr. Judd's room. They occupied nearly the whole of the night in perfecting the plan. It was finally understood that about six o'clock the next evening Mr. Lincoln should slip away from the Jones Hotel, at Harrisburg, in company with a single member of his party. A special car and engine would be provided for him on the track outside the depot. All other trains on the road would be 'side-tracked' until this one had passed. Mr. Sanford would forward skilled 'telegraph-climbers,' and see that all the wires leading out of Harrisburg were cut at six o'clock, and kept down until it was known that Mr. Lincoln had reached Washington in safety. The detective would meet Mr. Lincoln at the West Philadelphia Depot with a carriage, and conduct him by a circuitous route to the Philadelphia, Wilmington and Baltimore Depot. Berths for four would be pre-engaged in the sleeping-car attached to the regular midnight train for Baltimore. This train Mr. Felton would cause to be detained until the conductor should receive a package, containing important 'Government dispatches,' addressed to 'E. J. Allen, Willard's Hotel, Washington.' This package was made up of old newspapers, carefully wrapped and sealed, and delivered to the detective to be used as soon as Mr. Lincoln was lodged in the car. Mr. Lincoln approved of the plan, and signified his readiness to acquiesce. Then Mr. Judd, forgetting the secrecy which the spy had so impressively enjoined, told Mr. Lincoln that the step he was about to take was one of such transcendent importance that he thought 'it should be communicated to the other gentlemen of the party.' Mr. Lincoln said, 'You can do as you like about that.' Mr. Judd now changed his seat; and Mr. Nicolay, whose suspicions seem to have been aroused by this mysterious conference, sat down beside him and said: 'Judd, there is something _up_. What is it, if it is proper that I should know?' 'George,' answered Judd, 'there is no necessity for your knowing it. One man can keep a matter better than two.' "Arrived at Harrisburg, and the public ceremonies and speechmaking over, Mr. Lincoln retired to a private parlor in the Jones House, and Mr. Judd summoned to meet him Judge Davis, Colonel Lamon, Colonel Sumner, Major Hunter and Captain Pope. The three latter were officers of the regular army, and had joined the party after it had left Springfield. Judd began the conference by stating the alleged fact of the Baltimore conspiracy, how it was detected, and how it was proposed to thwart it by a midnight expedition to Washington by way of Philadelphia. It was a great surprise to most of those assembled. Colonel Sumner was the first to break silence. 'That proceeding,' said he, 'will be a damned piece of cowardice.' Mr. Judd considered this a 'pointed hit,' but replied that 'that view of the case had already been presented to Mr. Lincoln.' Then there was a general interchange of opinions, which Sumner interrupted by saying, 'I'll get a squad of cavalry, sir, and _cut_ our way to Washington, sir!' 'Probably before that day comes,' said Mr. Judd, 'the inauguration-day will have passed. It is important that Mr. Lincoln should be in Washington that day.' Thus far Judge Davis had expressed no opinion, but 'had put various questions to test the truthfulness of the story.' He now turned to Mr. Lincoln and said, 'You personally heard the detective's story. You have heard this discussion. What is your judgment in the matter?' 'I have listened,' answered Mr. Lincoln, 'to this discussion with interest. I see no reason, no good reason, to change the programme, and I am for carrying it out as arranged by Judd.' There was no longer any dissent as to the plan itself; but one question still remained to be disposed of. Who should accompany the President on his perilous ride? Mr. Judd again took the lead, declaring that he and Mr. Lincoln had previously determined that but one man ought to go, and that Colonel Lamon had been selected as the proper person. To this Sumner violently demurred. '_I_ have undertaken,' he exclaimed, 'to see Mr. Lincoln to Washington.' "Mr. Lincoln was hastily dining when a close carriage was brought to the side door of the hotel. He was called, hurried to his room, changed his coat and hat, and passed rapidly through the hall and out of the door. As he was stepping into the carriage, it became manifest that Sumner was determined to get in also. 'Hurry with him,' whispered Judd to Lamon, and at the same time, placing his hand on Sumner's shoulder, said aloud, 'One moment, Colonel!' Sumner turned around, and in that moment the carriage drove rapidly away. 'A madder man,' says Mr. Judd, 'you never saw.' "Mr. Lincoln and Colonel Lamon got on board the car without discovery or mishap. Besides themselves, there was no one in or about the car but Mr. Lewis, General Superintendent of the Pennsylvania Central Railroad, and Mr. Franciscus, superintendent of the division over which they were about to pass. As Mr. Lincoln's dress on this occasion has been much discussed, it may be as well to state that he wore a soft, light felt hat, drawn down over his face when it seemed necessary or convenient, and a shawl thrown over his shoulders, and pulled up to assist in disguising his features when passing to and from the carriage. This was all there was of the 'Scotch cap and cloak,' so widely celebrated in the political literature of the day. "At ten o'clock they reached Philadelphia, and were met by the detective and one Mr. Kinney, an under official of the Philadelphia, Wilmington and Baltimore Railroad. Lewis and Franciscus bade Mr. Lincoln adieu. Mr. Lincoln, Colonel Lamon and the detective seated themselves in a carriage which stood in waiting, and Mr. Kinney got upon the box with the driver. It was a full hour and a half before the Baltimore train was to start, and Mr. Kinney found it necessary 'to consume the time by driving northward in search of some imaginary person.' "On the way through Philadelphia, Mr. Lincoln told his companions about the message he had received from Mr. Seward. This new discovery was infinitely more appalling than the other. Mr. Seward had been informed 'that about _fifteen thousand men_ were organized to prevent his (Lincoln's) passage through Baltimore, and that arrangements were made by these parties to _blow up the railroad track, fire the train_,' etc. In view of these unpleasant circumstances, Mr. Seward recommended a change of route. Here was a plot big enough to swallow up the little one, which we are to regard as the peculiar property of Mr. Felton's detective. Hilliard, Ferrandini and Luckett disappear among the 'fifteen thousand,' and their maudlin and impotent twaddle about the 'abolition tyrant' looks very insignificant beside the bloody massacre, conflagration and explosion now foreshadowed. "As the moment for the departure of the Baltimore train drew near, the carriage paused in the dark shadows of the depot building. It was not considered prudent to approach the entrance. The spy passed in first and was followed by Mr. Lincoln and Colonel Lamon. An agent of the former directed them to the sleeping-car, which they entered by the rear door. Mr. Kinney ran forward and delivered to the conductor the important package prepared for the purpose; and in three minutes the train was in motion. The tickets for the whole party had been procured beforehand. Their berths were ready, but had only been preserved from invasion by the statement that they were retained for a sick man and his attendants. The business had been managed very adroitly by the female spy, who had accompanied her employer from Baltimore to Philadelphia to assist him in this, the most delicate and important affair of his life. Mr. Lincoln got into his bed immediately, and the curtains were drawn together. When the conductor came around, the detective handed him the 'sick man's' ticket, and the rest of the party lay down also. None of 'our party appeared to be sleepy,' says the detective, 'but we all lay quiet, and nothing of importance transpired.'... During the night Mr. Lincoln indulged in a joke or two in an undertone; but, with that exception, the two sections occupied by them were perfectly silent. The detective said he had men stationed at various places along the road to let him know 'if all was right,' and he rose and went to the platform occasionally to observe their signals, but returned each time with a favorable report. "At thirty minutes after three the train reached Baltimore. One of the spy's assistants came on board and informed him in a whisper that all was right. The woman [the female detective] got out of the car. Mr. Lincoln lay close in his berth, and in a few moments the car was being slowly drawn through the quiet streets of the city toward the Washington Depot. There again there was another pause, but no sound more alarming than the noise of shifting cars and engines. The passengers, tucked away on their narrow shelves, dozed on as peacefully as if Mr. Lincoln had never been born.... "In due time the train sped out of the suburbs of Baltimore, and the apprehensions of the President and his friends diminished with each welcome revolution of the wheels. At six o'clock the dome of the Capitol came in sight, and a moment later they rolled into the long, unsightly building which forms the Washington Depot. They passed out of the car unobstructed, and pushed along with the living stream of men and women towards the outer door. One man alone in the great crowd seemed to watch Mr. Lincoln with special attention. Standing a little on one side, he 'looked very sharp at him,' and, as he passed, seized hold of his hand and said in a loud tone of voice, 'Abe, you can't play that on me.' The detective and Col. Lamon were instantly alarmed. One of them raised his fist to strike the stranger; but Mr. Lincoln caught his arm and said, 'Don't strike him! don't strike him! It is Washburne. Don't you know him?' Mr. Seward had given to Mr. Washburne a hint of the information received through his son, and Mr. Washburne knew its value as well as another. For the present the detective admonished him to keep quiet, and they passed on together. Taking a hack, they drove towards Willard's Hotel. Mr. Lincoln, Mr. Washburne and the detective got out into the street and approached the ladies' entrance, while Col. Lamon drove on to the main entrance, and sent the proprietor to meet his distinguished guest at the side door. A few minutes later Mr. Seward arrived, and was introduced to the company by Mr. Washburne. He spoke in very strong terms of the great danger which Mr. Lincoln had so narrowly escaped, and most heartily applauded the wisdom of the 'secret passage.' 'I informed Gov. Seward of the nature of the information I had,' says the detective, 'and that I had no information of any large organization in Baltimore; but the Governor reiterated that he had conclusive evidence of this.'... "That same day Mr. Lincoln's family and suite passed through Baltimore on the special train intended for him. They saw no sign of any disposition to burn them alive, or to blow them up with gunpowder, but went their way unmolested and very happy. "Mr. Lincoln soon learned to regret the midnight ride. His friends reproached him; his enemies taunted him. He was convinced that he had committed a grave mistake in yielding to the solicitations of a professional spy and of friends too easily alarmed. He saw that he had fled from a danger purely imaginary, and felt the shame and mortification natural to a brave man under such circumstances. But he was not disposed to take all the responsibility to himself, and frequently upbraided the writer for having aided and assisted him to demean himself at the very moment in all his life when his behavior should have exhibited the utmost dignity and composure. "The news of his surreptitious entry into Washington occasioned much and varied comment throughout the country; but important events followed it in such rapid succession that its real significance was soon lost sight of; enough that Mr. Lincoln was safely at the Capital, and in a few days would in all probability assume the power confided to his hands." APPENDIX II. EXTRACT FROM THE OPINION OF THE SUPREME COURT OF THE UNITED STATES, DELIVERED BY CHIEF JUSTICE TANEY IN THE CASE OF DRED SCOTT _vs._ SANDFORD, 19 HOW. 407. "It is difficult at this day to realize the state of public opinion in relation to that unfortunate race" (the African) "which prevailed in the civilized and enlightened portions of the world at the time of the Declaration of Independence, and when the Constitution of the United States was framed and adopted. "But the public history of every European nation displays it in a manner too plain to be mistaken. "They had for more than a century before been regarded as beings of an inferior order, and altogether unfit to associate with the white race, either in social or political relations; and so far inferior, that they had no rights which the white man was bound to respect; and that the negro might justly and lawfully be reduced to slavery for his benefit." APPENDIX III. THE HABEAS CORPUS CASE EX PARTE JOHN MERRYMAN, CAMPBELL'S REPORTS, P. 246. -- OPINION OF THE CHIEF JUSTICE OF THE UNITED STATES. _Ex parte_ } Before the Chief Justice of the Supreme JOHN MERRYMAN. } Court of the United States, at Chambers. The application in this case for a writ of _habeas corpus_ is made to me under the fourteenth section of the Judiciary Act of 1789, which renders effectual for the citizen the constitutional privilege of the writ of _habeas corpus_. That act gives to the courts of the United States, as well as to each justice of the Supreme Court and to every district judge, power to grant writs of _habeas corpus_ for the purpose of an inquiry into the cause of commitment. The petition was presented to me at Washington, under the impression that I would order the prisoner to be brought before me there; but as he was confined in Fort McHenry, in the city of Baltimore, which is in my circuit, I resolved to hear it in the latter city, as obedience to the writ under such circumstances would not withdraw General Cadwallader, who had him in charge, from the limits of his military command. The petition presents the following case: The petitioner resides in Maryland, in Baltimore County. While peaceably in his own house, with his family, it was, at two o'clock on the morning of the 25th of May, 1861, entered by an armed force professing to act under military orders. He was then compelled to rise from his bed, taken into custody and conveyed to Fort McHenry, where he is imprisoned by the commanding officer, without warrant from any lawful authority. The commander of the fort, General George Cadwallader, by whom he is detained in confinement, in his return to the writ, does not deny any of the facts alleged in the petition. He states that the prisoner was arrested by order of General Keim, of Pennsylvania, and conducted as aforesaid to Fort McHenry by his order, and placed in his (General Cadwallader's) custody, to be there detained by him as a prisoner. A copy of the warrant or order under which the prisoner was arrested was demanded by his counsel and refused. And it is not alleged in the return that any specific act, constituting any offense against the laws of the United States, has been charged against him upon oath; but he appears to have been arrested upon general charges of treason and rebellion, without proof, and without giving the names of the witnesses, or specifying the acts which, in the judgment of the military officer, constituted these crimes. Having the prisoner thus in custody upon these vague and unsupported accusations, he refuses to obey the writ of _habeas corpus_, upon the ground that he is duly authorized by the President to suspend it. The case, then, is simply this: A military officer, residing in Pennsylvania, issues an order to arrest a citizen of Maryland upon vague and indefinite charges, without any proof, so far as appears. Under this order his house is entered in the night, he is seized as a prisoner and conveyed to Fort McHenry, and there kept in close confinement. And when a _habeas corpus_ is served on the commanding officer, requiring him to produce the prisoner before a justice of the Supreme Court, in order that he may examine into the legality of the imprisonment, the answer of the officer is that he is authorized by the President to suspend the writ of _habeas corpus_ at his discretion, and, in the exercise of that discretion, suspends it in this case, and on that ground refuses obedience to the writ. As the case comes before me, therefore, I understand that the President not only claims the right to suspend the writ of _habeas corpus_ himself at his discretion, but to delegate that discretionary power to a military officer, and to leave it to him to determine whether he will or will not obey judicial process that may be served upon him. No official notice has been given to the courts of justice, or to the public, by proclamation or otherwise, that the President claimed this power, and had exercised it in the manner stated in the return. And I certainly listened to it with some surprise; for I had supposed it to be one of those points of constitutional law upon which there was no difference of opinion, and that it was admitted on all hands that the privilege of the writ could not be suspended except by act of Congress. When the conspiracy of which Aaron Burr was the head became so formidable and was so extensively ramified as to justify, in Mr. Jefferson's opinion, the suspension of the writ, he claimed on his part no power to suspend it, but communicated his opinion to Congress, with all the proofs in his possession, in order that Congress might exercise its discretion upon the subject, and determine whether the public safety required it. And in the debate which took place upon the subject, no one suggested that Mr. Jefferson might exercise the power himself, if, in his opinion, the public safety demanded it. Having therefore regarded the question as too plain and too well settled to be open to dispute, if the commanding officer had stated that upon his own responsibility, and in the exercise of his own discretion, he refused obedience to the writ, I should have contented myself with referring to the clause in the Constitution, and to the construction it received from every jurist and statesman of that day, when the case of Burr was before them. But being thus officially notified that the privilege of the writ has been suspended under the orders and by the authority of the President, and believing, as I do, that the President has exercised a power which he does not possess under the Constitution, a proper respect for the high office he fills requires me to state plainly and fully the grounds of my opinion, in order to show that I have not ventured to question the legality of his act without a careful and deliberate examination of the whole subject. The clause of the Constitution which authorizes the suspension of the privilege of the writ of _habeas corpus_ is in the ninth section of the first article. This article is devoted to the legislative department of the United States, and has not the slightest reference to the Executive Department. It begins by providing "that all legislative powers therein granted shall be vested in a Congress of the United States, which shall consist of a Senate and House of Representatives"; and after prescribing the manner in which these two branches of the legislative department shall be chosen, it proceeds to enumerate specifically the legislative powers which it thereby grants, and at the conclusion of this specification a clause is inserted giving Congress "the power to make all laws which shall be necessary and proper for carrying into execution the foregoing powers, and all other powers vested by this Constitution in the Government of the United States, or in any department or office thereof." The power of legislation granted by this latter clause is by its words carefully confined to the specific objects before enumerated. But as this limitation was unavoidably somewhat indefinite, it was deemed necessary to guard more effectually certain great cardinal principles essential to the liberty of the citizen, and to the rights and equality of the States, by denying to Congress, in express terms, any power of legislation over them. It was apprehended, it seems, that such legislation might be attempted under the pretext that it was necessary and proper to carry into execution the powers granted; and it was determined that there should be no room to doubt, where rights of such vital importance were concerned, and accordingly this clause is immediately followed by an enumeration of certain subjects to which the powers of legislation shall not extend. The great importance which the framers of the Constitution attached to the privilege of the writ of _habeas corpus_ to protect the liberty of the citizen, is proved by the fact that its suspension, except in cases of invasion or rebellion, is first in the list of prohibited powers--and even in these cases the power is denied and its exercise prohibited, unless the public safety shall require it. It is true that in the cases mentioned, Congress is of necessity the judge of whether the public safety does, or does not, require it; and its judgment is conclusive. But the introduction of these words is a standing admonition to the legislative body of the danger of suspending it, and of the extreme caution they should exercise before they give the Government of the United States such power over the liberty of a citizen. It is the second article of the Constitution that provides for the organization of the Executive Department, and enumerates the powers conferred on it, and prescribes its duties. And if the high power over the liberty of the citizen now claimed was intended to be conferred on the President, it would undoubtedly be found in plain words in this article. But there is not a word in it that can furnish the slightest ground to justify the exercise of the power. The article begins by declaring that the executive power shall be vested in a President of the United States of America, to hold his office during the term of four years, and then proceeds to prescribe the mode of election, and to specify in precise and plain words the powers delegated to him, and the duties imposed upon him. The short term for which he is elected, and the narrow limits to which his power is confined, show the jealousy and apprehensions of future danger which the framers of the Constitution felt in relation to that department of the Government, and how carefully they withheld from it many of the powers belonging to the Executive Branch of the English Government which were considered as dangerous to the liberty of the subject, and conferred (and that in clear and specific terms) those powers only which were deemed essential to secure the successful operation of the Government. He is elected, as I have already said, for the brief term of four years, and is made personally responsible by impeachment for malfeasance in office. He is from necessity and the nature of his duties the Commander-in-Chief of the Army and Navy, and of the militia when called into actual service. But no appropriation for the support of the Army can be made by Congress for a longer term than two years, so that it is in the power of the succeeding House of Representatives to withhold the appropriation for its support, and thus disband it, if, in their judgment, the President used or designed to use it for improper purposes. And although the militia, when in actual service, is under his command, yet the appointment of the officers is reserved to the States, as a security against the use of the military power for purposes dangerous to the liberties of the people or the rights of the States. So, too, his powers in relation to the civil duties and authority necessarily conferred on him are carefully restricted, as well as those belonging to his military character. He cannot appoint the ordinary officers of Government, nor make a treaty with a foreign nation or Indian tribe, without the advice and consent of the Senate, and cannot appoint even inferior officers unless he is authorized by an Act of Congress to do so. He is not empowered to arrest any one charged with an offense against the United States, and whom he may, from the evidence before him, believe to be guilty; nor can he authorize any officer, civil or military, to exercise this power; for the fifth article of the Amendments to the Constitution expressly provides that no person "shall be deprived of life, liberty or property without due process of law"--that is, judicial process. Even if the privilege of the writ of _habeas corpus_ were suspended by Act of Congress, and a party not subject to the rules and articles of war were afterwards arrested and imprisoned by regular judicial process, he could not be detained in prison or brought to trial before a military tribunal; for the article in the Amendments to the Constitution immediately following the one above referred to--that is, the sixth article--provides that "in all criminal prosecutions the accused shall enjoy the right to a speedy and public trial by an impartial jury of the State and district wherein the crime shall have been committed, which district shall have been previously ascertained by law; and to be informed of the nature and cause of the accusation; to be confronted with the witnesses against him; to have compulsory process for obtaining witnesses in his favor, and to have the assistance of counsel for his defense." The only power, therefore, which the President possesses, where the "life, liberty, or property" of a private citizen is concerned, is the power and duty prescribed in the third section of the second article, which requires "that he shall take care that the laws be faithfully executed." He is not authorized to execute them himself, or through agents or officers, civil or military, appointed by himself, but he is to take care that they be faithfully carried into execution as they are expounded and adjudged by the co-ordinate branch of the Government to which that duty is assigned by the Constitution. It is thus made his duty to come in aid of the judicial authority, if it shall be resisted by a force too strong to be overcome without the assistance of the executive arm. But in exercising this power he acts in subordination to judicial authority, assisting it to execute its process and enforce its judgments. With such provisions in the Constitution, expressed in language too clear to be misunderstood by any one, I can see no ground whatever for supposing that the President, in any emergency or in any state of things, can authorize the suspension of the privilege of the writ of _habeas corpus_, or the arrest of a citizen, except in aid of the judicial power. He certainly does not faithfully execute the laws if he takes upon himself legislative power by suspending the writ of _habeas corpus_, and the judicial power also, by arresting and imprisoning a person without due process of law. Nor can any argument be drawn from the nature of sovereignty, or the necessity of Government for self-defense in times of tumult and danger. The Government of the United States is one of delegated and limited powers. It derives its existence and authority altogether from the Constitution, and neither of its branches, executive, legislative or judicial, can exercise any of the powers of Government beyond those specified and granted. For the tenth article of the Amendments to the Constitution in express terms provides that "the powers not delegated to the United States by the Constitution, nor prohibited by it to the States, are reserved to the States respectively, or to the people." Indeed, the security against imprisonment by executive authority, provided for in the fifth article of the Amendments to the Constitution, which I have before quoted, is nothing more than a copy of a like provision in the English Constitution, which had been firmly established before the Declaration of Independence. Blackstone states it in the following words: "To make imprisonment lawful, it must be either by process of law from the courts of judicature or by warrant from some legal officer having authority to commit to prison" (1 Bl. Com. 137). The people of the United Colonies, who had themselves lived under its protection while they were British subjects, were well aware of the necessity of this safeguard for their personal liberty. And no one can believe that, in framing a government intended to guard still more efficiently the rights and liberties of the citizen against executive encroachments and oppression, they would have conferred on the President a power which the history of England had proved to be dangerous and oppressive in the hands of the Crown, and which the people of England had compelled it to surrender after a long and obstinate struggle on the part of the English Executive to usurp and retain it. The right of the subject to the benefit of the writ of _habeas corpus_, it must be recollected, was one of the great points in controversy during the long struggle in England between arbitrary government and free institutions, and must therefore have strongly attracted the attention of the statesmen engaged in framing a new, and, as they supposed, a freer government than the one which they had thrown off by the Revolution. From the earliest history of the common law, if a person were imprisoned, no matter by what authority, he had a right to the writ of _habeas corpus_ to bring his case before the King's Bench; if no specific offense were charged against him in the warrant of commitment, he was entitled to be forthwith discharged; and if an offense were charged which was bailable in its character, the Court was bound to set him at liberty on bail. The most exciting contests between the Crown and the people of England from the time of _Magna Charta_ were in relation to the privilege of this writ, and they continued until the passage of the statute of 31st Charles II, commonly known as the Great _Habeas Corpus_ Act. This statute put an end to the struggle, and finally and firmly secured the liberty of the subject against the usurpation and oppression of the executive branch of the Government. It nevertheless conferred no new right upon the subject, but only secured a right already existing. For, although the right could not justly be denied, there was often no effectual remedy against its violation. Until the statute of 13 William III, the judges held their offices at the pleasure of the King, and the influence which he exercised over timid, time-serving and partisan judges often induced them, upon some pretext or other, to refuse to discharge the party, although entitled by law to his discharge, or delayed their decision from time to time, so as to prolong the imprisonment of persons who were obnoxious to the King for their political opinions, or had incurred his resentment in any other way. The great and inestimable value of the _habeas corpus_ act of the 31st Charles II. is that it contains provisions which compel courts and judges, and all parties concerned, to perform their duties promptly in the manner specified in the statute. A passage in Blackstone's Commentaries, showing the ancient state of the law on this subject, and the abuses which were practised through the power and influence of the Crown, and a short extract from Hallam's "Constitutional History," stating the circumstances which gave rise to the passage of this statute, explain briefly, but fully, all that is material to this subject. Blackstone says: "To assert an absolute exemption from imprisonment in all cases is inconsistent with every idea of law and political society, and, in the end, would destroy all civil liberty by rendering its protection impossible. "But the glory of the English law consists in clearly defining the times, the causes and the extent, when, wherefore and to what degree the imprisonment of the subject may be lawful. This it is which induces the absolute necessity of expressing upon every commitment the reason for which it is made, "that the court upon a _habeas corpus_ may examine into its validity, and, according to the circumstances of the case, may discharge, admit to bail, or remand the prisoner. "And yet, early in the reign of Charles I, the Court of King's Bench, relying on some arbitrary precedents (and those, perhaps, misunderstood), determined that they would not, upon a _habeas corpus_, either bail or deliver a prisoner, though committed without any cause assigned, in case he was committed by the special command of the King, or by the Lords of the Privy Council. This drew on a Parliamentary inquiry and produced the Petition of Right--3 Charles I.--which recites this illegal judgment, and enacts that no freeman hereafter shall be so imprisoned or detained. But when, in the following year, Mr. Selden and others were committed by the Lords of the Council, in pursuance of His Majesty's special command, under a general charge of 'notable contempts, and stirring up sedition against the King and the Government,' the judges delayed for two terms (including also the long vacation) to deliver an opinion how far such a charge was bailable. And when at length they agreed that it was, they, however, annexed a condition of finding sureties for their good behavior, which still protracted their imprisonment, the Chief Justice, Sir Nicholas Hyde, at the same time declaring that 'if they were again remanded for that cause, perhaps the court would not afterwards grant a _habeas corpus_, being already made acquainted with the cause of the imprisonment.' But this was heard with indignation and astonishment by every lawyer present, according to Mr. Selden's own account of the matter, whose resentment was not cooled at the distance of four-and-twenty years" (3 Bl. Com. 133, 134). It is worthy of remark that the offenses charged against the prisoner in this case, and relied on as a justification for his arrest and imprisonment, in their nature and character, and in the loose and vague manner in which they are stated, bear a striking resemblance to those assigned in the warrant for the arrest of Mr. Selden. And yet, even at that day, the warrant was regarded as such a flagrant violation of the rights of the subject, that the delay of the time-serving judges to set him at liberty upon the _habeas corpus_ issued in his behalf excited universal indignation of the bar. The extract from Hallam's "Constitutional History" is equally impressive and equally in point: "It is a very common mistake, and that not only among foreigners, but many from whom some knowledge of our constitutional laws might be expected, to suppose that this statute of Charles II. enlarged in a great degree our liberties, and forms a sort of epoch in their history. But though a very beneficial enactment, and eminently remedial in many cases of illegal imprisonment, it introduced no new principle, nor conferred any right upon the subject. From the earliest records of the English law, no freeman could be detained in prison, except upon a criminal charge, or conviction, or for a civil debt. In the former case it was always in his power to demand of the Court of King's Bench a writ of _habeas corpus ad subjiciendum_, directed to the person detaining him in custody, by which he was enjoined to bring up the body of the prisoner with the warrant of commitment, that the court might judge of its sufficiency, and remand the party, admit him to bail, or discharge him, according to the nature of the charge. This writ issued of right, and could not be refused by the court. It was not to bestow an immunity from arbitrary imprisonment--which is abundantly provided for in _Magna Charta_ (if, indeed, it is not more ancient)--that the statute of Charles II. was enacted, but to cut off the abuses by which the Government's lust of power, and the servile subtlety of the Crown lawyers, had impaired so fundamental a privilege" (3 Hallam's "Const. Hist.," 19). While the value set upon this writ in England has been so great that the removal of the abuses which embarrassed its employment has been looked upon as almost a new grant of liberty to the subject, it is not to be wondered at that the continuance of the writ thus made effective should have been the object of the most jealous care. Accordingly, no power in England short of that of Parliament can suspend or authorize the suspension of the writ of _habeas corpus_. I quote again from Blackstone (1 Bl. Com. 136): "But the happiness of our Constitution is that it is not left to the executive power to determine when the danger of the State is so great as to render this measure expedient. It is the Parliament only, or legislative power, that, whenever it sees proper, can authorize the Crown, by suspending the _habeas corpus_ for a short and limited time, to imprison suspected persons without giving any reason for so doing." If the President of the United States may suspend the writ, then the Constitution of the United States has conferred upon him more regal and absolute power over the liberty of the citizen than the people of England have thought it safe to entrust to the Crown--a power which the Queen of England cannot exercise at this day, and which could not have been lawfully exercised by the sovereign even in the reign of Charles I. But I am not left to form my judgment upon this great question from analogies between the English Government and our own, or the commentaries of English jurists, or the decisions of English courts, although upon this subject they are entitled to the highest respect, and are justly regarded and received as authoritative by our courts of justice. To guide me to a right conclusion, I have the Commentaries on the Constitution of the United States of the late Mr. Justice Story, not only one of the most eminent jurists of the age, but for a long time one of the brightest ornaments of the Supreme Court of the United States, and also the clear and authoritative decision of that court itself, given more than half a century since, and conclusively establishing the principles I have above stated. Mr. Justice Story, speaking in his Commentaries of the _habeas corpus_ clause in the Constitution, says: "It is obvious that cases of a peculiar emergency may arise which may justify, nay, even require, the temporary suspension of any right to the writ. But as it has frequently happened in foreign countries, and even in England, that the writ has, upon various pretexts and occasions, been suspended, whereby persons apprehended upon suspicion have suffered a long imprisonment, sometimes from design, and sometimes because they were forgotten, the right to suspend it is expressly confined to cases of rebellion or invasion, where the public safety may require it. A very just and wholesome restraint, which cuts down at a blow a fruitful means of oppression, capable of being abused in bad times to the worst of purposes. Hitherto no suspension of the writ has ever been authorized by Congress since the establishment of the Constitution. It would seem, as the power is given to Congress to suspend the writ of _habeas corpus_ in cases of rebellion or invasion, that the right to judge whether the exigency had arisen must exclusively belong to that body" (3 Story's Com. on the Constitution, Section 1836). And Chief Justice Marshall, in delivering the opinion of the Supreme Court in the case of _ex parte_ Bollman and Swartwout, uses this decisive language in 4 Cranch 95: "It may be worthy of remark that this Act (speaking of the one under which I am proceeding) was passed by the first Congress of the United States, sitting under a Constitution which had declared 'that the privilege of the writ of _habeas corpus_ should not be suspended unless when, in cases of rebellion or invasion, the public safety might require it.' Acting under the immediate influence of this injunction, they must have felt with peculiar force the obligation of providing efficient means by which this great constitutional privilege should receive life and activity; for if the means be not in existence, the privilege itself would be lost, although no law for its suspension should be enacted. Under the impression of this obligation, they give to all the courts the power of awarding writs of _habeas corpus_." And again, on page 101: "If at any time the public safety should require the suspension of the powers vested by this Act in the courts of the United States, it is for the Legislature to say so. That question depends on political considerations, on which the Legislature is to decide. Until the legislative will be expressed, this court can only see its duty, and must obey the laws." I can add nothing to these clear and emphatic words of my great predecessor. But the documents before me show that the military authority in this case has gone far beyond the mere suspension of the privilege of the writ of _habeas corpus_. It has, by force of arms, thrust aside the judicial authorities and officers to whom the Constitution has confided the power and duty of interpreting and administering the laws, and substituted a military government in its place, to be administered and executed by military officers. For, at the time these proceedings were had against John Merryman, the district judge of Maryland, the commissioner appointed under the Act of Congress, the district attorney and the marshal, all resided in the city of Baltimore, a few miles only from the home of the prisoner. Up to that time there had never been the slightest resistance or obstruction to the process of any court or judicial officer of the United States in Maryland, except by the military authority. And if a military officer, or any other person, had reason to believe that the prisoner had committed any offense against the laws of the United States, it was his duty to give information of the fact, and the evidence to support it, to the district attorney; it would then have become the duty of that officer to bring the matter before the district judge or commissioner, and if there was sufficient legal evidence to justify his arrest, the judge or commissioner would have issued his warrant to the marshal to arrest him, and upon the hearing of the case would have held him to bail, or committed him for trial, according to the character of the offense as it appeared in the testimony, or would have discharged him immediately, if there was not sufficient evidence to support the accusation. There was no danger of any obstruction or resistance to the action of the civil authorities, and therefore no reason whatever for the interposition of the military. Yet, under these circumstances, a military officer stationed in Pennsylvania, without giving any information to the district attorney, and without any application to the judicial authorities, assumes to himself the judicial power in the District of Maryland; undertakes to decide what constitutes the crime of treason or rebellion; what evidence (if, indeed, he required any) is sufficient to support the accusation and justify the commitment; and commits the party without a hearing, even before himself, to close custody in a strongly garrisoned fort, to be there held, it would seem, during the pleasure of those who committed him. The Constitution provides, as I have before said, that "no person shall be deprived of life, liberty or property without due process of law." It declares that "the right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers and effects against unreasonable searches and seizures shall not be violated, and no warrant shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized." It provides that the party accused shall be entitled to a speedy trial in a court of justice. These great and fundamental laws, which Congress itself could not suspend, have been disregarded and suspended, like the writ of _habeas corpus_, by a military order, supported by force of arms. Such is the case now before me, and I can only say that if the authority which the Constitution has confided to the judiciary department and judicial officers may thus upon any pretext or under any circumstances be usurped by the military power at its discretion, the people of the United States are no longer living under a government of laws, but every citizen holds life, liberty and property at the will and pleasure of the army officer in whose military district he may happen to be found. In such a case my duty was too plain to be mistaken. I have exercised all the power which the Constitution and laws confer upon me, but that power has been resisted by a force too strong for me to overcome. It is possible that the officer who has incurred this grave responsibility may have misunderstood his instructions and exceeded the authority intended to be given him. I shall therefore order all the proceedings in this case, with my opinion, to be filed and recorded in the Circuit Court of the United States for the District of Maryland, and direct the clerk to transmit a copy, under seal, to the President of the United States. It will then remain for that high officer, in fulfilment of his constitutional obligation, to "take care that the laws be faithfully executed," to determine what measures he will take to cause the civil process of the United States to be respected and enforced. R. B. TANEY, _Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of the United States_. APPENDIX IV. On the 12th of July, 1861, I sent a message to the First and Second Branches of the City Council referring to the events of the 19th of April and those which followed. The first paragraph and the concluding paragraphs of this document are here inserted: "THE MAYOR'S MESSAGE. "TO THE HONORABLE THE MEMBERS OF THE FIRST AND SECOND BRANCHES OF THE CITY COUNCIL. "_Gentlemen_:--A great object of the reform movement was to separate municipal affairs entirely from national politics, and in accordance with this principle I have heretofore, in all my communications to the city council, carefully refrained from any allusion to national affairs. I shall not now depart from this rule further than is rendered absolutely necessary by the unprecedented condition of things at present existing in this city.... "After the board of police had been superseded, and its members arrested by the order of General Banks, I proposed, in order to relieve the serious complication which had arisen, to proceed, as the only member left free to act, to exercise the power of the board as far as an individual member could do so. Marshal Kane, while he objected to the propriety of this course, was prepared to place his resignation in my hands whenever I should request it, and the majority of the board interposed no objection to my pursuing such course as I might deem it right and proper to adopt in view of the existing circumstances, and upon my own responsibility, until the board should be enabled to resume the exercise of its functions. "If this arrangement could have been effected, it would have continued in the exercise of their duties the police force which is lawfully enrolled, and which has won the confidence and applause of all good citizens by its fidelity and impartiality at all times and under all circumstances. But the arrangement was not satisfactory to the Federal authorities. "As the men of the police force, through no fault of theirs, are now prevented from discharging their duty, their pay constitutes a legal claim on the city from which, in my opinion, it cannot be relieved. "The force which has been enrolled is in direct violation of the law of the State, and no money can be appropriated by the city for its support without incurring the heavy penalties provided by the Act of Assembly. "Officers in the Fire Alarm and Police Telegraph Department who are appointed by the mayor and city council, and not by the board of police, have been discharged and others have been substituted in their place. "I mention these facts with profound sorrow, and with no purpose whatever of increasing the difficulties unfortunately existing in this city, but because it is your right to be acquainted with the true condition of affairs, and because I cannot help entertaining the hope that redress will yet be afforded by the authorities of the United States upon a proper representation made by you. I am entirely satisfied that the suspicion entertained of any meditated hostility on the part of the city authorities against the General Government is wholly unfounded, and with the best means of knowledge express the confident belief and conviction that there is no organization of any kind among the people for such a purpose. I have no doubt that the officers of the United States have acted on information which they deemed reliable, obtained from our own citizens, some of whom may be deluded by their fears, while others are actuated by baser motives; but suspicions thus derived can, in my judgment, form no sufficient justification for what I deem to be grave and alarming violations of the rights of individual citizens of the city of Baltimore and of the State of Maryland. "Very respectfully, "GEO. WM. BROWN, _Mayor_." APPENDIX V. As a part of the history of the times, it may not be inappropriate to reproduce an account, taken from the Baltimore American of December 5, 1860, of the reception of the Putnam Phalanx of Hartford, Connecticut, in the city of Baltimore. At this time it still seemed to most men of moderate views that the impending troubles might be averted through concessions and compromise. In the tone of the two speeches, both of which were, of course, meant to be friendly and conciliatory, there is a difference to be noted which was, I think, characteristic of the attitude of the two sections; in the one speech some prominence is given to the Constitution and constitutional rights; in the other, loyalty to the Union is the theme enforced: "The Putnam Phalanx of Hartford, Connecticut, under the command of Major Horace Goodwin, yesterday afternoon reached here, at four o'clock, by the Philadelphia train, _en route_ for a visit to the tomb of Washington. A detachment of the Eagle Artillery gave them a national salute. "The Battalion Baltimore City Guards, consisting of four companies, under the command of Major Joseph P. Warner, were drawn up on Broadway, and after passing in salute, the column moved by way of Broadway and Baltimore and Calvert streets to the old Universalist church-building. "As soon as the military entered the edifice and were seated, the galleries were thrown open to the public, and in a few minutes they were crowded to overflowing. "Captain Parks introduced Major Goodwin to Mayor Brown, who was in turn introduced to the commissioned officers of the Phalanx. Major Goodwin then turned to his command and said: 'Gentlemen of the Phalanx, I have the honor of introducing you to the Mayor of the city of Baltimore.' Mayor Brown arose, and after bowing to the Battalion, addressed them as follows: "MAYOR BROWN'S SPEECH. "'_Mr. Commander and Gentlemen_:--In the name and on behalf of the people of Baltimore, I extend to the Putnam Phalanx a sincere and hearty welcome to the hospitalities of our city. The citizens of Baltimore are always glad to receive visits from the citizen-soldiers of sister States, because they come as friends, and more than friends--as the defenders of a common country. "'These sister States, as we love to call them, live somewhat far apart, and gradually become more and more separated by distance, just as sisters will be as the children marry and one by one leave the parent homestead. "'But, gentlemen, far or near, on the Connecticut or Potomac, on the Gulf of Mexico or the great lakes, on the Atlantic or Pacific, they are sisters still, united by blood and affection, and the holy tie should never be severed. (Applause.) "'Let me carry the figure a step further, and add what I know will meet with a response from the Putnam Phalanx, with whose history and high character I am somewhat acquainted--that a sisterhood of States, like separate families of sisters living in the same neighborhood, can never dwell together in peace unless each is permitted to manage her own domestic affairs in her own way (applause); not only without active interference from the rest, but even without much fault-finding or advice, however well intended it may be. "'Maryland has sometimes been called the Heart State, because she lies very close to the great heart of the Union; and she might also be called the Heart State because her heart beats with true and warm love for the Union. (Loud applause.) Nor, as I trust, does Connecticut fall short of her in this respect. And when the questions now before the country come to be fairly understood, and the people look into them with their own eyes, and take matters into their own hands, I believe that we shall see a sight of which politicians, North and South, little dream. (Applause.) We shall see whether there is a love for the Union or not. "'But there are great national questions agitating the land which must now be finally settled. One is, Will the States of the North keep on their statute-books laws which violate a right of the States of the South, guaranteed to them by the Constitution of the United States? No individuals, no families, no States, can live in peace together when any right of a part is persistently and deliberately violated by the rest. Another question is, What shall be done with the national territory? Shall it belong exclusively to the North or the South, or shall it be shared by both, as it was gained by the blood and treasure of both? Are there not wisdom and patriotism enough in the land to settle these questions? "'Gentlemen, your presence here to-day proves that you are animated by a higher and larger sentiment than that of State pride--the sentiment of American nationality. The most sacred spot in America is the tomb of Washington, and to that shrine you are about to make a pilgrimage. You come from a State celebrated above all others for the most extensive diffusion of the great blessing of education; which has a colonial and Revolutionary history abounding in honorable memorials; which has heretofore done her full share in founding the institutions of this country--the land of Washington--and which can now do as much as any other in preserving that land one and undivided, as it was left by the Father of his Country. I will not permit myself to doubt that your State and our State, that Connecticut and Maryland, will both be on the same side, as they have often been in times past, and that they will both respect and obey and uphold the sacred Constitution of the country.' (Shouts of applause.) "As soon as the Mayor concluded, Major Goodwin arose; but it was some time before he could be heard, such was the tremendous applause with which he was greeted. The Major is nearly ninety years of age, and is one of the most venerable-looking men in the country. Dressed in the old Revolutionary uniform, a _fac-simile_ of that worn by General Putnam, and with his locks silvered with age, we may say that his appearance electrified the multitude, and shout after shout shook the very building. Major Goodwin expressed himself as follows: "'Mr. Mayor and gentlemen of the Baltimore City Guards, permit me to introduce to you our Judge Advocate, Captain Stuart.' "Captain Stuart arose and spoke as follows: "SPEECH OF CAPTAIN STUART. "'Your Honor, Mayor Brown: For your kind words of welcome, and for your patriotic sentiments in favor of the Union, the Putnam Phalanx returns you its most cordial thanks. I can assure you, sir, that when you spoke in such eloquent terms of the value and importance of a united country, you but echoed the sentiments of the whole of our organization; and let me say, it is with great pleasure, upon a journey, as we are, to the tomb of the illustrious Washington; that we pause for a while within a city so famed for its intelligence, its industry, its general opulence and its courtesy, as is this your own beautiful Baltimore. "'We opine, nay, we know from what you have yourself, in such fitting terms, just expressed, that you heartily appreciate the purpose which lies at the foundation of our organization, that purpose being the lofty one of commemorating, by our military attire and discipline, the imposing foundation-period of the American Republic, of attracting our own patriotic feeling, and that of all who may honor us with their observation, to the exalted virtues of those heroic men who laid the foundations of our present national prosperity and glory--men of whom your city and State furnished, as it pleasantly happens, a large and most honorable share. "'We come, sir, from that portion of the United States in which the momentous struggle for American freedom took its rise, and where the blood of its earliest martyrs was shed; from the region where odious writs of assistance, infamous Courts of Admiralty, intolerable taxation, immolated charters of government and prohibited commerce were once fast paving the way for the slavery of our institutions; from the region of a happy and God-fearing people--from the region, sir, of Lexington and Concord and Bunker Hill and Croton Heights, of ravaged New London and fired Fairfield and Norwalk and devastated Danbury and sacked New Haven. And we come, Mr. Mayor, to a city and State, we are proudly aware, which to all these trials and perils of assaulted New England, and to the trials and perils of our whole common country, during "the times that tried men's souls," gave ever the meed of its heartfelt sympathy, and the unstinted tribute of its patriotic blood and treasure; which, with a full and clear comprehension of all the great principles of American freedom, and a devotion to those principles that was ever ardent and exalted, signalized themselves by their wisdom in council and their prowess on the field. "'When the devoted metropolis of New England began to feel the awful scourge of the Writ Bill, Maryland it was that then contributed most liberal supplies for its suffering people, and with these supplies those cheering, ever-to-be-remembered, talismanic words: "The Supreme Director of all events will terminate this severe trial of your patriotism in the happy confirmation of American freedom." "'When this same metropolis soon after became the seat of war, Maryland it was that at once sent to the camp around Boston her own companies of "dauntless riflemen," under her brave Michael Cresap and the gallant Price, to mingle in the defense of New England firesides and New England homes. She saw and felt, and bravely uttered at the time, the fact that in the then existing state of public affairs there was no alternative left for her, or for the country at large, but "base submission or manly resistance"; and, Mr. Mayor, at the memorable battle of Long Island she made this manly resistance, for there she poured out the life-blood of no less than two hundred and fifty-nine of her gallant sons, who fought in her own Smallwood's immortal regiment; and elsewhere, from the St. Lawrence to the banks of the Savannah, through Pennsylvania, Virginia and both the Carolinas--devoted the best blood within her borders, and the flower of her soldiery, to the battlefields of the Union. "'Sir, we of this Phalanx recall these and other Revolutionary memories belonging to your city and State with pride and satisfaction. They unite Connecticut and Maryland in strong and pleasant bonds. And we are highly gratified to be here in the midst of them, and to receive at your hands so grateful a welcome as that which you have extended. "'Be assured, Mr. Mayor, that in the sentiments of devotion to our common country which you so eloquently express, this Phalanx sympathizes heart and soul. You may plant the flag of the Union anywhere and we shall warm to it. And now, renewedly thanking you for the present manifestation of courtesy, we shall leave to enjoy the hospitality which awaits us in pleasant quarters at our hotel.' "Captain Stuart was frequently interrupted by applause." APPENDIX VI. On the 19th of April, 1880, a portion of the members of the Sixth Massachusetts Regiment again visited Baltimore, and an account of its reception, taken from the Baltimore Sun and the Baltimore _American_, seems to be a fitting close to this paper: "Thirty-nine members of the Association of Survivors of the Sixth Massachusetts Union Regiment came to Baltimore yesterday afternoon, to celebrate the nineteenth anniversary of their march through Baltimore, April 19, 1861, which gave rise to the riot of that day. The visitors were met, on landing from the cars at President-street Depot, by Wilson, Dushane and Harry Howard Posts, Grand Army of the Republic, in full uniform, with band and drum corps. The line was up Broadway to Baltimore street, to Barnum's Hotel. A file of policemen, with Marshals Gray and Frey, kept the street open for the parade. The streets were crowded with people. The Massachusetts men wore citizen's dress and badges." Wilson Post No. 1, of the Grand Army of the Republic, received the visitors in their hall, Rialto Building, at two o'clock. Commander Dukehart, of Wilson Post, welcomed the guests in a brief speech, and then introduced Comrade Crowley, of the old Sixth, who said: "'Nineteen years ago I was but a boy. A few days before the 19th of April, the militia of Middlesex County were summoned for the defense of the National Capital. We left workshops, desk and family, to come to the defense of the capital. We thought we were coming to a picnic; that the people of South Carolina were a little off their balance, and would be all right on sober second thought. A few miles out from Baltimore the Quartermaster gave us each ten rounds of ammunition. We had been singing songs. The Colonel told us he expected trouble in Baltimore, and impressed on each man not to fire until he was compelled to. The singing ceased, and we then thought we had serious business before us, and that others besides South Carolina had lost their balance. When we reached the Baltimore Depot some of the cars had gone ahead, and four companies--young men--were in the cars unconscious of what was going on outside. We thought the people of Baltimore and Maryland were of the same Government, and if not they ought to be. (Cheers and applause.) That they had the same interest in the Government, the best ever devised; that Maryland at least was loyal. A man knocked on the car-door and told us they were tearing up the track. Our Captain said, "Men, file out!" The order was given and we marched out. The Captain said, "March as close as you possibly can. Fire on no man unless compelled." We marched through railroad iron, bricks and other missiles. We proved ourselves brave soldiers--proved that we could wait, at least, for the word of command. We were pelted in Baltimore nineteen years ago. We lost some of our comrades, and others were disabled for life. But we went to Washington. We don't claim to be the saviors of the capital; we take no great credit for what we did; but we did the best we could, and the result is shown. The success of our march through Baltimore to-day is as indelibly fixed and will ever be as fresh as that of nineteen years ago, and our reception will remain in our hearts and minds as long as life lasts. My father had six sons, and five were at the front at the same time. I had learned to think that if Maryland, South Carolina or Virginia was to declare independence the Government would be broken up, and that we would have no country, no home, no flag. We were not fighting for Massachusetts, for Maryland or for Virginia, but for our country--the United States (cheers and applause)--remembering the declaration of the great statesman, "Liberty and Union, now and forever, one and inseparable." This country went through four years of carnage and blood. Few families, North or South, but have mourning at their firesides; but it was not in vain, for it has established the fact that we are one people, and are an all-powerful people. (Prolonged cheers.) Our reception to-day has convinced us that the war has ended, and that there are Union men in Maryland as in Massachusetts; that we are brothers, and will be so to the end of time; that this is one great country; and that the people are marching on in amity and power, second to none on the face of the globe.' (Cheers.) "In the evening there was a banquet at the Eutaw House, and Judge Geo. William Brown, who was Mayor of Baltimore in 1861, presided. Nearly two hundred persons were at table. After the dinner was over, Judge Brown said: "'This is the 19th of April, a day memorable in the annals of this city, and in the annals of the country. It is filled in my mind with the most painful recollections of my life, and I doubt not that many who are here present share with me those feelings. I shall make but brief allusions to the events of that day. The city authorities of Baltimore of that time have mostly passed away, and I believe I am the only one here present to-night. In justice to the living and the dead I have to say that the authorities of Baltimore faithfully endeavored to do their duty. It is not necessary for me, perhaps, to say so in this presence. (Applause.) It was not their fault that the Massachusetts Sixth Regiment met a bloody reception in the streets of Baltimore. The visit of that regiment on both occasions has a great and important significance. What did it mean in 1861? It meant civil war; that the irrepressible conflict which Mr. Seward predicted had broken out at last, and that, as Mr. Lincoln said, a house divided against itself cannot stand. A great question then presented itself to the country. When war virtually began in Baltimore, by bloodshed on both sides, it meant that the question must be settled by force whether or not the house should stand. It took four years of war, waged with indomitable perseverance, to decide it, because the combatants on both sides were sustained by deep and honest convictions. It is not surprising, looking back coolly and calmly on the feelings of that day, that they found vent as they did. I am not here to excuse or to apologize, but to acknowledge facts. That was the significance of the first visit of the Massachusetts Sixth Regiment, in response to the call of the President of the United States. After the war there was peace. But enforced peace is not sufficient in a family of States any more than in a household. There must be among brothers respect, confidence, mutual help and forbearance, and, above everything, justice and right. After nineteen years the visit of survivors of the Sixth Massachusetts is, I hope, significant of more than peace. It is, I hope, significant of the fact that there is a true bond of union between the North and the South (applause), and that we are a family of States, all equal, all friends; and if it be, there is no one in the country who can more fervently thank God than myself that the old house still stands.' (Applause.) "Judge Brown offered as a toast: 'The Sixth Regiment of Massachusetts: Baltimore extends to her fraternal greeting.'" INDEX. A Acton, regiment mustered in, 42. Allen, E. J., dispatches addressed to, 131. _American, The_, on the Baltimore riot of 1861, 65; account of the Putnam Phalanx in Baltimore, 160-167; on the reception of the Sixth Massachusetts Regiment in Baltimore, 167-170. Andrew, Gov. J. A., correspondence with Mayor Brown, 54, 55. Arkansas, secession of, 33. B Baltimore, unjust prejudice against, 13, 19; supposed conspiracy in, 14, 15, 120; slaveholders in, 30; Sixth Massachusetts Regiment in, 42-53, 167-170; excitement on 20th April, 60, 61, 64; defense of, 63; apprehension of bloodshed in, 75; armed neutrality, 77; Gen. Butler's entrance into, 84; Gen. Dix's headquarters in, 100, 101; Mayor's message to City Council, 157-159; reception of Putnam Phalanx in, 160-166. Banks, Gen. N. P., in command, 97; arrests police commissioners of Baltimore, 98, 99; Secretary Cameron's letter to, 102; General McClellan's letter to, 102. Bartol, Judge, imprisonment of, 94. Belger, Major, comes to Baltimore, 73. Bell, Presidential vote for, 25. Black, Judge, on martial law, 93. Blackstone on the right of imprisonment, 147, 149. Bond's, Judge, errand to Lincoln, 57, 61. Boston, slave-traffic in, 20; regiment mustered in, 42. Brand, Rev. William F., efforts for emancipation, 113. Breckinridge, Presidential vote for, 25. Brown, Geo. Wm., meets the Massachusetts Sixth in Baltimore, 48, 49; Captain Dike on, 54; correspondence with Gov. Andrew, 54, 55; speech to the excited public, 56; writes to President Lincoln about passage of troops through Baltimore, 57, 61, 62; interview with President Lincoln, 71-75; General Butler's letter to, 83, 84; petitions Congress to restore peace to city, 99; arrest of, 102, 103, 108; correspondence with General Dix, 104-108; parole offered to, 110, 111; anti-slavery principles of, 113; opposed to secession, 115; on the tendencies of the age, 117, 118; message to City Council, 157-159; speech to the Putnam Phalanx, 160-163; speech to the survivors of the Sixth Massachusetts Regiment, 169, 170. Brown, John, reverence for in the North, 21. Brune, Frederick W., efforts for emancipation, 113. Brune, John C., message to President Lincoln, 57, 61; accompanies Mayor to Washington, 71; elected to General Assembly, 79. Bush River Bridge partially burned to prevent ingress of troops, 58, 59. Butler, Gen., and the Eighth Massachusetts Regiment, 76; at the Relay House, 83; rumor of an attack on his camp, 83, 84; enters Baltimore, 84; arrests Ross Winans, 87. Byrne, Wm., denounces the North, 38. C Cadwallader, General, and the writ of _habeas corpus_, 88, 140. Cameron, Simon, advice to Governor Hicks to restrain Maryland, 40; on the obstruction of Northern Central bridge, 73; letter to Gen. Banks, 102. Carmichael, Judge, assaulted and imprisoned, 93. Carr, W. C. N., speaks at States Rights meeting, 38, 39. Cheston, G., efforts for emancipation, 113. Christison, Wenlock, a Quaker, owns slaves, 21. Clark, John, advances money for defense of city, 61. Crawford, William, Kane's letter to, 40. Crowley, Comrade, of the Massachusetts Sixth, speech in Baltimore, 1880, 167. Curtis, Benj. R., Life of, quotation about Judge Taney, 91. Cutter, B. L., release from arrest, 109. D Davis, Jefferson, elected President of the Confederacy, 32. Davis, John W., police commissioner of Baltimore, 35, 49; errand to Fort McHenry, 66, 67, 68. Davis, Judge, doubts the rumors of conspiracy, 132, 133. Davis, Robert W., killed, 52. De Tocqueville, on public opinion in America, 117. Dike, Capt. J. H., company attacked in Baltimore, 46; testifies as to the conduct of Baltimore civil authority during the riot, 53, 54. Dimick, Col. J., releases prisoners from Fort Warren, 108; kind treatment of prisoners, 111. Dix, General, headquarters in Baltimore, 101; correspondence with Mayor Brown, 104-108. Dix, Miss, relates a Confederate plot, 13. Dobbin, Geo. W., errand to Lincoln, 57, 61; accompanies the Mayor to Washington, 71. Douglas, S. A., Senatorial campaign, 22; Presidential vote for, 25. Dred Scott Case, 138. E Evans, H. D., his code for Liberia, 31. F Felton, C. C., on the "Baltimore Plot," 18. Felton, Samuel M., on the supposed conspiracy, 13-18, 129-133; advises Massachusetts Sixth to load their guns, 43; engages spies, 120. Ferrandini, Captain, suspected of conspiracy to assassinate President Lincoln, 122-129. Follansbee, Capt., company attacked in Baltimore, 46, 49. Fort McHenry, apprehended attack on, 66, 69. Fort Sumter, bombardment of, 32. Franciscus, in the car with Lincoln, 133. G Garrett's, John W., dispatch to Mayor Brown concerning advance of troops to Cockeysville, 73, 74, 75. Gatchell, Wm. H., police commissioner of Baltimore, 35; release from arrest, 109. Giles, Judge, issues writ of _habeas corpus_ to Major Morris, 87. Gill, George M., meets the Massachusetts Sixth, 48; counsel for John Merryman, 87. Goodwin, Major Horace, commands Putnam Phalanx, 160; his appearance, 163. Greeley, Horace, on the conduct of the Baltimore authorities, 76, 77. Groton, regiment mustered in, 42. Gunpowder River Bridge partially burned, 58. H _Habeas corpus_ case, 87, 139-156. Hall, Thomas W., release from arrest, 109. Hallam's Constitutional History, extract from, 151. Halleck, Gen., in Baltimore, 101. Harris, J. Morrison, errand to the Capital, 63. Harrison, Wm. G., elected to General Assembly, 80; released from arrest, 108. Hart, Capt., company attacked in Baltimore, 46. Herndon, Wm. H., comments on Lincoln's senatorial campaign speech, 23; reports of plot furnished to, 122. Hicks, T. H., Governor of Maryland, 34; proclamation of, 40; speech before excited public, 56; writes to Lincoln not to pass troops through Baltimore, 57, 61; suggests mediation between North and South by Lord Lyons, 76; convenes General Assembly, 79; letter to E. H. Webster, 128. Hilliard, suspected of conspiracy, 122, 123. Hinks, Chas. D., police commissioner of Baltimore, 35; released from arrest, 99. Hopkins, Johns, advances money for city defense, 61. Howard, Charles, police commissioner of Baltimore, 35; apprehends attack on Fort McHenry, 66, 67; report on the state of city, 80, 81; release from arrest, 108. Howard, F. K., release from arrest, 109. Huger, General, made Colonel of 53d Regiment, 66. Hull, Rob't, release from arrest, 109. Hyde, Sir Nicholas, on the writ of _habeas corpus_, 150. J Jefferson, Thomas, and writ of _habeas corpus_, 141. Johnson, Capt. B. T., arrives in Baltimore, 64; hasty dispatch from Marshal Kane, 69, 70. Jones, Col. Edmund F., passage through Baltimore, 43; on the Massachusetts Sixth in Baltimore, 46, 47, 48, 51; letter to Marshal Kane, 54. Judd, N. B., with Lincoln in Philadelphia, 16; hears of conspiracy in Baltimore, 128-133. K Kane, Marshal George P., investigates supposed plot, 15; head of Baltimore police, 35; letter to Crawford, 40; keeps order at Camden Station, 48; attempts to quell Baltimore mob, 51, 53; Col. Jones's gratitude to, 54; hasty dispatch to Johnson, 69, 70; after the war elected Sheriff and subsequently Mayor, 70; arrest of, 97; release from arrest, 109. Keim, Gen., arrests John Merryman, 87, 140. Kenly, John R., supersedes Marshal Kane, 97. Kennedy, Anthony, errand to the Capital, 63. Kennedy, John P., on the attitude of Border States, 31, 32. Kentucky, temporary neutrality of, 34. Keys, John S., letter from Mayor Brown to, 110, 111. Kinney, Mr., receives Lincoln in Philadelphia, 134. L Lamon, Colonel W. H., on Lincoln's midnight ride, 19, 120-137; on Lincoln-Douglas campaign, 22; ride with Lincoln, 133. Latrobe, John H. B., President of Maryland Colonization Society, 31. Lawrence, Massachusetts, regiment mustered in, 42. Lee, Colonel, on Gen. Cadwallader's errand to Judge Taney, 88. Lewis, Mr., in the car with Lincoln, 133. Lincoln, President, alleged conspiracy against, in Maryland, 11-15, 121-137; midnight ride to Washington, 17, 19, 120; Senatorial campaign with Douglas, 22; differs from Seward, 24; election to Presidency, 25; calls out the militia, 32; letter to Gov. Hicks, 62; Mayor Brown writes to, concerning passage of troops through Baltimore, 57, 61; Mayor Brown's interview with, 71-75. Lowell, Massachusetts, regiment mustered in, 42. Luckett, suspected of conspiracy, 122-127. Lyons, Lord, suggested as mediator between North and South, 76; Secretary Seward's boast of his authority to, 91. M Macgill, Dr. Charles, release from arrest, 109. Marshall, Chief Justice, on _habeas corpus_, 153, 154. Maryland, rumors of conspiracy in, 11, 12, 13; slavery in, 20, 30; Lincoln's call for militia, how received in, 33; excitement, 40, 41. Mason, James M., sent from Virginia to negotiate with Maryland, 84. Massachusetts, Minute Men, 11; slavery in, 20; Eighth Regiment, 76; Sixth Regiment, 42, 167-170. May, Henry, M. C., arrest of, 103. McClellan, General, letter to General Banks, 102. McComas, Sergeant, removes obstruction from railway track in Baltimore, 49. McHenry, Ramsay, efforts for emancipation, 113. Merryman, John, arrest of, 87, 88, 154; charges against unfounded, 90. Morfit, H. M., elected to General Assembly, 79. Morris, Major, refuses to obey writ of _habeas corpus_, 87. N Negro. _See_ Slavery. Newport, slave-traffic in, 20. Nicolay, George, on Lincoln's midnight ride, 132. North Carolina, secession of, 33. O O'Donnell, Columbus, advances money for city defense, 61. P Parker, Edward P., General Butler's aide-de-camp, 83. Patapsco Dragoons, arrival in Baltimore, 64. Pemberton, Major, leads U. S. Artillery through Baltimore, 86. Pennsylvania troops in Baltimore, 44, 53; at Cockeysville, 75. Phillips, Wendell, on States Rights, 26. Pickering, Captain, company opposed in Baltimore, 46. Pikesville, arsenal taken possession of, 65. Pitts, Charles H., elected to General Assembly, 80. Putnam Phalanx of Hartford in Baltimore, 160-166. Putnam's Record of the Rebellion, quotation from, 38. R Revolution, right of, 26-29. Robinson, Dr. Alex. C., Chairman of States Rights Convention, 38. Robinson, General John C., on Baltimore in 1861, 66, 69, 81, 82, 83. S Sanford, plans Lincoln's midnight ride, 131. Sangston, L., elected to General Assembly, 80. Scharf's History of Maryland quoted, 35, 37, 78, 103. Scott, General, on the passage of troops through Baltimore, 62, 72, 75. Scott, T. Parkin, sympathizes with the South, 38, 39; elected Judge after the war, 39; elected to General Assembly, 79; release from arrest, 108. Seward, Secretary, position before Presidential Convention, 24; boasts of his authority, 91; sends news of supposed conspiracy to Lincoln, 130, 134. Slavery, compromises of Constitution in regard to, 20-22; Geo. Wm. Brown opposed to, 113; some good effects of, 114. Small, Colonel, leads Pennsylvania regiment, 42. South Carolina, secession of, 31. Steuart, Dr. Richard S., efforts for emancipation, 113. Story, Justice, on _habeas corpus_, 152, 153. Stuart, Captain, speech in Baltimore, 163-166. Sumner, Colonel, offers to accompany President Lincoln to Washington, 132, 133. _Sun, The_, on the offer of service by colored people, 65, 66; on the suffering of Pennsylvania troops in Baltimore County, 76; Reception of 6th Massachusetts Regiment in Baltimore, 167-170. T Taney, Chief Justice, on negro rights, 21, 138; _habeas corpus_ case _ex parte_ John Merryman, 87-93, 139-156. Tennessee, secession of, 33. Thomas, Dr. J. Hanson, elected to General Assembly, 79. Trimble, Colonel I. R., defense of Baltimore, 63. Trist, N. P., news of conspiracy communicated to, 14. Turner, Capt., suspected of conspiracy, 124-126. U Union Convention called, 92. V Virginia, secession of, 33; sends Mason to negotiate with Maryland, 84. W Wallis, S. Teackle, legal adviser to Baltimore police commission, 35; speech to the excited public, 56; accompanies the Mayor to Washington, 71; elected to the General Assembly, 79; release from arrest, 108, 109. Warfield, Henry M., elected to General Assembly, 79; release from arrest, 108. Warner, Major J. P., commands Baltimore City Guards, 160. Washburne, Mr., meets President Lincoln at Washington Depot, 136. Watson, Major, company attacked in Baltimore, 45. Webster, E. H., Gov. Hicks's letter to, 128. Whitefield, the Calvinist, owns slaves, 21. Williams, George H., counsel for John Merryman, 87. Winans, Ross, denounces passage of troops through Baltimore, 37; elected to General Assembly, 79; arrested by Gen. Butler's order, 87. Winder, Wm. H., release from arrest, 109. Wood, Fernando, tries to make New York a free city, 31. Wool, General, checks arbitrary arrest, 109. Worcester, regiment mustered in, 42. Johns Hopkins University Studies in Historical and Political Science. HERBERT B. ADAMS, Editor. PROSPECTUS OF FIFTH SERIES.--1887. The Studies in Municipal Government will be continued. The Fifth Series will also embrace Studies in the History of American Political Economy and of American Co-operation. The following papers are ready or in preparation: =I-II. City Government of Philadelphia.= By EDWARD P. ALLINSON, A. M. (Haverford), and BOIES PENROSE, A. B. (Harvard). January and February, 1887. _Price 50 cents._ 72 pp. =III. City Government of Boston.= By JAMES M. BUGBEE. March, 1887. _Price 25 cents._ 60 pp. =City Government of Baltimore.= By JOHN C. ROSE, B. L. (University of Maryland, School of Law). _In preparation._ =City Government of Chicago.= By F. H. HODDER, Ph. M. (University of Mich.) Instructor in History, Cornell University. =City Government of San Francisco.= By BERNARD MOSES, Ph. D., Professor of History and Politics, University of California. =City Government of St. Louis.= By MARSHALL S. SNOW, A. M. (Harvard), Professor of History, Washington University. =City Government of New Orleans.= By HON. W. W. HOWE. =City Government of New York.= By SIMON STERNE and J. F. JAMESON, Ph. D., Associate in History, J. H. U. =The Influence of the War of 1812 upon the Consolidation of the American Union.= By NICHOLAS MURRAY BUTLER, Ph. D. and Fellow of Columbia College. =The History of American Political Economy.= Studies by R. T. ELY, WOODROW WILSON, and D. R. DEWEY. =The History of American Co-operation.= Studies by E. W. BEMIS, D. R. RANDALL, A. G. WARNER, _et al._ FOURTH SERIES.--Municipal Government and Land Tenure.--1886. =I. Dutch Village Communities on the Hudson River.= By IRVING ELTING, A. B. (Harvard). January, 1886; pp. 68. _Price 50 cents._ =II-III. Town Government in Rhode Island.= By WILLIAM E. FOSTER, A. M. (Brown University).--=The Narragansett Planters.= By EDWARD CHANNING, Ph. D. and Instructor in History (Harvard University). February and March, 1886; pp. 60. _Price 50 cents._ =IV. Pennsylvania Boroughs.= By WILLIAM P. HOLCOMB, Ph. D. (J. H. U.), Professor of History and Political Science, Swarthmore College, April, 1886; pp. 51. _Price 50 cents._ =V. Introduction to the Constitutional and Political History of the Individual States.= By J. F. JAMESON, Ph. D. and Associate in History, J. H. U. May, 1886; pp. 29. _Price 50 cents._ =VI. The Puritan Colony at Annapolis, Maryland.= By DANIEL R. RANDALL, A. B. (St. John's College). June, 1886; pp. 47. _Price 50 cents._ =VII-VIII-IX. History of the Land Question in the United States.= By SHOSUKE SATO, B. S. (Sapporo), Ph. D. and Fellow by Courtesy, J. H. U. July-September, 1886; pp. 181. _Price $1.00._ =X. The Town and City Government of New Haven.= By CHARLES H. LEVERMORE, Ph. D. (J. H. U.), Instructor in History, University of California. October, 1886; pp. 103. _Price 50 cents._ =XI-XII. The Land System of the New England Colonies.= By MELVILLE EGLESTON, A. M. (Williams College). November and December, 1886. _Price 50 cents._ THIRD SERIES.--Maryland, Virginia, and Washington.--1885. =I. Maryland's Influence upon Land Cessions to the United States.= With minor papers on George Washington's Interest in Western Lands, the Potomac Company, and a National University. By HERBERT B. ADAMS, Ph. D. (Heidelberg). January, 1885; pp. 102. _Price 75 cents._ =II-III. Virginia Local Institutions:--The Land System; Hundred; Parish; County; Town.= By EDWARD INGLE, A. B. (J. H. U.). February and March, 1885; pp. 127. _Price 75 cents._ =IV. Recent American Socialism.= By RICHARD T. ELY, Ph. D. (Heidelberg), Associate in Political Economy, J. H. U. April, 1885; pp. 74. _Price 50 cents._ =V-VI-VII. Maryland Local Institutions:--The Land System; Hundred; County; Town.= By LEWIS W. WILHELM, Ph. D. (J. H. U.), Fellow by Courtesy, J. H. U. May, June, and July, 1885; pp. 130. _Price $1.00._ =VIII. The Influence of the Proprietors in Founding the State of New Jersey.= By AUSTIN SCOTT, Ph. D. (Leipzig), formerly Associate and Lecturer, J. H. U.; Professor of History, Political Economy, and Constitutional Law, Rutgers College. August, 1885; pp. 26. _Price 25 cents._ =IX-X. American Constitutions; The Relations of the Three Departments as Adjusted by a Century.= By HORACE DAVIS, A. B. (Harvard). San Francisco, California. September and October, 1885; pp. 70. _Price 50 cents._ =XI-XII. The City of Washington.= By JOHN ADDISON PORTER, A. B. (Yale). November and December, 1885; pp. 56. _Price 50 cents._ SECOND SERIES.--Institutions and Economics.--1884. =I-II. Methods of Historical Study.= By HERBERT B. ADAMS, Ph. D. (Heidelberg). January and February, 1884; pp. 137.* =III. The Past and the Present of Political Economy.= By RICHARD T. ELY, Ph. D. (Heidelberg). March, 1884; pp. 64.* =IV. Samuel Adams, The Man of the Town Meeting.= By JAMES K. HOSMER, A. M. (Harvard), Professor of English and German Literature, Washington University, St. Louis. April, 1884; pp. 60. _Price 35 cents._ =V-VI. Taxation in the United States.= By HENRY CARTER ADAMS, Ph. D. (J. H. U.), Professor of Political Economy, University of Michigan. May and June, 1884; pp. 79.* =VII. Institutional Beginnings in a Western State.= By JESSE MACY, A. B. (Iowa College); Professor of Historical and Political Science, Iowa College. July, 1884; pp. 38. _Price 25 cents._ =VIII-IX. Indian Money as a Factor In New England Civilization.= By WILLIAM B. WEEDEN, A. M. (Brown Univ.). August and September, 1884; pp. 51. _Price 50 cents._ =X. Town and County Government in the English Colonies of North America.= By EDWARD CHANNING, Ph.D. (Harvard); Instructor in History, Harvard College. October, 1884; pp. 57.* =XI. Rudimentary Society among Boys.= By JOHN JOHNSON, A B. (J. H. U.); Instructor in History and English, McDonogh Institute, Baltimore Co., Md. November, 1884; pp. 56. _Price 50 cents._ =XII. Land Laws of Mining Districts.= By CHARLES HOWARD SHINN, A. B. (J. H. U.), Editor of the _Overland Monthly_. December, 1884; pp. 69. _Price 50 cents._ FIRST SERIES.--Local Institutions.--1883. =I. An Introduction to American Institutional History.= By EDWARD A. FREEMAN, D. C. L., LL. D., Regius Professor of Modern History, University of Oxford. With an Account of Mr. Freeman's Visit to Baltimore, by the Editor.* =II. The Germanic Origin of New England Towns.= Read before the Harvard Historical Society, May 9, 1881. By H. B. ADAMS, Ph. D. (Heidelberg), 1876. With Notes on Co-operation in University Work.* =III. Local Government in Illinois.= First published in the _Fortnightly Review_ By ALBERT SHAW, A. B. (Iowa College), 1879--=Local Government in Pennsylvania.= Read before the Pennsylvania Historical Society, May 1, 1882 By E. R. L. GOULD, A. B. (Victoria University, Canada), 1882. _Price 30 cents._ =IV. Saxon Tithingmen in America.= Read before the American Antiquarian Society, October 21, 1881. By H. B. ADAMS. 2d Edition. _Price 50 cents._ =V. Local Government in Michigan and the Northwest.= Read before the Social Science Association, at Saratoga, September 7, 1882. By E. W. BEMIS A. B. (Amherst College), 1880. _Price 25 cents._ =VI. Parish Institutions of Maryland.= By EDWARD INGLE, A. B. (Johns Hopkins University), 1882. _Price 40 cents._ =VII. Old Maryland Manors.= By JOHN JOHNSON, A. B. (Johns Hopkins University), 1881. _Price 30 cents._ =VIII. Norman Constables in America.= Read before the New England Historical & Genealogical Society, February 1, 1882. By H. B. ADAMS. 2d Edition. _Price 50 cents._ =IX-X. Village Communities of Cape Ann and Salem.= From the Historical Collection of the Essex Institute. By H. B. ADAMS.* =XI. The Genesis of a New England State (Connecticut).= By ALEXANDER JOHNSTON, A. M. (Rutgers College), 1870; Professor of Political Economics and Jurisprudence at Princeton College. _Price 30 cents._ =XII. Local Government and Free Schools in South Carolina.= Read before the Historical Society of South Carolina, December 15, 1882. By B. J. RAMAGE. The first annual series of monthly monographs devoted to History, Politics, and Economics was begun in 1882-1883. Four volumes have thus far appeared. The separate volumes bound in cloth will be sold as follows: VOLUME I.--Local Institutions. 479 pp. $4.00. VOLUME II.--Institutions and Economics. 629 pp. $4.00. VOLUME III.--Maryland, Virginia, and Washington. 595 pp. $4.00. VOLUME IV.--Municipal Government and Land Tenure. 610 pp. $3.50. _The set of four volumes will be sold together for $12.50 net._ VOLUME V.--Municipal Government and Economics. (1887.) _This volume will be furnished in monthly parts upon receipt of subscription price, $3; or the bound volume will be sent at the end of the year 1887 for $3.50._ EXTRA VOLUMES OF STUDIES. In connection with the regular annual series of Studies, a series of Extra Volumes is proposed. It is intended to print them in a style uniform with the regular Studies, but to publish each volume by itself, in numbered sequence and in a cloth binding uniform with the First, Second, Third, and Fourth Series. The volumes will vary in size from 200 to 500 pages, with corresponding prices. Subscriptions to the Annual Series of Studies will not necessitate subscriptions to the Extra Volumes, although they will be offered to regular subscribers at reduced rates. =EXTRA VOLUME I.--The Republic of New Haven: A History of Municipal Evolution.= By CHARLES H. LIVERMORE, Ph. D., Baltimore. This volume, now ready, comprises 350 pages octavo, with various diagrams and an index. It is sold, bound in cloth, at $2.00. =EXTRA VOLUME II.--Philadelphia, 1681-1887. A History of Municipal Development.= By EDWARD P. ALLINSON, A. M. (Haverford), and BOIES PENROSE, A. B. (Harvard). The volume will comprise about 300 pages, octavo. It will be sold, bound in cloth, at $3.00; in law-sheep, at $3.50. =EXTRA VOLUME III.--Baltimore and the Nineteenth of April, 1861.= By GEORGE WILLIAM BROWN, Chief Judge of the Supreme Bench of Baltimore, and Mayor of the City in 1861. Price $1.00. * * * * * All communications relating to subscriptions, exchanges, etc., should be addressed to the PUBLICATION AGENCY OF THE JOHNS HOPKINS UNIVERSITY, BALTIMORE, MARYLAND. The following table of contents will serve to indicate the scope and character of the topics treated in Mr. Levermore's History of New Haven: CHAPTER I. THE GENESIS OF NEW HAVEN. -- Davenport and Eaton. -- Formation of a State. -- Town-Meetings. -- Fundamental Agreement. -- Davenport's Policy. -- Theophilus Eaton. CHAPTER II. THE EVOLUTION OF TOWN GOVERNMENT. -- Social Order. -- Town Courts. -- The Quarters. -- Military Organization. -- The Watch. -- The Marshal. -- The Town Drummer. -- Minor Offices. -- Roads. -- Fences. -- Cattle. -- Supervisors. -- Doctor. -- School-Teacher. -- Viewers and Brewers. -- The Townsmen. -- Currency and Taxation. CHAPTER III. THE LAND QUESTION. -- Official Control over Alienations and Dwellings. -- Divisions of the Outland. -- New Haven a Village Community. -- Evolution of Subordinate Townships. -- The Delaware Company. CHAPTER IV. THE UNION WITH CONNECTICUT. THE BIRTH OF NEWARK. -- A New Party within the Colony. -- Terms of Admission of Strangers. -- Increasing Importance of Townsmen. -- The Village Question. -- New Haven and the Restored Stuart. -- Hegira to New Jersey. CHAPTER V. THE WORK OF THE COURTS IN JUDICATURE AND LEGISLATION. -- Drunkenness. -- Sabbath-breaking. -- Spiritual Discouragements. -- Quakers and Witches. -- Lewdness. -- Methods of Civil Procedure. -- Legislation concerning Trade and Prices. -- Arbitration. -- Magisterial Interest in Trade. -- Revival of the Common Law and English Usage. CHAPTER VI. NEW HAVEN A CONNECTICUT TOWN, 1664-1700. -- Changes in Constitution. -- Hopkins Grammar School. -- Minister's Tax. -- Tithingmen. -- Justice of the Peace. -- Divisions of Land. -- Indian Reservations. -- The Village Controversy. -- Public Benevolence. -- Indian Wars. -- Villages again. -- Tyranny of Andros. -- Local Enactments. -- Intemperance. -- Funeral Customs. CHAPTER VII. NEW HAVEN A CONNECTICUT TOWN, 1700-1784. -- The Quarrel with East Haven. -- Yale College. -- The Walpolean Lethargy. -- Sale of the Town's Poor. -- First Post-Office. -- First Oyster Laws. -- Sketch of the Town's Commerce. -- The Approach of the Revolution. -- New Haven during the War. -- Committees. -- Articles of Confederation. -- Treatment of Tories. -- Final Division of the Township. -- The Church the Germ of the Town. CHAPTER VIII. THE DUAL GOVERNMENT. TOWN AND CITY. 1784-1886. -- Town-Born _vs._ Interloper. -- First Phases of City Politics. -- First Charter. -- Description of the City. -- Municipal Improvements. -- Fire Department. -- Adornment of the Green. -- Public Letters to the Presidents and Others. -- Downfall of Federalism. -- Slavery and Abolition. -- Municipal Growth. -- Sects. -- Administrative Changes. -- Windfall from Washington. -- Liquor Traffic. -- Light in the Streets. -- High School. -- Era of Railways. -- Needs of the Poor. -- The City Meeting. -- Charter of 1857. -- Town Officers. -- City Improvement. -- Police and Fire Departments. -- In the Civil War. -- Recent Charters. -- Conservative Influences in the Community. CHAPTER IX. THE PRESENT MUNICIPAL ADMINISTRATION. -- School District. -- Town Government. -- Town-Meeting. -- Consolidation. -- City Government. -- City Judiciary. -- City Executive. -- City Legislature. -- Legislative Control over the Commissions. -- Conduct of Commissions. -- Executive Organization. -- Administrative Courts. -- Frequent Elections. -- Board of Councilmen. -- Choice of Aldermen. Appendix A.--Mr. Pierson's Elegy. " B.--The Town of Naugatuck. " C.--Dr. Manasseh Cutler's Diary. " D.--A Town Court of Elections. New Haven, A. D. 1656. The volume now ready comprises 350 pages octavo, with various diagrams and an index. It will be sold, neatly bound in cloth, at $2.00. Subscribers to the STUDIES can obtain at reduced rates this new volume. PHILADELPHIA 1681-1887: A History of Municipal Development. BY EDWARD P. ALLINSON, A. M., AND BOIES PENROSE, A. B., OF THE PHILADELPHIA BAR. While several general histories of Philadelphia have been written, there is no history of that city as a municipal corporation. Such a work is now offered, based upon the Acts of Assembly, the City Ordinances, the State Reports, and many other authorities. Numerous manuscripts in the Pennsylvania Historical Society, in Public Libraries, and in the Departments at Philadelphia and Harrisburg have also been consulted, and important facts found therein are now for the first time published. The development of the government of Philadelphia affords a peculiarly interesting study, and is full of instruction to the student of municipal questions. The first charter granted by the original proprietor, William Penn, created a close, self-elected corporation, consisting of the "Mayor, Recorder and Common Council," holding office for life. Such corporations survived in England from medieval times to the passage of the Reform Act of 1835. The corporation of Philadelphia possessed practically no power of taxation, and few and extremely limited powers of any kind. As a rapidly growing city required greater municipal powers, the legislature instead of increasing the powers of the corporation which, being self-elected, was held in distrust by the citizens, established from time to time various independent boards, commissions, and trusts for the control of taxation, streets, poor, etc. These boards were subsequently transformed into the city departments as they exist to-day. The State and municipal legislation, extending over two centuries, is extremely varied and frequently experimental. It affords instruction illustrative of almost every form of municipal expedient and constitution. The development of the city government of Philadelphia has been carefully traced through many changes in the powers and duties of the mayor, in the election and powers of the subordinate executive officers, in the position and relation of the various departments, in the legislative and executive powers of councils, in the frequently shifting distribution of executive power between the mayor and councils, and in the procedure of councils. _In 1885 an Act of Assembly was passed providing for a new government for Philadelphia which embodies the latest ideas upon municipal questions._ The history of the government of the city thus begins with the medieval charter of most contracted character, and ends with _the liberal provisions of the Reform Act of 1885_. It furnishes illustrations of almost every phase of municipal development. The story cannot fail to interest all those who believe that the question of better government for our great cities is one of critical importance, and who are aware of the fact that this question is already receiving widespread attention. The subject had become so serious in 1876 that Governor Hartranft, in his message of that year, called the attention of the Legislature to it in the following succinct and forcible statement: "_There is no political problem that at the present moment occasions so much just alarm and is obtaining more anxious thought than the government of cities._" The consideration of the subject naturally resolves itself into five sharply-defined periods, to each of which a chapter has been devoted, as indicated by the following summary, which, while not exhaustive, will suggest the general scope. CHAPTER I. FIRST PERIOD, 1681-1701. -- Founding of the city. -- Functions of the Provincial Council. -- Slight but certain evidence of some organized city government prior to Penn's Charter. CHAPTER II. SECOND PERIOD, 1701-1789. -- Penn's authority. -- Charter of 1701. -- Attributes of the Proprietary Charter; its medieval character. -- Integral parts of the corporation. -- Arbitrary nature and limited powers. -- Acts of Legislature creating independent commissions. -- Miscellaneous acts and ordinances. -- The Revolution. -- Abrogation of Charter. -- Legislative government. -- Summary. CHAPTER III. THIRD PERIOD, 1789-1854. -- Character of Second Charter. -- Causes leading to its passage. -- A modern municipal corporation. -- Supplements. -- Departments. -- Concentration of authority. -- Councils. -- Bicameral system adopted. -- Officers, how appointed or elected. -- Diminishing powers of the mayor. -- Introduction of standing committees. -- Finance. -- Debt. -- Revenue. -- Review of the period. CHAPTER IV. FOURTH PERIOD, 1854-1887. -- Act of consolidation. -- Causes leading to its passage. -- Features of New Charter. -- Supplements. -- Extent of territory covered by consolidation. -- Character of outlying districts. -- New Constitution. -- Relation of city and county. -- Summary of changes effected. -- Twenty-five _quasi_-independent departments established. -- Encroachment of legislative upon executive powers. -- Resulting Citizens' Reform movement. -- Committee of one hundred. -- Contracts. -- Debt. -- Delusive methods of finance. -- Reform movement in councils. -- Causes leading to the passage of the Bullit Bill. -- Review of the period. CHAPTER V. FIFTH PERIOD. -- Text of the Act of 1885. -- History of the passage of the Bullit Bill. -- Changes by it effected in the organic law. -- Conclusions. PRICE. The volume will comprise about 300 pages, octavo, and will be sold, bound in cloth, at $3; in law-sheep at $3.50; and at reduced rates to regular subscribers to the "Studies." Orders and subscriptions should be addressed to THE PUBLICATION, AGENCY OF THE JOHNS HOPKINS UNIVERSITY, BALTIMORE, MARYLAND. 
40760	----	for Project Gutenberg. (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive.) [Transcriber's Note: Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as possible, including obsolete and variant spellings and other inconsistencies. Text that has been changed to correct an obvious error is noted at the end of this ebook.] FIFTY YEARS IN CHAINS; OR, THE LIFE OF AN AMERICAN SLAVE. "My God! can such things be? Hast Thou not said that whatsoe'er is done Unto thy weakest and thy humblest one, Is even done to Thee?"--WHITTIER. New-York H. DAYTON, PUBLISHER 36 HOWARD STREET. Indianapolis, Ind.:--Asher & Company. 1860. Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 1858, by H. DAYTON, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York. J. J. REED, PRINTER & STEREOTYPER, 43 Centre-St., N. Y. PREFACE. The story which follows is _true_ in every particular. Responsible citizens of a neighboring State can vouch for the reality of the narrative. The language of the slave has not at all times been strictly adhered to, as a half century of bondage unfitted him for literary work. The subject of the story _is still a slave_ by the laws of this country, and it would not be wise to reveal his name. FIFTY YEARS IN CHAINS OR, THE LIFE OF AN AMERICAN SLAVE. CHAPTER I. SEPARATED FROM MY MOTHER. My story is a true one, and I shall tell it in a simple style. It will be merely a recital of my life as a slave in the Southern States of the Union--a description of negro slavery in the "model Republic." My grandfather was brought from Africa and sold as a slave in Calvert county, in Maryland. I never understood the name of the ship in which he was imported, nor the name of the planter who bought him on his arrival, but at the time I knew him he was a slave in a family called Maud, who resided near Leonardtown. My father was a slave in a family named Hauty, living near the same place. My mother was the slave of a tobacco planter, who died when I was about four years old. My mother had several children, and they were sold upon master's death to separate purchasers. She was sold, my father told me, to a Georgia trader. I, of all her children, was the only one left in Maryland. When sold I was naked, never having had on clothes in my life, but my new master gave me a child's frock, belonging to one of his own children. After he had purchased me, he dressed me in this garment, took me before him on his horse, and started home; but my poor mother, when she saw me leaving her for the last time, ran after me, took me down from the horse, clasped me in her arms, and wept loudly and bitterly over me. My master seemed to pity her, and endeavored to soothe her distress by telling her that he would be a good master to me, and that I should not want anything. She then, still holding me in her arms, walked along the road beside the horse as he moved slowly, and earnestly and imploringly besought my master to buy her and the rest of her children, and not permit them to be carried away by the negro buyers; but whilst thus entreating him to save her and her family, the slave-driver, who had first bought her, came running in pursuit of her with a raw-hide in his hand. When he overtook us, he told her he was her master now, and ordered her to give that little negro to its owner, and come back with him. My mother then turned to him and cried, "Oh, master, do not take me from my child!" Without making any reply, he gave her two or three heavy blows on the shoulders with his raw-hide, snatched me from her arms, handed me to my master, and seizing her by one arm, dragged her back towards the place of sale. My master then quickened the pace of his horse; and as we advanced, the cries of my poor parent became more and more indistinct--at length they died away in the distance, and I never again heard the voice of my poor mother. Young as I was, the horrors of that day sank deeply into my heart, and even at this time, though half a century has elapsed, the terrors of the scene return with painful vividness upon my memory. Frightened at the sight of the cruelties inflicted upon my poor mother, I forgot my own sorrows at parting from her and clung to my new master, as an angel and a saviour, when compared with the hardened fiend into whose power she had fallen. She had been a kind and good mother to me; had warmed me in her bosom in the cold nights of winter; and had often divided the scanty pittance of food allowed her by her mistress, between my brothers, and sisters, and me, and gone supperless to bed herself. Whatever victuals she could obtain beyond the coarse food, salt fish and corn bread, allowed to slaves on the Patuxent and Potomac rivers, she carefully distributed among her children, and treated us with all the tenderness which her own miserable condition would permit. I have no doubt that she was chained and driven to Carolina, and toiled out the residue of a forlorn and famished existence in the rice swamps, or indigo fields of the South. My father never recovered from the effects of the shock, which this sudden and overwhelming ruin of his family gave him. He had formerly been of a gay, social temper, and when he came to see us on a Saturday night, he always brought us some little present, such as the means of a poor slave would allow--apples, melons, sweet potatoes, or, if he could procure nothing else, a little parched corn, which tasted better in our cabin, because he had brought it. He spent the greater part of the time, which his master permitted him to pass with us, in relating such stories as he had learned from his companions, or in singing the rude songs common amongst the slaves of Maryland and Virginia. After this time I never heard him laugh heartily, or sing a song. He became gloomy and morose in his temper, to all but me; and spent nearly all his leisure time with my grandfather, who claimed kindred with some royal family in Africa, and had been a great warrior in his native country. The master of my father was a hard, penurious man, and so exceedingly avaricious, that he scarcely allowed himself the common conveniences of life. A stranger to sensibility, he was incapable of tracing the change in the temper and deportment of my father, to its true cause; but attributed it to a sullen discontent with his condition as a slave, and a desire to abandon his service, and seek his liberty by escaping to some of the free States. To prevent the perpetration of this suspected crime of _running away from slavery_, the old man resolved to sell my father to a southern slave-dealer, and accordingly applied to one of those men, who was at that time in Calvert, to become the purchaser. The price was agreed on, but, as my father was a very strong, active, and resolute man, it was deemed unsafe for the Georgian to attempt to seize him, even with the aid of others, in the day-time, when he was at work, as it was known he carried upon his person a large knife. It was therefore determined to secure him by stratagem, and for this purpose, a farmer in the neighborhood, who was made privy to the plan, alleged that he had lost a pig, which must have been stolen by some one, and that he suspected my father to be the thief. A constable was employed to arrest him, but as he was afraid to undertake the business alone, he called on his way, at the house of the master of my grandfather, to procure assistance from the overseer of the plantation. When he arrived at the house, the overseer was at the barn, and thither he repaired to make his application. At the end of the barn was the coach-house, and as the day was cool, to avoid the wind which was high, the two walked to the side of the coach-house to talk over the matter, and settle their plan of operations. It so happened that my grandfather, whose business it was to keep the coach in good condition, was at work at this time, rubbing the plated handles of the doors, and brightening the other metallic parts of the vehicle. Hearing the voice of the overseer without, he suspended his work, and listening attentively, became a party to their councils. They agreed that they would delay the execution of their project until the next day, as it was then late. They supposed they would have no difficulty in apprehending their intended victim, as, knowing himself innocent of the theft, he would readily consent to go with the constable to a justice of the peace, to have the charge examined. That night, however, about midnight, my grandfather silently repaired to the cabin of my father, a distance of about three miles, aroused him from his sleep, made him acquainted with the extent of his danger, gave him a bottle of cider and a small bag of parched corn, and then enjoined him to fly from the destination which awaited him. In the morning the Georgian could not find his newly purchased slave, who was never seen or heard of in Maryland from that day. After the flight of my father, my grandfather was the only person left in Maryland with whom I could claim kindred. He was an old man, nearly eighty years old, he said, and he manifested all the fondness for me that I could expect from one so old. He was feeble, and his master required but little work from him. He always expressed contempt for his fellow-slaves, for when young, he was an African of rank in his native land. He had a small cabin of his own, with half an acre of ground attached to it, which he cultivated on his own account, and from which he drew a large share of his sustenance. He had singular religious notions--never going to meeting or caring for the preachers he could, if he would, occasionally hear. He retained his native traditions respecting the Deity and hereafter. It is not strange that he believed the religion of his oppressors to be the invention of designing men, for the text oftenest quoted in his hearing was, "Servants, be obedient to your masters." The name of the man who purchased me at the vendue, and became my master, was John Cox; but he was generally called Jack Cox. He was a man of kindly feelings towards his family, and treated his slaves, of whom he had several besides me, with humanity. He permitted my grandfather to visit me as often as he pleased, and allowed him sometimes to carry me to his own cabin, which stood in a lonely place, at the head of a deep hollow, almost surrounded by a thicket of cedar trees, which had grown up in a worn out and abandoned tobacco field. My master gave me better clothes than the little slaves of my age generally received in Calvert, and often told me that he intended to make me his waiter, and that if I behaved well I should become his overseer in time. These stations of waiter and overseer appeared to me to be the highest points of honor and greatness in the whole world, and had not circumstances frustrated my master's plans, as well as my own views, I should probably have been living at this time in a cabin on the corner of some tobacco plantation. Fortune had decreed otherwise. When I was about twelve years old, my master, Jack Cox, died of a disease which had long confined him to the house. I was sorry for the death of my master, who had always been kind to me; and I soon discovered that I had good cause to regret his departure from this world. He had several children at the time of his death, who were all young; the oldest being about my own age. The father of my late master, who was still living, became administrator of his estate, and took possession of his property, and amongst the rest, of myself. This old gentleman treated me with the greatest severity, and compelled me to work very hard on his plantation for several years, until I suppose I must have been near or quite twenty years of age. As I was always very obedient, and ready to execute all his orders, I did not receive much whipping, but suffered greatly for want of sufficient and proper food. My master allowed his slaves a peck of corn, each, per week, throughout the year; and this we had to grind into meal in a hand-mill for ourselves. We had a tolerable supply of meat for a short time, about the month of December, when he killed his hogs. After that season we had meat once a week, unless bacon became scarce, which very often happened, in which case we had no meat at all. However, as we fortunately lived near both the Patuxent river and the Chesapeake Bay, we had abundance of fish in the spring, and as long as the fishing season continued. After that period, each slave received, in addition to his allowance of corn, one salt herring every day. My master gave me one pair of shoes, one pair of stockings, one hat, one jacket of coarse cloth, two coarse shirts, and two pair of trowsers, yearly. He allowed me no other clothes. In the winter time I often suffered very much from the cold; as I had to drive the team of oxen which hauled the tobacco to market, and frequently did not get home until late at night, the distance being considerable, and my cattle traveled very slow. One Saturday evening, when I came home from the corn field, my master told me that he had hired me out for a year at the city of Washington, and that I would have to live at the Navy Yard. On the New Year's day following, which happened about two weeks afterwards, my master set forward for Washington, on horseback, and ordered me to accompany him on foot. It was night when we arrived at the Navy Yard, and everything appeared very strange to me. I was told by a gentleman who had epaulets on his shoulders, that I must go on board a large ship, which lay in the river. He at the same time told a boy to show me the way. This ship proved to be a frigate, and I was told that I had been brought there to cook for the people belonging to her. In the course of a few days the duties of my station became quite familiar to me; and in the enjoyment of a profusion of excellent provisions, I felt very happy. I strove by all means to please the officers and gentlemen who came on board, and in this I soon found my account. One gave me a half-worn coat, another an old shirt, and a third, a cast off waistcoat and pantaloons. Some presented me with small sums of money, and in this way I soon found myself well clothed, and with more than a dollar in my pocket. My duties, though constant, were not burthensome, and I was permitted to spend Sunday afternoon in my own way. I generally went up into the city to see the new and splendid buildings; often walked as far as Georgetown, and made many new acquaintances among the slaves, and frequently saw large numbers of people of my color chained together in long trains, and driven off towards the South. At that time the slave-trade was not regarded with so much indignation and disgust, as it is now. It was a rare thing to hear of a person of color running away, and escaping altogether from his master: my father being the only one within my knowledge, who had, before this time, obtained his liberty in this manner, in Calvert county; and, as before stated, I never heard what became of him after his flight. I remained on board the frigate, and about the Navy Yard, two years, and was quite satisfied with my lot, until about three months before the expiration of this period, when it so happened that a schooner, loaded with iron and other materials for the use of the yard, arrived from Philadelphia. She came and lay close by the frigate, to discharge her cargo, and amongst her crew I observed a black man, with whom, in the course of a day or two, I became acquainted. He told me he was free, and lived in Philadelphia, where he kept a house of entertainment for sailors, which, he said, was attended to in his absence by his wife. His description of Philadelphia, and of the liberty enjoyed there by the black people, so charmed my imagination that I determined to devise some plan of escaping from the frigate, and making my way to the North. I communicated my designs to my new friend, who promised to give me his aid. We agreed that the night before the schooner should sail, I was to be concealed in the hold, amongst a parcel of loose tobacco, which, he said, the captain had undertaken to carry to Philadelphia. The sailing of the schooner was delayed longer than we expected; and, finally, her captain purchased a cargo of flour in Georgetown, and sailed for the West Indies. Whilst I was anxiously awaiting some other opportunity of making my way to Philadelphia, (the idea of crossing the country to the western part of Pennsylvania, never entered my mind,) New Year's day came, and with it came my old master from Calvert, accompanied by a gentleman named Gibson, to whom, he said, he had sold me, and to whom he delivered me over in the Navy Yard. We all three set out that same evening for Calvert, and reached the residence of my new master the next day. Here, I was informed, that I had become the subject of a law-suit. My new master claimed me under his purchase from old Mr. Cox; and another gentleman of the neighborhood, named Levin Ballard, had bought me of the children of my former master, Jack Cox. This suit continued in the courts of Calvert county more than two years; but was finally decided in favor of him who had bought me of the children. I went home with my master, Mr. Gibson, who was a farmer, and with whom I lived three years. Soon after I came to live with Mr. Gibson, I married a girl of color named Judah, the slave of a gentleman by the name of Symmes, who resided in the same neighborhood. I was at the house of Mr. Symmes every week; and became as well acquainted with him and his family, as I was with my master. Mr. Symmes also married a wife about the time I did. The lady whom he married lived near Philadelphia, and when she first came to Maryland, she refused to be served by a black chambermaid, but employed a white girl, the daughter of a poor man, who lived near. The lady was reported to be very wealthy, and brought a large trunk full of plate and other valuable articles. This trunk was so heavy that I could scarcely carry it, and it impressed my mind with the idea of great riches in the owner, at that time. After some time Mrs. Symmes dismissed her white chambermaid and placed my wife in that situation, which I regarded as a fortunate circumstance, as it insured her good food, and at least one good suit of clothes. The Symmes' family was one of the most ancient in Maryland, and had been a long time resident in Calvert county. The grounds had been laid out, and all the improvements projected about the family abode, in a style of much magnificence, according to the custom of the old aristocracy of Maryland and Virginia. Appendant to the domicile, and at no great distance from the house, was a family vault, built of brick, in which reposed the occupants of the estate, who had lived there for many previous generations. This vault had not been opened or entered for fifteen years previous to the time of which I speak; but it so happened, that at this period, a young man, a distant relation of the family, died, having requested on his death-bed, that he might be buried in this family resting place. When I came on Saturday evening to see my wife and child, Mr. Symmes desired me, as I was older than any of his black men, to take an iron pick and go and open the vault, which I accordingly did, by cutting away the mortar, and removing a few bricks from one side of the building; but I could not remove more than three or four bricks before I was obliged, by the horrid effluvia which issued at the aperture, to retire. It was the most deadly and sickening scent that I have ever smelled, and I could not return to complete the work until after the sun had risen the next day, when I pulled down so much of one of the side walls, as to permit persons to walk in upright. I then went in alone, and examined this house of the dead, and surely no picture could more strongly and vividly depict the emptiness of all earthly vanity, and the nothingness of human pride. Dispersed over the floor lay the fragments of more than twenty human skeletons, each in the place where it had been deposited by the idle tenderness of surviving friends. In some cases nothing remained but the hair and the larger bones, whilst in several the form of the coffin was yet visible, with all the bones resting in their proper places. One coffin, the sides of which were yet standing, the lid only having decayed and partly fallen in, so as to disclose the contents of this narrow cell, presented a peculiarly moving spectacle. Upon the centre of the lid was a large silver plate, and the head and foot were adorned with silver stars.--The nails which had united the parts of the coffin had also silver heads. Within lay the skeletons of a mother and her infant child, in slumbers only to be broken by the peal of the last trumpet. The bones of the infant lay upon the breast of the mother, where the hands of affection had shrouded them. The ribs of the parent had fallen down, and rested on the back bone. Many gold rings were about the bones of the fingers. Brilliant ear-rings lay beneath where the ears had been; and a glittering gold chain encircled the ghastly and haggard vertebræ of a once beautiful neck The shroud and flesh had disappeared, but the hair of the mother appeared strong and fresh. Even the silken locks of the infant were still preserved. Behold the end of youth and beauty, and of all that is lovely in life! The coffin was so much decayed that it could not be removed. A thick and dismal vapor hung embodied from the roof and walls of this charnel house, in appearance somewhat like a mass of dark cobwebs; but which was impalpable to the touch, and when stirred by the hand vanished away. On the second day we deposited with his kindred, the corpse of the young man, and at night I again carefully closed up the breach which I had made in the walls of this dwelling-place of the dead. CHAPTER II Some short time after my wife became chambermaid to her mistress, it was my misfortune to change masters once more. Levin Ballard, who, as before stated, had purchased me of the children of my former master, Jack Cox, was successful in his law suit with Mr. Gibson, the object of which was to determine the right of property in me; and one day, whilst I was at work in the corn-field, Mr. Ballard came and told me I was his property; asking me at the same time if I was willing to go with him. I told him I was not willing to go; but that if I belonged to him I knew I must. We then went to the house, and Mr. Gibson not being at home, Mrs. Gibson told me I must go with Mr. Ballard. I accordingly went with him, determining to serve him obediently and faithfully. I remained in his service almost three years, and as he lived near the residence of my wife's master, my former mode of life was not materially changed, by this change of home. Mrs. Symmes spent much of her time in exchanging visits with the families of the other large planters, both in Calvert and the neighboring counties; and through my wife, I became acquainted with the private family history of many of the principal persons in Maryland. There was a great proprietor, who resided in another county, who owned several hundred slaves; and who permitted them to beg of travelers on the high-way. This same gentleman had several daughters, and according to the custom of the time, kept what they called open house: that is, his house was free to all persons of genteel appearance, who chose to visit it. The young ladies were supposed to be the greatest fortunes in the country, were reputed beautiful, and consequently were greatly admired. Two gentlemen, who were lovers of these girls, desirous of amusing their mistresses, invited a young man, whose standing in society they supposed to be beneath theirs, to go with them to the manor, as it was called. When there, they endeavored to make him an object of ridicule, in presence of the ladies; but he so well acquitted himself, and manifested such superior wit and talents, that one of the young ladies fell in love with him, and soon after wrote him a letter, which led to their marriage. His two pretended friends were never afterwards countenanced by the family, as gentlemen of honor; but the fortunate husband avenged himself of his heartless companions, by inviting them to his wedding, and exposing them to the observation of the vast assemblage of fashionable people, who always attended a marriage, in the family of a great planter. The two gentlemen, who had been thus made to fall into the pit that they had dug for another, were so much chagrined at the issue of the adventure, that one soon left Maryland; and the other became a common drunkard, and died a few years afterwards. My change of masters realized all the evil apprehensions which I had entertained. I found Mr. Ballard sullen and crabbed in his temper, and always prone to find fault with my conduct--no matter how hard I had labored, or how careful I was to fulfil all his orders, and obey his most unreasonable commands. Yet, it so happened, that he never beat me, for which, I was altogether indebted to the good character, for industry, sobriety and humility, which I had established in the neighborhood. I think he was ashamed to abuse me, lest he should suffer in the good opinion of the public; for he often fell into the most violent fits of anger against me, and overwhelmed me with coarse and abusive language. He did not give me clothes enough to keep me warm in winter, and compelled me to work in the woods, when there was deep snow on the ground, by which I suffered very much. I had determined at last to speak to him to sell me to some person in the neighborhood, so that I might still be near my wife and children--but a different fate awaited me. My master kept a store at a small village on the bank of the Patuxent river, called B----, although he resided at some distance on a farm. One morning he rose early, and ordered me to take a yoke of oxen and go to the village, to bring home a cart which was there, saying he would follow me. He arrived at the village soon after I did, and took his breakfast with his store-keeper. He then told me to come into the house and get my breakfast. Whilst I was eating in the kitchen, I observed him talking earnestly, but low, to a stranger near the kitchen door. I soon after went out, and hitched my oxen to the cart, and was about to drive off, when several men came round about me, and amongst them the stranger whom I had seen speaking with my master. This man came up to me, and, seizing me by the collar, shook me violently, saying I was his property, and must go with him to Georgia. At the sound of these words, the thoughts of my wife and children rushed across my mind, and my heart beat away within me. I saw and knew that my case was hopeless, and that resistance was vain, as there were near twenty persons present, all of whom were ready to assist the man by whom I was kidnapped. I felt incapable of weeping or speaking, and in my despair I laughed loudly. My purchaser ordered me to cross my hands behind, which were quickly bound with a strong cord; and he then told me that we must set out that very day for the South. I asked if I could not be allowed to go to see my wife and children, or if this could not be permitted, if they might not have leave to come to see me; but was told that I would be able to get another wife in Georgia. My new master, whose name I did not hear, took me that same day across the Patuxent, where I joined fifty-one other slaves, whom he had bought in Maryland. Thirty-two of these were men, and nineteen were women. The women were merely tied together with a rope, about the size of a bed-cord, which was tied like a halter round the neck of each; but the men, of whom I was the stoutest and strongest, were very differently caparisoned. A strong iron collar was closely fitted by means of a padlock round each of our necks. A chain of iron, about a hundred feet in length, was passed through the hasp of each padlock, except at the two ends, where the hasps of the padlock passed through a link of the chain. In addition to this, we were handcuffed in pairs, with iron staples and bolts, with a short chain, about a foot long, uniting the handcuffs and their wearers in pairs. In this manner we were chained alternately by the right and left hand; and the poor man to whom I was thus ironed, wept like an infant when the blacksmith, with his heavy hammer, fastened the ends of the bolts that kept the staples from slipping from our arms. For my own part, I felt indifferent to my fate. It appeared to me that the worst had come that could come, and that no change of fortune could harm me. After we were all chained and handcuffed together, we sat down upon the ground; and here reflecting upon the sad reverse of fortune that had so suddenly overtaken me, I became weary of life, and bitterly execrated the day I was born. It seemed that I was destined by fate to drink the cup of sorrow to the very dregs, and that I should find no respite from misery but in the grave. I longed to die, and escape from the hands of my tormentors; but even the wretched privilege of destroying myself was denied me, for I could not shake off my chains, nor move a yard without the consent of my master. Reflecting in silence upon my forlorn condition, I at length concluded that as things could not become worse--and as the life of man is but a continued round of changes, they must, of necessity, take a turn in my favor at some future day. I found relief in this vague and indefinite hope, and when we received orders to go on board the scow, which was to transport us over the Patuxent, I marched down to the water with a firmness of purpose of which I did not believe myself capable, a few minutes before. We were soon on the south side of the river, and taking up our line of march, we traveled about five miles that evening, and stopped for the night at one of those miserable public houses, so frequent in the lower parts of Maryland and Virginia, called "_ordinaries_." Our master ordered a pot of mush to be made for our supper; after despatching which we all lay down on the naked floor to sleep in our handcuffs and chains. The women, my fellow-slaves, lay on one side of the room; and the men who were chained with me, occupied the other. I slept but little this night, which I passed in thinking of my wife and little children, whom I could not hope ever to see again. I also thought of my grandfather, and of the long nights I had passed with him, listening to his narratives of the scenes through which he had passed in Africa. I at length fell asleep, but was distressed by painful dreams. My wife and children appeared to be weeping and lamenting my calamity; and beseeching and imploring my master on their knees, not to carry me away from them. My little boy came and begged me not to go and leave him, and endeavored, as I thought, with his little hands to break the fetters that bound me. I awoke in agony and cursed my existence. I could not pray, for the measure of my woes seemed to be full, and I felt as if there was no mercy in heaven, nor compassion on earth, for a man who was born a slave. Day at length came, and with the dawn, we resumed our journey towards the Potomac. As we passed along the road, I saw the slaves at work in the corn and tobacco fields. I knew they toiled hard and lacked food; but they were not, like me, dragged in chains from their wives, children and friends. Compared with me, they were the happiest of mortals. I almost envied them their blessed lot. Before night we crossed the Potomac, at Hoe's Ferry, and bade farewell to Maryland. At night we stopped at the house of a poor gentleman, at least he appeared to wish my master to consider him a gentleman; and he had no difficulty in establishing his claim to poverty. He lived at the side, of the road, in a framed house, which had never been plastered within--the weather-boards being the only wall. He had about fifty acres of land enclosed by a fence, the remains of a farm which had once covered two or three hundred acres; but the cedar bushes had encroached upon all sides, until the cultivation had been confined to its present limits. The land was the picture of sterility, and there was neither barn nor stable on the place. The owner was ragged, and his wife and children were in a similar plight. It was with difficulty that we obtained a bushel of corn, which our master ordered us to parch at a fire made in the yard, and to eat for our supper. Even this miserable family possessed two slaves, half-starved, half-naked wretches, whose appearance bespoke them familiar with hunger, and victims of the lash; but yet there was one pang which they had not known--they had not been chained and driven from their parents or children, into hopeless exile. We left this place early in the morning, and directed our course toward the south-west; our master riding beside us, and hastening our march, sometimes by words of encouragement, and sometimes by threats of punishment. The women took their place in the rear of our line. We halted about nine o'clock for breakfast, and received as much corn-bread as we could eat, together with a plate of boiled herrings, and about three pounds of pork amongst us. Before we left this place, I was removed from near the middle of the chain, and placed at the front end of it; so that I now became the leader of the file, and held this post of honor until our irons were taken from us, near the town of Columbia in South Carolina. We continued our route this day along the high road between the Potomac and Rappahannock; and I saw each of those rivers several times before night. Our master gave us no dinner to-day, but we halted and got as much corn-mush and sour milk as we could eat for supper. The weather grew mild and pleasant, and we needed no more fires at night. From this time we all slept promiscuously, men and women on the floors of such houses as we chanced to stop at. We passed on through Bowling Green, a quiet village. Time did not reconcile me to my chains, but it made me familiar with them. I reflected on my desperate situation with a degree of calmness, hoping that I might be able to devise some means of escape. My master placed a particular value upon me, for I heard him tell a tavern-keeper that if he had me in Georgia he could get eight hundred dollars for me, but he had bought me for his brother, and believed he should not sell me; he afterwards changed his mind, however. I carefully examined every part of our chain, but found no place where it could be separated. We all had as much corn-bread as we could eat, procured of our owner at the places we stopped at for the night. In addition to this we usually had a salt herring every day. On Sunday we had a quarter of a pound of bacon each. We continued our course up the country westward for a few days and then turned South, crossed James river above Richmond, as I heard at the time. After more than four weeks of travel we entered South Carolina near Camden, and for the first time I saw a field of cotton in bloom. As we approached the Yadkin river the tobacco disappeared from the fields and the cotton plant took its place as an article of general culture. I was now a slave in South Carolina, and had no hope of ever again seeing my wife and children. I had at times serious thoughts of suicide so great was my anguish. If I could have got a rope I should have hanged myself at Lancaster. The thought of my wife and children I had been torn from in Maryland, and the dreadful undefined future which was before me, came near driving me mad. It was long after midnight before I fell asleep, but the most pleasant dream, succeeded to these sorrowful forebodings. I thought I had escaped my master, and through great difficulties made my way back to Maryland, and was again in my wife's cabin with my little children on my lap. Every object was so vividly impressed on my mind in this dream, that when I awoke, a firm conviction settled upon my mind, that by some means, at present incomprehensible to me, I should yet again embrace my wife, and caress my children in their humble dwelling. Early in the morning, our master called us up; and distributed to each of the party a cake made of corn-meal and a small piece of bacon. On our journey, we had only eaten twice a day, and had not received breakfast until about nine o'clock; but he said this morning meal was given to welcome us to South Carolina. He then addressed us all, and told us we might now give up all hope of ever returning to the places of our nativity; as it would be impossible for us to pass through the States of North Carolina and Virginia, without being taken up and sent back. He further advised us to make ourselves contented, as he would take us to Georgia, a far better country than any we had seen; and where we would be able to live in the greatest abundance. About sunrise we took up our march on the road to Columbia, as we were told. Hitherto our master had not offered to sell any of us, and had even refused to stop to talk to any one on the subject of our sale, although he had several times been addressed on this point, before we reached Lancaster; but soon after we departed from this village, we were overtaken on the road by a man on horseback, who accosted our driver by asking him if his _niggars_ were for sale. The latter replied, that he believed he would not sell any yet, as he was on his way to Georgia, and cotton being now much in demand, he expected to obtain high prices for us from persons who were going to settle in the new purchase. He, however, contrary to his custom, ordered us to stop, and told the stranger he might look at us, and that he would find us as fine a lot of hands as were ever imported into the country--that we were all prime property, and he had no doubt would command his own prices in Georgia. The stranger, who was a thin, weather-beaten, sun-burned figure, then said, he wanted a couple of breeding wenches, and would give as much for them as they would bring in Georgia--that he had lately heard from Augusta, and that _niggers_ were not higher there than in Columbia, and, as he had been in Columbia the week before, he knew what _niggers_ were worth. He then walked along our line, as we stood chained together, and looked at the whole of us--then turning to the women, asked the prices of the two pregnant ones. Our master replied, that these were two of the best breeding-wenches in all Maryland--that one was twenty-two, and the other only nineteen--that the first was already the mother of seven children, and the other of four--that he had himself seen the children at the time he bought their mothers--and that such wenches would be cheap at a thousand dollars each; but as they were not able to keep up with the gang, he would take twelve hundred dollars for the two. The purchaser said this was too much, but that he would give nine hundred dollars for the pair. This price was promptly refused; but our master, after some consideration, said he was willing to sell a bargain in these wenches, and would take eleven hundred dollars for them, which was objected to on the other side; and many faults and failings were pointed out in the merchandise. After much bargaining, and many gross jests on the part of the stranger, he offered a thousand dollars for the two, and said he would give no more. He then mounted his horse, and moved off; but after he had gone about one hundred yards, he was called back; and our master said, if he would go with him to the next blacksmith's shop on the road to Columbia, and pay for taking the irons off the rest of us, he might have the two women. This proposal was agreed to, and as it was now about nine o'clock, we were ordered to hasten on to the next house, where, we were told, we must stop for breakfast. At this place we were informed that it was ten miles to the next smith's shop, and our new acquaintance was obliged by the terms of his contract, to accompany us thither. We received for breakfast, about a pint of boiled rice to each person, and after this was despatched, we again took to the road, eager to reach the blacksmith's shop, at which we expected to be relieved of the iron rings and chains, which had so long galled and worried us. About two o'clock we arrived at the longed-for residence of the smith; but, on inquiry, our master was informed that he was not at home, and would not return before evening. Here a controversy arose, whether we should all remain here until the smith returned, or the stranger should go on with us to the next smithery, which was said to be only five miles distant. This was a point not easily settled between two such spirits as our master and the stranger; both of whom had been overseers in their time, and both of whom had risen to the rank of proprietors of slaves. The matter had already produced angry words, and much vaunting on the part of the stranger;--"that a freeman of South Carolina was not to be imposed upon; that by the constitution of the State, his rights were sacred, and he was not to be deprived of his liberty, at the arbitrary will of a man just from amongst the Yankees, and who had brought with him to the South as many Yankee tricks as he had _niggers_, and he believed many more." He then swore, that "all the _niggers_ in the drove were Yankee _niggers_." "When I _overseed_ for Colonel Polk," said he, "on his rice plantation, he had two Yankee _niggers_ that he brought from Maryland, and they were running away every day. I gave them a hundred lashes more than a dozen times; but they never quit running away, till I chained them together, with iron collars round their necks, and chained them to spades, and made them do nothing but dig ditches to drain the rice swamps. They could not run away then, unless they went together, and carried their chains and spades with them. I kept them in this way two years, and better _niggers_ I never had. One of them died one night, and the other was never good for anything after he lost his mate. He never ran away afterwards, but he died too, after a while." He then addressed himself to the two women, whose master he had become, and told them that if ever they ran away, he would treat them in the same way. Wretched as I was myself, my heart bled for these poor creatures, who had fallen into the hands of a tiger in human form. The dispute between the two masters was still raging, when, unexpectedly, the blacksmith rode up to his house, on a thin, bony-looking horse, and dismounting, asked his wife what these gentlemen were making such a _frolick_ about. I did not hear her answer, but both the disputants turned and addressed themselves to the smith--the one to know what price he would demand to take the irons off all these _niggers_, and the other to know how long it would take him to perform the work. It is here proper for me to observe, that there are many phrases of language in common use in Carolina and Georgia, which are applied in a way that would not be understood by persons from one of the Northern States. For instance, when several persons are quarrelling, brawling, making a great noise, or even fighting, they say, "_the gentlemen are frolicking!_" I heard many other terms equally strange, whilst I resided in the southern country, amongst such white people as I became acquainted with; though my acquaintance was confined, in a great measure, to overseers, and such people as did not associate with the rich planters and great families. The smith at length agreed to take the irons from the whole of us for two dollars and fifty cents, and immediately set about it, with the air of indifference that he would have manifested in tearing a pair of old shoes from the hoofs of a wagon-horse. It was four weeks and five days, from the time my irons had been riveted upon me, until they were removed, and great as had been my sufferings whilst chained to my fellow-slaves, I cannot say that I felt any pleasure in being released from my long confinement; for I knew that my liberation was only preparatory to my final, and, as I feared, perpetual subjugation to the power of some such monster, as the one then before me, who was preparing to drive away the two unfortunate women whom he had purchased, and whose life's-blood he had acquired the power of shedding at pleasure, for the sum of a thousand dollars. After we were released from our chains, our master sold the whole lot of irons, which we had borne from Maryland, to the blacksmith, for seven dollars. The smith then procured a bottle of rum, and treated his two new acquaintances to a part of its contents--wishing them both good luck with their _niggers_. After these civilities were over, the two women were ordered to follow their new master, who shaped his course across the country, by a road leading westwest. At parting from us, they both wept aloud, and wrung their hands in despair. We all went to them, and bade them a last farewell. Their road led into a wood, which they soon entered, and I never saw them nor heard of them again. These women had both been driven from Calvert county, as well as myself, and the fate of the younger of the two, was peculiarly severe. She had been brought up as a waiting-maid of a young lady, the daughter of a gentleman, whose wife and family often visited the mistress of my own wife. I had frequently seen this woman when she was a young girl, in attendance upon her young mistress, and riding in the same carriage with her. The father of the young lady died, and soon after she married a gentleman who resided a few miles off. The husband received a considerable fortune with his bride, and amongst other things, her waiting-maid, who was reputed a great beauty among people of color. He had been addicted to the fashionable sports of the country, before marriage, such as horse-racing, fox-hunting, &c., and I had heard the black people say he drank too freely; but it was supposed that he would correct all these irregularities after marriage, more especially as his wife was a great belle, and withal very handsome. The reverse, however, turned out to be the fact. Instead of growing better, he became worse; and in the course of a few years, was known all over the country, as a drunkard and a gambler. His wife, it was said, died of grief, and soon after her death, his effects were seized by his creditors, and sold by the sheriff. The former waiting-maid, now the mother of several children, was purchased by our present master, for four hundred dollars, at the sheriff's sale, and this poor wretch, whose employment in early life had been to take care of her young mistress, and attend to her in her chamber, and at her toilet, after being torn from her husband and her children, had now gone to toil out a horrible existence beneath the scorching sun of a South Carolina cotton-field, under the dominion of a master, as void of the manners of a gentleman, as he was of the language of humanity. It was now late in the afternoon; but, as we had made little progress to-day, and were now divested of the burden of our chains, as well as freed from the two women, who had hitherto much retarded our march, our master ordered us to hasten on our way, as we had ten miles to go that evening. I had been so long oppressed by the weight of my chains, and the iron collar about my neck, that for some time after I commenced walking at my natural liberty, I felt a kind of giddiness, or lightness of the head. Most of my companions complained of the same sensation, and we did not recover our proper feelings until after we had slept one night. It was after dark when we arrived at our lodging-place, which proved to be the house of a small cotton-planter, who, it appeared, kept a sort of a house of entertainment for travelers, contrary to what I afterwards discovered to be the usual custom of cotton-planters. This man and my master had known each other before, and seemed to be well acquainted. He was the first person that we had met since leaving Maryland, who was known to my master, and as they kept up a very free conversation, through the course of the evening, and the house in which they were, was only separated from the kitchen, in which we were lodged, by a space of a few feet, I had an opportunity of hearing much that was highly interesting to me. The landlord, after supper, came with our master to look at us, and to see us receive our allowance of boiled rice from the hands of a couple of black women, who had prepared it in a large iron kettle. Whilst viewing us, the former asked the latter, what he intended to do with his drove; but no reply was made to this inquiry--and as our master had, through our whole journey, maintained a studied silence on this subject, I felt a great curiosity to know what disposition he intended to make of the whole gang, and of myself in particular. On their return to the house, I advanced to a small window in the kitchen, which brought me within a few yards of the place where they sat, and from which I was able to hear all they said, although they spoke in a low tone of voice. I here learned, that so many of us as could be sold for a good price, were to be disposed of in Columbia, on our arrival at that place, and that the residue would be driven to Augusta and sold there. The landlord assured my master that at this time slaves were much in demand, both in Columbia and Augusta; that purchasers were numerous and prices good; and that the best plan of effecting good sales would be to put up each _nigger_ separately, at auction, after giving a few days' notice, by an advertisement, in the neighboring country. Cotton, he said, had not been higher for many years, and as a great many persons, especially young men, were moving off to the new purchase in Georgia, prime hands were in high demand, for the purpose of clearing the land in the new country--that the boys and girls, under twenty, would bring almost any price at present, in Columbia for the purpose of picking the growing crop of cotton, which promised to be very heavy; and as most persons had planted more than their hands would be able to pick, young _niggers_, who would soon learn to pick cotton, were prime articles in the market. As to those more advanced in life, he seemed to think the prospect of selling them at an unusual price, not so good, as they could not so readily become expert cotton-pickers--he said further, that for some cause, which he could not comprehend, the price of rice had not been so good this year as usual; and that he had found it cheaper to purchase rice to feed his own _niggers_ than to provide them with corn, which had to be brought from the upper country. He therefore advised my master not to drive us towards the rice plantation of the low country. My master said he would follow his advice, at least so far as to sell a portion of us in Carolina, but seemed to be of opinion that his prime hands would bring him more money in Georgia, and named me, in particular, as one who would be worth, at least, a thousand dollars, to a man who was about making a settlement, and clearing a plantation in the new purchase. I therefore concluded, that in the course of events, I was likely to become the property of a Georgian, which turned out in the end to be the case, though not so soon as I at this time apprehended. I slept but little this night, feeling a restlessness when no longer in chains; and pondering over the future lot of my life, which appeared fraught only with evil and misfortune. Day at length dawned, and with its first light we were ordered to betake ourselves to the road, which, we were told, would lead us to Columbia, the place of intended sale of some, if not all of us. For several days past, I had observed that in the country through which we traveled, little attention was paid to the cultivation of anything but cotton. Now this plant was almost the sole possessor of the fields. It covered the plantations adjacent to the road, as far as I could see, both before and behind me, and looked not unlike buckwheat before it blossoms. I saw some small fields of corn, and lots of sweet potatoes, amongst which the young vines of the water-melon were frequently visible. The improvements on the plantations were not good. There were no barns, but only stables and sheds, to put the cotton under, as it was brought from the field. Hay seemed to be unknown in the country, for I saw neither hay-stacks nor meadows; and the few fields that were lying fallow, had but small numbers of cattle in them, and these were thin and meagre. We had met with no flocks of sheep of late, and the hogs that we saw on the road-side were in bad condition. The horses and mules that I saw in the cotton-fields, were poor and badly harnessed, and the half-naked condition of the negroes, who drove them, or followed with the hoe, together with their wan complexions, proved to me that they had too much work, or not enough food. We passed a cotton-gin this morning, the first that I ever saw; but they were not at work with it. We also met a party of ladies and gentlemen on a journey of pleasure, riding in two very handsome carriages, drawn by sleek and spirited horses, very different in appearance from the moving skeletons that I had noticed drawing the ploughs in the fields. The black drivers of the coaches were neatly clad in gay-colored clothes, and contrasted well with their half-naked brethren, a gang of whom were hoeing cotton by the road-side, near them, attended by an overseer in a white linen shirt and pantaloons, with one of the long negro whips in his hand. I observed that these poor people did not raise their heads, to look at either the fine coaches and horses then passing, or at us; but kept their faces steadily bent towards the cotton-plants, from among which they were removing the weeds. I almost shuddered at the sight, knowing that I myself was doomed to a state of servitude equally cruel and debasing, unless, by some unforeseen occurrence, I might fall into the hands of a master of less inhumanity of temper than the one who had possession of the miserable creatures before me. CHAPTER III. It was manifest that I was now in a country where the life of a black man was no more regarded than that of an ox, except as far as the man was worth the more money in the market. On all the plantations that we passed, there was a want of live stock of every description, except slaves, and they were deplorably abundant. The fields were destitute of everything that deserved the name of grass, and not a spear of clover was anywhere visible. The few cattle that existed, were browsing on the boughs of the trees, in the woods. Everything betrayed a scarcity of the means of supplying the slaves, who cultivated the vast cotton-fields, with a sufficiency of food. We traveled this day more than thirty miles, and crossed the Catawba river in the afternoon, on the bottoms of which I saw, for the first time, fields of rice, growing in swamps covered with water. Causeways were raised through the low-lands in which the rice grew, and on which the road was formed on which we traveled. These rice-fields, or rather swamps, had, in my eyes, a beautiful appearance. The rice was nearly two feet in height above the water, and of a vivid green color, covering a large space, of at least a hundred acres. Had it not been for the water, which appeared stagnant and sickly, and swarmed with frogs and thousands of snakes, it would have been as fine a sight as one need wish to look upon. After leaving the low grounds along the river, we again entered plantations of cotton, which lined the roads on both sides, relieved, here and there, by corn-fields and potato-patches. We stopped for the night at a small tavern, and our master said we were within a day's journey of Columbia. We here, again, received boiled rice for supper, without salt, or any kind of seasoning; a pint was allotted to each person, which we greedily devoured, having had no dinner to-day, save an allowance of corn-cakes, with the fat of about five pounds of bacon, extracted by frying, in which we dipped our bread. I slept soundly after this day's march, the fatigues of the body having, for once, overcome the agitations of the mind. The next day, which was, if my recollection is accurate, the ninth of June, was the last of our journey before our company separated; and we were on the road before the stars had disappeared from the sky. Our breakfast, this morning, consisted of bacon soup, a dish composed of corn-meal, boiled in water, with a small piece of bacon to give the soup a taste of meat. For dinner we had boiled Indian peas, with a small allowance of bacon. This was the first time that we had received two rations of meat in the same day, on the whole journey, and some of our party were much surprised at the kindness of our master; but I had no doubt that his object was to make us look fat and hearty, to enable him to obtain better prices for us at Columbia. At supper this night, we had corn mush, in large wooden trays, with melted lard to dip the mush in before eating it. We might have reached Columbia this day if we had continued our march, but we stopped, at least an hour before sun-set, about three miles from town, at the house of a man who supported the double character of planter and keeper of a house of entertainment; for I learned from his slaves that their master considered it disreputable to be called a tavern-keeper, and would not put up a sign, although he received pay of such persons as lodged with him. His house was a frame building, weather-boarded with pine boards, but had no plastering within. The furniture corresponded with the house which contained it, and was both scanty and mean, consisting of pine tables and wooden chairs, with bottoms made of cornhusks. The house was only one story high, and all the rooms, six or seven in number, parlor, bed-rooms, and kitchen, were on the first floor. As the weather was warm and the windows open, I had an opportunity of looking into the sleeping rooms of the family, as I walked round the house, which I was permitted freely to do. The beds and their furniture answered well to the chairs and tables; yet in the large front room I observed on an old fashioned side-board, a great quantity of glass-ware, of various descriptions, with two or three dozen silver spoons, a silver tea-urn, and several knives and forks with silver handles. In the corner of this room stood a bed with gaudy red curtains, with figures of lions, elephants, naked negroes, and other representations of African scenery. The master of the house was not at home when we arrived, but came in from the field shortly afterwards. He met my master with the cordiality of an old friend, though he had never seen him before; said he was happy to see him at his house, and that the greatest pleasure he enjoyed was derived from the entertainment of such gentlemen as thought proper to visit his house; that he was always glad to see strangers, and more especially gentlemen who were adding so much to the wealth and population of Carolina, as those merchants who imported servants from the North. He then observed that he had never seen a finer lot of property pass his house than we were, and that any gentleman who brought such a stock of hands into the country was a public benefactor, and entitled to the respect and gratitude of every friend of the South. He assured my master that he was happy to see him at his house, and that if he thought proper to remain a few days with him, it would be his chief business to introduce him to the gentlemen of the neighborhood, who would all be glad to become acquainted with a merchant of his respectability. In the State of Maryland, my master had been called a _negro buyer, or Georgia trader_, sometimes a _negro driver_; but here, I found that he was elevated to the rank of merchant, and a merchant of the first order too; for it was very clear that in the opinion of the landlord, no branch of trade was more honorable than the traffic in us poor slaves. Our master observed that he had a mind to remain here a short time, and try what kind of market Columbia would present, for the sale of his lot of servants; and that he would make his house his home, until he had ascertained what could be done in town, and what demand there was in the neighborhood for servants. We were not called _slaves_ by these men, who talked of selling us, and of the price we would bring, with as little compunction of conscience as they would have talked of the sale of so many mules. It is the custom throughout all the slave-holding States, amongst people of fashion, never to speak of their negroes as slaves, but always as servants; but I had never before met with the keeper of a public house, in the country, who had arrived at this degree of refinement. I had been accustomed to hear this order of men, and indeed the greater number of white people speak of the people of color as _niggers_. We remained at this place more than two weeks; I presume because my master found it cheaper to keep us here than in town, or perhaps, because he supposed we might recover from the hardships of our journey more speedily in the country. As it was here that my real acquaintance with South Carolina commenced, I have noted with more particularity the incidents that occurred, than I otherwise should have done. This family was composed of the husband, wife, three daughters, all young women, and two sons, one of whom appeared to be about twenty, and the other, perhaps seventeen years old. They had nine slaves in all, one very old man, quite crooked with years and labor--two men of middle age--one lad, perhaps sixteen--one woman with three children, the oldest about seven,--and a young girl of twelve or fourteen. The farm, or plantation, they lived on, contained about one hundred and fifty acres of cleared land, sandy, and the greater part of it poor, as was proved by the stinted growth of the cotton. At the time of our arrival at this house, I saw no persons about it, except the four ladies--the mother and her three daughters--the husband being in the field, as noticed above. According to the orders of my master, I had taken the saddle from his horse and put him in a stable; and it was not until after the first salutations of the new landlord to my master were over, that he seemed to think of asking him whether he had come on foot, on horse-back, or in a coach. He at length, however, turned suddenly and asked him, with an air of surprise, where he had left his horses and carriage. My master said he had no carriage, that he traveled on horse-back, and that his horse was in the stable. The landlord then apologized for the trouble he must have had, in having his horse put away himself; and said that at this season of the year, the planters were so hurried by their crops, and found so much difficulty in keeping down the grass, that they were generally obliged to keep all their servants in the field; that for his part, he had been compelled to put his coachman, and even the waiting-maids of his daughters into the cotton-fields, and that at this time, his family were without servants, a circumstance that had never happened before! "For my part," said he, "I have always prided myself on bringing up my family well, and can say, that although I do not live in so fine a house as some of the other planters of Carolina, yet my children are as great ladies and gentlemen as any in the state. Not one of them has ever had to do a day's work yet, and as long as I live, never shall. I sent two of my daughters to Charleston last summer, and they were there three months; and I intend to send the youngest there this summer. They have all learned to dance here in Columbia, where I sent them two quarters to a Frenchman, and he made me pay pretty well for it. They went to the same dancing school with the daughters of Wade Hampton and Colonel Fitzhugh. I am determined that they shall never marry any but gentlemen of the first character, and I know they will always follow my advice in matters of this kind. They are prudent and sensible girls, and are not going to do as Major Pollack's daughter did this spring, who ran away with a Georgia cracker, who brought a drove of cattle for sale from the Indian country, and who had not a _nigger_ in the world. He staid with me sometime, and wished to have something to say to my second daughter, but the thing would not do." Here he stopped short in his narrative, and seeming to muse a moment, said to his guest, "I presume, as you travel alone, you have no family." "No," replied my master, "I am a single man." "I thought so by your appearance," said the loquacious landlord, "and I shall be glad to introduce you to my family this evening. My sons are two as fine fellows as there are in all Carolina. My oldest boy is lieutenant in the militia, and in the same company that marched with Gen. Marion in the war. He was on the point of fighting a duel last winter, with young M'Corkle in Columbia; but the matter was settled between them. You will see him this evening, when he returns from the quoit-party. A quoit-party of young bucks meet once every week about two miles from this, and as I wish my sons to keep the best company, they both attend it. There is to be a cock-fight there this afternoon, and my youngest son, Edmund, has the finest cock in this country. He is one of the true game blood,--the real Dominica game breed; and I sent to Charleston for his gaffs. There is a bet of ten dollars a side between my son's cock and the one belonging to young Blainey, the son of Major Blainey. Young Blainey is a hot-headed young blood, and has been concerned in three duels, though I believe he never fought but one; but I know Edmund will not take a word from him, and it will be well if he and his cock do not both get well licked." Here the conversation was arrested by the sound of horses' feet on the road, and in the next instant, two young men rode up at a gallop, mounted on lean looking horses; one of the riders carrying a pole on his shoulder, with a game cock in a net bag, tied to one end of it. On perceiving them the landlord exclaimed with an oath, "There's two lads of spirit! stranger--and if you will allow me the liberty of asking you your name, I will introduce you to them." At the suggestion of his name, my master seemed to hesitate a little, but after a moment's pause, said, "They call me M'Giffin, sir." "My name is Hulig, sir," replied the landlord, "and I am very happy to be acquainted with you, Mr. M'Giffin," at the same time shaking him by the hand, and introducing his two sons, who were by this time at the door. This was the first time I had ever heard the name of my master, although I had been with him five weeks. I had never seen him before the day on which he seized and bound me in Maryland, and as he took me away immediately, I did not hear his name at the time. The people who assisted to fetter me, either from accident or design, omitted to name him, and after we commenced our journey, he had maintained so much distant reserve and austerity of manner towards us all, that no one ventured to ask him his name. We had called him nothing but "master," and the various persons at whose houses we had stopped on our way, knew as little of his name as we did. We had frequently been asked the name of our master, and perhaps had not always obtained credence, when we said we did not know it. Throughout the whole journey, until after we were released from our irons, he had forbidden us to converse together beyond a few words in relation to our temporary condition and wants; and as he was with us all day, and never slept out of hearing of us at night, he rigidly enforced his edict of silence. I presume that the reason of this prohibition of all conversation was to prevent us from devising plans of escape; but he had imposed as rigid a silence on himself as was enforced upon us; and after having passed from Maryland to South Carolina, in his company, I knew no more of my master, than, that he knew how to keep his secrets, guard his slaves, and make a close bargain. I had never heard him speak of his home or family; and therefore had concluded that he was an unmarried man, and an adventurer, who felt no more attachment for one place than another, and whose residence was not very well settled; but, from the large sums of money which he must have been able to command and carry with him to the North, to enable him to purchase so large a number of slaves, I had no doubt that he was a man of consequence and consideration in the place from whence he came. In Maryland, I had always observed that men, who were the owners of large stocks of negroes, were not averse to having publicity given to their names; and that the possession of this species of property even there, gave its owner more vanity and egotism, than fell to the lot of the holders of any other kind of estate; and in truth, my subsequent experience proved that without the possession of slaves, no man could ever arrive at, or hope to rise to any honorable station in society;--yet, my master seemed to take no pride in having at his disposal the lives of so many human beings. He never spoke to us in words of either pity or hatred; and never spoke of us, except to order us to be fed or watered, as he would have directed the same offices to be performed for so many horses, or to inquire where the best prices could be obtained for us. He regarded us only as objects of traffic and the materials of his commerce; and although he had lived several years in Carolina and Georgia, and had there exercised the profession of an overseer, he regarded the Southern planters as no less the subjects of trade and speculation than the slaves he sold to them; as will appear in the sequel. It was to this man that the landlord introduced his two sons, and upon whom he was endeavoring to impose a belief, that he was the head of a family which took rank with those of the first planters of the district. The ladies of the household, though I had seen them in the kitchen when I walked round the house, had not yet presented themselves to my master, nor indeed were they in a condition to be seen anywhere but in the apartment they occupied at the time. The young gentlemen gave a very gasconading account of the quoit-party and cock-fight, from which they had just returned, and according to their version of the affair, it might have been an assemblage of at least half the military officers of the state; for all the persons of whom they spoke, were captains, majors and colonels. The eldest said, he had won two bowls of punch at quoits; and the youngest, whose cock had been victor in the battle, on which ten dollars were staked, vaunted much of the qualities of his bird; and supported his veracity by numerous oaths, and reiterated appeals to his brother for the truth of his assertions. Both these young men were so much intoxicated that they with difficulty maintained an erect posture in walking. By this time the sun was going down, and I observed two female slaves, a woman and girl, approaching the house on the side of the kitchen from the cotton-field. They were coming home to prepare supper for the family; the ladies whom I had seen in the kitchen not having been there for the purpose of performing the duties appropriate to that station, but having sought it as a place of refuge from the sight of my master, who had approached the front of their dwelling silently, and so suddenly as not to permit them to gain the foot of the stairway in the large front room, without being seen by him, to whose view they by no means wished to expose themselves before they had visited their toilets. About dark the supper was ready in the large room, and, as it had two fronts, one of which looked into the yard where my companions and I had been permitted to seat ourselves, and had an opportunity of seeing, by the light of the candle, all that was done within, and of hearing all that was said. The ladies, four in number, had entered the room before the gentlemen; and when the latter came in my master was introduced, by the landlord to his wife and daughters, by the name and title of _Colonel M'Giffin_, which, at that time, impressed me with a belief that he was really an officer, and that he had disclosed this circumstance without my knowledge; but I afterwards perceived that in the south it is deemed respectful to address a stranger by the title of Colonel, or Major, or General, if his appearance will warrant the association of so high a rank with his name. My master had declared his intention of becoming the inmate of this family for some time, and no pains seemed to be spared on their part to impress upon his mind the high opinion that they entertained of the dignity of the owner of fifty slaves; the possession of so large a number of human creatures being, in Carolina, a certificate of character, which entitles its bearer to enter whatever society he may choose to select, with out any thing more being known of his birth, his life or reputation. The man who owns fifty servants must needs be a gentleman amongst the higher ranks, and the owner of half a hundred _niggers_ is a sort of nobleman amongst the low, the ignorant, and the vulgar. The mother and three daughters, whose appearance, when I saw them in the kitchen, would have warranted the conclusion that they had just risen from bed without having time to adjust their dress, were now gaily, if not neatly attired; and the two female slaves, who had come from the field at sundown to cook the supper, now waited at the table. The landlord talked much of his crops, his plantation and slaves, and of the distinguished families who exchanged visits with his own; but my master took very little part in the conversation of the evening, and appeared disposed to maintain the air of mystery which had hitherto invested his character. After it was quite dark, the slaves came in from the cotton-field, and taking little notice of us, went into the kitchen, and each taking thence a pint of corn, proceeded to a little mill, which was nailed to a post in the yard, and there commenced the operation of grinding meal for their suppers, which were afterwards to be prepared by baking the meal into cakes at the fire. The woman who was the mother of the three small children, was permitted to grind her allowance of corn first, and after her came the old man, and the others in succession. After the corn was converted into meal, each one kneaded it up with cold water into a thick dough, and raking away the ashes from a small space on the kitchen hearth, placed the dough, rolled up in green leaves, in the hollow, and covering it with hot embers, left it to be baked into bread, which was done in about half an hour. These loaves constituted the only supper of the slaves belonging to this family for I observed that the two women who had waited at the table, after the supper of the white people was disposed of, also came with their corn to the mill on the post and ground their allowance like the others. They had not been permitted to taste even the fragments of the meal that they had cooked for their masters and mistresses. It was eleven o'clock before these people had finished their supper of cakes, and several of them, especially the younger of the two lads, were so overpowered with toil and sleep, that they had to be roused from their slumbers when their cakes were done, to devour them. We had for our supper to-night, a pint of boiled rice to each person, and a small quantity of stale and very rancid butter, from the bottom of an old keg, or firkin, which contained about two pounds, the remnant of that which once filled it. We boiled the rice ourselves, in a large iron kettle; and, as our master now informed us that we were to remain here some time, many of us determined to avail ourselves of this season of respite from our toils, to wash our clothes, and free our persons from the vermin which had appeared amongst our party several weeks before, and now begun to be extremely tormenting. As we were not allowed any soap, we were obliged to resort to the use of a very fine and unctuous kind of clay, resembling fullers' earth, but of a yellow color, which was found on the margin of a small swamp near the house. This was the first time that I had ever heard of clay being used for the purpose of washing clothes; but I often availed myself of this resource afterwards, whilst I was a slave in the south. We wet our clothes, then rubbed this clay all over the garments, and by scouring it out in warm water with our hands, the cloth, whether of woollen, or cotton, or linen texture, was entirely clean. We subjected our persons to the same process, and in this way freed our camp from the host of enemies that had been generated in the course of our journey. This washing consumed the whole of the first day of our residence on the plantation of Mr. Hulig. We all lay the first night in a shed, or summer kitchen, standing behind the house, and a few yards from it a place in which the slaves of the plantation washed their clothes, and passed their Sundays in warm weather, when they did not work; but as this place was quite too small to accommodate our party, or indeed to contain us, without crowding us together in such a manner as to endanger our health, we were removed, the morning after our arrival, to an old decayed frame building, about one hundred yards from the house, which had been erected, as I learned, for a cotton-gin, but into which its possessor, for want of means I presume, had never introduced the machinery of the gin. This building was near forty feet square; was without any other floor than the earth, and neither doors nor windows, to close the openings which had been left for the admission of those who entered it. We were told that in this place the cotton of the plantation was deposited in the picking season, as it was brought from the field, until it could be removed to a neighboring plantation, where there was a gin to divest it of its seeds. Here we took our temporary abode--men and women, promiscuously. Our provisions, whilst we remained here, were regularly distributed to us; and our daily allowance to each person, consisted of a pint of corn, a pint of rice, and about three or four pounds of butter, such as we had received on the night of our arrival, divided amongst us, in small pieces from the point of a table knife. The rice we boiled in the iron kettle--we ground our corn at the little mill on the post in the kitchen, and converted the meal into bread, in the manner we had been accustomed to at home--sometimes on the hearth, and sometimes before the fire on a hoe. The butter was given us as an extraordinary ration, to strengthen and recruit us after our long march, and give us a healthy and expert appearance at the time of our future sale. We had no beds of any kind to sleep on, but each one was provided with a blanket, which had been the companion of our travels. We were left entirely at liberty to go out or in when we pleased, and no watch was kept over us either by night or day. Our master had removed us so far from our native country, that he supposed it impossible for any of us ever to escape from him, and surmount all the obstacles that lay between us and our former homes. He went away immediately after we were established in our new lodgings, and remained absent until the second evening about sundown, when he returned, came into our shed, sat down on a block of wood in the midst of us, and asked if any one had been sick; if we had got our clothes clean; and if we had been supplied with an allowance of rice, corn and butter. After satisfying himself upon these points, he told us that we were now at liberty to run away if we chose to do so; but if we made the attempt we should most certainly be re-taken, and subjected to the most terrible punishment. "I never flog," said he, "my practice is to _cat-haul_; and if you run away, and I catch you again--as I surely shall do--and give you one cat-hauling, you will never run away again, nor attempt it." I did not then understand the import of cat-hauling, but in after times, became well acquainted with its signification. We remained in this place nearly two weeks, during which time our allowance of food was not varied, and was regularly given to us. We were not required to do any work; and I had liberty and leisure to walk about the plantation, and make such observations as I could upon the new state of things around me. Gentlemen and ladies came every day to look at us, with a view of becoming our purchasers; and we were examined with minute care as to our ages, former occupations, and capacity of performing labor. Our persons were inspected, and more especially the hands were scrutinized, to see if all the fingers were perfect, and capable of the quick motions necessary in picking cotton. Our master only visited us once a day, and sometimes he remained absent two days; so that he seldom met any of those who came to see us; but, whenever it so happened that he did meet them, he laid aside his silence and became very talkative, and even animated in his conversation, extolling our good qualities, and averring that he had purchased some of as of one colonel, and others of another general in Virginia; that he could by no means have procured us, had it not been that, in some instances, our masters had ruined themselves, and were obliged to sell us to save their families from ruin; and in others, that our owners were dead, their estates deeply in debt, and we had been sold at public sale; by which means he had become possessed of us. He said our habits were unexceptionable, our characters good; that there was not one among us all who had ever been known to run away, or steal any thing from our former masters. I observed that running away, and stealing from his master, were regarded as the highest crimes of which a slave could be guilty; but I heard no questions asked concerning our propensity to steal from other people besides our masters, and I afterwards learned, that this was not always regarded as a very high crime by the owner of a slave, provided he would perpetrate the theft so adroitly as not to be detected in it. We were severally asked by our visitors, if we would be willing to live with them, if they would purchase us, to which we generally replied in the affirmative; but our owner declined all the offers that were made for us, upon the ground that we were too poor--looked too bad to be sold at present--and that in our condition he could not expect to get a fair value for us. One evening, when our master was with us, a thin, sallow-looking man rode up to the house, and alighting from his horse, came to us, and told him that he had come to buy a boy; that he wished to get a good field hand, and would pay a good price for him. I never saw a human countenance that expressed more of the evil passions of the heart than did that of this man, and his conversation corresponded with his physiognomy. Every sentence of his language was accompanied with an oath of the most vulgar profanity, and his eyes appeared to me to be the index of a soul as cruel as his visage was disgusting and repulsive. After looking at us for some time, this wretch singled _me_ out as the object of his choice, and coming up to me, asked me how I would like him for a master. In my heart I detested him; but a slave is often afraid to speak the truth, and divulge all he feels; so with myself in this instance, as it was doubtful whether I might not fall into his hands, and be subject to the violence of his temper, I told him that if he was a good master, as every gentleman ought to be, I should be willing to live with him. He appeared satisfied with my answer, and turning to my master, said he would give a high price for me. "I can," said he, "by going to Charleston, buy as many Guinea negroes as I please for two hundred dollars each, but as I like this fellow, I will give you four hundred for him." This offer struck terror into my heart, for I knew it was as much as was generally given for the best and ablest slaves, and I expected that it would immediately be accepted as my price, and that I should be at once consigned to the hands of this man, of whom I had formed so abhorrent an opinion. To my surprise and satisfaction, however, my master made no reply to the proposition; but stood for a moment, with one hand raised to his face and his fore-finger on his nose, and then turning suddenly to me, said, "Go into the house; I shall not sell you to-day." It was my business to obey the order of departure, and as I went beyond the sound of their voices, I could not understand the purport of the conversation which followed between these two traffickers in human blood; but after a parley of about a quarter of an hour, the hated stranger started abruptly away, and going to the road, mounted his horse, and rode off at a gallop, banishing himself and my fears together. I did not see my master again this evening, and when I came out of our barracks in the morning, although it was scarcely daylight, I saw him standing near one corner of the building, with his head inclined towards the wall, evidently listening to catch any sounds within. He ordered me to go and feed his horse, and have him saddled for him by sunrise. About an hour afterwards he came to the stable in his riding dress; and told me that he should remove us all to Columbia in a few days. He then rode away, and did not return until the third day afterwards. CHAPTER IV. It was now about the middle of June, the weather excessively warm, and from eleven o'clock, A. M., until late in the afternoon, the sand about our residence was so hot that we could not stand on it with our bare feet in one posture, more than one or two minutes. The whole country, so far as I could see, appeared to be a dead plain, without the least variety of either hill or dale. The pine was so far the predominating timber of the forest, that at a little distance the entire woods appeared to be composed of this tree. I had become weary of being confined to the immediate vicinity of our lodgings, and determined to venture out into the fields of the plantation, and see the manner of cultivating cotton. Accordingly, after I had made my morning meal upon corn cakes, I sallied out in the direction which I had seen the slaves of the plantation take at the time they left the house at daylight, and following a path through a small field of corn, which was so tall as to prevent me from seeing beyond it, I soon arrived at the field in which the people were at work with hoes amongst the cotton, which was about two feet and a half high, and had formed such long branches, that they could no longer plough in it without breaking it. Expecting to pass the remainder of my life in this kind of labor, I felt anxious to know the evils, if any, attending it, and more especially the manner in which the slaves were treated on the cotton estates. The people now before me, were all diligently and laboriously weeding and hilling the cotton with hoes, and when I approached them, they scarcely took time to speak to me, but continued their labor as if I had not been present. As there did not appear to be any overseer with them, I thought I would go amongst them, and enter into conversation with them; but upon addressing myself to one of the men, and telling him, if it was not disagreeable to him, I should be glad to become acquainted with him, he said he should be glad to be acquainted with me, but master Tom did not allow him to talk much to people when he was at work. I asked him where his master Tom was; but before he had time to reply, same one called--"Mind your work there, you rascals." Looking in the direction of the sound, I saw master Tom, sitting under the shade of a sassafras tree, at the distance of about a hundred yards from us. Deeming it unsafe to continue in the field without the permission of its lord, I approached the sassafras tree, with my hat in my hand, and in a very humble manner, asked leave to help the people work awhile, as I was tired of staying about the house and doing nothing. He said he did not care; I might go and work with them awhile, but I must take care not to talk too much and keep his hands from their work. Now, having authority on my side, I returned, and taking a hoe from the hands of a small girl, told her to pull up weeds, and I would take her row for her. When we arrived at the end of the rows which we were then hilling, master Tom, who still held his post under the sassafras tree, called his people to come to breakfast. Although I had already broken my fast, I went with the rest for the purpose of seeing what their breakfast was composed of. At the tree I saw a keg which contained about five gallons, with water in it, and a gourd lying by it; near this was a basket made of splits, large enough to hold more than a peck. It contained the breakfast of the people, covered by some green leaves of the magnolia, or great bay tree of the South. When the leaves were removed, I found that the supply of provisions consisted of one cake of corn-meal, weighing about half a pound, for each person. This bread had no sort of seasoning, not even salt, and constituted the only breakfast of these poor people, who had been toiling from early dawn until about eight o'clock. There was no cake for me, and master Tom did not say anything to me on the state of my stomach; but the young girl, whose hoe I had taken in the field, offered me a part of her cake, which I refused. After the breakfast was despatched, we again returned to our work; but the master ordered the girl, whose hoe I had, to go and get another hoe which lay at some distance in the field, and take her row again. I continued in the field until dinner, which took place about one o'clock, and was the same, in all respects, as the breakfast had been. Master Tom was the younger of the two brothers who returned from the cock-fight on the evening of our arrival at this place,--he left the field about ten o'clock, and was succeeded by his elder brother, as overseer for the remainder of the day. After this change of superintendents, my companions became more loquacious, and in the course of an hour or two, I had become familiar with the condition of my fellow-laborers, who told me that the elder of their young masters was much less tyrannical than his younger brother; and that whilst the former remained in the field they would be at liberty to talk as much as they pleased, provided they did not neglect their work. One of the men who appeared to be about forty years of age, and who was the foreman of the field, told me that he had been born in South Carolina, and had always lived there, though he had only belonged to his present master about ten years. I asked him if his master allowed him no meat, nor any kind of provisions except bread; to which he replied that they never had any meat except at Christmas, when each hand on the place received about three pounds of pork; that from September, when the sweet potatoes were at the maturity of their growth, they had an allowance of potatoes as long as the crop held out, which was generally until about March; but that for the rest of the year, they had nothing but a peck of corn a week, with such weeds and other vegetables as they could gather from the fields for greens--that their master did not allow them any salt, and that the only means they had of procuring this luxury, was, by working on Sundays for the neighboring planters, who paid them in money at the rate of fifty cents per day, with which they purchased salt and some other articles of convenience. This man told me that his master furnished him with two shirts of tow linen, and two pair of trowsers, one of woollen and the other of linen cloth, one woollen jacket, and one blanket every year. That he received the woollen clothes at Christmas, and the linen at Easter; and all the other clothes, if he had any, he was obliged to provide for himself by working on Sunday. He said, that for several years past, he had not been able to provide any clothes for himself; as he had a wife with several small children, on an adjoining plantation, whose master gave only one suit of clothes in the year to the mother, and none of any kind to the children, which had compelled him to lay out all his savings in providing clothes for his family, and such little necessaries as were called for by his wife from time to time. He had not had a shoe on his foot for several years, but in winter made a kind of moccasin for himself of the bark of a tree, which he said was abundant in the swamps, and could be so manufactured as to make good ropes, and tolerable moccasins, sufficient at least to defend the feet from the frost, though not to keep them dry. The old man whom I have alluded to before, was in the field with the others, though he was not able to keep up with his row. He had no clothes on him except the remains of an old shirt, which hung in tatters from his neck and arms; the two young girls had nothing on them but petticoats, made of coarse tow-cloth, and the woman, who was the mother of the children, wore the remains of a tow-linen shift, the front part of which was entirely gone; but a piece of old cotton bagging tied round her loins, served the purposes of an apron The younger of the two boys was entirely naked. The man who was foreman of the field, was a person of good sense for the condition of life in which fortune had placed him, and spoke to me freely of his hard lot. I observed that under his shirt, which was very ragged, he wore a piece of fine linen cloth, apparently part of an old shirt, wrapped closely round his back, and confined in front by strings, tied down his breast. I asked him why he wore that piece of gentleman's linen under his shirt, and shall give his reply in his own words as well as I can recollect them, at a distance of near thirty years. "I have always been a hard working man, and have suffered a great deal from hunger in my time. It is not possible for a man to work hard every day for several months, and get nothing but a peck of corn a week to eat, and not feel hungry. When a man is hungry, you know, (if you have ever been hungry,) he must eat whatever he can get. I have not tasted meat since last Christmas, and we have had to work uncommonly hard this summer. Master has a flock of sheep, that run in the woods, and they come every night to sleep in the lane near the house. Two weeks ago last Saturday, when we quit work at night, I was very hungry, and as we went to the house we passed along the lane where the sheep lay. There were nearly fifty of them, and some were very fat. The temptation was more than I could bear. I caught one of them, cut its head off with the hoe that I carried on my shoulder, and threw it under the fence. About midnight, when all was still about the house, I went out with a knife, took the sheep into the woods, and dressed it by the light of the moon. The carcass I took home, and after cutting it up, placed it in the great kettle over a good fire, intending to boil it and divide it, when cooked, between my fellow-slaves (whom I knew to be as hungry as I was) and myself. Unfortunately for me, master Tom, who had been out amongst his friends that day, had not returned at bed-time; and about one o'clock in the morning, at the time when I had a blazing fire under the kettle, I heard the sound of the feet of a horse coming along the lane. The kitchen walls were open so that the light of my fire could not be concealed, and in a moment I heard the horse blowing at the front of the house. Conscious of my danger, I stripped my shirt from my back, and pushed it into the boiling kettle, so as wholly to conceal the flesh of the sheep. I had scarcely completed this act of precaution, when master Tom burst into the kitchen, and with a terrible oath, asked me what I was doing so late at night, with a great fire in the kitchen. I replied, 'I am going to wash my shirt, master, and am boiling it to get it clean.' 'Washing your shirt at this time of night!' said he, 'I will let you know that you are not to sit up all night and be lazy and good for nothing all day. There shall be no boiling of shirts here on Sunday morning,' and thrusting his cane into the kettle, he raised my shirt out and threw it on the kitchen floor. "He did not at first observe the mutton, which rose to the surface of the water as soon as the shirt was removed; but, after giving the shirt a kick towards the door, he again turned his face to the fire, and seeing a leg standing several inches out of the pot, he demanded of me what I had in there and where I had got this meat! Finding that I was detected, and that the whole matter must be discovered, I said,--'Master, I am hungry, and am cooking my supper.' 'What is it you have in here?' 'A sheep,' said I, and as the words were uttered, he knocked me down with his cane, and after beating me severely, ordered me to cross my hands until he bound me fast with a rope that hung in the kitchen, and answered the double purpose of a clothes line and a cord to tie us with when we were to be whipped. He put out the fire under the kettle, drew me into the yard, tied me fast to the mill-post, and leaving me there for the night, went and called one of the negro boys to put his horse in the stable, and went to his bed. The cord was bound so tightly round my wrists, that before morning the blood had burst out under my finger nails; but I suppose my master slept soundly for all that. I was afraid to call any one to come and release me from my torment, lest a still more terrible punishment might overtake me. "I was permitted to remain in this situation until long after sunrise the next morning, which being Sunday, was quiet and still; my fellow-slaves being permitted to take their rest after the severe toil of the past week, and my old master and two young ones having no occasion to rise to call the hands to the field, did not think of interrupting their morning slumbers, to release me from my painful confinement. However, when the sun was risen about an hour, I heard the noise of persons moving in the great house, and soon after a loud and boisterous conversation, which I well knew portended no good to me. At length they all three came into the yard where I lay lashed to the post, and approaching me, my old master asked me if I had any accomplices in stealing the sheep. I told them none--that it was entirely my own act--and that none of my fellow-slaves had any hand in it. This was the truth; but if any of my companions had been concerned with me, I should not have betrayed them; for such an act of treachery could not have alleviated the dreadful punishment which I knew awaited me, and would only have involved them in the same misery. "They called me a thief, loaded me with oaths and imprecations, and each one proposed the punishment which he deemed the most appropriate to the enormity of the crime that I had committed. Master Tom was of opinion, that I should be lashed to the post at the foot of which I lay, and that each of my fellow-slaves should be compelled to give me a dozen lashes in turn, with a roasted and greased hickory _gad_, until I had received, in the whole, two hundred and fifty lashes on my bare back, and that he would stand by, with the whip in his hand, and _compel_ them not to spare me; but after a short debate this was given up, as it would probably render me unable to work in the field again for several weeks. My master Ned was in favor of giving me a dozen lashes every morning for a month, with the whip; but my old master said, this would be attended with too much trouble, and besides, it would keep me from my work, at least half an hour every morning, and proposed, in his turn, that I should not be whipped at all, but that the carcass of the sheep should be taken from the kettle in its half-boiled condition, and hung up in the kitchen loft without salt; and that I should be compelled to subsist on this putrid mutton without any other food, until it should be consumed. This suggestion met the approbation of my young masters, and would have been adopted, had not mistress at this moment come into the yard, and hearing the intended punishment, loudly objected to it, because the mutton would, in a day or two, create such an offensive stench, that she and my young mistresses would not be able to remain in the house. My mistress swore dreadfully, and cursed me for an ungrateful sheep thief, who, after all her kindness in giving me soup and warm bread when I was sick last winter, was always stealing every thing I could get hold of. She then said to my master, that such villany ought not to be passed over in a slight manner, and that as crimes, such as this, concerned the whole country, my punishment ought to be public for the purpose of example; and advised him to have me whipped that same afternoon, at five o'clock; first giving notice to the neighborhood to come and see the spectacle, and to bring with them their slaves, that they might be witnesses to the consequences of stealing sheep. "They then returned to the house to breakfast; but as the pain in my hands and arms produced by the ligatures of the cord with which I was bound, was greater than I could bear, I now felt exceedingly sick, and lost all knowledge of my situation. They told me I fainted; and when I recovered my faculties, I found myself lying in the shade of the house, with my hands free, and all the white persons in my master's family standing around me. As soon as I was able to stand, the rope was tied round my neck, and the other end again fastened to the mill post. My mistress said I had only pretended to faint; and master Tom said, I would have something worth fainting for before night. He was faithful to his promise; but, for the present, I was suffered to sit on the grass in the shade of the house. "As soon as breakfast was over, my two young masters had their horses saddled, and set out to give notice to their friends of what had happened, and to invite them to come and see me punished for the crime I had committed. My mistress gave me no breakfast, and when I begged one of the black boys whom I saw looking at me through the pales, to bring me some water in a gourd to drink, she ordered him to bring it from a puddle in the lane. My mistress has always been very cruel to all her black people. "I remained in this situation until about eleven o'clock, when one of my young mistresses came to me and gave me a piece of jonny-cake about the size of my hand, perhaps larger than my hand, telling me at the same time, that my fellow-slaves had been permitted to re-boil the mutton that I had left in the kettle, and make their breakfast of it, but that her mother would not allow her to give me any part of it. It was well for them that I had parboiled it with my shirt, and so defiled it that it was unfit for the table of my master, otherwise, no portion of it would have fallen to the black people--as it was, they had as much meat as they could consume in two days, for which I had to suffer. "About twelve o'clock, one of my young masters returned, and soon afterwards the other came home. I heard them tell my old master that they had been round to give notice of my offence to the neighboring planters, and that several of them would attend to see me flogged, and would bring with them some of their slaves, who might be able to report to their companions what had been done to me for stealing. "It was late in the afternoon before any of the gentlemen came; but, before five o'clock, there were more than twenty white people, and at least fifty black ones present, the latter of whom had been compelled, by their masters, to come and see me punished. Amongst others, an overseer from a neighboring estate attended; and to him was awarded the office of executioner. I was stripped of my shirt, and the waist-band of my trousers was drawn closely round me, below my hips, so as to expose the whole of my back, in its entire length. "It seems that it had been determined to beat me with thongs of raw cow-hide, for the overseer had two of these in his hands, each about four feet long; but one of the gentlemen present said this might bruise my back so badly, that I could not work for sometime; perhaps not for a week or two; and as I could not be spared from the field without disadvantage to my master's crop, he suggested a different plan, by which, in his opinion, the greatest degree of pain could be inflicted on me, with the least danger of rendering me unable to work. As he was a large planter, and had more than fifty slaves, all were disposed to be guided by his counsels, and my master said he would submit the matter entirely to him as a man of judgment and experience in such cases. He then desired my master to have a dozen pods of red pepper boiled in half a gallon of water, and desired the overseer to lay aside his thongs of raw-hide, and put a new cracker of silk, to the lash of his negro whip. Whilst these preparations were being made, each of my thumbs were lashed closely to the end of a stick about three feet long, and a chair being placed beside the mill post, I was compelled to raise my hands and place the stick, to which my thumbs were bound, over the top of the post, which is about eighteen inches square; the chair was then taken from under me, and I was left hanging by the thumbs, with my face towards the post, and my feet about a foot from the ground. My two great toes were then tied together, and drawn down the post as far as my joints could be stretched; the cord was passed round the post two or three times and securely fastened. In this posture I had no power of motion, except in my neck, and could only move that at the expense of beating my face against the side of the post. "The pepper tea was now brought, and poured into a basin to cool, and the overseer was desired to give me a dozen lashes just above the waist-band; and not to cover a space of more than four inches on my back, from the waist-band upwards. He obeyed the injunction faithfully, but slowly, and each crack of the whip was followed by a sensation as painful as if a red hot iron had been drawn across my back. When the twelve strokes had been given, the operation was suspended, and a black man, one of the slaves present, was compelled to wash the gashes in my skin, with the scalding pepper tea, which was yet so hot that he could not hold his hand in it. This doubly-burning liquid was thrown into my raw and bleeding wounds, and produced a tormenting smart, beyond the description of language. After a delay of ten minutes, by the watch, I received another dozen lashes, on the part of my back which was immediately above the bleeding and burning gashes of the former whipping; and again the biting, stinging, pepper tea was applied to my lacerated and trembling muscles. This operation was continued at regular intervals, until I had received ninety-six lashes, and my back was cut and scalded from end to end. Every stroke of the whip had drawn blood; many of the gashes were three inches long; my back burned as if it had been covered by a coat of hot embers, mixed with living coals; and I felt my flesh quiver like that of animals that have been slaughtered by the butcher and are flayed whilst yet half alive. My face was bruised, and my nose bled profusely, for in the madness of my agony, I had not been able to refrain from beating my head violently against the post. "Vainly did I beg and implore for mercy. I was kept bound to the post with my whole weight hanging upon my thumbs, an hour and a half, but it appeared to me that I had entered upon eternity, and that my sufferings would never end. At length, however, my feet were unbound, and afterwards my hands; but when released from the cords, I was so far exhausted as not to be able to stand, and my thumbs were stiff and motionless. I was carried into the kitchen, and laid on a blanket, where my mistress came to see me; and after looking at my lacerated back, and telling me that my wounds were only skin deep, said I had come off well, after what I had done, and that I ought to be thankful that it was not worse with me. She then bade me not to groan so loud, nor make so much noise, and left me to myself. I lay in this condition until it was quite dark, by which time the burning of my back had much abated, and was succeeded by an aching soreness, which rendered me unable to turn over or bend my spine in the slightest manner. My mistress again visited me, and brought with her about half a pound of fat bacon, which she made one of the black women roast before the fire on a fork, until the oil ran freely from it, and then rub it warm over my back. This was repeated until I was greased from the neck to the hips, effectually. An old blanket was then thrown over me, and I was left to pass the night alone. Such was the terror stricken into my fellow-slaves, by the example made of me, that although they loved and pitied me, not one of them dared to approach me during this night. "My strength was gone, and I at length fell asleep, from which I did not awake until the horn was blown the next morning, to call the people to the corn crib, to receive their weekly allowance of a peck of corn. I did not rise, nor attempt to join the other people, and shortly afterwards my master entered the kitchen, and in a soft and gentle tone of voice, asked me if I was dead. I answered him that I was not dead, and making some effort, found I was able to get upon my feet. My master had become frightened when he missed me at the corn crib, and being suddenly seized with an apprehension that I was dead, his heart had become softened, not with compassion for my sufferings, but with the fear of losing his best field hand; but when he saw me stand before him erect, and upright, the recollection of the lost sheep revived in his mind, and with it, all his feelings of revenge against the author of its death. "'So you are not dead yet, you thieving rascal,' said he, and cursing me with many bitter oaths, ordered me to go along to the crib and get my corn, and go to work with the rest of the hands. I was forced to obey, and taking my basket of corn from the door of the crib, placed it in the kitchen loft, and went to the field with the other people. "Weak and exhausted as I was, I was compelled to do the work of an able hand, but was not permitted to taste the mutton, which was all given to the others, who were carefully guarded whilst they were eating, lest they should give me some of it." This man's back was not yet well. Many of the gashes made by the lash were yet sore, and those that were healed had left long white stripes across his body. He had no notion of leaving the service of his tyrannical master, and his spirit was so broken and subdued that he was ready to suffer and to bear all his hardships: not, indeed, without complaining, but without attempting to resist his oppressors or to escape from their power. I saw him often whilst I remained at this place, and ventured to tell him once, that if I had a master who would abuse me as he had abused him, I would run away. "Where could I run, or in what place could I conceal myself?" said he. "I have known many slaves who ran away, but they were always caught and treated worse afterwards than they had been before. I have heard that there is a place called Philadelphia, where the black people are all free, but I do not know which way it lies, nor what road I should take to go there; and if I knew the way, how could I hope to get there? would not the patrol be sure to catch me?" I pitied this unfortunate creature, and was at the same time fearful that, in a short time, I should be equally the object of pity myself. How well my fears were justified the sequel of my narrative will show. CHAPTER V. We had been stationed in the old cotton-gin house about twenty days, had recovered from the fatigues of our journey, and were greatly improved in our strength and appearance, when our master returned one evening, after an absence of two days, and told us that we must go to Columbia the next day, and must, for this purpose, have our breakfast ready by sunrise. On the following morning he called us at daylight, and we made all despatch in preparing our morning repast, the last that we were to take in our present residence. As our equipments consisted of a few clothes we had on our persons and a solitary blanket to each individual, our baggage was easily adjusted, and we were on the road before the sun was up half an hour; and in less than an hour we were in Columbia, drawn up in a long line in the street opposite the court-house. The town, which was small and mean-looking, was full of people, and I believe that more than a thousand gentlemen came to look at us within the course of this day. We were kept in the street about an hour, and were then taken into the jail-yard and permitted to sit down; but were not shut up in the jail. The court was sitting in Columbia at this time, and either this circumstance or the intelligence of our arrival in the country, or both, had drawn together a very great crowd of people. We were supplied with victuals by the jailor, and had a small allowance of salt pork for dinner. We slept in the jail at night, and as none of us had been sold on the day of our arrival in Columbia, and we had not heard any of the persons who came to look at us make proposals to our master for our purchase, I supposed it might be his intention to drive us still farther south before he offered us for sale; but I discovered my error on the second day, which was Tuesday. This day the crowd in town was much greater than it had been on Monday; and, about ten o'clock our master came into the yard in company with the jailor, and after looking at us some time, the latter addressed us in a short speech, which continued perhaps five minutes. In this harangue he told us we had come to live in the finest country in the world; that South Carolina was the richest and best part of the United States; and that he was going to sell us to gentlemen who would make us all very happy, and would require us to do no hard work; but only raise cotton and pick it. He then ordered a handsome young lad, about eighteen years of age, to follow him into the street, where he observed a great concourse of persons collected. Here the jailor made another harangue to the multitude, in which he assured them that he was just about to sell the most valuable lot of slaves that had ever been offered in Columbia. That we were all young, in excellent health, of good habits, having been all purchased in Virginia, from the estates of tobacco planters; and that there was not one in the whole lot who had lost the use of a single finger, or was blind of an eye. He then cried the poor lad for sale, and the first bid he received was two hundred dollars. Others quickly succeeded, and the boy, who was a remarkably handsome youth, was stricken off in a few minutes to a young man who appeared not much older than himself, at three hundred and fifty dollars. The purchaser paid down his price to our master on a table in the jail, and the lad, after bidding us farewell, followed his new master with tears running down his cheeks. He next sold a young girl, about fifteen or sixteen years old, for two hundred and fifty dollars, to a lady who attended the sales in her carriage, and made her bids out of the window. In this manner the sales were continued for about two hours and a half, when they were adjourned until three o'clock. In the afternoon they were again resumed, and kept open until about five o'clock, when they were closed for the day. As my companions were sold, they were taken from amongst us, and we saw them no more. The next morning, before day, I was awakened from my sleep by the sound of several heavy fires of cannon, which were discharged, as it seemed to me, within a few yards of the place where I lay. These were succeeded by fifes and drums, and all the noise with which I had formerly heard the fourth of July ushered in, at the Navy Yard in Washington. Since I had left Maryland I had carefully kept the reckoning of the days of the week, but had not been careful to note the dates of the month; yet as soon as daylight appeared, and the door of our apartment was opened, I inquired and learned that this was, as I had supposed it to be, the day of universal rejoicing. I understood that the court did not sit this day, but a great crowd of people gathered and remained around the jail all the morning; many of whom were intoxicated, and sang and shouted in honor of free government, and the rights of man. About eleven o'clock, a long table was spread under a row of trees which grew in the street, not far from the jail, and which appeared to me to be of the kind called in Pennsylvania, the pride of China. At this table several hundred persons sat down to dinner soon after noon, and continued to eat and drink, and sing songs in honor of liberty, for more than two hours. At the end of the dinner a gentleman rose and stood upon his chair, near one end of the table, and begged the company to hear him for a few minutes. He informed them that he was a candidate for some office--but what office it was I do not recollect--and said, that as it was an acknowledged principle of our free government, that all men were born free and equal, he presumed it would not be deemed an act of arrogance in him, to call upon them for their votes at the coming election. This first speaker was succeeded by another, who addressed his audience in nearly the same language; and after he had concluded, the company broke up. I heard a black man that belonged to the jailer, or, who was at least in his service, say that there had been a great meeting that morning in the court house, at which several gentlemen had made speeches. When I lived at the navy-yard, the officers sometimes permitted me to go up town with them, on the fourth of July, and listen to the fine speeches that were made there, on such occasions. About five o'clock, the jailer came and stood at the front door of the jail, and proclaimed, in a very loud voice, that a sale of most valuable slaves would immediately take place; that he had sold many fine hands yesterday, but they were only the refuse and most worthless part of the whole lot;--that those who wished to get great bargains and prime property, had better attend now; as it was certain that such negroes had never been offered for sale in Columbia before. In a few minutes the whole assembly, that had composed the dinner party, and hundreds of others, were convened around the jail door, and the jailer again proceeded with his auction. Several of the stoutest men and handsomest women in the whole company, had been reserved for this day; and I perceived that the very best of us were kept back for the last. We went off at rather better prices than had been obtained on the former day; and I perceived much eagerness amongst the bidders, many of whom were not sober. Within less than three hours, only three of us remained in the jail; and we were ordered to come and stand at the door, in front of the crier, who made a most extravagant eulogium upon our good qualities and capacity to perform labor. He said, "These three fellows are as strong as horses, and as patient as mules; one of them can do as much work as two common men, and they are perfectly honest. Mr. M'Giffin says, he was assured by their former masters that they were never known to steal, or run away. They must bring good prices, gentlemen, or they will not be sold. Their master is determined, that if they do not bring six hundred dollars, he will not sell them, but will take them to Georgia next summer, and sell them to some of the new settlers. These boys can do anything. This one," referring to me, "can cut five cords of wood in a day, and put it up. He is a rough carpenter, and a first rate field hand. This one," laying his hand on the shoulder of one of my companions, "is a blacksmith; and can lay a ploughshare; put new steel upon an axe; or mend a broken chain." The other, he recommended as a good shoemaker, and well acquainted with the process of tanning leather. We were all nearly of the same age; and very stout, healthy, robust young men, in full possession of our corporal powers; and if we had been shut up in a room, with ten of the strongest of those who had assembled to purchase us, and our liberty had depended on tying them fast to each other, I have no doubt that we should have been free, if ropes had been provided for us. After a few minutes of hesitancy amongst the purchasers, and a closer examination of our persons than had been made in the jail-yard, an elderly gentleman said he would take the carpenter; and the blacksmith, and shoemaker, were immediately taken by others, at the required price. It was now sundown. The heat of the day had been very oppressive, and I was glad to be released from the confined air of the jail, and the hot atmosphere, in which so many hundreds were breathing.--My new master asked me my name, and ordered me to follow him. We proceeded to a tavern, where a great number of persons were assembled, at a short distance from the jail. My master entered the house, and joined in the conversation of the party, in which the utmost hilarity prevailed. They were drinking toasts in honor of liberty and independence, over glasses of toddy--a liquor composed of a mixture of rum, water, sugar, and nutmeg. It was ten o'clock at night before my master and his companions had finished their toasts and toddy; and all this time, I had been standing before the door, or sitting on a log of wood, that lay in front of the house. At one time, I took a seat on a bench, at the side of the house; but was soon driven from this position by a gentleman, in military clothes, with a large gilt epaulet on each shoulder, and a profusion of glittering buttons on his coat; who passing near me in the dark, and happening to cast his eye on me, demanded of me, in an imperious tone, how I dared to sit on that seat. I told him I was a stranger, and did not know that it was wrong to sit there. He then ordered me with an oath, to begone from there; and said, if he caught me on that bench again, he would cut my head off. "Did you not see white people sit upon that bench, you saucy rascal?" said he. I assured him I had not seen any white gentleman sit on the bench, as it was near night when I came to the house; that I had not intended to be saucy, or misbehave myself; and that I hoped he would not be angry with me, as my master had left me at the door, and had not told me where I was to sit. I remained on the log until the termination of the festival, in honor of liberty and equality; when my master came to the door, and observed in my hearing, to some of his friends, that they had celebrated the day in a handsome manner. No person, except the military gentleman, had spoken to me since I came to the house in the evening with my master, who seemed to have forgotten me; for he remained at the door, warmly engaged in conversation, on various political subjects, a full hour after he rose from the toast party. At length, however, I heard him say--"I bought a negro this evening--I wonder where he is." Rising immediately from the log on which I had been so long seated, I presented myself before him, and said, "Here, master." He then ordered me to go to the kitchen of the inn, and go to sleep; but said nothing to me about supper.--I retired to the kitchen, where I found a large number of servants, who belonged to the house, and among them two young girls, who had been purchased by a gentleman who lived near Augusta; and who, they told me, intended to set out for his plantation the next morning, and take them with him. These girls had been sold out of our company on the first day; and had been living in the tavern kitchen since that time. They appeared quite contented, and evinced no repugnance to setting out the next morning for their master's plantation. They were of that order of people who never look beyond the present day; and so long as they had plenty of victuals, in this kitchen, they did not trouble themselves with reflections upon the cotton field. One of the servants gave me some cold meat and a piece of wheaten bread, which was the first I had tasted since I left Maryland, and indeed, it was the last that I tasted until I reached Maryland again. I here met with a man who was born and brought up in the Northern Neck of Virginia, on the banks of the Potomac, and within a few miles of my native place. We soon formed an acquaintance, and sat up nearly all night. He was the chief hostler in the stable of this tavern, and told me that he had often thought of attempting to escape, and return to Virginia. He said he had little doubt of being able to reach the Potomac; but having no knowledge of the country beyond that river, he was afraid that he should not be able to make his way to Philadelphia; which he regarded as the only place in which he could be safe from the pursuit of his master. I was myself then young, and my knowledge of the country, north of Baltimore, was very vague and undefined. I, however, told him, that I had heard, that if a black man could reach any part of Pennsylvania, he would be beyond the reach of his pursuers. He said he could not justly complain of want of food; but the services required of him were so unreasonable, and the punishment frequently inflicted upon him, so severe, that he was determined to set out for the North, as soon as the corn was so far ripe as to be fit to be roasted. He felt confident, that by lying in the woods and unfrequented places all day, and traveling only by night, he could escape the vigilance of all pursuit; and gain the Northern Neck, before the corn would be gathered from the fields. He had no fear of wanting food, as he could live well on roasting ears, as long as the corn was in the milk; and afterwards, on parched corn, as long as the grain remained in the field. I advised him as well as I could, as to the best means of reaching the State of Pennsylvania, but was not able to give him any very definite instructions. This man possessed a very sound understanding; and having been five years in Carolina, was well acquainted with the country. He gave me such an account of the sufferings of the slaves, on the cotton and indigo plantations--of whom I now regarded myself as one--that I was unable to sleep any this night. From the resolute manner in which he spoke of his intended elopement, and the regularity with which he had connected the various combinations of the enterprise, I have no doubt that he undertook that which he intended to perform. Whether he was successful or not in the enterprise, I cannot say, as I never saw him nor heard of him after the next morning. This man certainly communicated to me the outlines of the plan, which I afterwards put in execution, and by which I gained my liberty, at the expense of sufferings, which none can appreciate, except those who have borne all that the stoutest human constitution can bear, of cold and hunger, toil and pain. The conversation of this slave aroused in my breast so many recollections of the past, and fears of the future, that I did not lie down, but sat on an old chair until daylight. From the people of the kitchen I again received some cold victuals for my breakfast, but I did not see my master until about nine o'clock; the toddy of the last evening causing him to sleep late this morning. At length a female slave gave me notice that my master wished to see me in the dining-room, whither I repaired without a moment's delay. When I entered the room he was sitting near the window, smoking a pipe, with a very long handle--I believe more than two feet in length. He asked no questions, but addressing me by the title of "boy," ordered me to go with the hostler of the inn, and get his horse and chaise ready. As soon as this order could be executed, I informed him that his chaise was at the door, and we immediately commenced our journey to the plantation of my master, which, he told me, lay at the distance of twenty miles from Columbia. He said I must keep up with him, and, as he drove at the rate of five or six miles an hour, I was obliged to run nearly half the time; but I was then young, and could easily travel fifty or sixty miles in a day. It was with great anxiety that I looked for the place, which was in future to be my home; but this did not prevent me from making such observations upon the state of the country through which we traveled, as the rapidity of our march permitted. This whole region had originally been one vast wilderness of pine forest, except the low grounds and river bottoms, here called swamps, in which all the varieties of trees, shrubs, vines, and plants peculiar to such places, in southern latitudes, vegetated in unrestrained luxuriance. Nor is pine the only timber that grows on the uplands, in this part of Carolina, although it is the predominant tree, and in some places prevails to the exclusion of every other--oak, hickory, sassafras, and many others are found. Here, also, I first observed groves of the most beautiful of all the trees of the wood--the great Southern Magnolia, or Green Bay. No adequate conception can be formed of the appearance or the fragrance of this most magnificent tree, by any one who has not seen it or scented the air when scented by the perfume of its flowers. It rises in a right line to the height of seventy or eighty feet; the stem is of a delicate taper form and casts off numerous branches, in nearly right angles with itself; the extremities of which decline gently towards the ground, and become shorter and shorter in the ascent, until at the apex of the tree they are scarcely a foot in length, whilst below they are many times found twenty feet long. The immense cones formed by these trees are as perfect as those diminutive forms which nature exhibits in the bur of the pine tree. The leaf of the Magnolia is smooth, of an oblong taper form, about six inches in length, and half as broad. Its color is the deepest and purest green. The foliage of the Bay tree is as impervious as a brick wall to the rays of the sun, and its refreshing coolness, in the heat of a summer day, affords one of the greatest luxuries of a cotton plantation. It blooms in May, and bears great numbers of broad, expanded white flowers, the odor of which is exceedingly grateful, and so abundant, that I have no doubt that a grove of these trees in full bloom, may be smelled at a distance of fifteen or twenty miles. I have heard it asserted in the South, that their scent has been perceived by persons fifty or sixty miles from them. This tree is one of nature's most splendid, and in the climate where she has placed it, one of her most agreeable productions. It is peculiar to the southern temperate latitudes, and cannot bear the rigors of a northern winter; though I have heard that groves of the Bay are found on Fishing Creek, in Western Virginia, not far from Wheeling, and near the Ohio river. Could this tree be naturalized in Pennsylvania, it would form an ornament to her towns, cities and country seats, at once the most tasteful and the most delicious. A forest of these trees, in the month of May, resembles a wood, enveloped in an untimely fall of snow at midsummer, glowing in the rays of a morning sun. We passed this day through cotton-fields and pine woods, alternately; but the scene was sometimes enlivened by the appearance of lots of corn and sweet potatoes, which, I observed, were generally planted near the houses. I afterwards learned that this custom of planting the corn and potatoes near the house of the planter, is generally all over Carolina. The object is to prevent the slaves from stealing, and thus procuring more food than, by the laws of the plantation, they are entitled to. In passing through a lane, I this day saw a field which appeared to me to contain about fifty acres, in which people were at work with hoes, amongst a sort of plants that I had never seen before. I asked my master what this was, and he told me it was indigo. I shall have occasion to say more of this plant hereafter. We at length arrived at the residence of my master, who descended from his chaise, and leaving me in charge of the horse at the gate, proceeded to the house across a long court yard. In a few minutes two young ladies, and a young gentleman, came out of the house, and walked to the gate, near which I was with the horse. One of the ladies said, they had come to look at me, and see what kind of a boy her pa had brought home with him. The other one said I was a very smart looking boy; and this compliment flattered me greatly--they being the first kind words that had been addressed to me since I left Maryland. The young gentleman asked me if I could run fast, and if I had ever picked cotton. His manner did not impress me so much in his favor, as the address of his sister had done for her. These three young persons were the son and daughters of my master. After looking at me a short time, my young master (for so I must now call him) ordered me to take the harness from the horse, give him water at a well which was near, and come into the kitchen, where some boiled rice was given me for my dinner. I was not required to go to work this first day of my abode in my new residence; but after I had eaten my rice, my young master told me I might rest myself or walk out and see the plantation, but that I must be ready to go with the overseer the next morning. CHAPTER VI. By the laws of the United States I am still a slave; and though I am now growing old, I might even yet be deemed of sufficient value to be worth pursuing as far as my present residence, if those to whom the law gives the right of dominion over my person and life, knew where to find me. For these reasons I have been advised, by those whom I believe to be my friends, not to disclose the true names of any of those families in which I was a slave, in Carolina or Georgia, lest this narrative should meet their eyes, and in some way lead them to a discovery of my retreat. I was now the slave of one of the most wealthy planters in Carolina, who planted cotton, rice, indigo, corn, and potatoes; and was the master of two hundred and sixty slaves. The description of one great cotton plantation will give a correct idea of all others; and I shall here present an outline of that of my master's. He lived about two miles from Caugaree river, which bordered his estate on one side, and in the swamps of which were his rice fields. The country hereabout is very flat, the banks of the river are low, and in wet seasons large tracts of country are flooded by the super-abundant water of the river. There are no springs, and the only means of procuring water on the plantations is from wells, which must be sunk in general about twenty feet deep, before a constant supply of water can be obtained. My master had two of these wells on his plantation--one at the mansion house, and one at the quarter. My master's house was of brick, (brick houses are by no means common among the planters, whose residences are generally built of frame work, weather boarded with pine boards, and covered with shingles of the white cedar or juniper cypress,) and contained two large parlors, and a spacious hall or entry on the ground floor. The main building was two stories high, and attached to this was a smaller building, one story and a half high, with a large room, where the family generally took breakfast, with a kitchen at the farther extremity from the main building. There was a spacious garden behind the house, containing, I believe, about five acres, well cultivated, and handsomely laid out. In this garden grew a great variety of vegetables; some of which I have never seen in the market of Philadelphia. It contained a profusion of flowers, three different shrubberies, a vast number of ornamental and small fruit trees, and several small hot houses, with glass roofs. There was a head gardener, who did nothing but attend to this garden through the year; and during the summer he generally had two men and two boys to assist him. In the months of April and May this garden was one of the sweetest and most pleasant places that I ever was in. At one end of the main building was a small house, called the library, in which my master kept his books and papers, and where he spent much of his time. At some distance from the mansion was a pigeon-house, and near the kitchen was a large wooden building, called the kitchen quarter, in which the house servants slept, and where they generally took their meals. Here, also, the washing of the family was done, and all the rough or unpleasant work of the kitchen department--such as cleaning and salting fish, putting up pork, &c., was assigned to this place. There was no barn on this plantation, according to the acceptation of the word _barn_ in Pennsylvania; but there was a wooden building, about forty feet long, called the coach-house, in one end of which the family carriage and the chaise in which my master rode were kept. Under the same roof was a stable large enough to contain a dozen horses. In one end the corn intended for the horses was kept, and the whole of one loft was occupied by the blades and tops of the corn. About a quarter of a mile from the dwelling house were the huts or cabins of the plantation slaves, standing in rows. There were thirty-eight of them, generally about sixteen feet square, and provided with pine floors. In these cabins were two hundred and fifty people, of all ages, sexes and sizes. A short distance from the cabins was the house of the overseer. In one corner of his garden stood a corn-crib and a provision-house. A little way off stood the house containing the cotton-gin. There was no smoke-house, nor any place for curing meat, and while I was on this plantation no food was ever salted for the use of the slaves. I went out into the garden, and after sundown my old master sent me to the overseer's house. He was just coming in from the field, followed by a great number of black people. He asked me my name, and calling a middle-aged man, who was passing us at some distance, told him he must take me to live with him. I followed my new friend to his cabin, which was the shelter of his wife and five children. Their only furniture consisted of a few blocks of wood for seats; a short bench, made of a pine board, which served as a table; and a small bed in one corner, composed of a mat, made of common rushes, spread upon some corn husks, pulled and split into fine pieces, and kept together by a narrow slip of wood, confined to the floor by wooden pins. There was a common iron pot standing beside the chimney, and several wooden spoons and dishes hung against the wall. Several blankets also hung against the wall upon wooden pins. An old box, made of pine boards, without either lock or hinges, occupied one corner. At the time I entered this humble abode the mistress was not at home. She had not yet returned from the field; having been sent, as the husband informed me, with some other people late in the evening, to do some work in a field about two miles distant. I found a child, about a year old, lying on the mat-bed, and a little girl about four years old sitting beside it. These children were entirely naked, and when we came to the door, the elder rose from its place and ran to its father, and clasping him round one of his knees, said, "Now we shall get good supper." The father laid his hand upon the head of his naked child, and stood silently looking in its face--which was turned upwards toward his own for a moment--and then turning to me, said, "Did you leave any children at home?" The scene before me--the question propounded--and the manner of this poor man and his child, caused my heart to swell until my breast seemed too small to contain it. My soul fled back upon the wings of fancy to my wife's lowly dwelling in Maryland, where I had been so often met on a Saturday evening, when I paid them my weekly visit, by my own little ones, who clung to my knees for protection and support, even as the poor little wretch now before me seized upon the weary limb of its hapless and destitute father, hoping that, naked as he was, (for he too was naked, save only the tattered remains of a pair of old trowsers,) he would bring with his return at evening its customary scanty supper. I was unable to reply, but stood motionless, leaning against the walls of the cabin. My children seemed to flit by the door in the dusky twilight; and the twittering of a swallow, which that moment fluttered over my head, sounded in my ear as the infantile tittering of my own little boy; but on a moment's reflection I knew that we were separated without the hope of ever again meeting; that they no more heard the welcome tread of my feet, and could never again receive the little gifts with which, poor as I was, I was accustomed to present them. I was far from the place of my nativity, in a land of strangers, with no one to care for me beyond the care that a master bestows upon his ox; with all my future life one long, waste, barren desert, of cheerless, hopeless, lifeless slavery; to be varied only by the pangs of hunger and the stings of the lash. My revery was at length broken by the appearance of the mother of the family, with her three eldest children. The mother wore an old ragged shift; but the children, the eldest of whom appeared to be about twelve, and the youngest six years old, were quite naked. When she came in, the husband told her that the overseer had sent me to live with them; and she and her oldest child, who was a boy, immediately set about preparing their supper, by boiling some of the leaves of the weed, called lamb's-quarter, in the pot. This, together with some cakes of cold corn bread, formed their supper. My supper was brought to me from the house of the overseer by a small girl, his daughter. It was about half a pound of bread, cut from a loaf made of corn meal. My companions gave me a part of their boiled greens, and we all sat down together to my first meal in my new habitation. I had no other bed than the blanket which I had brought with me from Maryland; and I went to sleep in the loft of the cabin which was assigned to me as my sleeping room; and in which I continued to lodge as long as I remained on this plantation. The next morning I was waked, at the break of day, by the sound of a horn, which was blown very loudly. Perceiving that it was growing light, I came down, and went out immediately in front of the house of the overseer, who was standing near his own gate, blowing the horn. In a few minutes the whole of the working people, from all the cabins, were assembled; and as it was now light enough for me distinctly to see such objects as were about me, I at once perceived the nature of the servitude to which I was, in future, to be subject. As I have before stated, there were altogether on this plantation, two hundred and sixty slaves; but the number was seldom stationary for a single week. Births were numerous and frequent, and deaths were not uncommon. When I joined them I believe we counted in all two hundred and sixty-three; but of these only one hundred and seventy went to the field to work. The others were children, too small to be of any service as laborers; old and blind persons, or incurably diseased. Ten or twelve were kept about the mansion-house and garden, chosen from the most handsome and sprightly of the gang. I think about one hundred and sixty-eight assembled this morning, at the sound of the horn--two or three being sick, sent word to the overseer that they could not come. The overseer wrote something on a piece of paper, and gave it to his little son. This I was told was a note to be sent to our master, to inform him that some of the hands were sick--it not being any part of the duty of the overseer to attend to a sick negro. The overseer then led off to the field, with his horn in one hand and his whip in the other; we following--men, women, and children, promiscuously--and a wretched looking troop we were. There was not an entire garment amongst us. More than half of the gang were entirely naked. Several young girls, who had arrived at puberty, wearing only the livery with which nature had ornamented them, and a great number of lads, of an equal or superior age, appeared in the same costume. There was neither bonnet, cap, nor head dress of any kind amongst us, except the old straw hat that I wore, and which my wife had made for me in Maryland. This I soon laid aside to avoid the appearance of singularity, and, as owing to the severe treatment I had endured whilst traveling in chains, and being compelled to sleep on the naked floor, without undressing myself, my clothes were quite worn out, I did not make a much better figure than my companions; though still I preserved the semblance of clothing so far, that it could be seen that my shirt and trowsers had once been distinct and separate garments. Not one of the others had on even the remains of two pieces of apparel.--Some of the men had old shirts, and some ragged trowsers, but no one wore both. Amongst the women, several wore petticoats, and many had shifts. Not one of the whole number wore both of these vestments. We walked nearly a mile through one vast cotton field, before we arrived at the place of our intended day's labor. At last the overseer stopped at the side of the field, and calling to several of the men by name, ordered them to call their companies and turn into their rows. The work we had to do to-day was to hoe and weed cotton, for the last time; and the men whose names had been called, and who were, I believe, eleven in number, were designated as captains, each of whom had under his command a certain number of the other hands. The captain was the foreman of his company, and those under his command had to keep up with him. Each of the men and women had to take one row; and two, and in some cases where they were very small, three of the children had one. The first captain, whose name was Simon, took the first row--and the other captains were compelled to keep up with him. By this means the overseer had nothing to do but to keep Simon hard at work, and he was certain that all the others must work equally hard. Simon was a stout, strong man, apparently about thirty-five years of age; and for some reason unknown to me, I was ordered to take a row next to his. The overseer with his whip in his hand walked about the field after us, to see that our work was well done. As we worked with hoes, I had no difficulty in learning how the work was to be performed. The fields of cotton at this season of the year are very beautiful. The plants, among which we worked this day, were about three feet high, and in full bloom, with branches so numerous that they nearly covered the whole ground--leaving scarcely space enough between them to permit us to move about, and work with our hoes. About seven o'clock in the morning the overseer sounded his horn; and we all repaired to the shade of some persimmon trees, which grew in a corner of the field, to get our breakfast. I here saw a cart drawn by a yoke of oxen, driven by an old black man, nearly blind. The cart contained three barrels, filled with water, and several large baskets full of corn bread that had been baked in the ashes. The water was for us to drink, and the bread was our breakfast. The little son of the overseer was also in the cart, and had brought with him the breakfast of his father, in a small wooden bucket. The overseer had bread, butter, cold ham, and coffee for his breakfast. Ours was composed of a corn cake, weighing about three-quarters of a pound, to each person, with as much water as was desired. I at first supposed that this bread was dealt out to the people as their allowance; but on further inquiry I found this not to be the case. Simon, by whose side I was now at work, and who seemed much pleased with my agility and diligence in my duty, told me that here, as well as every where in this country, each person received a peck of corn at the crib door, every Sunday evening, and that in ordinary times, every one had to grind this corn and bake it, for him or herself, making such use of it as the owner thought proper; but that for some time past, the overseer, for the purpose of saving the time which had been lost in baking the bread, had made it the duty of an old woman, who was not capable of doing much work in the field, to stay at the quarter, and bake the bread of the whole gang. When baked, it was brought to the field in a cart, as I saw, and dealt out in loaves. They still had to grind their own corn, after night; and as there were only three hand-mills on the plantation, he said they experienced much difficulty in converting their corn into meal. We worked in this field all day; and at the end of every hour, or hour and a quarter, we had permission to go to the cart, which was moved about the field, so as to be near us, and get water. Our dinner was the same, in all respects, as our breakfast, except that, in addition to the bread, we had a little salt, and a radish for each person. We were not allowed to rest at either breakfast or dinner, longer than while we were eating; and we worked in the evening as long as we could distinguish the weeds from the cotton plants. Simon informed me, that formerly, when they baked their own bread, they had left their work soon after sundown, to go home and bake for the next day, but the overseer had adopted the new policy for the purpose of keeping them at work until dark. When we could no longer see to work, the horn was again sounded, and we returned home. I had now lived through one of the days--a succession of which make up the life of a slave--on a cotton plantation. As we went out in the morning, I observed several women, who carried their young children in their arms to the field. These mothers laid their children at the side of the fence, or under the shade of the cotton plants, whilst they were at work; and when the rest of us went to get water, they would go to give suck to their children, requesting some one to bring them water in gourds, which they were careful to carry to the field with them. One young woman did not, like the others, leave her child at the end of the row, but had contrived a sort of rude knapsack, made of a piece of coarse linen cloth, in which she fastened her child, which was very young, upon her back; and in this way carried it all day, and performed her task at the hoe with the other people. I pitied her, and as we were going home at night escorted her and learned her history. She had been brought up a lady's-maid, and knew little of hardship until she was sold South by a dissipated master. On this plantation she was obliged to marry a man she did not like, and was often severely whipped because she could not do as much work as the rest. I was affected by her story, and the overseer's horn interrupted our conversation, at hearing which she exclaimed, "We are too late, let us run, or we shall be whipped," and setting off as fast as she could run, she left me alone. I quickened my pace, and arrived in the crowd a moment before her. CHAPTER VII. The overseer was calling over the names of the whole from a little book, and the first name I heard was that of my companion--Lydia. As she did not answer, I said, "Master, the woman that carries her baby on her back will be here in a minute." He paid no attention to what I said, but went on with his call. As the people answered to their names, they passed off to the cabins, except three, two women and a man; who, when their names were called, were ordered to go into the yard, in front of the overseer's house. My name was the last on the list, and when it was called I was ordered into the yard with the three others. Just as we had entered, Lydia came up out of breath, with the child in her arms; and following us into the yard, dropped on her knees before the overseer, and begged him to forgive her. "Where have you been?" said he. Poor Lydia now burst into tears, and said, "I only stopped to talk awhile to this man," pointing to me; "but indeed, master overseer, I will never do so again." "Lie down," was his reply. Lydia immediately fell prostrate upon the ground; and in this position he compelled her to remove her old tow linen shift, the only garment she wore, so as to expose her hips, when he gave her ten lashes, with his long whip, every touch of which brought blood, and a shriek from the sufferer. He then ordered her to go and get her supper, with an injunction never to stay behind again.--The other three culprits were then put upon their trial. The first was a middle aged woman, who had, as her overseer said, left several hills of cotton in the course of the day, without cleaning and hilling them in a proper manner. She received twelve lashes. The other two were charged in general terms, with having been lazy, and of having neglected their work that day. Each of these received twelve lashes. These people all received punishment in the same manner that it had been inflicted upon Lydia, and when they were all gone the overseer turned to me and said--"Boy, you are a stranger here yet, but I called you in to let you see how things are done here, and to give you a little advice. When I get a new negro under my command, I never whip at first; I always give him a few days to learn his duty, unless he is an outrageous villain, in which case I anoint him a little at the beginning. I call over the names of all the hands twice every week, on Wednesday and Saturday evenings, and settle with them according to their general conduct for the last three days. I call the names of my captains every morning, and it is their business to see that they have all their hands in their proper places. You ought not to have staid behind to-night with Lyd; but as this is your first offence, I shall overlook it, and you may go and get your supper." I made a low bow, and thanked master overseer for his kindness to me, and left him. This night for supper we had corn bread and cucumbers; but we had neither salt, vinegar, nor pepper with the cucumbers. I had never before seen people flogged in the way our overseer flogged his people. This plan of making the person who is to be whipped lie down upon the ground, was new to me, though it is much practiced in the South; and I have since seen men, and women too, cut nearly in pieces by this mode of punishment. It has one advantage over tying people up by the hands, as it prevents all accidents from sprains in the thumbs or wrists. On Monday morning I heard the sound of the horn at the usual hour, and repairing to the front of the overseer's house, found that he had already gone to the corn crib, for the purpose of distributing corn among the people, for the bread of the week; or rather for the week's subsistence, for this corn was all the provision that our master, or his overseer, usually made for us; I say usually, for whatever was given to us beyond the corn, which we received on Sunday evening, was considered in the light of a bounty bestowed upon us, over and beyond what we were entitled to, or had a right to expect to receive. When I arrived at the crib, the door was unlocked and open, and the distribution had already commenced. Each person was entitled to half a bushel of ears of corn, which was measured out by several of the men who were in the crib. Every child above six months old drew this weekly allowance of corn; and in this way, women who had several small children, had more corn than they could consume, and sometimes bartered small quantities with the other people for such things as they needed, and were not able to procure. The people received their corn in baskets, old bags, or any thing with which they could most conveniently provide themselves. I had not been able, since I came here, to procure a basket, or any thing else to put my corn in, and desired the man with whom I lived to take my portion in his basket, with that of his family. This he readily agreed to do, and as soon as we had received our share we left the crib. The overseer attended in person to the measuring of this corn; and it is only justice to him to say that he was careful to see that justice was done us. The men who measured the corn always heaped the measure as long as an ear would lie on; and he never restrained their generosity to their fellow-slaves. In addition to this allowance of corn, we received a weekly allowance of salt, amounting in general to about half a gill to each person; but this article was not furnished regularly, and sometimes we received none for two or three weeks. The reader must not suppose, that, on this plantation, we had nothing to eat beyond the corn and salt. This was far from the case. I have already described the gardens, or patches, cultivated by the people, and the practice which they universally followed of working on Sunday, for wages. In addition to all these, an industrious, managing slave would contrive to gather up a great deal to eat. I have observed, that the planters are careful of the health of their slaves, and in pursuance of this rule, they seldom expose them to rainy weather, especially in the sickly seasons of the year, if it can be avoided. In the spring and early parts of the summer, the rains are frequently so violent, and the ground becomes so wet, that it is injurious to the cotton to work it, at least whilst it rains. In the course of the year there are many of these rainy days, in which the people cannot go to work with safety; and it often happens that there is nothing for them to do in the house. At such time they make baskets, brooms, horse collars, and other things, which they are able to sell amongst the planters. The baskets are made of wooden splits, and the brooms of young white oak or hickory trees. The mats are sometimes made of splits, but more frequently of flags, as they are called--a kind of tall rush, which grows in swampy ground. The horse or mule collars are made of husks of corn, though sometimes of rushes, but the latter are not very durable. The money procured by these, and various other means, which I shall explain hereafter, is laid out by the slaves in purchasing such little articles of necessity or luxury, as it enables them to procure. A part is disbursed in payment for sugar, molasses, and sometimes a few pounds of coffee, for the use of the family; another part is laid out for clothes for winter; and no inconsiderable portion of his pittance is squandered away by the misguided slave for tobacco, and an occasional bottle of rum. Tobacco is deemed so indispensable to comfort, nay to existence, that hunger and nakedness are patiently endured, to enable the slave to indulge in this highest of enjoyments. There being few towns in the cotton country, the shops, or stores, are frequently kept at some cross road, or other public place, in or adjacent to a rich district of plantations. To these shops the slaves resort, sometimes with, and at other times without, the consent of the overseer, for the purpose of laying out the little money they get. Notwithstanding all the vigilance that is exercised by the planters, the slaves, who are no less vigilant than their masters, often leave the plantation after the overseer has retired to his bed, and go to the store. The store-keepers are always ready to accommodate the slaves, who are frequently better customers than many white people; because the former always pay cash, whilst the latter almost always require credit. In dealing with the slave, the shop-keeper knows he can demand whatever price he pleases for his goods, without danger of being charged with extortion; and he is ready to rise at any time of the night to oblige friends, who are of so much value to him. It is held highly disgraceful, on the part of store-keepers, to deal with the slaves for any thing but money, or the coarse fabrics that it is known are the usual products of the ingenuity and industry of the negroes; but, notwithstanding this, a considerable traffic is carried on between the shop-keepers and slaves, in which the latter make their payments by barter. The utmost caution and severity of masters and overseers, are sometimes insufficient to repress the cunning contrivances of the slaves. After we had received our corn, we deposited it in our several houses, and immediately followed the overseer to the same cotton field, in which we had been at work on Sunday. Our breakfast this morning was bread, to which was added a large basket of apples, from the orchard of our master. These apples served us for a relish with our bread, both for breakfast and dinner, and when I returned to the quarter in the evening, Dinah (the name of the woman who was at the head of our family) produced at supper, a black jug, containing molasses, and gave me some of the molasses for my supper. I felt grateful to Dinah for this act of kindness, as I well knew that her children regarded molasses as the greatest of human luxuries, and that she was depriving them of their highest enjoyment to afford me the means of making a gourd full of molasses and water. I therefore proposed to her and her husband, whose name was Nero, that whilst I should remain a member of the family, I would contribute as much towards its support as Nero himself; or, at least, that I would bring all my earnings into the family stock, provided I might be treated as one of its members, and be allowed a portion of the proceeds of their patch of garden. This offer was very readily accepted, and from this time we constituted one community, as long as I remained among the field hands on this plantation. After supper was over, we had to grind our corn; but as we had to wait for our turn at the mill, we did not get through this indispensable operation before one o'clock in the morning. We did not sit up all night to wait for our turn at the mill, but as our several turns were assigned us by lot, the person who had the first turn, when done with the mill, gave notice to the one entitled to the second, and so on. By this means nobody lost more than half an hour's sleep, and in the morning every one's grinding was done. We worked very hard this week. We were now laying by the cotton, as it is termed; that is, we were giving the last weeding and hilling to the crop, of which there was, on this plantation, about five hundred acres, which looked well, and promised to yield a fine picking. In addition to the cotton, there was on this plantation one hundred acres of corn, about ten acres of indigo, ten or twelve acres in sweet potatoes, and a rice swamp of about fifty acres. The potatoes and indigo had been laid by, (that is, the season of working in them was past,) before I came upon the estate; and we were driven hard by the overseer to get done with the cotton, to be ready to give the corn another harrowing and hoeing, before the season should be too far advanced. Most of the corn in this part of the country, was already laid by, but the crop here had been planted late, and yet required to be worked. We were supplied with an abundance of bread, for a peck of corn is as much as a man can consume in a week, if he has other vegetables with it; but we were obliged to provide ourselves with the other articles, necessary for our subsistence. Nero had corn in his patch, which was now hard enough to be fit for boiling, and my friend Lydia had beans in her garden. We exchanged corn for beans, and had a good supply of both; but these delicacies we were obliged to reserve for supper. We took our breakfast in the field, from the cart, which seldom afforded us any thing better than bread, and some raw vegetables from the garden. Nothing of moment occurred amongst us, in this first week of my residence here. On Wednesday evening, called settlement-night, two men and a woman were whipped; but circumstances of this kind were so common, that I shall, in future, not mention them, unless something extraordinary attended them. I could make wooden bowls and ladles, and went to work with a man who was clearing some new land about two miles off--on the second Sunday of my sojourn here--and applied the money I earned in purchasing the tools necessary to enable me to carry on my trade. I occupied all my leisure hours, for several months after this, in making wooden trays, and such other wooden vessels as were most in demand. These I traded off, in part, to a store-keeper, who lived about five miles from the plantation; and for some of my work I obtained money. Before Christmas, I had sold more than thirty dollars worth of my manufactures; but the merchant with whom I traded, charged such high prices for his goods, that I was poorly compensated for my Sunday toils, and nightly labors; nevertheless, by these means, I was able to keep our family supplied with molasses, and some other luxuries, and at the approach of winter, I purchased three coarse blankets, to which Nero added as many, and we had all these made up into blanket-coats for Dinah, ourselves, and the children. About ten days after my arrival, we had a great feast at the quarter. One night, after we had returned from the field, the overseer sent for me by his little son, and when I came to his house, he asked me if I understood the trade of a butcher--I told him I was not a butcher by trade, but that I had often assisted my master and others to kill hogs and cattle, and that I could dress a hog, or a bullock, as well as most people. He then told me he was going to have a beef killed in the morning at the great house, and I must do it--that he would not spare any of the hands to go with me, but he would get one of the house-boys to help me. When the morning came, I went, according to orders, to butcher the beef, which I expected to find in some enclosure on the plantation; but the overseer told me I must take a boy named Toney from the house, whose business it was to take care of the cattle, and go to the woods and look for the beef. Toney and I set out sometime before sunrise, and went to a cow-pen, about a mile from the house, where he said he had seen the young cattle only a day or two before. At this cow-pen, we saw several cows waiting to be milked, I suppose, for their calves were in an adjoining field, and separated from them only by a fence. Toney then said, we should have to go to the long savanna, where the dry cattle generally ranged, and thither we set off.--This long savanna lay at the distance of three miles from the cow-pen, and when we reached it, I found it to be literally what it was called, a long savanna. It was a piece of low, swampy ground, several miles in extent, with an open space in the interior part of it, about a mile long, and perhaps a quarter of a mile in width. It was manifest that this open space was covered with water through the greater part of the year, which prevented the growth of timber in this place; though at the time it was dry, except a pond near one end, which covered, perhaps, an acre of ground. In this natural meadow every kind of wild grass, common to such places in the southern country, abounded. Here I first saw the scrub and saw grasses--the first of which is so hard and rough, that it is gathered to scrub coarse wooden furniture, or even pewter; and the last is provided with edges, somewhat like saw teeth, so hard and sharp that it would soon tear the skin off the legs of any one who should venture to walk through it with bare limbs. As we entered this savanna, we were enveloped in clouds of musquitos, and swarms of galinippers, that threatened to devour us. As we advanced through the grass, they rose up until the air was thick, and actually darkened with them. They rushed upon us with the fury of yellow-jackets, whose hive has been broken in upon, and covered every part of our persons. The clothes I had on, which were nothing but a shirt and trowsers of tow linen, afforded no protection even against the musquitos, which were much larger than those found along the Chesapeake Bay; and nothing short of a covering of leather could have defended me against the galinippers. I was pierced by a thousand stings at a time, and verily believe I could not have lived beyond a few hours in this place. Toney ran into the pond, and rolled himself in the water to get rid of his persecutors; but he had not been long there before he came running out, as fast as he had gone in, hallooing and clamoring in a manner wholly unintelligible to me. He was terribly frightened; but I could not imagine what could be the cause of his alarm, until he reached the shore, when he turned round with his face to the water, and called out--"the biggest alligator in the whole world--did not you see him?" I told him I had not seen anything but himself in the water; but he insisted that he had been chased in the pond by an alligator, which had followed him until he was close in the shore. We waited a few minutes for the alligator to rise to the surface, but were soon compelled by the musquitos, to quit this place. Toney said, we need not look for the cattle here; no cattle could live amongst these musquitos, and I thought he was right in his judgment. We then proceeded into the woods and thickets, and after wandering about for an hour or more, we found the cattle, and after much difficulty succeeded in driving a part of them back to the cow-pen, and enclosing them in it. I here selected the one that appeared to me to be the fattest, and securing it with ropes, we drove the animal to the place of slaughter. This beef was intended as a feast for the slaves, at the laying by of the corn and cotton; and when I had it hung up, and had taken the hide off, my young master, whom I had seen on the day of my arrival, came out to me, and ordered me to cut off the head, neck, legs, and tail, and lay them, together with the empty stomach and the harslet, in a basket. This basket was sent home, to the kitchen of the great house, by a woman and a boy, who attended for that purpose. I think there was at least one hundred and twenty or thirty pounds of this offal. The residue of the carcass I cut into four quarters, and we carried it to the cellar of the great house. Here one of the hind quarters was salted in a tub, for the use of the family, and the other was sent, as a present, to a planter, who lived about four miles distant. The two fore-quarters were cut into very small pieces, and salted by themselves.--These, I was told, would be cooked for our dinner on the next day (Sunday) when there was to be a general rejoicing among all the slaves of the plantation. After the beef was salted down, I received some bread and milk for my breakfast, and went to join the hands in the corn field, where they were now harrowing and hoeing the crop for the last time. The overseer had promised us that we should have holiday after the completion of this work, and by great exertion, we finished it about five o'clock in the afternoon. On our return to the quarter, the overseer, at roll-call--which he performed this day before night--told us that every family must send a bowl to the great house, to get our dinners of meat. This intelligence diffused as much joy amongst us, as if each one had drawn a prize in a lottery. At the assurance of a meat dinner, the old people smiled and showed their teeth, and returned thanks to master overseer; but many of the younger ones shouted, clapped their hands, leaped, and ran about with delight. Each family, or mess, now sent its deputy, with a large wooden bowl in his hand, to receive the dinner at the great kitchen. I went on the part of our family, and found that the meat dinner of this day was made up of the basket of tripe, and other offal, that I had prepared in the morning. The whole had been boiled in four great iron kettles, until the flesh had disappeared from the bones, which were broken in small pieces--a flitch of bacon, some green corn, squashes, tomatos, and onions had been added, together with other condiments, and the whole converted into about a hundred gallons of soup, of which I received in my bowl, for the use of our family, more than two gallons. We had plenty of bread, and a supply of black-eyed peas, gathered from our garden, some of which Dinah had boiled in our kettle, whilst I was gone for the soup, of which there was as much as we could consume, and I believe that every one in the quarter had enough. I doubt if there was in the world a happier assemblage than ours, on this Saturday evening. We had finished one of the grand divisions of the labors of a cotton plantation, and were supplied with a dinner, which to the most of my fellow slaves appeared to be a great luxury, and most liberal donation on the part of our master, whom they regarded with sentiments of gratitude for this manifestation of his bounty. In addition to present gratification, they looked forward to the enjoyments of the next day, when they were to spend a whole Sunday in rest and banqueting; for it was known that the two fore-quarters of the bullock were to be dressed for Sunday's dinner, and I had told them that each of these quarters weighed at least one hundred pounds. Our quarter knew but little quiet this night; singing, playing on the banjo, and dancing, occupied nearly the whole community, until the break of day. Those who were too old to take any part in our active pleasures, beat time with their hands, or recited stories of former times. Most of these stories referred to affairs that had been transacted in Africa, and were sufficiently fraught with demons, miracles, and murders, to fix the attention of many hearers. To add to our happiness, the early peaches were now ripe, and the overseer permitted us to send, on Sunday morning, to the orchard, and gather at least ten bushels of very fine fruit. In South Carolina they have very good summer apples, but they fall from the trees, and rot immediately after they are ripe; Indeed, very often they speck-rot on the trees, before they become ripe. This "speck-rot," as it is termed, appears to be a kind of epidemic disease amongst apples; for in some seasons whole orchards are subject to it, and the fruit is totally worthless, whilst in other years, the fruit in the same orchard continues sound and good, until it is ripe. The climate of Carolina is, however, not favorable to the apple, and this fruit of so much value in the north, is in the cotton region only of a few weeks continuance--winter apples being unknown. Every climate is congenial to the growth of some kind of fruit tree; and in Carolina and Georgia, the peach arrives at its utmost perfection; the fig also ripens well, and is a delicious fruit. None of our people went out to work for wages, to-day. Some few devoted a part of the morning to such work as they deemed necessary in or about their patches, and some went to the woods, or the swamps, to collect sticks for brooms, and splits, or to gather flags for mats; but far the greater number remained at the quarter, occupied in some small work, or quietly awaiting the hour of dinner, which we had been informed, by one of the house-servants, would be at one o'clock. Every family made ready some preparation of vegetables, from their own garden, to enlarge the quantity, if not to heighten the flavor of the dinner of this day. One o'clock at length arrived, but not before it had been long desired; and we proceeded with our bowls a second time, to the great kitchen. I acted, as I had done yesterday, the part of commissary for our family; but when we were already at the place where we were to receive our soup and meat into our bowls, (for it was understood that we were, with the soup, to have an allowance of both beef and bacon to-day,) we were told that puddings had been boiled for us, and that we must bring dishes to receive them in. This occasioned some delay, until we obtained vessels from the quarter. In addition to at least two gallons of soup, about a pound of beef, and a small piece of bacon, I obtained nearly two pounds of pudding, made of corn meal, mixed with lard, and boiled in large bags. This pudding, with the molasses that we had at home, formed a very palatable second course to our bread, soup, and vegetables. On Sunday afternoon, we had a meeting, at which many of our party attended. A man named Jacob, who had come from Virginia, sang and prayed; but a great many of the people went out about the plantation, in search of fruits; for there were many peach and some fig trees, standing along the fences, on various parts of the estate. With us, this was a day of uninterrupted happiness. A man cannot well be miserable when he sees every one about him immersed in pleasure; and though our fare of to-day was not of a quality to yield me much gratification, yet such was the impulse given to my feelings, by the universal hilarity and contentment which prevailed amongst my fellows, that I forgot for the time all the subjects of grief that were stored in my memory, all the acts of wrong that had been perpetrated against me, and entered with the most sincere and earnest sentiments in the participation of the felicity of our community. CHAPTER VIII. At the time of which I now speak, the rice was ripe, and ready to be gathered. On Monday morning, after our feast, the overseer took the whole of us to the rice field, to enter upon the harvest of this crop. The field lay in a piece of low ground, near the river, and in such a position that it could be flooded by the water of the stream, in wet seasons. The rice is planted in drills, or rows, and grows more like oats than any of the other grain known in the north. The water is sometimes let in to the rice fields, and drawn off again, several times, according to the state of the weather. Watering and weeding the rice is considered one of the most unhealthy occupations on a southern plantation, as the people are obliged to live for several weeks in the mud and water, subject to all the unwholesome vapors that arise from stagnant pools, under the rays of a summer sun, as well as the chilly autumnal dews of night. At the time we came to cut this rice, the field was quite dry; and after we had reaped and bound it, we hauled it upon wagons, to a piece of hard ground, where we made a threshing floor, and threshed it. In some places, they tread out the rice, with mules or horses, as they tread wheat in Maryland; but this renders the grain dusty, and is injurious to its sale. After getting in the rice, we were occupied for some time in clearing and ditching swampy land, preparatory to a more extended culture of rice the next year; and about the first of August, twenty or thirty of the people, principally women and children, were employed for two weeks in making cider, of apples which grew in an orchard of nearly two hundred trees, that stood on a part of the estate. After the cider was made, a barrel of it was one day brought to the field, and distributed amongst us; but this gratuity was not repeated. The cider that was made by the people was converted into brandy, at a still in the corner of the orchard. I often obtained cider to drink, at the still, which was sheltered from the weather by a shed, of boards and slabs. We were not permitted to go into the orchard at pleasure; but as long as the apples continued, we were allowed the privilege of sending five or six persons every evening, for the purpose of bringing apples to the quarter, for our common use; and by taking large baskets, and filling them well, we generally contrived to get as many as we could consume. When the peaches ripened, they were guarded with more rigor--peach brandy being an article which is nowhere more highly prized than in South Carolina. There were on the plantation more than a thousand peach trees, growing on poor sandy fields, which were no longer worth the expense of cultivation. The best peaches grow upon the poorest sand-hills. We were allowed to take three bushels of peaches every day, for the use of the quarter; but we could, and did eat at least three times that quantity, for we stole at night that which was not given us by day. I confess that I took part in these thefts, and I do not feel that I committed any wrong, against either God or man, by my participation in the common danger that we ran, for we well knew the consequences that would have followed detection. After the feast at laying by the corn and cotton, we had no meat for several weeks; and it is my opinion that our master lost money by the economy he practised at this season of the year. I now entered upon a new scene of life. My true value had not yet been ascertained by my present owner; and whether I was to hold the rank of a first or second rate hand, could only be determined by an experience of my ability to pick cotton. I had ascertained that at the hoe, the spade, the sickle, or the flail, I was a full match for the best hands on the plantation; but soon discovered when we came to cotton picking I was not equal to a boy of fifteen. I worked hard the first day, but when evening came, and our cotton was weighed, I had only thirty-eight pounds, and was vexed to see that two young men, about my own age, had, one fifty-eight, and the other fifty-nine pounds. This was our first day's work, and the overseer had not yet settled the amount of a day's picking. It was necessary for him to ascertain, by the experience of a few days, how much the best hands could pick in a day, before he established the standard of the season. I hung down my head, and felt very much ashamed of myself when I found that my cotton was so far behind that of many, even of the women, who had heretofore regarded me as the strongest and most powerful man of the whole gang. I had exerted myself to-day to the utmost of my power; and as the picking of cotton seemed to be so very simple a business, I felt apprehensive that I should never be able to improve myself, so far as to become even a second rate hand. In this posture of affairs, I looked forward to something still more painful than the loss of character which I must sustain, both with my fellows and my master; for I knew that the lash of the overseer would soon become familiar with my back, if I did not perform as much work as any of the other young men. I expected indeed that it would go hard with me even now, and stood by with feelings of despondence and terror, whilst the other people were getting their cotton weighed. When it was all weighed, the overseer came to me where I stood, and told me to show him my hands. When I had done this, and he had looked at them, he observed--"You have a pair of good hands--you will make a good picker." This faint praise of the overseer revived my spirits greatly, and I went home with a lighter heart than I had expected to possess, before the termination of cotton-picking. When I came to get my cotton weighed, on the evening of the second day, I was rejoiced to find that I had forty-six pounds, although I had not worked harder than I did the first day. On the third evening I had fifty-two pounds; and before the end of the week, there were only three hands in the field--two men and a young woman--who could pick more cotton in a day than I could. On the Monday morning of the second week, when we went to the field, the overseer told us that he fixed the day's work at fifty pounds; and that all those who picked more than that, would be paid a cent a pound for the overplus. Twenty-five pounds was assigned as the daily task of the old people, as well as a number of boys and girls, whilst some of the women, who had children, were required to pick forty pounds, and several children had ten pounds each as their task. Picking of cotton may almost be reckoned among the arts. A man who has arrived at the age of twenty-five before he sees a cotton field, will never, in the language of the overseer, become _a crack picker_. By great industry and vigilance, I was able, at the end of a month, to return every evening a few pounds over the daily rate, for which I received my pay; but the business of picking cotton was a fatiguing labor to me, and one to which I never became reconciled, for the reason that in every other kind of work I was called a first rate hand, whilst in cotton picking I was hardly regarded as a _prime hand_. CHAPTER IX. It is impossible to reconcile the mind of the native slave to the idea of living in a state of perfect equality, and boundless affection, with the white people. Heaven will be no heaven to him, if he is not to be avenged of his enemies. I know, from experience, that these are the fundamental rules of his religious creed; because I learned them in the religious meetings of the slaves themselves. A favorite and kind master or mistress, may now and then be admitted into heaven, but this rather as a matter of favor, to the intercession of some slave, than as matter of strict justice to the whites, who will, by no means, be of an equal rank with those who shall be raised from the depths of misery, in this world. The idea of a revolution in the conditions of the whites and the blacks, is the corner-stone of the religion of the latter; and indeed, it seems to me, at least, to be quite natural, if not in strict accordance with the precepts of the Bible; for in that book I find it every where laid down, that those who have possessed an inordinate portion of the good things of this world, and have lived in ease and luxury, at the expense of their fellow men will surely have to render an account of their stewardship, and be punished, for having withheld from others the participation of those blessings, which they themselves enjoyed. There is no subject which presents to the mind of the male slave a greater contrast between his own condition and that of his master, than the relative station and appearance of his wife and his mistress. The one, poorly clad, poorly fed, and exposed to all the hardships of the cotton field; the other dressed in clothes of gay and various colors, ornamented with jewelry, and carefully protected from the rays of the sun, and the blasts of the wind. As I have before observed, the Africans have feelings peculiar to themselves; but with an American slave, the possession of the spacious house, splendid furniture, and fine horses of his master, are but the secondary objects of his desires. To fill the measure of his happiness, and crown his highest ambition, his young and beautiful mistress must adorn his triumph, and enliven his hopes. I have been drawn into the above reflections, by the recollection of an event of a most melancholy character, which took place when I had been on this plantation about three months. Amongst the house-servants of my master, was a young man, named Hardy, of a dark yellow complexion--a quadroon, or mulatto--one-fourth of whose blood was transmitted from white parentage. Hardy was employed in various kinds of work about the house, and was frequently sent on errands; sometimes on horseback. I had become acquainted with the boy, who had often come to see me at the quarter, and had sometimes staid all night with me, and often told me of the ladies and gentlemen who visited at the great house. Amongst others, he frequently spoke of a young lady, who resided six or seven miles from the plantation, and often came to visit the daughters of the family, in company with her brother, a lad about twelve or fourteen years of age. He described the great beauty of this girl, whose mother was a widow, living on a small estate of her own. This lady did not keep a carriage; but her son and daughter, when they went abroad, traveled on horseback. One Sunday, these two young people came to visit at the house of my master, and remained until after tea in the evening. As I did not go out to work that day, I went over to the great house, and from the house to a place in the woods, about a mile distant, where I had set snares for rabbits. This place was near the road, and I saw the young lady and her brother on their way home. It was after sundown when they passed me; but, as the evening was clear and pleasant, I supposed they would get home soon after dark, and that no accident would befall them. No more was thought of the matter this evening, and I heard nothing further of the young people until the next day, about noon, when a black boy came into the field, where we were picking cotton, and went to the overseer with a piece of paper. In a short time the overseer called me to come with him; and, leaving the field with the hands under the orders of Simon, the first captain, we proceeded to the great house. As soon as we arrived at the mansion, my master, who had not spoken to me since the day we came from Columbia, appeared at the front door, and ordered me to come in and follow him. He led me through a part of the house, and passed into the back yard, where I saw the young gentleman, his son, another gentleman whom I did not know, the family doctor, and the overseer, all standing together, and in earnest conversation. At my appearance, the overseer opened a cellar door, and ordered me to go in. I had no suspicion of evil, and obeyed the order immediately: as, indeed, I must have obeyed it, whatever might have been my suspicions. The overseer, and the gentlemen, all followed; and as soon as the cellar door was closed after us, by some one whom I could not see, I was ordered to pull off my clothes, and lie down on my back. I was then bound by the hands and feet, with strong cords, and extended at full length between two of the beams that supported the timbers of the building. The stranger, who I now observed was much agitated, spoke to the doctor, who then opened a small case of surgeons' instruments, which he took from his pocket, and told me he was going to skin me for what I had done last night: "But," said the doctor, "before you are skinned, you had better confess your crime." "What crime, master, shall I confess? I have committed no crime--what has been done, that you are going to murder me?" was my reply. My master then asked me why I had followed the young lady and her brother, who went from the house the evening before, and murdered her? Astonished and terrified at the charge of being a murderer, I knew not what to say; and only continued the protestations of my innocence, and my entreaties not to be put to death. My young master was greatly enraged against me, and loaded me with maledictions and imprecations; and his father appeared to be as well satisfied as he was of my guilt, but was more calm, and less vociferous in his language. The doctor, during this time, was assorting his instruments, and looking at me--then stooping down, and feeling my pulse, he said, it would not do to skin a man so full of blood as I was. I should bleed so much that he could not see to do his work; and he should probably cut some large vein, or artery, by which I should bleed to death in a few minutes; it was necessary to bleed me in the arms for some time, so as to reduce the quantity of blood that was in me, before taking my skin off. He then bound a string round my right arm, and opened a vein near the middle of the arm, from which the blood ran in a large and smooth stream. I already began to feel faint, with the loss of blood, when the cellar door was thrown open, and several persons came down, with two lighted candles. I looked at these people attentively, as they came near and stood around me, and expressed their satisfaction at the just and dreadful punishment that I was about to undergo. Their faces were all new and unknown to me, except that of a lad, whom I recognized as the same who had ridden by me, the preceding evening, in company with his sister. My old master spoke to this boy by name, and told him to come and see the murderer of his sister receive his due. The boy was a pretty youth, and wore his hair long, on the top of his head, in the fashion of that day. As he came round near my head, the light of a candle, which the doctor held in his hand, shone full in my face, and seeing that the eyes of the boy met mine, I determined to make one more effort to save my life, and said to him, in as calm a tone as I could, "Young master, did I murder young mistress, your sister?" The youth immediately looked at my master, and said, "This is not the man--this man has short wool, and he had long wool, like your Hardy." My life was saved. I was snatched from the most horrible of tortures, and from a slow and painful death. I was unbound, the bleeding of my arm stopped, and I was suffered to put on my clothes, and go up into the back yard of the house, where I was required to tell what I knew of the young lady and her brother on the previous day. I stated that I had seen them in the court yard of the house, at the time I was in the kitchen; that I had then gone to the woods, to set my snares, and had seen them pass along the road near me, and that this was all the knowledge I had of them. The boy was then required to examine me particularly, and ascertain whether I was, or was not, the man who had murdered his sister. He said he had not seen me at the place where I stated I was, and that he was confident I was not the person who had attacked him and his sister. That my hair, or wool, as he called it, was short; but that of the man who committed the crime was long, like Hardy's, and that he was about the size of Hardy--not so large as I was, but black like me, and not yellow like Hardy. Some one now asked where Hardy was, and he was called for, but could not be found in the kitchen. Persons were sent to the quarter, and other places, in quest of him, but returned without him. Hardy was nowhere to be found. Whilst this inquiry, or rather search, was going on, perceiving that my old master had ceased to look upon me as a murderer, I asked him to please to tell me what had happened, that had been so near proving fatal to me. I was now informed that the young lady, who had left the house on the previous evening in company with her brother, had been assailed on the road, about four miles off, by a black man, who had sprung from a thicket, and snatched her from her horse, as she was riding a short distance behind her brother. That the assassin, as soon as she was on the ground, struck her horse a blow with a long stick, which, together with the fright caused by the screams of its rider when torn from it, had caused it to fly off at full speed; and the horse of the brother also taking fright, followed in pursuit, notwithstanding all the exertions of the lad to stop it. All the account the brother could give of the matter was, that as his horse ran with him, he saw the negro drag his sister into the woods, and heard her screams for a short time. He was not able to stop his horse, until he reached home, when he gave information to his mother and her family. That people had been scouring the woods all night, and all the morning, without being able to find the young lady. When intelligence of this horrid crime was brought to the house of my master, Hardy was the first to receive it; he having gone to take the horse of the person--a young gentleman of the neighborhood--who bore it, and who immediately returned to join his friends in their search for the dead body. As soon as the messenger was gone, Hardy had come to my master, and told him that if he would prevent me from murdering him, he would disclose the perpetrator of the crime. He was then ordered to communicate all he knew on the subject; and declared that, having gone into the woods the day before, to hunt squirrels, he staid until it was late, and on his return home, hearing the shrieks of a woman, he had proceeded cautiously to the place; but before he could arrive at the spot, the cries had ceased; nevertheless, he had found me, after some search, with the body of the young lady, whom I had just killed, and that I was about to kill him too, with a hickory club, but he had saved his life by promising that he would never betray me. He was glad to leave me, and what I had done with the body he did not know. Hardy was known in the neighborhood, and his character had been good. I was a stranger, and on inquiry, the black people in the kitchen supported Hardy, by saying, that I had been seen going to the woods before night by the way of the road which the deceased had traveled. These circumstances were deemed conclusive against me by my master; and as the offence of which I was believed to be guilty was the highest that can be committed by a slave, according to the opinion of owners, it was determined to punish me in a way unknown to the law, and to inflict tortures upon me which the law would not tolerate. I was now released, and though very weak from the effects of bleeding, I was yet able to return to my own lodgings. I had no doubt that Hardy was the perpetrator of the crime for which I was so near losing my life; and now recollected that when I was at the kitchen of the great house on Sunday, he had disappeared, a short time before sundown, as I had looked for him when I was going to set my snares, but could not find him.--I went back to the house, and communicated this fact to my master. By this time, nearly twenty white men had collected about the dwelling, with the intention of going to search for the body of the lost lady; but it was now resolved to make the look-out double, and to give it the two-fold character of a pursuit of the living, as well as a seeking for the dead. I now returned to my lodgings in the quarter, and soon fell into a profound sleep, from which I did not awake until long after night, when all was quiet, and the stillness of undisturbed tranquillity prevailed over our little community. I felt restless, and sunk into a labyrinth of painful reflections, upon the horrid and perilous condition from which I had this day escaped, as it seemed, merely by chance; and as I slept until all sensations of drowsiness had left me, I rose from my bed, and walked out by the light of the moon, which was now shining. After being in the open air some time, I thought of the snares I had set on Sunday evening, and determined to go and see if they had taken any game. I sometimes caught oppossums in my snares; and, as these animals were very fat at this season of the year, I felt a hope that I might be fortunate enough to get one to-night. I had been at my snares, and had returned, as far as the road, near where I had seen the young lady and her brother on horseback on Sunday evening, and had seated myself under the boughs of a holly bush that grew there. It so happened that the place where I sat was in the shade of the bush, within a few feet of the road, but screened from it by some small boughs. In this position, which I had taken by accident, I could see a great distance along the road, towards the end of my master's lane. Though covered as I was by the shade, and enveloped in boughs, it was difficult for a person in the road to see me. The occurrence that had befallen me, in the course of the previous day, had rendered me nervous, and easily susceptible of all the emotions of fear. I had not been long in this place, when I thought I heard sounds, as of a person walking on the ground at a quick pace; and looking along the road, towards the lane I saw the form of some one, passing through a space in the road, where the beams of the moon, piercing between two trees, reached the ground. When the moving body passed into the shade, I could not see it; but in a short time, it came so near that I could distinctly see that it was a man, approaching me by the road. When he came opposite me, and the moon shone full in his face, I knew him to be a young mulatto, named David, the coachman of a widow lady, who resided somewhere near Charleston; but who had been at the house of my master, for two or three weeks, as a visiter, with her two daughters. This man passed on at a quick step, without observing me; and the suspicion instantly riveted itself in my mind, that he was the murderer, for whose crime I had already suffered so much, and that he was now on his way to the place where he had left the body, for the purpose of removing, or burying it in the earth. I was confident, that no honest purpose could bring him to this place, at this time of night, alone. I was about two miles from home, and an equal distance from the spot where the girl had been seized. Of her subsequent murder, no one entertained a doubt; for it was not to be expected, that the fellow who had been guilty of one great crime, would flinch from the commission of another, of equal magnitude, and suffer his victim to exist, as a witness to identify his person. I felt animated, by a spirit of revenge, against the wretch, whoever he might be, who had brought me so near to torture and death; and feeble and weak as I was, resolved to pursue the foot-steps of this coachman, at a wary and cautious distance, and ascertain, if possible, the object of his visit to these woods, at this time of night. I waited until he had passed me more than a hundred yards, and until I could barely discover his form in the faint light of the deep shade of the trees, when stealing quietly into the road, I followed, with the caution of a spy traversing the camp of an enemy.--We were now in a dark pine forest, and on both sides of us were tracts of low, swampy ground, covered with thickets so dense as to be difficult of penetration even by a person on foot. The road led along a neck of elevated and dry ground, that divided these swamps for more than a mile, when they terminated, and were succeeded by ground that produced scarcely any other timber than a scrubby kind of oak, called black jack. It was amongst these black jacks, about half a mile beyond the swamps, that the lady had been carried off. I had often been here, for the purpose of snaring and trapping the small game of these woods, and was well acquainted with the topography of this forest, for some distance, on both sides of the road. It was necessary for me to use the utmost caution in the enterprise I was now engaged in. The road we were now traveling, was in no place very broad, and at some points barely wide enough to permit a carriage to pass between the trees, that lined its sides. In some places, it was so dark that I could not see the man, whose steps I followed; but was obliged to depend on the sound, produced by the tread of his feet, upon the ground. I deemed it necessary to keep as close as possible to the object of my pursuit, lest he should suddenly turn into the swamp, on one side or the other of the road, and elude my vigilance; for I had no doubt that he would quit the road, somewhere. As we approached the termination of the low grounds, my anxiety became intense, lest he should escape me; and at one time, I could not have been more than one hundred feet behind him; but he continued his course, until he reached the oak woods, and came to a place where an old cart-road led off to the left, along the side of the Dark Swamp, as it was termed in the neighborhood. This road, the mulatto took, without turning to look behind him. Here my difficulties and perils increased, for I now felt myself in danger, as I had no longer any doubt, that I was on the trail of the murderer, and that, if discovered by him, my life would be the price of my curiosity. I was too weak to be able to struggle with him, for a minute; though if the blood which I had lost, through his wickedness, could have been restored to my veins, I could have seized him by the neck, and strangled him. The road I now had to travel, was so little frequented, that bushes of the ground oak and bilberry stood thick in almost every part of it. Many of these bushes were full of dry leaves, which had been touched by the frost, but had not yet fallen. It was easy for me to follow him, for I pursued by the noise he made, amongst these bushes; but it was not so easy for me to avoid, on my part, the making of a rustling, and agitation of the bushes, which might expose me to detection. I was now obliged to depend wholly on my ears, to guide my pursuit, my eyes being occupied in watching my own way, to enable me to avoid every object, the touching of which was likely to produce sound. I followed this road more than a mile, led by the cracking of the sticks, or the shaking of the leaves. At length, I heard a loud, shrill whistle, and then a total silence succeeded. I now stood still, and in a few seconds, heard a noise in the swamp like the drumming of a pheasant. Soon afterwards, I heard the breaking of sticks, and the sounds caused by the bending of branches of trees. In a little time, I was satisfied that something having life was moving in the swamp, and coming towards the place where the mulatto stood. This was at the end of the cart-road, and opposite some large pine trees, which grew in the swamp, at the distance of two or three hundred yards from its margin. The noise in the swamp still approached us; and at length a person came out of the thicket, and stood for a minute, or more, with the mulatto whom I had followed; and then they both entered the swamp, and took the course of the pine trees, as I could easily distinguish by my ears. When they were gone, I advanced to the end of the road, and sat down upon a log, to listen to their progress through the swamp. At length, it seemed that they had stopped, for I no longer heard any thing of them. Anxious, however, to ascertain more of this mysterious business, I remained in silence on the log, determined to stay there until day, if I could not sooner learn something to satisfy me. Why these men had gone into the swamp. All uncertainty upon this subject was, however, quickly removed from my mind; for within less than ten minutes, after I had ceased to hear them moving in the thicket, I was shocked by the faint, but shrill wailings of a female voice, accompanied with exclamations and supplications, in a tone so feeble that I could only distinguish a few solitary words. My mind comprehended the whole ground of this matter, at a glance. The lady supposed to have been murdered on Sunday evening, was still living; and concealed by the two fiends who had passed out of my sight but a few minutes before. The one I knew, for I had examined his features, within a few feet of me, in the full light of the moon; and, that the other was Hardy, I was as perfectly convinced, as if I had seen him also. I now rose to return home; the cries of the female in the swamp still continuing, but growing weaker, and dying away, as I receded from the place where I had sat. I was now in possession of the clearest evidence of the guilt of the two murderers; but I was afraid to communicate my knowledge to my master, lest he should suspect me of being an accomplice in this crime; and, if the lady could not be recovered alive, I had no doubt that Hardy and his companion were sufficiently depraved to charge me as a participation with themselves, to be avenged upon me. I was confident that the mulatto, David, would return to the house before day, and be found in his bed in the morning; which he could easily do, for he slept in a part of the stable loft; under pretence of being near the horses of his mistress. I thought it possible, that Hardy might also return home that night, and endeavor to account for his absence from home on Monday afternoon, by some ingenious lie; in the invention of which I knew him to be very expert. In this case, I saw that I should have to run the risk of being overpowered by the number of my false accusers; and, as I stood alone, they might yet be able to sacrifice my life, and escape the punishment due to their crimes. After much consideration, I came to the resolution of returning, as quick as possible, to the quarter--calling up the overseer--and acquainting him with all that I had seen, heard, and done, in the course of this night. As I did not know what time of night it was when I left my bed, I was apprehensive that day might break before I could so far mature my plans as to have persons to waylay and arrest the mulatto on his return home; but when I roused the overseer, he told me it was only one o'clock, and seemed but little inclined to credit my story; but, after talking to me several minutes he told me he, now more than ever, suspected me to be the murderer, but he would go with me and see if I had told the truth. When we arrived at the great house, some members of the family had not yet gone to bed, having been kept up by the arrival of several gentlemen who had been searching the woods all day for the lost lady, and who had come here to seek lodgings when it was near midnight. My master was in bed, but was called up and listened attentively to my story--at the close of which he shook his head, and said with an oath, "You ----, I believe you to be the murderer; but we will go and see if all you say is a lie; if it is, the torments of ---- will be pleasure to what awaits you. You have escaped once, but you will not get off a second time," I now found that somebody must die; and if the guilty could not be found, the innocent would have to atone for them. The manner in which my master had delivered his words, assured me that the life of somebody must be taken. This new danger aroused my energies--and I told them that I was ready to go, and take the consequences. Accordingly, the overseer, my young master, and three other gentlemen, immediately set out with me. It was agreed that we should all travel on foot, the overseer and I going a few paces in advance of the others. We proceeded silently, but rapidly, on our way; and as we passed it, I showed them the place where I sat under the holly bush, when the mulatto passed me. We neither saw nor heard any person on the road, and reached the log at the end of the cart-road, where I sat when I heard the cries in the swamp. All was now quiet, and our party lay down in the bushes on each side of a large gum tree, at the root of which the two murderers stood when they talked together, before they entered the thicket. We had not been here more than an hour, when I heard, as I lay with my head near the ground, a noise in the swamp, which I believed could only be made by those whom we sought. I, however, said nothing, and the gentlemen did not hear it. It was caused, as I afterwards ascertained, by dragging the fallen branch of a tree along the ground, for the purpose of lighting the fire. The night was very clear and serene--its silence only being broken at intervals by the loud hooting of the great long-eared owls, which are numerous in these swamps. I felt oppressed by the cold, and was glad to hear the crowing of a cock, at a great distance, announcing the approach of day. This was followed, after a short interval, by the cracking of sticks, and by other tokens, which I knew could proceed only from the motions of living bodies. I now whispered to the overseer, who lay near me, that it would soon appear whether I had spoken the truth or not. All were now satisfied that people were coming out of the swamp, for we heard them speak to each other. I desired the overseer to advise the other gentlemen to let the culprits come out of the swamp, and gain the high ground, before we attempted to seize them; but this counsel was, unfortunately, not taken; and when they came near to the gum tree, and it could be clearly seen that there were two men and no more, one of the gentlemen called out to them to stop, or they were dead. Instead, however, of stopping, they both sprang forward, and took to flight. They did not turn into the swamp, for the gentleman who ordered them to stop, was in their rear--they having already passed him. At the moment they had started to run, each of the gentlemen fired two pistols at them. The pistols made the forest ring on all sides; and I supposed it was impossible for either of the fugitives to escape from so many balls. This was, however, not the case; for only one of them was injured. The mulatto, David, had one arm and one leg broken, and fell about ten yards from us; but Hardy escaped, and when the smoke cleared away, he was nowhere to be seen. On being interrogated, David acknowledged that the lady was in the swamp, on a small island, and was yet alive--that he and Hardy had gone from the house on Sunday, for the purpose of waylaying and carrying her off, and intended to kill her little brother--this part of the duty being assigned to him, whilst Hardy was to drag the sister from her horse. As they were both mulattos, they blacked their faces with charcoal, taken from a pine stump partially burned. The boy was riding before his sister, and when Hardy seized her and dragged her from her horse, she screamed and frightened both the horses, which took off at full speed, by which means the boy escaped. Finding that the boy was out of his reach, David remained in the bushes until Hardy brought the sister to him. They immediately tied a handkerchief round her face, so as to cover her mouth and stifle her shrieks; and taking her in their arms, carried her back toward my master's house, for some distance, through the woods, until they came to the cart-road leading along the swamp. They then followed this road as far as it led, and, turning into the swamp, took their victim to a place they had prepared for her the Sunday before, on a small knoll in the swamp, where the ground was dry. Her hands were closely confined, and she was tied by the feet to a tree. He said he had stolen some bread, and taken it to her that night; but when they unbound her mouth to permit her to eat, she only wept and made a noise, begging them to release her, until they were obliged again to bandage her mouth. It was now determined by the gentlemen, that as the lady was still alive, we ought not to lose a moment in endeavoring to rescue her from her dreadful situation. I pointed out the large pine trees, in the direction of which I heard the cries of the young lady, and near which I believed she was--undertaking, at the same time, to act as pilot, in penetrating the thicket. Three of the gentlemen and myself accordingly set out, leaving the other two with the wounded mulatto with directions to inform us when we deviated from a right line to the pine trees. This they were able to do by attending to the noise we made, with nearly as much accuracy as if they had seen us. The atmosphere had now become a little cloudy, and the morning was very dark, even in the oak woods; but when we had entered the thickets of the swamp, all objects became utterly invisible; and the obscurity was as total as if our eyes had been closed. Our companions on the dry ground lost sight of the pine trees, and could not give us any directions in our journey. We became entangled in briers, and vines, and mats of bushes, from which the greatest exertions were necessary to disengage ourselves. It was so dark, that we could not see the fallen trees; and, missing these, fell into quagmires, and sloughs of mud and water, into which we sunk up to the arm-pits, and from which we were able to extricate ourselves, only by seizing upon the hanging branches of the surrounding trees. After struggling in this half-drowned condition, for at least a quarter of an hour, we reached a small dry spot, where the gentlemen again held a council, as to ulterior measures. They called to those left on the shore, to know if we were proceeding toward the pine trees; but received for answer that the pines were invisible, and they knew not whether we were right or wrong. In this state of uncertainty, it was thought most prudent to wait the coming of day, in our present resting-place. The air was frosty, and in our wet clothes, loaded as we were with mud, it may be imagined that our feelings were not pleasant; and when the day broke, it brought us but little relief, for we found, as soon as it was light enough to enable us to see around, that we were on one of those insulated dry spots, called "_tussocks_" by the people of the South. These _tussocks_ are formed by clusters of small trees, which, taking root in the mud, are, in process of time, surrounded by long grass, which, entwining its roots with those of the trees, overspread and cover the surface of the muddy foundation, by which the superstructure is supported. These _tussocks_ are often several yards in diameter. That upon which we now were, stood in the midst of a great miry pool, into which we were again obliged to launch ourselves, and struggle onward for a distance of ten yards, before we reached the line of some fallen and decaying trees. It was now broad daylight, and we saw the pine trees, at the distance of about a hundred yards from us; but even with the assistance of the light, we had great difficulty in reaching them,--to do which we were compelled to travel at least a quarter of a mile by the angles and curves of the fallen timber, upon which alone we could walk; this part of the swamp being a vast half-fluid bog. It was sunrise when we reached the pines, which we found standing upon a small islet of firm ground, containing, as well as I could judge, about half an acre, covered with a heavy growth of white maples, swamp oaks, a few large pines, and a vast mat of swamp laurel, called in the South _ivy_. I had no doubt that the object of our search was somewhere on this little island; but small as it was, it was no trifling affair to give every part of it a minute examination, for the stems and branches of the ivy were so minutely inter-woven with each other, and spread along the ground in so many curves and crossings, that it was impossible to proceed a single rod without lying down and creeping along the earth. The gentlemen agreed, that if any one discovered the young lady, he should immediately call to the others; and we all entered the thicket. I, however, turned along the edge of the island, with the intention of making its circuit, for the purpose of tracing, if possible, the footsteps of those who had passed between it and the main shore. I made my way more than half round the island, without much difficulty, and without discovering any signs of persons having been here before me; but in crossing the trunk of a large tree which had fallen, and the top of which extended far into the ivy, I perceived some stains of mud on the bark of the log. Looking into the swamp, I saw that the root of this tree was connected with other fallen timber, extending beyond the reach of my vision, which was obstructed by the bramble of the swamp, and the numerous evergreens growing here. I now advanced along the trunk of the tree until I reached its topmost branches, and here discovered evident signs of a small trail, leading into the thicket of ivy. Creeping along and following this trail by the small bearberry bushes that had been trampled down and had not again risen to an erect position, I was led almost across the island, and found that the small bushes were discomposed quite up to the edge of a vast heap of the branches of evergreen trees, produced by the falling of several large juniper cypress trees, which grew in the swamp in a cluster, and having been blown down, had fallen with their tops athwart each other, and upon the almost impervious mat of ivies, with which the surface of the island was coated over. I stood and looked at this mass of entangled green bush, but could not perceive the slightest marks of any entrance into its labyrinths; nor did it seem possible for any creature, larger than a squirrel, to penetrate it. It now for the first time struck me as a great oversight in the gentlemen, that they had not compelled the mulatto, David, to describe the place where they had concealed the lady; and, as the forest was so dense that no communication could be had with the shore, either by word or signs, we could not now procure any information on this subject. I therefore called to the gentlemen, who were on the island with me, and desired them to come to me without delay. Small as this island was, it was after the lapse of many minutes that the overseer and the other gentlemen arrived where I stood; and when they came, they would have been the subjects of mirthful emotions, had not the tragic circumstances in which I was placed, banished from my heart every feeling but that of the most profound melancholy. When the gentlemen had assembled, I informed them of signs of footsteps that I had traced from the other side of the island; and told them that I believed the young lady lay somewhere under the heap of brushwood before us. This opinion obtained but little credit, because there was no opening in the brush by which any one could enter it; but on going a few paces round the heap, I perceived a small, snaggy pole resting on the brush, and nearly concealed by it, with the lower end stuck in the ground. The branches had been cut from this pole at the distance of three or four inches from the main stem, which made it a tolerable substitute for a ladder. I immediately ascended the pole, which led me to the top of the pile, and here I discovered an opening in the brush, between the forked top of one of the cypress trees, through which a man might easily pass. Applying my head to this aperture, I distinctly heard a quick and laborious breathing, like that of a person in extreme illness; and again called the gentlemen to follow me. When they came up the ladder, the breathing was audible to all; and one of the gentlemen, whom I now perceived to be the stranger, who was with us in my master's cellar, when I was bled, slid down into the dark and narrow passage, without uttering a word. I confess that some feelings of trepidation passed through my nerves when I stood alone; but now that a leader had preceded me, I followed, and glided through the smooth and elastic cypress tops, to the bottom of this vast labyrinth of green boughs. When I reached the ground, I found myself in contact with the gentleman who was in advance of me, and near one end of a large concave, oblong, open space, formed by the branches of the trees, having been supported and kept above the ground, partly by a cluster of very large and strong ivies, that grew here, and partly by a young gum tree, which had been bent into the form of an arch by the falling timber. Though we could not see into this leafy cavern from above, yet when we had been in it a few moments, we had light enough to see the objects around us with tolerable clearness; but that which surprised us both greatly was, that the place was totally silent, and we could not perceive the appearance of any living thing, except ourselves. After we had been here some minutes, our vision became still more distinct; and I saw, at the other end of the open space, ashes of wood, and some extinguished brands, but there was no smoke. Going to these ashes, and stirring them with a stick, I found coals of fire carefully covered over, in a hole six or eight inches deep. When he saw the fire, the gentleman spoke to me, and expressed his astonishment that we heard the breathing no longer; but he had scarcely uttered these words, when a faint groan, as of a woman in great pain, was heard to issue apparently from the ground; but a motion of branches on our right assured me that the sufferer was concealed there. The gentleman sprung to the spot, pushed aside the pendant boughs, stooped low beneath the bent ivies, and came out, bearing in his hands a delicate female figure. As he turned round, and exposed her half-closed eye and white forehead to the light, he exclaimed, "Eternal God! Maria, is it you?" He then pressed her to his bosom, and sunk upon the ground, still holding her closely in his embrace. The lady lay motionless in his arms, and I thought she was dead. Her hair hung matted and dishevelled from her head; a handkerchief, once white, but now soiled with dust, and stained with blood, was bound firmly round her head, covering her mouth and chin, and was fastened at the back of the neck, by a double knot, and secured by a ligature of cypress bark. I knew not whom most to pity--the lady, who now lay insensible in the arms that still clasped her tenderly; or the unhappy gentleman, who having cut the cords from her limbs, and the handkerchief from her face, now sat and silently gazed upon her death-like countenance. He uttered not a sigh, and moved not a joint, but his breast heaved with agony; the sinews and muscles of his neck rose and fell, like those of a man in convulsions; all the lineaments of his face were, alternately, contracted and expanded, as if his last moments were at hand; whilst great drops of sweat rolled down his forehead, as though he struggled against an enemy whose strength was more than human. Oppressed by the sight of so much wretchedness, I turned from its contemplation, and called aloud to the gentlemen without (who had all this time been waiting to hear from us) to come up the ladder to the top of the pile of boughs. The overseer was quickly at the top of the opening, by which I had descended; and I now informed him that we had found the lady. He ordered me to hand her up--and I desired the gentleman who was with me to permit me to do so, but this he refused--and mounting the boughs of the fallen trees, and supporting himself by the strong branches of the ivies, he quickly reached the place where the overseer stood. He even here refused to part from his charge, but bore her down the ladder alone. He was, however, obliged to accept aid, in conveying her through the swamp to the place where we had left the two gentlemen with the wounded mulatto, whose sufferings, demon as he was, were sufficient to move the hardest heart. His right arm and left leg were broken, and he had lost much blood before we returned from the island; and as he could not walk, it was necessary to carry him home. We had not brought any horses, and until the lady was recovered, no one seemed to think any more about the mulatto after he was shot down. It was proposed to send for a horse to take David home; but it was finally agreed that we should leave him in the woods, where he was, until a man could be sent for him with a cart. At the time we left him, his groans and lamentations seemed to excite no sympathy in the breast of any. More cruel sufferings yet awaited him. The lady was carried home in the arms of the gentlemen; and she did not speak, until after she was bathed and put to bed in my master's house, as I afterwards heard. I know she did not speak on the way. She died on the fourth day after her rescue, and before her death related the circumstances of her misfortune, as I was told by a colored woman, who attended her in her illness, in the following manner: As she was riding in the dusk of the evening, at a rapid trot, a few yards behind her brother, a black man sprang from behind a tree standing close by the side of the road; seized her by her riding dress, and dragged her to the ground, but failed to catch the bridle of the horse, which sprang off at full speed.--Another negro immediately came to the aid of the first, and said, "I could not catch him--we must make haste." They carried her as fast as they could go to the place where we found her, when they bound her hands, feet and mouth, and left her until the next night; and had left her the second morning, only a few minutes, when she heard the report of guns. Soon after this, by great efforts, she extricated one of her feet from the bark with which she was bound; but finding herself too weak to stand, she crawled, as far as she could, under the boughs of the trees, hoping that when her assassins returned again they would not be able to find her, and that she might there die alone. Exhausted by the efforts she had made to remove herself, she fell into the stupor of sleep, from which she was aroused by the noise we made when we descended into the cavern. She then, supposing us to be her destroyers returned again, lay still, and breathed as softly as possible, to prevent us from hearing her; but when she heard the voice of the gentleman who was with me, the tones of which were familiar to her, she groaned and moved her feet, to let us know where she was. This exertion, and the idea of her horrid condition, overcame the strength of her nerves; and when her deliverer raised her from the ground she had swooned, and was unconscious of all things. We had no sooner arrived at the house, than inquiry was made for Hardy; but it was ascertained in the kitchen, that he had not been seen since the previous evening, at night-fall, when he had left the kitchen for the purpose of going to sleep at the stable with David, as he had told one of the black women; and preparation was immediately made to go in pursuit of him. For this purpose all the gentlemen present equipped themselves with pistols, fowling pieces, and horns--such as are used by fox hunters. Messengers were despatched round the country, to give notice to all the planters, within the distance of many miles, of the crime that had been committed, and of the escape of one of its perpetrators, with a request to them to come without delay, and join in the pursuit, intended to be given. Those who had dogs, trained to chase thieves, were desired to bring them; and a gentleman who lived twelve miles off, and who owned a blood-hound, was sent for, and requested to come with his dog, in all haste. In consequence, I suppose, of the information I had given, I was permitted to be present at these deliberations, and though my advice was not asked, I was often interrogated, concerning my knowledge of the affair. Some proposed to go at once, with dogs and horses, into the woods, and traverse the swamp and thickets, for the purpose of rousing Hardy from the place of concealment he might have chosen; but the opinion of the overseer prevailed, who thought, that from the intimate knowledge possessed by him, of all the swamps and coverts in the neighborhood, there would be little hope of discovering him in this manner. The overseer advised them to wait the coming of the gentleman with his blood-hound, before they entered the woods; for the reason, that if the blood hound could be made to take the trail, he would certainly find his game, before he quit it, if not thrown off the scent by the men, horses, and dogs crossing his course; but if the blood hound could not take the scent, they might then adopt the proposed plan of pursuit, with as much success as at present. This counsel being adopted, the horses were ordered into the stable; and the gentlemen entered the house to take their breakfast, and wait the arrival of the blood hound. Nothing was said of the mulatto, David, who seemed to be forgotten--not a word being spoken by any one of bringing him from the woods. I knew that he was suffering the most agonizing pains, and great as were his crimes, his groans and cries of anguish still seemed to echo in my ears; but I was afraid to make any application in his behalf, lest, even yet, I might be suspected of some participation in his offences; for I knew that the most horrid punishments were often inflicted upon slaves merely on suspicion. As the morning advanced, the number of men and horses in front of my master's mansion increased; and before ten o'clock I think there were, at least, fifty of each--the horses standing hitched and the men conversing in groups without, or assembled together within the house. At length the owner of the blood hound came, bringing with him his dog, in a chaise, drawn by one horse. The harness was removed from the horse, its place supplied by a saddle and bridle, and the whole party set off for the woods. As they rode away, my master, who was one of the company, told me to follow them; but we had proceeded only a little distance, when the gentlemen stopped, and my master, after speaking with the owner of the dog, told the overseer to go back to the house, and get some piece of the clothes of Hardy, that had been worn by him lately. The overseer returned, and we all proceeded forward to the place where David lay. We found him where we had left him, greatly weakened by the loss of blood, and complaining that the cold air caused his wounds to smart intolerably. When I came near him, he looked at me and told me I had betrayed him. None of the gentlemen seemed at all moved by his sufferings, and when any of them spoke to him it was with derision, and every epithet of scorn and contumely. As it was apparent that he could not escape, no one proposed to remove him to a place of greater safety; but several of the horsemen, as they passed, lashed him with the thongs of their whips; but I do not believe he felt these blows--the pain he endured from his wounds being so great as to drown the sensation of such minor afflictions. The day had already become warm, although the night had been cold; the sun shone with great clearness, and many carrion crows, attracted by the scent of blood, were perched upon the trees near where we now were. When the overseer came up with us, he brought an old blanket, in which Hardy had slept for some time, and handed it to the owner of the dog; who, having first caused the hound to smell of the blanket, untied the cord in which he had been led, and turned him into the woods. The dog went from us fifty or sixty yards, in a right line, then made a circle around us, again commenced his circular movement, and pursued it nearly half round. Then he dropped his nose to the ground, snuffed the tainted surface, and moved off through the wood slowly, almost touching the earth with his nose. The owner of the dog and twelve or fifteen others followed him, whilst the residue of the party dispersed themselves along the edge of the swamp, and the overseer ordered me to stay and watch the horses of those who dismounted, going himself on foot in the pursuit. When the gentlemen were all gone out of sight, I went to David, who lay all this time within my view, for the purpose of asking him if I could render him any assistance. He begged me to bring him some water, as he was dying of thirst, no less than with the pain of his wounds. One of the horsemen had left a large tin horn hanging on his saddle; this I took, and stopping the small end closely with leaves, filled it with water from the swamp, and gave it to the wounded man, who drank it, and then turning his head towards me, said:--"Hardy and I had laid a plan to have this thing brought upon you, and to have you hung for it--but you have escaped." He then asked me if they intended to leave him to die in the woods, or to take him home and hang him. I told him I had heard them talk of taking him home in a cart, but what was to be done with him I did not know. I felt a horror of the crimes committed by this man; was pained by the sight of his sufferings, and being unable to relieve the one, or to forgive the other, went to a place where I could neither see nor hear him, and sat down to await the return of those who had gone in the pursuit of Hardy. In the circumstances which surrounded me, it cannot be supposed that my feelings were pleasant, or that time moved very fleetly; but painful as my situation was, I was obliged to bear it for many hours. From the time the gentlemen left me, I neither saw nor heard them, until late in the afternoon, when five or six of them returned, having lost their companions in the woods. Toward sundown, I heard a great noise of horns blown, and of men shouting at a distance in the forest; and soon after, my master, the owner of the blood hound, and many others returned, bringing with them Hardy, whom the hound had followed ten or twelve miles through the swamps and thickets; had at last caught him, and would soon have killed him, had he not been compelled to relinquish his prey. When the party had all returned, a kind of court was held in the woods, where we then were, for the purpose of determining what punishment should be inflicted upon Hardy and David. All agreed at once, that an example of the most terrific character ought to be made of such atrocious villains, and that it would defeat the ends of justice to deliver these fellows up to the civil authority, to be hanged like common murderers. The next measure was to settle upon the kind of punishment to be inflicted upon them, and the manner of executing the sentence. Hardy was, all this time, sitting on the ground covered with blood, and yet bleeding profusely, in hearing of his inexorable judges. The dog had mangled both his arms and hands in a shocking manner; torn a large piece of flesh entirely away from one side of his breast, and sunk his fangs deep in the side of his neck. No other human creature that I have ever seen presented a more deplorable spectacle of mingled crime and cruelty. It was now growing late, and the fate of these miserable men was to be decided before the company separated to go to their several homes. One proposed to burn them, another to flay them alive, and a third to starve them to death, and many other modes of slowly and tormentingly extinguishing life were named; but that which was finally adopted was, of all others, the most horrible. The wretches were unanimously sentenced to be stripped naked, and bound down securely upon their backs, on the naked earth, in sight of each other; to have their mouths closely covered with bandages, to prevent them from making a noise to frighten away the birds, and in this manner to be left to be devoured alive by the carrion crows and buzzards, which swarm in every part of South Carolina. The sentence was instantly carried into effect, so far as its execution depended on us. Hardy and his companion were divested of their clothes, stretched upon their backs on the ground; their mouths bandaged with handkerchiefs--their limbs extended--and these, together with their necks, being crossed by numerous poles, were kept close to the earth by forked sticks driven into the ground, so as to prevent the possibility of moving any part of their persons; and in this manner these wicked men were left to be torn in pieces by birds of prey. The buzzards and carrion crows, always attack dead bodies by pulling out and consuming the eyes first. They then tear open the bowels, and feed upon the intestines. We returned to my master's plantation, and I did not see this place again until the next Sunday, when several of my fellow slaves went with me to see the remains of the dead, but we found only their bones. Great flocks of buzzards and carrion crows were assembled in the trees, giving a dismal aspect to the woods; and I hastened to abandon a place fraught with so many afflicting recollections. The lady, who had been the innocent sacrifice of the brutality of the men, whose bones I had seen bleaching in the sun, had died on Saturday evening, and her corpse was buried on Monday, in a grave-yard on my master's plantation. I have never seen a large cotton plantation, in Carolina, without its burying ground. This burying ground is not only the place of sepulture of the family, who are the proprietors of the estate, but also of many other persons who have lived in the neighborhood. Half an acre, or an acre of ground, is appropriated as a grave-yard, on one side of which the proprietors of the estate, from age to age, are buried; whilst the other parts of the ground are open to strangers, poor people of their vicinity, and, in general, to all who choose to inter their dead within its boundaries. This custom prevails as far north as Maryland; and it seems to me to be much more consonant to the feelings of solitude and tender recollections, which we always associate with the memory of departed friends, than the practice of promiscuous interment in a church-yard, where all idea of seclusion is banished, by the last home of the dead being thrown open to the rude intrusions of strangers; where the sanctity of the sepulchre is treated as a common, and where the grave itself is, in a few years, torn up, or covered over, to form a temporary resting-place for some new tenant. The family of the deceased lady, though not very wealthy, was amongst the most ancient and respectable in this part of the country; and, on Sunday, whilst the dead body lay in my master's house, there was a continual influx and efflux of visiters, in carriages, on horse-back, and on foot. The house was open to all who chose to come; and the best wines, cakes, sweetmeats and fruits, were handed about to the company by the servants; though I observed that none remained for dinner, except the relations of the deceased, those of my master's family, and the young gentleman who was with me on the island. The visiters remained but a short time when they came, and were nearly all in mourning. This was the first time that I had seen a large number of the fashionable people of Carolina assembled together, and their appearance impressed me with an opinion favorable to their character. I had never seen an equal number of people anywhere, whose deportment was more orderly and decorous, nor whose feelings seemed to be more in accordance with the solemnity of the event, which had brought them together. I had been ordered by the overseer to remain at the great house until the afternoon, for the purpose, as I afterwards learned, of being seen by those who came to see the corpse; and many of the ladies and gentlemen inquired for me, and when I was pointed out to them, commended my conduct and fidelity, in discovering the authors of the murder--condoled with me for having suffered innocently, and several gave me money. One old lady, who came in a pretty carriage, drawn by two black horses, gave me a dollar. On Monday the funeral took place, and several hundred persons followed the corpse to the grave, over which a minister delivered a short sermon. The young gentleman who was with me when we found the deceased on the island, walked with her mother to the grave-yard, and the little brother followed, with a younger sister. After the interment, wines and refreshments were handed round to the whole assembly, and at least a hundred persons remained for dinner with my master's family. At four o'clock in the afternoon the carriages and horses were ordered to the door of the court-yard of the house, and the company retired. At sundown, the plantation was as quiet as if its peace had never been disturbed. CHAPTER X. I have before observed that the negroes of the cotton plantations are exceedingly superstitious; and they are indeed prone, beyond all other people that I have ever known, to believe in ghosts, and the existence of an infinite number of supernatural agents. No story of a miraculous character can be too absurd to obtain credit with them; and a narrative is not the less eagerly listened to, nor the more cautiously received, because it is impossible in its circumstances. Within a few weeks after the deaths of the two malefactors, to whose horrible crimes were awarded equally horrible punishments, the forest that had been the scene of these bloody deeds was reported and believed to be visited at night by beings of unearthly make, whose groans and death-struggles were heard in the darkest recesses of the woods, amidst the flapping of the wings of vultures, the fluttering of carrion crows, and the dismal croaking of ravens. In the midst of this nocturnal din, the noise caused by the tearing of the flesh from the bones was heard, and the panting breath of the agonized sufferer, quivering under the beaks of his tormentors, as they consumed his vitals, floated audibly upon the evening breeze. The murdered lady was also seen walking by moonlight, near the spot where she had been dragged from her horse, wrapped in a blood-stained mantle, overhung with gory and dishevelled locks. The little island in the swamp was said to present spectacles too horrid for human eyes to look upon, and sounds were heard to issue from it which no human ear could bear. Terrific and ghastly fires were seen to burst up, at midnight, amongst the evergreens that clad this lonely spot, emitting scents too suffocating and sickly to be endured; whilst demoniac yells, shouts of despair and groans of agony, mingled their echos in the solitude of the woods. Whilst I remained in this neighborhood, no colored person ever traveled this road alone after night-fall; and many white men would have ridden ten miles round the country to avoid the passage of the ridge road, after dark. Generations must pass away before the tradition of this place will be forgotten; and many a year will open and close, before the last face will be pale, or the last heart beat, as the twilight traveler skirts the borders of the Murderer's Swamp. We had allowances of meat distributed to all the people twice this fall--once when we had finished the saving the fodder, and again soon after the murder of the young lady. The first time we had beef, such as I had driven from the woods when I went to the alligator pond; but now we had two hogs given to us, which weighed, one a hundred and thirty, and the other a hundred and fifty-six pounds. This was very good pork, and I received a pound and a quarter as my share of it. This was the first pork that I had tasted in Carolina, and it afforded a real feast. We had, in our family, full seven pounds of good fat meat; and as we now had plenty of sweet potatoes, both in our gardens and in our weekly allowance, we had on the Sunday following the funeral, as good a dinner of stewed pork and potatoes as could have been found in all Carolina. We did not eat all our meat on Sunday, but kept part of it until Tuesday, when we warmed it in a pot, with an addition of parsley and other herbs, and had another very comfortable meal. I had, by this time, become in some measure acquainted with the country, and began to lay and execute plans to procure supplies of such things as were not allowed me by my master. I understood various methods of entrapping rackoons, and other wild animals that abounded in the large swamps of this country; and besides the skins, which were worth something for their furs, I generally procured as many rackoons, opossums, and rabbits, as afforded us two or three meals in a week. The woman with whom I lived, understood the way of dressing an opossum, and I was careful to provide one for our Sunday dinner every week, so long as these animals continued fat and in good condition. All the people on the plantation did not live as well as our family did, for many of the men did not understand trapping game, and others were too indolent to go far enough from home to find good places for setting their traps. My principal trapping ground was three miles from home, and I went three times a week, always after night, to bring home my game, and keep my traps in good order. Many of the families in the quarter caught no game, and had no meat, except that which we received from the overseer, which averaged about six or seven meals in the year. Lydia, the woman whom I have mentioned heretofore, was one of the women whose husbands procured little or nothing for the sustenance of their families, and I often gave her a quarter of a rackoon or a small opossum, for which she appeared very thankful. Her health was not good--she had a bad cough, and often told me she was feverish and restless at night. It appeared clear to me that this woman's constitution was broken by hardships and sufferings, and that she could not live long in her present mode of existence. Her husband, a native of a country far in the interior of Africa, said he had been a priest in his own nation, and had never been taught to do any kind of labor, being supported by the contributions of the public; and he now maintained, as far as he could, the same kind of lazy dignity, that he had enjoyed at home. He was compelled by the overseer to work, with the other hands, in the field, but as soon as he had come into his cabin, he took his seat, and refused to give his wife the least assistance in doing any thing. She was consequently obliged to do the little work that it was necessary to perform in the cabin; and also to bear all the labor of weeding and cultivating the family patch or garden. The husband was a morose, sullen man, and said he formerly had ten wives in his own country, who all had to work for, and wait upon him; and he thought himself badly off here, in having but one woman to do any thing for him. This man was very irritable, and often beat and otherwise maltreated his wife, on the slightest provocation, and the overseer refused to protect her, on the ground, that he never interfered in the family quarrels of the black people. I pitied this woman greatly, but as it was not in my power to remove her from the presence and authority of her husband, I thought it prudent not to say nor do any thing to provoke him further against her. As the winter approached, and the autumnal rains set in, she was frequently exposed in the field, and was wet for several hours together; this, joined to the want of warm and comfortable woollen clothes, caused her to contract colds, and hoarseness, which increased the severity of her cough. A few days before Christmas, her child died, after an illness of only three days. I assisted her and her husband to inter the infant--which was a little boy--and its father buried with it a small bow and several arrows; a little bag of parched meal; a miniature canoe, about a foot long, and a little paddle, (with which he said it would cross the ocean to his own country) a small stick, with an iron nail, sharpened, and fastened into one end of it; and a piece of white muslin, with several curious and strange figures painted on it in blue and red, by which, he said, his relations and countrymen would know the infant to be his son, and would receive it accordingly, on its arrival amongst them. Cruel as this man was to his wife, I could not but respect the sentiments which inspired his affection for his child; though it was the affection of a barbarian. He cut a lock of hair from his head, threw it upon the dead infant, and closed the grave with his own hands. He then told us the God of his country was looking at him, and was pleased with what he had done. Thus ended the funeral service. As we returned home, Lydia told me she was rejoiced that her child was dead, and out of a world in which slavery and wretchedness must have been its only portion. I am now, said she, ready to follow my child, and the sooner I go the better for me. She went with us to the field until the month of January, when, as we were returning from our work, one stormy and wet evening, she told me she should never pick any more cotton--that her strength was gone, and she could work no more. When we assembled, at the blowing of the horn, on the following morning, Lydia did not appear. The overseer, who had always appeared to dislike this woman, when he missed her, swore very angrily, and said he supposed she was pretending to be sick, but if she was he would soon cure her. He then stepped into his house and took some copperas from a little bag, and mixed it with water. I followed him to Lydia's cabin, where he compelled her to drink this solution of copperas. It caused her to vomit violently, and made her exceedingly sick. I think to this day, that this act of the overseer was the most inhuman of all those that I have seen perpetrated upon defenceless slaves. Lydia was removed that same day to the sick room, in a state of extreme debility and exhaustion. When she left this room again she was a corpse. Her disease was a consumption of the lungs, which terminated her life early in March. I assisted in carrying her to the grave, which I closed upon her, and covered with green turf. She sleeps by the side of her infant, in a corner of the negro grave-yard of this plantation. Death was to her a welcome messenger, who came to remove her from toil that she could not support, and from misery that she could not sustain. Christmas approached, and we all expected two or three holidays--but we were disappointed, as only one was all that was allotted to us. I went to the field and picked cotton all day, for which I was paid by the overseer, and at night I had a good dinner of stewed pork and sweet potatoes. Such were the beginning and end of my first Christmas on a cotton plantation. We went to work as usual the next morning, and continued our labor through the week, as if Christmas had been stricken from the calendar. I had already saved and laid by a little more than ten dollars in money, but part of it had been given to me at the funeral. I was now much in want of clothes, none having been given me since I came here. I had, at the commencement of the cold weather, cut up my old blanket, and, with the aid of Lydia, who was a very good seamstress, converted it into a pair of trowsers, and a long roundabout jacket; but this deprived me of my bed, which was imperfectly supplied by mats, which I made of rushes. The mats were very comfortable things to lie upon, but they were by no means equal to blankets for covering. A report had been current among us for some time, that there would be a distribution of clothes to the people at New-Year's day; but how much, or what kind of clothes we were to get no one pretended to know except that we were to get shoes, in conformity to a long-established rule of this plantation. From Christmas to New-Year appeared a long week to me, and I have no doubt that it appeared yet longer to some of my fellow slaves, most of whom were entirely barefoot. I had made moccasins for myself, of the skins of squirrels that I had caught in my traps, and by this means protected my feet from the frost, which was sometimes very heavy and sharp in the morning. On the first day of January, when we met at the blowing of the morning horn, the overseer told us we must all proceed to the great house, where we were to receive our winter clothes; and surely, no order was ever more willingly obeyed. When we arrived at the house our master was up, and we were all called into the great court yard in front of the dwelling. The overseer now told us that shoes would be given to all those who were able to go to the field to pick cotton. This deprived of shoes the children, and several old persons, whose eye-sight was not sufficiently clear to enable them to pick cotton. A new blanket was then given to every one above seven years of age--children under seven received no blanket, being left to be provided for by their parents. Children of this age and under, go entirely naked, in the day-time, and sleep with their mothers at night, or are wrapped up together in such bedding as the mother may possess. It may well be supposed, that in our society, although we were all slaves, and all nominally in a condition of the most perfect equality, yet there was in fact a very great difference in the manner of living, in the several families. Indeed, I doubt if there is as great a diversity in the modes of life, in the several families of any white village in New York or Pennsylvania, containing a population of three hundred persons, as there was in the several households of our quarter. This may be illustrated by the following circumstance: Before I came to reside in the family with whom I lived at this time, they seldom tasted animal food, or even fish, except on meat-days, as they were called; that is, when meat was given to the people by the overseer, under the orders of our master. The head of the family was a very quiet, worthy man; but slothful and inactive in his habits. When he had come from the field at night, he seldom thought of leaving the cabin again before morning. He would, and did, make baskets and mats, and earned some money by these means; he also did his regular day's work on Sunday; but all his acquirements were not sufficient to enable him to provide any kind of meat for his family. All that his wife and children could do, was to provide him with work at his baskets and mats; and they lived even then better than some of their neighbors. After I came among them and had acquired some knowledge of the surrounding country, I made as many baskets and mats as he did, and took time to go twice a week to look at all my traps. As the winter passed away and spring approached, the proceeds of my hunting began to diminish. The game became scarce, and both rackoons and opossums grew poor and worthless. It was necessary for me to discover some new mode of improving the allowance allotted to me by the overseer. I had all my life been accustomed to fishing in Maryland, and I now resolved to resort to the water for a living; the land having failed to furnish me a comfortable subsistence. With these views, I set out one Sunday morning, early in February, and went to the river at a distance of three miles from home. From the appearance of the stream I felt confident that it must contain many fish; and I went immediately to work to make a weir. With the help of an axe that I had with me, I had finished before night the frame-work of a weir of pine sticks, lashed together with white oak splits. I had no canoe, but made a raft of dry logs, upon which I went to a suitable place in the river and set my weir. I afterwards made a small net of twine that I bought at the store; and on next Thursday night I took as many fish from my weir as filled a half bushel measure. This was a real treasure--it was the most fortunate circumstance that had happened with me since I came to the country. I was enabled to show my generosity, but, like all mankind, even in my liberality, I kept myself in mind. I gave a large fish to the overseer, and took three more to the great house. These were the first fresh fish that had been in the family this season; and I was much praised by my master and young mistresses, for my skill and success in fishing; but this was all the advantage I received from this effort to court the favor of the great:--I did not even get a dram. The part I had performed in the detection of the murderers of the young lady was forgotten, or at least not mentioned now. I went away from the house not only disappointed but chagrined, and thought with myself that if my master and young mistresses had nothing but words to give me for my fish, we should not carry on a very large traffic. On next Sunday morning, a black boy came from the house, and told me that our master wished to see me. This summons was not to be disobeyed. When I returned to the mansion, I went round to the kitchen, and sent word by one of the house-slaves that I had come. The servant returned and told me, that I was to stay in the kitchen and get my breakfast; and after that to come into the house. A very good breakfast was sent to me from my master's table, after the family had finished their morning meal; and when I had done with my repast I went into the parlor. I was received with great affability by my master, who told me he had sent for me to know if I had been accustomed to fish in the place I had come from. I informed him that I had been employed at a fishery on the Patuxent, every spring, for several years; and that I thought I understood fishing with a seine, as well as most people. He then asked me if I could knit a seine, to which I replied in the affirmative. After some other questions, he told me that as the picking of cotton was nearly over for this season, and the fields must soon be ploughed up for a new crop, he had a thought of having a seine made, and of placing me at the head of a fishing party, for the purpose of trying to take a supply of fish for his hands. No communication could have been more unexpected than this was, and it was almost as pleasing to me as it was unexpected by me. I now began to hope that there would be some respite from the labors of the cotton field, and that I should not be doomed to drag out a dull and monotonous existence, within the confines of the enclosures of the plantation. In Maryland, the fishing season was always one of hard labor, it is true, but also a time of joy and hilarity. We then had, throughout the time of fishing, plenty of bread, and at least bacon enough to fry our fish with. We had also a daily allowance of whisky, or brandy, and we always considered ourselves fortunate when we left the farm to go to the fishery. A few days after this, I was again sent for by my master, who told me that he had bought twine and ropes for a seine, and that I must set to work and knit it as quickly as possible; that as he did not wish the twine to be taken to the quarter, I must remain with the servants in the kitchen, and live with them while employed in constructing the seine. I was assisted in making the seine by a black boy, whom I had taught to work with me; and by the end of two weeks we had finished our job. While at work on this seine, I lived rather better than I had formerly done when residing at the quarter. We received among us--twelve in number, including the people who worked in the garden--the refuse of our master's table. In this way we procured a little cold meat every day; and when there were many strangers visiting the family, we sometimes procured considerable quantities of cold and broken meats. My new employment afforded me a better opportunity than I had hitherto possessed of making correct observations upon the domestic economy of my master's household, and of learning the habits and modes of life of the persons who composed it. On a great cotton plantation, such as this of my master's, the field hands, who live in the quarter, are removed so far from the domestic circle of their master's family, by their servile condition and the nature of their employment, that they know but little more of the transactions within the walls of the great house than if they lived ten miles off. Many a slave has been born, lived to old age, and died on a plantation, without ever having been within the walls of his master's domicile. My master was a widower; and his house was in charge of his sister, a maiden lady, apparently of fifty-five or sixty. He had six children, three sons and three daughters, and all unmarried; but only one of the sons was at home, at the time I came upon the estate; the other two were in some of the northern cities--the one studying medicine, and the other at college. At the time of knitting the twine, these young gentlemen had returned on a visit to their relations, and all the brothers and sisters were now on the place. The young ladies were all grown up, and marriageable; their father was known to be a man of great wealth, and the girls were reputed very pretty in Carolina; one of them, the second of the three, was esteemed a great beauty. The reader might deem my young mistress' pretty face and graceful person altogether impertinent to the narrative of my own life; but they had a most material influence upon my fortunes, and changed the whole tenor of my existence. Had she been less beautiful, or of a temper less romantic and adventurous, I should still have been a slave in South Carolina, if yet alive, and the world would have been saved the labor of perusing these pages. Any one at all acquainted with southern manners, will at once see that my master's house possessed attractions which would not fail to draw within it numerous visiters; and that the head of such a family as dwelt under its roof was not likely to be without friends. I had not been at work upon the seine a week before I discovered, by listening to the conversation of my master and the other members of the family, that they prided themselves not a little upon the antiquity of their house, and the long practice of a generous hospitality to strangers, and to all respectable people who chose to visit their homestead. All circumstances seemed to conspire to render this house one of the chief seats of the fashion, the beauty, the wit, and the gallantry of South Carolina. Scarcely an evening came but it brought a carriage, and ladies and gentlemen and their servants; and every day brought dashing young planters, mounted on horseback, to dine with the family; but Sunday was the day of the week on which the house received the greatest accession of company. My master and family were members of the Episcopal Church, and attended service every Sunday, when the weather was fine, at a church eight miles distant. Each of my young masters and mistresses had a saddle-horse, and in pleasant weather they frequently all went to church on horseback, leaving my old master and mistress to occupy the family carriage alone. I have seen fifteen or twenty young people come to my master's for dinner on Sunday from church; and very often the parson, a young man of handsome appearance, was among them. I had observed these things long before, but now I had come to live at the house, and became more familiar with them. Three Sundays intervened while I was at work upon the seine, and on each of these Sundays more than twenty persons, besides the family, dined at my master's. During these three weeks, my young masters were absent far the greater part of the time; but I observed that they generally came home on Sunday for dinner. My young mistresses were not from home much, and I believe they never left the plantation unless either their father or some one of their brothers was with them. Dinner parties were frequent in my master's house; and on these occasions of festivity, a black man, who belonged to a neighboring estate, and who played the violin, was sent for. I observed that whenever this man was sent for, he came, and sometimes even came before night, which appeared a little singular to me, as I knew the difficulty that colored people had to encounter in leaving the estate to which they were attached. CHAPTER XI. Early in March, my seine being now completed, my master told me I must take with me three other black men, and go to the river to clear out a fishery. This task was a disagreeable job, for it was nothing less than dragging out of the river all the old trees and brush that had sunk to the bottom, within the limits of our intended fishing ground. My master's eldest son had been down the river, and had purchased two boats, to be used at the fishery; but when I saw them, I declared them to be totally unfit for that purpose. They were old batteaux, and so leaky that they would not have supported the weight of a seine and the men necessary to lay it out. I advised the building of two good canoes from some of the large yellow pines in the woods. My advice was accepted, and together with five others hands, I went to work at the canoes, which we completed in less than a week. So far things went pretty well, and I flattered myself that I should become the head man at this new fishery, and have the command of the other hands. I also expected that I should be able to gain some advantage to myself, by disposing of a part of the small fish that might be taken at the fishery. I reckoned without my host. My master had only purchased this place a short time before he bought me. Before that time he did not own any place on the river, fit for the establishment of a fishery. His lands adjoined the river for more than a mile in extent, along its margin; but an impassable morass separated the channel of the river, from the firm ground, all along his lines. He had cleared the highest parts of this morass, or swamp, and had here made his rice fields; but he was as entirely cut off from the river, as if an ocean had separated it from him. On the day that we launched the canoes into the river, and while we were engaged in removing some snags and old trees that had stuck in the mud, near the shore, an ill-looking stranger came to us, and told us that our master had sent him to take charge of the fishery, and superintend all the work that was to be done at it. This man, by his contract with my master, was to receive a part of all the fish caught, in lieu of wages; and was invested with the same authority over us that was exercised by the overseer in the cotton field. I soon found that I had cause to regret my removal from the plantation. It was found quite impossible to remove the old logs, and other rubbish from the bottom of the river, without going into the water, and wrenching them from their places with long handspikes. In performing this work we were obliged to wade up to our shoulders, and often to dip our very heads under water, in raising the sunken timber. However, within less than a week, we had cleared the ground, and now began to haul our seine. At first, we caught nothing but common river fish; but after two or three days, we began to take shad. Of the common fish, such as pike, perch, suckers, and others, we had the liberty of keeping as many as we could eat; but the misfortune was, that we had no pork, or fat of any kind, to fry them with; and for several days we contented ourselves with boiling them on the coals, and eating them with our corn bread and sweet potatoes. We could have lived well, if we had been permitted to boil the shad on the coals, and eat them; for a fat shad will dress itself in being broiled, and is very good, without any oily substance added to it. All the shad that we caught, were carefully taken away by a black man, who came three times every day to the fishery, with a cart. The master of the fishery had a family that lived several miles up the river. In the summer time, he fished with hooks, and small nets, when not engaged in running turpentine, in the pine woods. In the winter he went back into the pine forest, and made tar of the dead pine trees; but returned to the river at the opening of the spring, to take advantage of the shad fishery. He was supposed to be one of the most skillful fishermen on the Congrace river, and my master employed him to superintend his new fishery, under an expectation, I presume, that as he was to get a tenth part of all the fish that might be caught, he would make the most of his situation. My master had not calculated with accuracy the force of habit, nor the difficulty which men experience, in conducting very simple affairs, of which they have no practical knowledge. The fish-master did very well for the interest of his employer for a few days; compelling us to work in hauling the seine, day and night, and scarcely permitting us to take rest enough to obtain necessary sleep. We were compelled to work full sixteen hours every day, including Sunday; for in the fishing season no respect is paid to Sunday by fishermen anywhere. We had our usual quantity of bread and potatoes, with plenty of common fish; but no shad came to our lot, nor had we anything to fry our fish with. A broiled fresh-water fish is not very good at best, without salt or oil; and after we had eaten them every day, for a week, we cared very little for them. By this time our fish-master began to relax in his discipline; not that he became more kind to us, or required us to do less work, but to compel us to work all night, it was necessary for him to sit up all night and watch us. This was a degree of toil and privation to which he could not long submit; and one evening soon after dark, he called me to him, and told me that he intended to make me overseer of the fishery that night; and he had no doubt I would keep the hands at work, and attend to the business as well without him as with him. He then went into his cabin, and went to bed; whilst I went and laid out the seine, and made a very good haul. We took more than two hundred shad at this draught; and followed up our work with great industry all night, only taking time to eat our accustomed meal at midnight. Every fisherman knows that the night is the best time for taking shad; and the little rest that had been allowed us, since we began to fish, had always been from eight o'clock in the morning until four in the afternoon; unless within that period there was an appearance of a school of fish in the river; when we had to rise, and lay out the seine, no matter at what hour of the day. The fish-master had been very severe with the hands since he came amongst us, and had made very free use of a long hickory gad that he sometimes carried about with him; though at times he would relax his austerity, and talk quite familiarly with us,--especially with me, whom he perceived to have some knowledge of the business in which we were engaged. The truth was, that this man knew nothing of fishing with a seine, and I had been obliged from the beginning to direct the operations of laying out and drawing in the seine; though the master was always very loud and boisterous in giving his commands, and directing us in what part of the river we should let down the seine. Having never been accustomed to regular work, or to the pursuit of any constant course of personal application, the master was incapable of long continued exertion; and I feel certain that he could not have been prevailed upon to labor twelve hours each day, for a year, if in return he had been certain of receiving ten thousand dollars. Notwithstanding this, he was capable of rousing himself, and of undergoing any degree of fatigue or privation for a short time, even for a few days. He had not been trained to habits of industry, and could not bear the restraints of uniform labor. We worked hard all night, the first night of my superintendence, and when the sun rose the next morning, the master had not risen from his bed. As it was now the usual time of dividing the fish, I called to him to come and see this business fairly done; but as he did not come down immediately to the landing, I proceeded to make the division myself, in as equitable a manner as I could: giving, however, a full share of large fish to the master. When he came down to us, and overlooked both the piles of fish--his own and that of my master--he was so well satisfied with what I had done, that he said, if he had known that I would do so well for him, he would not have risen. I was glad to hear this, as it led me to hope that I should be able to induce him to stay in his cabin during the greater part of the time; to do which, I was well assured, he felt disposed. When the night came, the master again told me he should go to bed, not being well, and desired me to do as I had done the night before. This night we cooked as many shad as we could all eat; but were careful to carry, far out into the river, the scales and entrails of the stolen fish. In the morning I made a division of the fish before I called the master, and then went and asked him to come and see what I had done. He was again well pleased, and now proposed to us all that if we would not let the affair be known to our master, he would leave us to manage the fishery at night according to our discretion. To this proposal we all readily agreed, and I received authority to keep the other hands at work, until the master would go and get his breakfast. I had now accomplished the object that I had held very near my heart ever since we began to fish at this place. From this time to the end of the fishing season, we all lived well, and did not perform more work than we were able to bear. I was in no fear of being punished by the fish-master, for he was now at least as much in my power as I was in his; for if my master had known the agreement that he had made with us, for the purpose of enabling himself to sleep all night in his cabin, he would have been deprived of his situation, and all the profits of his share of the fishery. There never can be any affinity of feeling between master and slave, except in some few isolated cases, where the master has treated his slave in such a manner as to have excited in him strong feelings of gratitude; or where the slave entertains apprehensions, that by the death of his master, or by being separated from him in any other way, he may fall under the power of a more tyrannical ruler, or may in some shape be worsted by the change. I was never acquainted with a slave who believed that he violated any rule of morality by appropriating to himself any thing that belonged to his master, if it was necessary to his comfort. The master might call it theft, and brand it with the name of crime; but the slave reasoned differently, when he took a portion of his master's goods, to satisfy his hunger, keep himself warm, or to gratify his passion for luxurious enjoyment. The slave sees his master residing in a spacious mansion, riding in a fine carriage, and dressed in costly clothes, and attributes the possession of all these enjoyments to his own labor; whilst he who is the cause of so much gratification and pleasure to another, is himself deprived of even the necessary accommodations of human life. Ignorant men do not and cannot reason logically; and in tracing things from cause to effect, the slave attributes all that he sees in possession of his master to his own toil, without taking the trouble to examine how far the skill, judgment, and economy of his master may have contributed to the accumulation of the wealth by which his residence is surrounded. There is, in fact, a mutual dependence between the master and his slave. The former could not acquire any thing without the labor of the latter, and the latter would always remain in poverty without the judgment of the former in directing labor to a definite and profitable result. After I had obtained the virtual command of the fishery, I was careful to awaken the master every morning at sunrise, that he might be present when the division of the fish was made; and when the morning cart arrived, that the carter might not report to my master, that the fish-master was in bed. I had now become interested in preserving the good opinion of my master in favor of his agent. Since my arrival in Carolina I had never enjoyed a full meal of bacon; and now determined, if possible, to procure such a supply of that luxury as would enable me and all my fellow-slaves at the fishery to regale ourselves at pleasure. At this season of the year boats frequently passed up the river, laden with merchandise and goods of various kinds, among which were generally large quantities of salt, intended for curing fish, and for other purposes on the plantations. These boats also carried bacon and salted pork up the river, for sale; but as they never moved at night, confining their navigation to day-light, and as none of them had hitherto stopped near our landing, we had not met with an opportunity of entering into a traffic with any of the boat masters. We were not always to be so unfortunate. One evening, in the second week of the fishing season, a large keel-boat was seen working up the river about sundown; and shortly after, came to for the night, on the opposite side of the river, directly against our landing. We had at the fishery a small canoe called a punt, about twelve feet long; and when we went to lay out the seine, for the first haul after night, I attached the punt to the side of the canoe, and when we had finished letting down the seine, I left the other hands to work it toward the shore, and ran over in the punt to the keel-boat. Upon inquiring of the captain if he had any bacon that he would exchange for shad, he said, he had a little; but, as the risk he would run in dealing with a slave was great, I must expect to pay him more than the usual price. He at length proposed to give me a hundred pounds of bacon for three hundred shad. This was at least twice as much as the bacon was worth; but we did not bargain as men generally do, where half of the bargain is on each side; for here the captain of the keel-boat settled the terms for both parties. However, he ran the hazard of being prosecuted for dealing with slaves, which is a very high offence in Carolina; and I was selling that which, in point of law, did not belong to me; but to which, nevertheless, I felt in my conscience that I had a better right than any other person. In support of the right, which I felt to be on my side in this case, came a keen appetite for the bacon, which settled the controversy, upon the question of the morality of this traffic, in my favor. It so happened, that we made a good haul with our seine this evening, and at the time I returned to the landing, the men were all on shore, engaged in drawing in the seine. As soon as we had taken out the fish, we placed three hundred of them in one of our canoes, and pushed over to the keel-boat, where the fish were counted out, and the bacon was received into our craft with all possible despatch. One part of this small trade exhibited a trait of human character which I think worthy of being noticed. The captain of the boat was a middle-aged, thin, sallow man, with long bushy hair; and he looked like one who valued the opinions of men but little. I expected that he would not be scrupulous in giving me my full hundred pounds of bacon: but in this I was mistaken; for he weighed the flitches with great exactness, in a pair of large steelyards, and gave me good weight. When the business was ended, and the bacon in my canoe, he told me, he hoped I was satisfied with him; and assured me, that I should find the bacon excellent. When I was about pushing from the boat, he told me in a low voice, though there was no one who could hear us, except his own people--that he should be down the river again in about two weeks, when he should be very glad to buy any produce that I had for sale; adding, "I will give you half as much for cotton as it is worth in Charleston, and pay you either in money or groceries, as you may choose. Take care, and do not betray yourself, and I shall be honest with you." I was so much rejoiced at being in possession of a hundred pounds of good flitch bacon, that I had no room in either my head or my heart for the consideration of this man's notions of honesty, at the present time; but paddled with all strength for our landing, where we took the bacon from the canoe, stowed it away in an old salt barrel, and safely deposited it in a hole dug for the purpose in the floor of my cabin. About this time, our allowance of sweet potatoes was withheld from us altogether, in consequence of the high price paid for this article by the captains of the keel-boats; for the purpose, as I heard, of sending them to New York and Philadelphia. Ever since Christmas we had been permitted to draw, on each Sunday evening, either a peck of corn, as usual, or half a peck of corn and half a bushel of sweet potatoes, at our discretion. The half a peck of corn and the half a bushel of potatoes was worth much more than a peck of corn; but potatoes were so abundant this year, that they were of little value, and the saving of corn was an object worth attending to by a large planter. The boatmen now offered half a dollar a bushel for potatoes, and we were again restricted to our corn ration. Notwithstanding the privation of our potatoes, we at the fishery lived sumptuously, although our master certainly believed that our fare consisted of corn-bread and river fish, cooked without lard or butter. It was necessary to be exceedingly cautious in the use of our bacon; and to prevent the suspicions of the master and others who frequented our landing, I enjoined our people never to fry any of the meat, but to boil it all. No one can smell boiled bacon far; but fried flitch can be smelled a mile by a good nose. We had two meals every night, one of bacon and the other of fried shad, which nearly deprived us of all appetite for the breakfasts and dinners that we prepared in the daytime; consisting of cold corn-bread without salt, and broiled fresh water fish, without any sort of seasoning. We spent more than two weeks in this happy mode of life, unmolested by our master, his son, or the master of the fishery; except when the latter complained, rather than threatened us, because we sometimes suffered our seine to float too far down the river, and get entangled among some roots and brush that lay on the bottom, immediately below our fishing ground. We now expected, every evening, to see the return of the boatman who had sold us the bacon, and the man who was with me in the canoe at the time we received it, had not forgotten the invitation of the captain to trade with him in cotton on his return. My fellow-slave was a native of Virginia, as he told me, and had been sold and brought to Carolina about ten years before this time. He was a good-natured, kind-hearted man, and did many acts of benevolence to me, such as one slave is able to perform for another, and I felt a real affection for him; but he had adopted the too common rule of moral action, that there is no harm in a slave robbing his master. The reader may suppose, from my account of the bacon, that I, too, had adopted this rule as a part of my creed; but I solemnly declare, that this was not the case, and that I never deprived any one of all the masters that I have served, of anything against his consent, unless it was some kind of food; and that of all I ever took, I am confident, I have given away more than the half to my fellow-slaves, whom I knew to be equally needy with myself. The man who had been with me at the keel-boat told me one day, that he had laid a plan by which we could get thirty or forty dollars, if I would join him in the execution of his project. Thirty or forty dollars was a large sum of money to me. I had never possessed so much money at one time in my life; and I told him that I was willing to do anything by which we could obtain such a treasure. He then told me, that he knew where the mule and cart, that were used by the man who carried away our fish, were kept at night; and that he intended to set out on the first dark night, and go to the plantation--harness the mule to the cart--go to the cotton-gin house--put two bags of cotton into the cart--bring them to a thicket of small pines that grew on the river bank, a short distance below the fishery, and leave them there until the keel-boat should return. All that he desired of me was, to make some excuse for his absence, to the other hands, and assist him to get his cotton into the canoe, at the coming of the boat. I disliked the whole scheme, both on account of its iniquity and of the danger which attended it; but my companion was not to be discouraged by all the arguments which I could use against it, and said, if I would not participate in it, he was determined to undertake it alone: provided I would not inform against him. To this I said nothing; but he had so often heard me express my detestation of one slave betraying another, that I presume he felt easy on that score. The next night but one after this conversation was very dark, and when we went to lay out the seine after night, Nero was missing. The other people inquired of me if I knew where he was, and when I replied in the negative, little more was said on the subject; it being common for the slaves to absent themselves from their habitations at night, and if the matter is not discovered by the overseer or master, nothing is ever said of it by the slaves. The other people supposed that, in this instance, Nero had gone to see a woman whom he lived with as his wife, on a plantation a few miles down the river; and were willing to work a little harder to permit him to enjoy the pleasure of seeing his family. He returned before day, and said he had been to see his wife, which satisfied the curiosity of our companions. The very next evening after Nero's absence, the keel-boat descended the river, came down on our side, hailed us at the fishery, and, drawing in to the shore below our landing, made her ropes fast among the young pines of which I have spoken above. After we made our first haul, I missed Nero; but he returned to us before we had laid out the seine, and told us that he had been in the woods to collect some _light-wood_--dry, resinous pine--which he brought on his shoulder. When the morning came, the keel-boat was gone, and every thing wore the ordinary aspect about our fishery; but when the man came with the mule and the cart to take away the fish, he told us that there was great trouble on the plantation. The overseer had discovered that some one had stolen two bags of cotton the last night, and all the hands were undergoing an examination on the subject. The slaves on the plantation, one and all, denied having any knowledge of the matter, and, as there was no evidence against any one, the overseer threatened, at the time he left the quarter, to whip every hand on the estate, for the purpose of making them discover who the thief was. The slaves on the plantation differed in opinion as to the perpetrator of this theft; but the greater number concurred in charging it upon a free negro man, named Ishmael, who lived in a place called the White Oak Woods, and followed making ploughs and harrow frames. He also made handles for hoes, and the frame work of cart bodies. This man was generally reputed a thief for a great distance round the country, and the black people charged him with stealing the cotton on no other evidence than his general bad character. The overseer, on the other hand, expressed his opinion without hesitation, which was, that the cotton had been stolen by some of the people of the plantation, and sold to a poor white man, who resided at the distance of three miles back in the pine woods, and was believed to have dealt with slaves, as a receiver of their stolen goods, for many years. This white man was one of a class of poor cottagers. The house, or cabin, in which he resided, was built of small poles of the yellow pine, with the bark remaining on them; the roof was of clap-boards of pine, and the chimney was made of sticks and mud, raised to the height of eight or ten feet. The appearance of the man and his wife was such as one might expect to find in such a dwelling. The lowest poverty had, through life, been the companion of these poor people, of which their clayey complexions, haggard figures, and tattered garments gave the strongest proof. It appeared to me that the state of destitution in which these people lived, afforded very convincing evidence that they were not in possession of the proceeds of the stolen goods of any person. I had often been at the cabin of this man in my trapping expeditions, the previous autumn and winter; and I believe the overseer regarded the circumstance, that black people often called at his house, as conclusive evidence that he held criminal intercourse with them. However this might be, the overseer determined to search the premises of this harmless forester, whom he resolved, beforehand, to treat as a guilty man. It being known that I was well acquainted with the woods in the neighborhood of the cabin, I was sent for, to leave the fishery, and come to assist in making search for the lost bags of cotton--perhaps it was also believed that I was in the secrets of the suspected house. It was not thought prudent to trust any of the hands on the plantation in making the intended search, as they were considered the principal thieves; whilst we, of the fishery, against whom no suspicion had arisen, were required to give our assistance in ferreting out the perpetrators of an offence of the highest grade that can be committed by a slave on a cotton estate. Before leaving the fishery, I advised the master to be very careful not to let the overseer, or my master know, that he had left us to manage the fishery at night, by ourselves; since, as a theft had been committed, it might possibly be charged upon him, if it were known that he had allowed us so much liberty. I said this to put the master on his guard against surprise; and to prevent him from saying anything that might turn the attention of the overseer to the hands at the fishery; for I knew that if punishment were to fall amongst us, it would be quite as likely to reach the innocent as the guilty--besides, though I was innocent of the bags of cotton, I was guilty of the bacon, and, however I might make distinctions between the moral turpitude of the two cases, I knew that if discovered, they would both be treated alike. When I arrived at the quarter, whither I repaired, in obedience to the orders I received, I found the overseer with my master's eldest son, and a young white man, who had been employed to repair the cotton-gin, waiting for me. I observed when I came near the overseer, that he looked at me very attentively, and afterwards called my young master aside, and spoke to him in a tone of voice too low to be heard by me. The white gentlemen then mounted their horses, and set off by the road for the cabin of the white man. I had orders to take a short route, through the woods and across a swamp, by which I could reach the cabin as soon as the overseer. The attentive examination that the overseer had given me, caused me to feel uneasy, although I could not divine the cause of his scrutiny, nor of the subject of the short conversation between him and my young master. By traveling at a rapid pace, I arrived at the cabin of the suspected man before the gentlemen, but thought it prudent not to approach it before they came up, lest it might be imagined that I had gone in to give information to the occupants of the danger that threatened them. Here I had a hard struggle with my conscience, which seemed to say to me, that I ought at once to disclose all I knew concerning the lost bags of cotton, for the purpose of saving these poor people from the terror that they must necessarily feel at the sight of those who were coming to accuse them of a great crime, perhaps from the afflictions and sufferings attendant upon a prosecution in a court of justice. These reflections were cut short by the arrival of the party of gentlemen, who passed me where I sat, at the side of the path, with no other notice than a simple command of the overseer to come on. I followed them into the cabin, where we found the man and his wife, with two little children, eating roasted potatoes. The overseer saluted this family by telling them that we had come to search the house for stolen cotton. That it was well known that he had long been dealing with negroes, and they were now determined to bring him to punishment. I was then ordered to tear up the floor of the cabin, whilst the overseer mounted into the loft. I found nothing under the floor, and the overseer had no better success above. The wife was then advised to confess where her husband had concealed the cotton, to save herself from being brought in as a party to the affair; but this poor woman protested with tears that they were totally ignorant of the whole matter. Whilst the wife was interrogated, the father stood without his own door, trembling with fear, but, as I could perceive, indignant with rage. The overseer, who was fluent in the use of profane language, exerted the highest degree of his vulgar eloquence upon these harmless people, whose only crime was their poverty, and whose weakness alone had invited the ruthless aggression of their powerful and rich neighbors. Finding nothing in the house, the gentlemen set out to scour the woods around the cabin, and commanded me to take the lead in tracing out tree tops and thickets, where it was most likely that the stolen cotton might be found. Our search was in vain, as I knew it would be beforehand; but when weary of ranging in the woods, the gentlemen again returned to the cabin, which we now found without inhabitants. The alarm caused by our visit, and the manner in which the gentlemen had treated this lonely family, had caused them to abandon their dwelling, and seek safety in flight. The door of the house was closed and fastened with a string to a nail in the post of the door. After calling several times for the fugitives, and receiving no answer, the door was kicked open by my young master; the few articles of miserable furniture that the cabin contained, including a bed, made of flags, were thrown into a heap in the corner, and fire was set to the dwelling by the overseer. We remained until the flames had reached the roof of the cabin, when the gentlemen mounted their horses and set off for home, ordering me to return by the way that I had come. When we again reached the house of my master, several gentlemen of the neighborhood had assembled, drawn together by common interest that is felt amongst the planters to punish theft, and particularly a theft of cotton in the bag. My young master related to his neighbors, with great apparent satisfaction, the exploits of the morning; said he had routed one receiver of stolen goods out of the country, and that all others of his character ought to be dealt with in the same manner. In this opinion all the gentlemen present concurred, and after much conversation on the subject, it was agreed to call a general meeting for the purpose of devising the best, surest and most peaceful method of removing from the country the many white men who, residing in the district without property, or without interest in preserving the morals of the slaves, were believed to carry on an unlawful and criminal traffic with the negroes, to the great injury of the planters in general, and of the masters of the slaves who dealt with the offenders in particular. I was present at this preliminary consultation, which took place at my master's cotton-gin, whither the gentlemen had repaired for the purpose of looking at the place where the cotton had been removed. So many cases of this forbidden traffic between the slaves and these "white negro dealers," as they were termed, were here related by the different gentlemen, and so many white men were referred to by name as being concerned in this criminal business, that I began to suppose the losses of the planters in this way must be immense. This conference continued until I had totally forgotten the scrutinizing look that I had received from our overseer at the time I came up from the fishery in the morning; but the period had now come when I again was to be reminded of this circumstance, for on a sudden the overseer called me to come forward and let the gentlemen see me. I again felt a sort of vague and undefinable apprehension that no good was to grow out of this examination of my person, but a command of our overseer was not to be disobeyed. After looking at my face, with a kind of leer or side glance, one of the gentlemen, who was an entire stranger to me, and whom I had never before seen, said, "Boy, you appear to live well; how much meat does your master allow you in a week?" I was almost totally confounded at the name of meat, and felt the blood rush to my heart, but nevertheless forced a sort of smile upon my face, and replied, "My master has been very kind to all his people of late, but has not allowed us any meat for some weeks. We have plenty of good bread, and abundance of river fish, which, together with the heads and roes of the shad that we have salted at the landing, makes a very excellent living for us; though if master would please to give us a little meat now and then, we should be very thankful for it." This speech, which contained all the eloquence I was master of at the time, seemed to produce some effect in my favor, for the gentleman said nothing in reply, until the overseer, rising from a board on which he had been sitting, came close up to me and said, "Charles, you need not tell lies about it; you have been eating meat, I know you have, no negro could look as fat, and sleek, and black, and greasy, as you, if he had nothing to eat but corn bread and river chubs. You do not look at all as you did before you went to the fishery; and all the hands on the plantation have had as many chubs and other river fish as they could eat, as well as you, and yet they are as poor as snakes in comparison with you. Come, tell the truth, let us know where you get the meat that you have been eating, and you shall not be whipped." I begged the overseer and the other gentlemen not to ridicule or make sport of me, because I was a poor slave, and was obliged to live on bread and fresh water fish; and concluded this second harangue by expressing my thankfulness to God Almighty, for giving me such good health and strength as to enable me to do my work, and look so well as I did upon such poor fare; adding, that if I only had as much bacon as I could eat, they would soon see a man of a different appearance from that which I now exhibited. "None of your palaver," rejoined the overseer--"Why, I smell the meat in you this moment. Do I not see the grease as it runs out of your face?" I was by this time in a profuse sweat, caused by the anxiety of my feelings, and simply said, "Master sees me sweat, I suppose." All the gentlemen present then declared, with one accord, that I must have been living on meat for a long time, as no negro, who had no meat to eat, could look as I did; and one of the company advised the overseer to whip me, and compel me to confess the truth. I have no doubt but this advice would have been practically followed, had it not been for a happy though dangerous suggestion of my own mind, at this moment. It was no other than a proposal on my part, that I should be taken to the landing, and if all the people there did not look as well and as much like meat-eaters as I did, then I would agree to be whipped in any way the gentlemen should deem expedient. This offer on my part was instantly accepted by the gentlemen, and it was agreed among them that they would all go to the landing with the overseer, partly for the purpose of seeing me condemned by the judgment to which I had voluntarily chosen to submit myself, and partly for the purpose of seeing my master's new fishery. We were quickly at the landing, though four miles distant; and I now felt confident that I should escape the dangers that beset me, provided the master of the fishery did not betray his own negligence and lead himself, as well as others, into new troubles. Though on foot, I was at the landing as soon as the gentlemen, and was first to announce to the master the feats we had performed in the course of the day, adding, with great emphasis, and even confidence in my manner, "You know, master fish-master, whether we have had any meat to eat here or not. If we had meat here, would not you see it? You have been up with us every night, and know that we have not been allowed to take even shad, let alone having meat to eat." The fish-master supported me in all I said; declared we had been good boys--had worked night and day, of his certain knowledge, as he had been with us all night and every night since we began to fish. That he had not allowed us to eat anything but fresh water fish, and the heads and roes of the shad that were salted at the landing. As to meat, he said he was willing to be qualified on a cart-load of Testaments that there had not been a pound at the landing since the commencement of the season, except that which he had in his own cabin. I had now acquired confidence, and desired the gentlemen to look at Nero and the other hands, all of whom has as much the appearance of bacon eaters as myself. This was the truth, especially with regard to one of the men, who was much fatter than I was. The gentlemen now began to doubt the evidence of their own senses, which they had held infallible heretofore. I showed the fine fish that we had to eat; cat, perch, mullets, and especially two large pikes, that had been caught to-day, and assured them that upon such fare as this, men must needs get fat. I now perceived that victory was with me for once. All the gentlemen faltered, hesitated, and began to talk of other affairs, except the overseer, who still ran about the landing, swearing and scratching his head, and saying it was strange that we were so fat, whilst the hands on the plantation were as lean as sand-hill cranes. He was obliged to give the affair over. He was no longer supported by my young master and his companions, all of whom congratulated themselves upon a discovery so useful and valuable to the planting interest; and all determined to provide, as soon as possible, a proper supply of fresh river fish for their hands. The two bales of cotton were never once named, and, I suppose, were not thought of by the gentlemen, when at the landing; and this was well for Nero; for such was the consternation and terror into which he was thrown by the presence of the gentlemen, and their inquiries concerning our eating of meat, that the sweat rolled off him like rain from the plant _neverwet_; his countenance was wild and haggard, and his knees shook like the wooden spring of a wheat-fan. I believe, that if they had charged him at once with stealing the cotton, he would have confessed the deed. CHAPTER XII. After this the fishing season passed off without anything having happened, worthy of being noticed here. When we left the fishery and returned to the plantation, which was after the middle of April, the corn and cotton had been planted, and the latter had been replanted. I was set to plough, with two mules for my team; and having never been accustomed to ploughing with these animals, I had much trouble with them at first. My master owned more than forty mules, and at this season of the year, they were all at work in the cotton field, used instead of horses for drawing ploughs. Some of the largest were hitched single to a plough; but the smallest were coupled together. On the whole, the fishery had been a losing affair with me; for although I had lived better at the landing than I usually did at the plantation, yet I had been compelled to work all the time, by night and by day, including Sunday, for my master; by which I had lost all that I could have earned for my own benefit, had I been on the plantation. I had now become so well acquainted with the rules of the plantation and the customs of the country where I lived, that I experienced less distress than I did at my first coming to the South. We now received a shad every Sunday evening with our peck of corn. The fish were those that I had caught in the spring, and were tolerably preserved. In addition to all this, each one of the hands now received a pint of vinegar every week. This vinegar was a great comfort to me. As the weather became hot, I gathered lettuce and other salads, from my garden in the woods; which, with the vinegar and bread, furnished me many a cheerful meal. The vinegar had been furnished to us by our master, more out of regard to our health than to our comfort, but it greatly promoted both. The affairs of the plantation now went on quietly, until after the cotton had been ploughed and hoed the first time, after replanting. The working of the cotton crop is not disagreeable labor--no more so than the culture of corn--but we were called upon to perform a kind of labor, than which none can be more toilsome to the body or dangerous to the health. I have elsewhere informed the reader that my master was a cultivator of rice as well as of cotton. Whilst I was at the fishery in the spring, thirty acres of swamp land had been cleared off, ploughed and planted in rice. The water had now been turned off the plants, and the field was to be ploughed and hoed. When we were taken to the rice field, the weather was very hot, and the ground was yet muddy and wet. The ploughs were to be dragged through the wet soil, and the young rice had to be cleaned of weeds, by the hand, and hilled up with the hoe. It is the common opinion, that no stranger can work a week in a rice swamp, at this season of the year, without becoming sick; and all the new hands, three in number, besides myself, were taken ill within the first five days after we had entered this field. The other three were removed to the sick room; but I did not go there, choosing rather to remain at the quarter, where I was my own master, except that the doctor, who called to see me, took a large quantity of blood from my arm, and compelled me to take a dose of some sort of medicine that made me very sick, and caused me to vomit violently. This happened on the second day of my illness, and from this time I recovered slowly, but was not able to go to the field again for more than a week. Here it is but justice to my master to say, that during all the time of my illness, some one came from the great house every day to inquire after me, and to offer me some kind of light and cool refreshment. I might have gone to the sick room at any time, if I had chosen to do so. An opinion generally prevails among the people of both colors, that the drug _copperas_ is very poisonous--and perhaps it may be so, if taken in large quantities--but the circumstance, that it is used in medicine, seems to forbid the notion of its poisonous qualities. I believe copperas was mingled with the potion the doctor gave me. Some overseers keep copperas by them, as a medicine, to be administered to the hands whenever they become sick; but this I take to be a bad practice, for although, in some cases, this drug may be very efficacious, it certainly should be administered by a more skillful hand than that of an overseer. It, however, has the effect of deterring the people from complaining of illness, until they are no longer able to work; for it is the most nauseous and sickening medicine that was ever taken into the stomach. Ignorant, or malicious overseer may, and often do, misapply it, as was the case with our overseer, when he compelled poor Lydia to take a draught of its solution. After the restoration of my health, I resumed my accustomed labor in the field, and continued it without intermission, until I left this plantation. We had this year, as a part of our crop, ten acres of indigo. This plant is worked nearly after the manner of rice, except that it is planted on high and dry ground, whilst the rice is always cultivated in low swamps, where the ground may be inundated with water; but notwithstanding its location on dry ground, the culture of indigo is not less unpleasant than that of rice. When the rice is ripe, and ready for the sickle, it is no longer disagreeable; but when the indigo is ripe and ready to cut, the troubles attendant upon it have only commenced. The indigo plant bears more resemblance to the weed called wild indigo, which is common in the woods of Pennsylvania, than to any other herb with which I am acquainted. The root of the indigo plant is long and slender, and emits a scent somewhat like that of parsley. From the root issues a single stem, straight, hard, and slender, covered with a bark, a little cracked on its surface, of a gray color towards the bottom, green in the middle, reddish at the extremity, and without the appearance of pith in the inside. The leaves ranged in pairs around the stalk, are of an oval form--smooth, soft to the touch, furrowed above, and of a deep green on the under side. The upper parts of the plant are loaded with small flowers, destitute of smell. Each flower changes into a pod, enclosing seed. This plant thrives best in a rich, moist soil. The seeds are black, very small, and sowed in straight drills. This crop requires very careful culture, and must be kept free from every kind of weeds and grass. It ripens within less than three months from the time it is sown. When it begins to flower, the top is cut off, and, as new flowers appear, the plant is again pruned, until the end of the season. Indigo impoverishes land more rapidly than almost any other crop, and the plant must be gathered in with great caution, for fear of shaking off the valuable farina that lies in the leaves. When gathered, it is thrown into the steeping vat--a large tub filled with water--here it undergoes a fermentation, which, in twenty-four hours at farthest, is completed. A cock is then turned to let the water run into the second tub, called the mortar, or pounding tub: the steeping vat is then cleaned out, that fresh plants may be thrown in, and thus the work is continued without interruption. The water in the pounding tub is stirred with wooden buckets, with holes in their bottoms, for several days; and, after the sediment contained in the water has settled to the bottom of the tub, the water is let off, and the sediment, which is the indigo of commerce, is gathered into bags, and hung up to drain. It is afterwards pressed, and laid away to dry in cakes, and then packed in chests for market. Washing at the tubs is exceedingly unpleasant, both on account of the filth and the stench arising from the decomposition of the plants. In the early part of June, our shad, that each one had been used to receive, was withheld from us, and we no longer received any thing but the peck of corn and pint of vinegar. This circumstance, in a community less severely disciplined than ours, might have procured murmurs; but to us it was only announced by the fact of the fish not being distributed to us on Sunday evening. This was considered a fortunate season by our people. There had been no exemplary punishment inflicted amongst us for several months; we had escaped entirely upon the occasion of the stolen bags of cotton, though nothing less was to have been looked for, on that occurrence, than a general whipping of the whole gang. There was more or less of whipping amongst us every week; frequently one was flogged every evening, over and above the punishments that followed on each settlement day; but these chastisements, which seldom exceeded ten or twenty lashes, were of little import. I was careful, for my own part, to conform to all the regulations of the plantation. When I no longer received my fish from the overseer, I found it necessary again to resort to my own expedients for the purpose of procuring something in the shape of animal food, to add to my bread and greens. I had, by this time, become well acquainted with the woods and swamps for several miles round our plantation; and this being the season when the turtles came upon the land, to deposit their eggs, I availed myself of it, and going out one Sunday morning, caught, in the course of the day, by traveling cautiously around the edges of the swamps, ten snapping turtles, four of which were very large. As I caught these creatures, I tied each one with hickory bark, and hung it up to the bough of a tree, so that I could come and carry it home at my leisure. I afterwards carried my turtles home, and put them into a hole that I dug in the ground, four or five feet deep, and secured the sides by driving small pieces of split timber into the ground, quite round the circumference of the hole, the upper ends of the timber standing out above the ground. Into this hole I poured water at pleasure, and kept my turtles until I needed them. On the next Sunday, I again went to the swamps to search for turtles; but as the period of laying their eggs had nearly passed, I had poor success to-day, only taking two turtles of the species called skill-pots--a kind of large terrapin, with a speckled back and red belly. This day, when I was three or four miles from home, in a very solitary part of the swamps, I heard the sound of bells, similar to those which wagoners place on the shoulders of their horses. At first, the noise of bells of this kind, in a place where they were so unexpected, alarmed me, as I could not imagine who or what it was that was causing these bells to ring. I was standing near a pond of water, and listening attentively; I thought the bells were moving in the woods, and coming toward me. I therefore crouched down upon the ground, under cover of a cluster of small bushes that were near me, and lay, not free from disquietude, to await the near approach of these mysterious bells. Sometimes they were quite silent for a minute or more at a time, and then again would jingle quick, but not loud. They were evidently approaching me; and at length I heard footsteps distinctly in the leaves, which lay dry upon the ground. A feeling of horror seized me at this moment, for I now recollected that I was on the verge of the swamp, near which the vultures and carrion crows had mangled the living bodies of the two murderers; and my terror was not abated, when, a moment after, I saw come from behind a large tree the form of a brawny, famished-looking black man, entirely naked, with his hair matted and shaggy, his eyes wild and rolling, and bearing over his head something in the form of an arch, elevated three feet above his hair, beneath the top of which were suspended the bells, three in number, whose sound had first attracted my attention. Upon a closer examination of this frightful figure, I perceived that it wore a collar of iron about its neck, with a large padlock pendant from behind, and carried in its hand a long staff, with an iron spear in one end. The staff, like every thing else belonging to this strange spectre, was black. It slowly approached within ten paces of me, and stood still. The sun was now down, and the early twilight produced by the gloom of the heavy forest, in the midst of which I was, added approaching darkness to heighten my dismay. My heart was in my mouth; all the hairs of my head started from their sockets; I seemed to be rising from my hiding place into the open air in spite of myself, and I gasped for breath. The black apparition moved past me, went to the water and kneeled down. The forest re-echoed with the sound of the bells, and their dreadful peals filled the deepest recesses of the swamps, as their bearer drank the water of the pond, in which I thought I heard his irons hiss, when they came in contact with it. I felt confident that I was now in the immediate presence of an inhabitant of a nether and fiery world, who had been permitted to escape, for a time, from the place of torment, and come to revisit the scenes of his former crimes. I now gave myself up for lost, without other aid than my own, and began to pray aloud to heaven to protect me. At the sound of my voice, the supposed evil one appeared to be scarcely less alarmed than I was. He sprang to his feet, and, at a single bound, rushed middeep into the water, then turning, he besought me in a suppliant and piteous tone of voice, to have mercy upon him, and not carry him back to his master. The suddenness with which we pass from the extreme of one passion, to the utmost bounds of another, is inconceivable, and must be assigned to the catalogue of unknown causes and effects, unless we suppose the human frame to be an involuntary machine, operated upon by surrounding objects which give it different and contrary impulses, as a ball is driven to and fro by the batons of boys, when they play in troops upon a common. I had no sooner heard a human voice than all my fears fled, as a spark that ascends from a heap of burning charcoal, and vanishes to nothing. I at once perceived, that the object that had well nigh deprived me of my reason, so far from having either the will or the power to injure me, was only a poor destitute African negro, still more wretched and helpless than myself. Rising from the bushes, I now advanced to the water side, and desired him to come out without fear, and to be assured that if I could render him any assistance, I would do it most cheerfully. As to carrying him back to his master, I was more ready to ask help to deliver me from my own, than to give aid to any one in forcing him back to his. We now went to a place in the forest, where the ground was, for some distance, clear of trees, and where the light of the sun was yet so strong, that every object could be seen. My new friend now desired me to look at his back, which was seamed and ridged with scars of the whip, and the hickory, from the pole of his neck to the lower extremity of the spine. The natural color of the skin had disappeared, and was succeeded by a streaked and speckled appearance of dusky white and pale flesh-color, scarcely any of the original, black remaining. The skin of this man's back had been again and again cut away by the thong, and renewed by the hand of nature, until it was grown fast to the flesh, and felt hard and turbid. He told me his name was Paul; that he was a native of Congo, in Africa, that he had left an aged mother, a widow, at home, as also a wife and four children; that it had been his misfortune to fall into the hands of a master, who was frequently drunk, and whose temper was so savage, that his chief delight appeared to consist in whipping and torturing his slaves, of whom he owned near twenty; but through some unaccountable caprice, he had contracted a particular dislike against Paul, whose life he now declared to me was insupportable. He had then been wandering in the woods, more than three weeks, with no other subsistence than the land tortoises, frogs, and other reptiles that he had taken in the woods, and along the shores of the ponds, with the aid of his spear. He had not been able to take any of the turtles in the laying season, because the noise of his bells frightened them, and they always escaped to the water before he could catch them. He had found many eggs, which he had eaten raw, having no fire, nor any means of making fire, to cook his food. He had been afraid to travel much in the middle of the day, lest the sound of his bells should be heard by some one, who would make his master acquainted with the place of his concealment. The only periods when he ventured to go in search of food, were early in the morning, before people could have time to leave their homes and reach the swamp: or late in the evening, after those who were in pursuit of him had gone to their dwellings for the night. This man spoke our language imperfectly, but possessed a sound and vigorous understanding, and reasoned with me upon the propriety of destroying a life which was doomed to continual distress. He informed me that he had first run away from his master more than two years ago, after being whipped with long hickory switches until he fainted. That he concealed himself in a swamp, at that time, ten or fifteen miles from this place, for more than six months, but was finally betrayed by a woman whom he sometimes visited; that when taken, he was again whipped until he was not able to stand, and had a heavy block of wood chained to one foot, which he was obliged to drag after him at his daily labor, for more than three months, when he found an old file, with which he cut the irons from his ancle, and again escaped to the woods, but was retaken within little more than a week after his flight, by two men who were looking after their cattle, and came upon him in the woods where he was asleep. On being returned to his master, he was again whipped, and then the iron collar that he now wore, with the iron rod extending from one shoulder over his head to the other, with the bells fastened at the top of the arch, were put upon him. Of these irons he could not divest himself, and wore them constantly from that time to the present. I had no instruments with me to enable me to release Paul from his manacles, and all I could do for him was to desire him to go with me to the place where I had left my terrapins, which I gave to him, together with all the eggs that I had found to-day. I also caused him to lie down, and having furnished myself with a flint-stone, (many of which lay in the sand near the edge of the pond) and a handful of dry moss, I succeeded in striking fire from the iron collar, and made a fire of sticks, upon which he could roast the terrapins and the eggs. It was now quite dark, and I was full two miles from my road, with no path to guide me towards home, but the small traces made in the woods by the cattle. I advised Paul to bear his misfortunes as well as he could, until the next Sunday, when I would return and bring with me a file, and other things necessary to the removal of his fetters. I now set out alone, to make my way home, not without some little feeling of trepidation, as I passed along in the dark shade of the pine trees, and thought of the terrific deeds that had been done in these woods. This was the period of the full moon, which now rose and cast her brilliant rays through the tops of the trees that overhung my way, and enveloped my path in a gloom more cheerless than the obscurity of total darkness. The path I traveled led by sinuosities around the margin of the swamp, and finally ended at the extremity of the cart-road terminating at the spot where David and Hardy had been given alive for food to vultures; and over this ground I was now obliged to pass, unless I chose to turn far to the left, through the pathless forest, and make my way to the high road near the spot where the lady had been torn from her horse. I hated the idea of acknowledging to my own heart, that I was a coward, and dared not look upon the bones of a murderer at midnight; and there was little less of awe attached to the notion of visiting the ground where the ghost of the murdered woman was reported to wander in the moonbeams, than in visiting the scene where diabolical crimes had been visited by fiend-like punishment. My opinion is, that there is no one who is not at times subject to a sensation approaching fear, when placed in situations similar to that in which I found myself this night. I did not believe that those who had passed the dark line, which separates the living from the dead, could again return to the earth, either for good or for evil; but that solemn foreboding of the heart which directs the minds of all men to a contemplation of the just judgment, which a superior, and unknown power, holds in reservation for the deeds of this life, filled my soul with a dread conception of the unutterable woes which a righteous and unerring tribunal must award to the blood-stained spirits of the two men whose lives had been closed in such unspeakable torment by the side of the path I was now treading. The moon had risen high above the trees and shone with a clear and cloudless light; the whole firmament of heaven was radiant with the lustre of a mild and balmy summer evening. Save only the droppings of the early dew from the lofty branches of the trees into the water, which lay in shallow pools on my right, and the light trampling of my own footsteps, the stillness of night pervaded the lonely wastes around me. But there is a deep melancholy in the sound of the heavy drop as it meets the bosom of the wave in a dense forest at night, that revives in the memory the recollection of the days of other years, and fills the heart with sadness. I was now approaching the unhallowed ground where lay the remains of the remorseless and guilty dead, who had gone to their final account, reeking in their sins, unatoned, unblest and unwept. Already I saw the bones, whitened by the rain and bleached in the sun, lying scattered and dispersed, a leg here and an arm there, while a scull with the under jaw in its place, retaining all its teeth, grinned a ghastly laugh, with its front full in the beams of the moon, which, falling into the vacant sockets of the eye-balls, reflected a pale shadow from these deserted caverns, and played in twinkling lustre upon the bald and skinless forehead. In a moment, the night-breeze agitated the leaves of the wood and moaned in dreary sighs through the lofty pine tops; the gale shook the forest in the depth of its solitudes: a cloud swept across the moon, and her light disappeared; a flock of carrion crows disturbed in their roosts, flapped their wings and fluttered over my head; and a wolf, who had been knawing the dry bones, greeted the darkness with a long and dismal howl. I felt the blood chill in my veins, and all my joints shuddered, as if I had been smitten by electricity. At least a minute elapsed before I recovered the power of self-government. I hastened to fly from a place devoted to crime, where an evil genius presided in darkness over a fell assembly of howling wolves, and blood-snuffing vultures. When I arrived at the quarter, all was quiet. The inhabitants of this mock-village were wrapped in forgetfulness; and I stole silently into my little loft and joined my neighbors in their repose. Experience had made me so well acquainted with the dangers that beset the life of a slave, that I determined, as a matter of prudence, to say nothing to any one of the adventures of this Sunday, but went to work on Monday morning, at the summons of the overseer's horn, as if nothing unusual had occurred. In the course of the week I often thought of the forlorn and desponding African, who had so terrified me in the woods, and who seemed so grateful for the succor I gave him. I felt anxious to become better acquainted with this man, who possessed knowledge superior to the common race of slaves, and manifested a moral courage in the conversation that I had with him, worthy of a better fate than that to which fortune had consigned him. On the following Sunday, having provided myself with a large file, which I procured from the blacksmith's shop, belonging to the plantation, I again repaired to the place, at the side of the swamp, where I had first seen the figure of this ill-fated man. I expected that he would be in waiting for me at the appointed place, as I had promised him that I would certainly come again, at this time: but on arriving at the spot where I had left him, I saw no sign of any person. The remains of the fire I had kindled were here, and it seemed that the fire had been kept up for several days, by the quantity of ashes that lay in a heap, surrounded by numerous small brands. The impressions of human feet were thickly disposed around this decayed fire: and the bones of the terrapins that I had given to Paul, as well as the skeletons of many frogs, were scattered upon the ground, but there was nothing that showed that any one had visited this spot, since the fall of the last rain, which I now recollected had taken place on the previous Thursday. From this circumstance I concluded, that Paul had relieved himself of his irons and gone to seek concealment in some other place, or that his master had discovered his retreat and carried him back to the plantation. Whilst standing at the ashes I heard the croaking of ravens at some distance in the woods, and immediately afterwards a turkey-buzzard passed over me pursued by an eagle, coming from the quarter in which I had just heard the ravens. I knew that the eagle never pursued the buzzard for the purpose of preying upon him, but only to compel him to disgorge himself of his own prey for the benefit of the king of birds. I therefore concluded that there was some dead animal in my neighborhood that had called all these ravenous fowls together. It might be that Paul had killed a cow by knocking her down with a pine knot, and that he had removed his residence to this slaughtered animal. Curiosity was aroused in me, and I proceeded to examine the woods. I had not advanced more than two hundred yards when I felt oppressed by a most sickening stench, and saw the trees swarming with birds of prey, buzzards perched upon their branches, ravens sailing amongst their boughs, and clouds of carrion crows flitting about, and poising themselves in the air in a stationary position, after the manner of that most nauseous of all birds, when it perceives, or thinks it perceives, some object of prey. Proceeding onward, I came in view of a large sassafras tree, around the top of which was congregated a cloud of crows, some on the boughs and others on the wing, whilst numerous buzzards were sailing low and nearly skimming the ground. This sassafras tree had many low horizontal branches, attached to one of which I now saw the cause of so vast an assembly of the obscene fowls of the air. The lifeless and putrid body of the unhappy Paul hung suspended by a cord made of twisted hickory bark, passed in the form of a halter round the neck, and firmly bound to a limb of the tree. It was manifest that he had climbed the tree, fastened the cord to the branch, and then sprung off.--The smell that assailed my nostrils was too overwhelming to permit me to remain long in view of the dead body, which was much mangled and torn, though its identity was beyond question, for the iron collar, and the bells with the arch that bore them, were still in their place. The bells had preserved the corpse from being devoured; for whilst I looked at it I observed a crow descend upon it, and make a stroke at the face with its beak, but the motion that this gave to the bells caused them to rattle, and the bird took to flight. Seeing that I could no longer render assistance to Paul, who was now beyond the reach of his master's tyranny, as well as of my pity, I returned without delay to my master's house, and going into the kitchen, related to the household servants that I had found a black man hung in the woods with bells upon him.--This intelligence was soon communicated to my master, who sent for me to come into the house to relate the circumstance to him. I was careful not to tell that I had seen Paul before his death; and when I had finished my narrative, my master observed to a gentleman who was with him, that this was a heavy loss to the owner, and told me to go. The body of Paul was never taken down, but remained hanging where I had seen it until the flesh fell from the bones, or was torn off by the birds. I saw the bones hanging in the sassafras tree more than two months afterwards, and the last time that I was ever in these swamps. CHAPTER XIII. An affair was now in progress, which, though the persons who were actors in it were far removed from me, had in its effects a great influence upon the fortunes of my life. I have informed the reader that my master had three daughters, and that the second of the sisters was deemed a great beauty. The eldest of the three was married about the time of which I now write, to a planter of great wealth, who resided near Columbia; but the second had formed an attachment to a young gentleman whom she had frequently seen at the church attended by my master's family. As this young man, either from want of wealth, or proper persons to introduce him, had never been at my master's house, my young mistress had no opportunity of communicating to him the sentiments she entertained towards him, without violating the rules of modesty in which she had been educated. Before she would attempt any thing which might be deemed a violation of the decorum of her sex, she determined to take a new method of obtaining a husband. She communicated to her father, my master, a knowledge of the whole affair, with a desire that he would invite the gentleman of her choice to his house. This the father resolutely opposed, upon the ground that the young man upon whom his daughter had fixed her heart was without property, and consequently destitute of the means of supporting his daughter in a style suitable to the rank she occupied in society. A woman in love is not easily foiled in her purposes; my young mistress, by continual entreaties, so far prevailed over the affections, or more probably the fears of her father, that he introduced the young man to his family, and about two months afterwards my young mistress was a bride; but it had been agreed amongst all the parties, as I understood, before the marriage, that as the son-in-law had no land or slaves of his own, he should remove with his wife to a large tract of land that my master owned in the new purchase in the State of Georgia. In the month of September, my master came to the quarter one evening, at the time of our return from the field, in company with his son-in-law, and informed me that he had given me, with a number of others of his slaves, to his daughter: and that I, with eight other men and two or three women, must set out on the next Sunday with my new master, for his estate in Georgia, whither we were to go, to clear land, build houses, and make other improvements, necessary for the reception of the newly married lady, in the following spring. I was much pleased with the appearance and manners of my new master, who was a young man apparently about twenty-seven or eight years old, and of good figure. We were to take with us, in our expedition to Georgia, a wagon, to be drawn by six mules, and I was appointed to drive the team. Before we set off my young mistress came in person to the quarter, and told us that all those who were going to the new settlement must come to the house, where she furnished each of us with two full suits of clothes, one of coarse woollen, and the other of hempen cloth. She also gave a hat to each of us, and two pairs of shoes, with a trifle in money, and enjoined us to be good boys and girls, and get things ready for her, and that when she should come to live with us we should not be forgotten. The conduct of this young lady was so different from that which I had been accustomed to witness since I came to Carolina, that I considered myself highly fortunate in becoming her slave, and now congratulated myself with the idea that I should, in future, have a mistress who would treat me kindly, and if I behaved well, would not permit me to want. At the time appointed we set out for Georgia, with all the tools and implements necessary to the prosecution of a new settlement. My young master accompanied us, and traveled slowly for several days to enable me to keep up with him. We continued our march in this order until we reached the Savannah river at the town of Augusta, where my master told me that he was so well satisfied with my conduct, that he intended to leave me with the team to bring on the goods and the women and children; but that he would take the men and push on as fast as possible, to the new settlement, and go to work until the time of my arrival. He gave me directions to follow on and inquire for Morgan county Court House, and said that he would have a person ready there on my arrival to guide me to him and the people with him. He then gave me twenty dollars to buy food for the mules and provisions for myself and those with me, and left me on the high road master of myself and the team. I was resolved that this striking proof of confidence on the part of my master should not be a subject of regret to him, and pursued my route with the greatest diligence, taking care to lay out as little money as possible for such things as I had to buy. On the sixth day, in the morning, I arrived at our new settlement in the middle of a heavy forest of such timber as is common to that country, with three dollars and twenty-five cents in my pocket, part of the money given to me at Augusta. This I offered to return, but my master refused to take it, and told me to keep it for my good conduct. I now felt assured that all my troubles in this world were ended, and that, in future, I might look forward to a life of happiness and ease, for I did not consider labor any hardship, if I was well provided with good food and clothes, and my other wants properly regarded. My master and the people who were with him had, before our arrival with the wagon, put up the logs of two cabins, and were engaged, when we came, in covering one of them with clapboards. In the course of the next day we completed both these cabins, with puncheon floors and small glass windows, the sash and glass for which I had brought in the wagon. We put up two other cabins, and a stable for the mules, and then began to clear land. After a few days my master told me he meant to go down into the settlements to buy provisions for the winter, and that he should leave me to oversee the hands, and carry on the work in his absence. He accordingly left us, taking with him the wagon and two boys, one to drive the team, and another to drive cattle and hogs, which he intended to buy and drive to our settlement. I now felt myself almost proprietor of our new establishment, and believe the men left under my charge did not consider me a very lenient overseer. I in truth compelled them to work very hard, as I did myself. At the end of a week my master returned with a heavy load of meal and bacon, with salt and other things that we needed, and the day following a white man drove to our station several cows and more than twenty hogs, the greater part of which were breeders. At this season of the year neither the hogs nor the cattle required any feeding at our hands. The woods were full of nuts, and the grass was abundant; but we gave salt to our stock, and kept the hogs in a pen two or three days, to accustom them to the place. We now lived very differently from what we did on my old master's plantation. We had as much bacon every day as we could eat, which, together with bread and sweet potatoes, which we had at will, constituted our fare. My master remained with us more than two months; within which time we had cleared forty acres of ground, ready for the plough; but, a few days before Christmas, an event took place, which, in its consequences, destroyed all my prospects of happiness, and totally changed the future path of my life. A messenger one day came to our settlement with a letter, which had been forwarded in this manner, by the postmaster at the Court House, where the post-office was kept. This letter contained intelligence of the sudden death of my old master, and that difficulties had arisen in the family which required the immediate attention of my young one. The letter was written by my mistress. My master forthwith took an account of the stock of provisions and other things that he had on hand, and putting the whole under my charge, gave me directions to attend to the work, and set off on horseback that evening; promising to return within one month at furthest. We never saw him again, and heard nothing of him until late in the month of January, when the eldest son of my late master came to our settlement in company with a strange gentleman. The son of my late master informed me, to my surprise and sorrow, that my young master, who had brought us to Georgia, was dead; and that he and the gentleman with him, were administrators of the deceased, and had come to Georgia for the purpose of letting out on lease, for the period of seven years, our place, with all the people on it, including me. To me, the most distressing part of this news was the death of my young master, and I was still more sorry when I learned that he had been killed in a duel. My young mistress, whose beauty had drawn around her numerous suitors, many of whom were men of base minds and cowardly hearts, had chosen her husband, in the manner I have related, and his former rivals, after his return from Georgia, confederated together, for the dastardly purpose of revenging themselves, of both husband and wife, by the murder of the former. In all parts of the cotton country there are numerous taverns, which answer the double purpose of drinking and gambling houses. These places are kept by men who are willing to abandon all pretensions to the character and standing of gentlemen, for the hope of sordid gain, and are frequented by all classes of planters, though it is not to be understood that all the planters resort to these houses. There are men of high and honorable virtue among the planters, who equally detest the mean cupidity of the men who keep these houses, and the silly wickedness of those who support them. Billiards is the game regarded as the most polite amongst men of education and fashion; but cards, dice and every kind of game, whether of skill or of hazard, are openly played in these sinks of iniquity. So far as my knowledge extends, there is not a single district of ten miles square, in all the cotton region, without at least one of these vile ordinaries, as they are frequently and justly termed. The keeping of these houses is a means of subsistence resorted to by men of desperate reputation, or reckless character, and they invite as guests all the profligate, the drunken, the idle, and the unwary of the surrounding country. In a community where the white man never works, except at the expense of forfeiting all claim to the rank of a gentleman, and where it is beneath the dignity of a man to oversee the labor of his own plantation, the number of those who frequent these gaming houses may be imagined. My young master, fortunately for his own honor, was of those who kept aloof from the precincts of the tavern, unless compelled by necessary business to go there; but the band of conspirators, who had resolved on his destruction, invited him through one of their number, who pretended to wish to treat with him concerning his property, to meet them at an ordinary one evening. Here a quarrel was sought with him, and he was challenged to fight with pistols, over the table around which they sat. My master, who, it appears, was unable to bear the reproach of cowardice, even amongst fools, agreed to fight, and as he had no pistols with him, was presented with a pair belonging to one of the gang; and accepted their owner, as his friend, or second in the business. The result was as might have been expected. My master was killed at the first fire, by a ball which passed through his breast, whilst his antagonist escaped unharmed. A servant was immediately despatched with a letter to my mistress, informing her of the death of her husband. She was awakened in the night to read the letter, the bearer having informed her maid that it was necessary for her to see it immediately. The shock drove her into a feverish delirium, from which she never recovered. At periods, her reason resumed its dominion, but in the summer following, she became a mother, and died in child-bed, of puerperal fever. I obtained this account from the mouth of a black man, who was the traveling servant of the eldest son of my old master, and who was with his master at the time he came to visit the tenant, to whom he let his sister's estate in Georgia. The estate to which I was now attached, was advertised to be rented for the term of seven years, with all the stock of mules, cattle, and so forth, upon it--together with seventeen slaves, six of whom were too young to be able to work at present. The price asked, was one thousand dollars for the first year, and two thousand dollars for each of the six succeeding years; the tenant to be bound to clear thirty acres of land annually. Before the day on which the estate was to be let, by the terms of the advertisement, a man came up from the neighborhood of Savannah, and agreed to take the new plantation, on the terms asked. He was immediately put into possession of the premises, and from this moment, I became his slave for the term of seven years. Fortune had now thrown me into the power of a new master, of whom, when I considered the part of the country from whence he came, which had always been represented to me as distinguished for the cruelty with which slaves were treated in it, I had no reason to expect much that was good. I had indeed, from the moment I saw this new master, and had learned the place of his former residence, made up my mind to prepare myself for a harsh servitude; but as we are often disappointed for the worse, so it sometimes happens, that we are deceived for the better. This man was by no means so bad as I was prepared to find him; and yet, I experienced all the evils in his service, that I had ever apprehended; but I could never find in my heart to entertain a revengeful feeling towards him, for he was as much a slave as I was; and I believe of the two, the greater sufferer. Perhaps the evils he endured himself, made him more compassionate of the sorrows of others; but notwithstanding the injustice that was done me while with him, I could never look upon him as a bad man. At the time he took possession of the estate, he was alone, and did not let us know that he had a wife, until after he had been with us at least two weeks. One day, however, he called us together, and told us that he was going down the country, to bring up his family--that he wished us to go on with the work on the place in the manner he pointed out; and telling the rest of the hands that they must obey my orders, he left us. He was gone full two weeks; and when he returned, I had all the cleared land planted in cotton, corn, and sweet potatoes, and had progressed with the business of the plantation so much to his satisfaction, that he gave me a dollar, with which I bought a pair of new trowsers--my old ones having been worn out in clearing the new land, and burning logs. My master's family, a wife and one child, came with him; and my new mistress soon caused me to regret the death of my former young master, for other reasons than those of affection and esteem. This woman (though she was my mistress, I cannot call her lady,) was the daughter of a very wealthy planter, who resided near Milledgeville, and had several children besides my mistress. My master was a native of North Carolina--had removed to Georgia several years before this--had acquired some property, and was married to my mistress more than two years, when I became his slave for a term of years, as I have stated. I saw many families, and was acquainted with the moral character of many ladies while I lived in the South; but I must, in justice to the country, say that my new mistress was the worst woman I ever saw amongst the southern people. Her temper was as bad as that of a speckled viper; and her language, when she was enraged, was a mere vocabulary of profanity and virulence. My master and mistress brought with them when they came twelve slaves, great and small, seven of whom were able to do field work. We now had on our new place a very respectable force; and my master was a man who understood the means of procuring a good day's work from his hands, as well as any of his neighbors. He was also a man who, when left to pursue his own inclinations, was kind and humane in his temper and conduct towards his people; and if he had possessed courage enough to whip his wife two or three times, as he sometimes whipped his slaves, and to compel her to observe a rule of conduct befitting her sex, I should have had a tolerable time of my servitude with him; and should, in all probability, have been a slave in Georgia until this day. Before my mistress came, we had meat in abundance, for my master had left his keys with me, and I dealt out the provisions to the people. Lest my master should complain of me at his return, or suspect that I had not been faithful to my trust, I had only allowed ourselves (for I fared in common with the others) one meal of meat in each day. We had several cows that supplied us with milk, and a barrel of molasses was among the stores of provisions. We had mush, sweet potatoes, milk, molasses, and sometimes butter for breakfast and supper, and meat for dinner. Had we been permitted to enjoy this fine fare after the arrival of our mistress, and had she been a woman of kindly disposition and lady-like manners, I should have considered myself well off in the world; for I was now living in as good a country as I ever saw, and I much doubt if there is a better one any where. Our mistress gave us a specimen of her character on the first morning after her arrival amongst us, by beating severely, with a raw cow-hide, the black girl who nursed the infant, because the child cried, and could not be kept silent. I perceived by this that my mistress possessed no control over her passions; and that when enraged she would find some victim to pour her fury upon, without regard to justice or mercy. When we were called to dinner to-day, we had no meat, and a very short supply of bread; our meal being composed of badly cooked sweet potatoes, some bread, and a very small quantity of sour milk. From this time our allowance of meat was withdrawn from us altogether, and we had to live upon our bread, potatoes, and the little milk that our mistress permitted us to have. The most vexatious part of the new discipline was the distinction that was made between us, who were on the plantation before our mistress came to it, and the slaves that she brought with her. To these latter, she gave the best part of the sour milk, all the buttermilk, and I believe frequently rations of meat. We were not on our part (I mean us of the old stock) wholly without meat, for our master sometimes gave us a whole flitch of bacon at once; this he had stolen from his own smoke-house--I say stolen, because he took it without the knowledge of my mistress, and always charged us in the most solemn manner not to let her know that we had received it. She was as negligent of the duties of a good housewife, as she was arrogant in assuming the control of things not within the sphere of her domestic duties, and never missed the bacon that our master gave to us, because she had not taken the trouble of examining the state of the meat-house. Obtaining all the meat we ate by stealth, through our master, our supplies were not regular, coming once or twice a week, according to circumstances. However, as I was satisfied of the good intentions of my master towards me, I felt interested in his welfare, and in a short time became warmly attached to him. He fared but little better at the hands of my mistress than I did, except as he ate at the same table with her, he always had enough of comfortable food; but in the matter of ill language, I believe my master and I might safely have put our goods together as a joint stock in trade, without either the one or the other being greatly the loser. I had secured the good opinion of my master, and it was perceivable by any one that he had more confidence in me than in any of his other slaves, and often treated me as the foreman of his people. This aroused the indignation of my mistress, who, with all her ill qualities, retained a sort of selfish esteem for the slaves who had come with her from her father's estate. She seldom saw me without giving me her customary salutation of profanity; and she exceeded all other persons that I have ever known in the quickness and sarcasm of the jibes and jeers with which she seasoned her oaths. To form any fair conception of her volubility and scurrilous wit, it was necessary to hear her, more especially on Sunday morning or a rainy day, when the people were all loitering about the kitchens, which stood close round her dwelling. She treated my master with no more ceremony than she did me. Misery loves company, it is said, and I verily believe that my master and I felt a mutual attachment on account of our mutual sufferings. CHAPTER XIV. The country I now lived in was new, and abounded with every sort of game common to a new settlement. Wages were high, and I could sometimes earn a dollar and a half a day by doing job work on Sunday. The price of a day's work here was a dollar. My master paid me regularly and fairly for all the work I did for him on Sunday, and I never went anywhere else to procure work. All his other hands were treated in the same way. He also gave me an old gun that had seen much hard service, for the stock was quite shattered to pieces, and the lock would not strike fire. I took my gun to a blacksmith in the neighborhood, and he repaired the lock, so that my musket was as sure fire as any piece need be. I found upon trial that though the stock and lock had been worn out, the barrel was none the worse for the service it had undergone. I now, for the first time in my life, became a hunter, in the proper sense of the word; and generally managed my affairs in such a way as to get the half of Saturday to myself. This I did by prevailing on my master to set my task for the week on Monday morning. Saturday was appropriated to hunting, if I was not obliged to work all day, and I soon became pretty expert in the use of my gun. I made salt licks in the woods, to which the deer came at night, and I shot them from a seat of clapboards that was placed on the branches of a tree. Raccoons abounded here, and were of a large size, and fat at all seasons. In the month of April I saw the ground thickly strewed with nuts, the growth of the last year. I now began to live well, notwithstanding the persecution that my mistress still directed against me, and to feel myself, in some measure, an independent man. The temper of my mistress grew worse daily, and to add to my troubles, the health of my master began to decline, and towards the latter part of autumn he told me that already he felt the symptoms of approaching death. This was a source of much anxiety and trouble to me, for I saw clearly, if I ever fell under the unbridled dominion of my mistress, I should regret the worst period of my servitude in South Carolina. I was afraid as winter came on that my master might grow worse and pass away in the spring--for his disease was the consumption of the lungs. We passed this winter in clearing land, after we had secured the crops of cotton and corn, and nothing happened on our plantation to disturb the usual monotony of the life of a slave, except that in the month of January, my master informed me that he intended to go to Savannah for the purpose of purchasing groceries, and such other supplies as might be required on the plantation, in the following season; and that he intended to take down a load of cotton with our wagon and team, and that I must prepare to be the driver. This intelligence was not disagreeable to me, as the trip to Savannah would, in the first place, release me for a short time from the tyranny of my mistress, and in the second, would give me an opportunity of seeing a great deal of strange country. I derived a third advantage, in after times, from this journey, but which did not enter into my estimate of this affair, at that time. My master had not yet erected a cotton-gin on his place--the land not being his own--and we hauled our cotton, in the seed, nearly three miles to be ginned, for which we had to give one-fourth to the owner of the gin. When the time of my departure came, I loaded my wagon with ten bales of cotton, and set out with the same team of six mules that I had driven from South Carolina. Nothing of moment happened to me until the evening of the fourth day, when we were one hundred miles from home. My master stopped to-night (for he traveled with me on his horse) at the house of an old friend of his; and I heard my master, in conversation with this gentleman, (for such he certainly was) give me a very good character, and tell him, that I was the most faithful and trusty negro that he had ever owned. He also said that if he lived to see the expiration of the seven years for which he had leased me, he intended to buy me. He said much more of me; and I thought I heard him tell his friend something about my mistress, but this was spoken in a low tone of voice, and I could not distinctly understand it. When I was going away in the morning with my team, this gentleman came out to the wagon and ordered one of his own slaves to help me to put the harness on my mules. At parting, he told me to stop at his house on my return and stay all night; and said, I should always be welcome to the use of his kitchen, if it should ever be my lot to travel that way again. I mention these trifles to show, that if there are hard and cruel masters in the South, there are also others of a contrary character. The slave-holders are neither more nor less than men, some of whom are good and very many are bad. My master and this gentleman were certainly of the number of the good, but the contrast between them and some others that I have seen, was, unhappily for many of the slaves, very great. I shall, hereafter, refer to this gentleman, at whose house I now was, and shall never name him without honor, nor think of him without gratitude. As I traveled through the country with my team, my chief employment, beyond my duty of a teamster, was to observe the condition of the slaves on the various plantations by which we passed on our journey, and to compare things in Georgia, as I now saw them, with similar things in Carolina, as I had heretofore seen them. There is as much sameness among the various cotton plantations in Georgia, as there is among the various farms in New York or New Jersey. He who has seen one cotton-field has seen all the other cotton-fields, bating the difference that naturally results from good and bad soils, or good and bad culture; but the contrast that prevails in the treatment of the slaves, on different plantations, is very remarkable. We traveled a road that was not well provided with public houses, and we frequently stopped for the night at the private dwellings of the planters, and I observed that my master was received as a visitor, and treated as a friend in the family, whilst I was always left at the road with my wagon, my master supplying me with money to buy food for myself and my mules. It was my practice, when we remained all night at these gentlemen's houses, to go to the kitchen in the evening, after I had fed my mules and eaten my supper, and pass some time in conversation with the black people I might chance to find there. One evening we halted before sundown, and I unhitched my mules at the road, about two hundred yards from the house of a planter, to which my master went to claim hospitality for himself. After I had disposed of my team for the night, and taken my supper, I went as usual to see the people of color in the kitchen, belonging to this plantation. The sun had just set when I reached the kitchen, and soon afterwards, a black boy came in and told the woman, who was the only person in the kitchen when I came to it, that she must go down to the overseer's house. She immediately started, in obedience to this order, and not choosing to remain alone in a strange house, I concluded to follow the woman, and see the other people of this estate. When we reached the house of the overseer, the colored people were coming in from the field, and with them came the overseer, and another man, better dressed than overseers usually are. I stood at some distance from these gentlemen, not thinking it prudent to be too forward amongst strangers. The black people were all called together, and the overseer told them, that some one of them had stolen a fat hog from the pen, carried it to the woods, and there killed and dressed it; that he had that day found the place where the hog had been slaughtered, and that if they did not confess, and tell who the perpetrators of this theft were, they would all be whipped in the severest manner. To this threat, no other reply was made than a universal assertion of the innocence of the accused. They were all then ordered to lie down upon the ground, and expose their backs, to which the overseer applied the thong of his long whip, by turns, until he was weary. It was fortunate for these people, that they were more than twenty in number, which prevented the overseer from inflicting many lashes on any one of them. When the whole number had received, each in turn, a share of the lash, the overseer returned to the man, to whom he had first applied the whip, and told him he was certain that he knew who stole the hog; and that if he did not tell who the thief was, he would whip him all night. He then again applied the whip to the back of this man, until the blood flowed copiously; but the sufferer hid his face in his hands, and said not a word. The other gentleman then asked the overseer if he was confident this man had stolen the pig; and, receiving an affirmative answer, he said he would make the fellow confess the truth, if he would follow his directions. He then asked the overseer if he had ever tried cat-hauling, upon an obstinate negro; and was told that this punishment had been heard of, but never practised on this plantation. A boy was then ordered to get up, run to the house, and bring a cat, which was soon produced. The cat, which was a large gray tom-cat, was then taken by the well-dressed gentleman, and placed upon the bare back of the prostrate black man, near the shoulder, and forcibly dragged by the tail down the back, and along the bare thighs of the sufferer. The cat sunk his rails into the flesh, and tore off pieces of the skin with his teeth. The man roared with the pain of this punishment, and would have rolled along the ground, had he not been held in his place by the force of four other slaves, each one of whom confined a hand or a foot. As soon as the cat was drawn from him, the man said he would tell who stole the hog, and confessed that he and several others, three of whom were then holding him, had stolen the hog--killed, dressed, and eaten it. In return for this confession, the overseer said he should have another touch of the cat, which was again drawn along his back, not as before, from the head downwards, but from below the hips to the head. The man was then permitted to rise, and each of those who had been named by him as a participator in stealing the hog, was compelled to lie down, and have the cat twice drawn along his back; first downwards, and then upwards. After the termination of this punishment, each of the sufferers was washed with salt water, by a black woman, and they were then all dismissed. This was the most excruciating punishment that I ever saw inflicted on black people, and, in my opinion, it is very dangerous; for the claws of the cat are poisonous, and wounds made by them are very subject to inflammation. During all this time, I had remained at the distance of fifty yards from the place of punishment, fearing either to advance or retreat, lest I too might excite the indignation of these sanguinary judges. After the business was over, and my feelings became a little more composed, I thought the voice of the gentleman in good clothes, was familiar to me; but I could not recollect who he was, nor where I had heard his voice, until the gentlemen at length left this place, and went towards the great house, and as they passed me, I recognized in the companion of the overseer, my old master, the negro trader, who had bought me in Maryland, and brought me to Carolina. I afterwards learned from my master that this man had formerly been engaged in the African slave-trade, which he had given up some years before, for the safer and less arduous business of buying negroes in the North, and bringing them to the South, as articles of merchandise, in which he had acquired a very respectable fortune--had lately married in a wealthy family, in this part of the country, and was a great planter. Two days after this, we reached Savannah, where my master sold his cotton, and purchased a wagon load of sugar, molasses, coffee, shoes, dry goods, and such articles as we stood in need of at home; and on the next day after I entered the city, I again left it, and directed my course up the country. In Savannah I saw many black men who were slaves, and who yet acted as freemen so far that they went out to work, where and with whom they pleased, received their own wages, and provided their own subsistence; but were obliged to pay a certain sum at the end of each week to their masters. One of these men told me that he paid six dollars on every Saturday evening to his master; and yet he was comfortably dressed, and appeared to live well. Savannah was a very busy place, and I saw vast quantities of cotton piled up on the wharves, but the appearance of the town itself was not much in favor of the people who lived in it. On my way home I traveled for several days, by a road different from that which we had pursued in coming down; and at the distance of fifty or sixty miles from Savannah, I passed by the largest plantation that I had ever seen. I think I saw at least a thousand acres of cotton in one field, which was all as level as a bowling-green. There were, as I was told, three hundred and fifty hands at work in this field, picking the last of the cotton from the burs; and these were the most miserable looking slaves that I had seen in all my travels. It was now the depth of winter, and although the weather was not cold, yet it was the winter of this climate; and a man who lives on the Savannah river a few years, will find himself almost as much oppressed with cold, in winter there, as he would be in the same season of the year on the banks of the Potomac, if he had always resided there. These people were, as far as I could see, totally without shoes, and there was no such garment as a hat of any kind amongst them. Each person had a coarse blanket, which had holes cut for the arms to pass through, and the top was drawn up round the neck, so as to form a sort of loose frock, tied before with strings. The arms, when the people were at work, were naked, and some of them had very little clothing of any kind besides this blanket frock. The appearance of these people afforded the most conclusive evidence that they were not eaters of pork, and that lent lasted with them throughout the year. I again staid all night, as I went home, with the gentleman whom I have before noticed as the friend of my master, who had left me soon after we quitted Savannah, and I saw him no more until I reached home. Soon after my return from Savannah, an affair of a very melancholy character took place in the neighborhood of my master's plantation. About two miles from our residence lived a gentleman who was a bachelor, and who had for his housekeeper a mulatto woman. The master was a young man, not more than twenty-five years old, and the housekeeper must have been at least forty. She had children grown up, one of whom had been sold by her master, the father of the bachelor, since I lived here, and carried away to the West. This woman had acquired a most unaccountable influence over her young master, who lived with her as his wife, and gave her the entire command of his house, and of every thing about it. Before he came to live where he now did, and whilst he still resided with his father, to whom the woman then belonged, the old gentleman perceiving the attachment of his son to this female, had sold her to a trader, who was on his way to the Mississippi river, in the absence of the young man; but when the latter returned home, and learned what had been done, he immediately set off in pursuit of the purchaser, overtook him somewhere in the Indian territory, and bought the woman of him, at an advanced price. He then brought her back, and put her, as his housekeeper, on the place where he now lived; left his father, and came to reside in person with the woman. On a plantation adjoining that of the gentleman bachelor, lived a planter, who owned a young mulatto man, named Frank, not more than twenty-four or five years old, a very smart as well as handsome fellow.--Frank had become as much enamored of this woman, who was old enough to have been his mother, as her master, the bachelor was; and she returned Frank's attachment, to the prejudice of her owner. Frank was in the practice of visiting his mistress at night, a circumstance of which her master was suspicious; and he forbade Frank from coming to the house. This only heightened the flame that was burning in the bosoms of the lovers; and they resolved, after many and long deliberations, to destroy the master. She projected the plot, and furnished the means for the murder, by taking her master's gun from the place where he usually kept it, and giving it to Frank, who came to the house in the evening, when the gentleman was taking his supper alone. Lucy always waited upon her master at his meals, and knowing his usual place of sitting, had made a hole between two of the logs of the house, towards which she knew his back would be at supper. At a given signal, Frank came quietly up the house, levelled the gun through the hole prepared for him, and discharged a load of buck-shot between the shoulders of the unsuspecting master, who sprang from his seat and fell dead beside the table. This murder was not known in the neighborhood until the next morning, when the woman herself went to a house on an adjoining plantation and told it. The murdered gentleman had several other slaves, none of whom were at home at the time of his death, except one man; and he was so terrified that he was afraid to run and alarm the neighborhood. I knew this man well, and believe he was afraid of the woman and her accomplice. I never had any doubt of his innocence, though he suffered a punishment, upon no other evidence than mere suspicion, far more terrible than any ordinary form of death. As soon as the murder was known to the neighboring gentlemen, they hastened to visit the dead body, and were no less expeditious in instituting inquiries after those who had done the bloody deed. My master was amongst the first who arrived at the house of the deceased; and in a short time, half the slaves of the neighboring plantations were arrested, and brought to the late dwelling of the dead man. For my own part, from the moment I heard of the murder, I had no doubt of its author. Silence is a great virtue when it is dangerous to speak; and I had long since determined never to advance opinions, uncalled for, in controversies between the white people and the slaves. Many witnesses were examined by a justice of the peace, before the coroner arrived, but after the coming of the latter, a jury was called; and more than half a day was spent in asking questions of various black people, without the disclosure of any circumstance, which tended to fix the guilt of the murder upon any one. My master, who was present all this time, at last desired them to examine me, if it was thought that my testimony could be of any service in the matter, as he wished me to go home to attend to my work. I was sworn on the Testament to tell the whole truth; and stated at the commencement of my testimony, that I believed Frank and Lucy to be the murderers, and proceeded to assign the reasons upon which my opinion was founded. Frank had not been present at this examination, and Lucy, who had been sworn, had said she knew nothing of the matter; that at the time her master was shot she had gone into the kitchen for some milk for his supper, and that on hearing the gun, she had come into the room at the moment he fell to the floor and expired; but when she opened the door and looked out, she could neither hear nor see any one. When Frank was brought in and made to touch the dead body, which he was compelled to do, because some said that if he was the murderer, the corpse would bleed at his touch, he trembled so much that I thought he would fall, but no blood issued from the wound of the dead man. This compulsory touching of the dead had, however, in this instance, a much more powerful effect, in the conviction of the criminal, than the flowing of any quantity of blood could have had; for as soon as Frank had withdrawn his hand from the touch of the dead, the coroner asked him, in a peremptory tone, as if conscious of the fact, why he had done this. Frank was so confounded with fear, and overwhelmed by this interrogatory, that he lost all self-possession, and cried out in a voice of despair, that Lucy had made him do it. Lucy, who had left the room when Frank was brought in, was now recalled, and confronted with her partner in guilt, but nothing could wring a word of confession from her. She persisted, that if Frank had murdered her master, he had done it of his own accord, and without her knowledge or advice. Some one now, for the first time, thought of making search for the gun of the dead man, which was not found in the place where he usually had kept it. Frank said he had committed the crime with this gun, which had been placed in his hands by Lucy. Frank, Lucy and Billy, a black man, against whom there was no evidence, nor cause of suspicion, except that he was in the kitchen at the time of the murder, were committed to prison in a new log-house on an adjoining plantation, closely confined in irons, and kept there a little more than two weeks, when they were all tried before some gentlemen of the neighborhood, who held a court for that purpose. Lucy and Frank were condemned to be hung, but Billy was found not guilty; although he was not released, but kept in confinement until the execution of his companions, which took place ten days after the trial. On the morning of the execution, my master told me, and all the rest of the people, that we must go to the _hanging_, as it was termed by him as well as others. The place of punishment was only two miles from my master's residence, and I was there in time to get a good stand, near the gallows' tree, by which I was enabled to see all the proceedings connected with this solemn affair. It was estimated by my master, that there were at least fifteen thousand people present at this scene, more than half of whom were blacks; all the masters, for a great distance round the country, having permitted, or compelled their people to come to this _hanging_. Billy was brought to the gallows with Lucy and Frank, but was permitted to walk beside the cart in which they rode. Under the gallows, after the rope was around her neck, Lucy confessed that the murder had been designed by her in the first place, and that Frank had only perpetrated it at her instance. She said she had at first intended to apply to Billy to assist her in the undertaking, but had afterwards communicated her designs to Frank, who offered to shoot her master, if she would supply him with a gun, and let no other person be in the secret. A long sermon was preached by a white man under the gallows, which was only the limb of a tree, and afterwards an exhortation was delivered by a black man. The two convicts were hung together, and after they were quite dead, a consultation was held among the gentlemen as to the future disposition of Billy, who, having been in the house when his master was murdered, and not having given immediate information of the fact, was held to be guilty of concealing the death, and was accordingly sentenced to receive five hundred lashes. I was in the branches of a tree close by the place where the court was held, and distinctly heard its proceedings and judgment. Some went to the woods to cut hickories, whilst others stripped Billy and tied him to a tree. More than twenty long switches, some of them six or seven feet in length, had been procured, and two men applied the rods at the same time, one standing on each side of the culprit, one of them using his left hand. I had often seen black men whipped, and had always, when the lash was applied with great severity, heard the sufferer cry out and beg for mercy, but in this case, the pain inflicted by the double blows of the hickory was so intense, that Billy never uttered so much as a groan; and I do not believe he breathed for the space of two minutes after he received the first strokes. He shrank his body close to the trunk of the tree, around which his arms and legs were lashed, drew his shoulders up to his head like a dying man, and trembled, or rather shivered, in all his members. The blood flowed from the commencement, and in a few minutes lay in small puddles at the root of the tree. I saw flakes of flesh as long as my finger fall out of the gashes in his back; and I believe he was insensible during all the time that he was receiving the last two hundred lashes. When the whole five hundred lashes had been counted by the person appointed to perform this duty, the half dead body was unbound and laid in the shade of the tree upon which I sat. The gentlemen who had done the whipping, eight or ten in number, being joined by their friends, then came under the tree and drank punch until their dinner was made ready, under a booth of green boughs at a short distance. After dinner, Billy, who had been groaning on the ground where he was laid, was taken up, placed in the cart in which Lucy and Frank had been brought to the gallows, and conveyed to the dwelling of his late master, where he was confined to the house and his bed more than three months, and was never worth much afterwards while I remained in Georgia. Lucy and Frank, after they had been half an hour upon the gallows, were cut down, and suffered to drop into a deep hole that had been dug under them whilst they were suspended. As they fell, so the earth was thrown upon them, and the grave closed over them for ever. They were hung on Thursday, and the vast assemblage of people that had convened to witness their death did not leave the place altogether until the next Monday morning. Wagons, carts, and carriages had been brought upon the ground; booths and tents erected for the convenience and accommodation of the multitude; and the terrible spectacles that I have just described were succeeded by music, dancing, trading in horses, gambling, drinking, fighting, and every other species of amusement and excess to which the southern people are addicted. I had to work in the day-time, but went every night to witness this funeral carnival,--the numbers that joined in which appeared to increase, rather than diminish, during the Friday and Saturday that followed the execution. It was not until Sunday afternoon that the crowd began sensibly to diminish; and on Monday morning, after breakfast time, the last wagons left the ground, now trampled into dust as dry and as light as ashes, and the grave of the murderers was left to the solitude of the woods. Certainly those who were hanged well deserved their punishment; but it was a very arbitrary exercise of power to whip a man until he was insensible, because he did not prevent a murder which was committed without his knowledge; and I could not understand the right of punishing him, because he was so weak or timorous as to refrain from the disclosure of the crime the moment it came to his knowledge. It is necessary for the southern people to be vigilant in guarding the moral condition of their slaves, and even to punish the intention to commit crimes, when that intention can be clearly proved; for such is the natural relation of master and slave, in by far the greater number of cases, that no cordiality of feeling can ever exist between them; and the sentiments that bind together the different members of society in a state of freedom and social equality, being absent, the master must resort to principles of physical restraint, and rules of mental coercion, unknown in another and a different condition of the social compact. It is a mistake to suppose that the southern planters could ever retain their property, or live amongst their slaves, if those slaves were not kept in terror of the punishment that would follow acts of violence and disorder. There is no difference between the feelings of the different races of men, so far as their personal rights are concerned. The black man is as anxious to possess and to enjoy liberty as the white one would be, were he deprived of this inestimable blessing. It is not for me to say that the one is as well qualified for the enjoyment of liberty as the other. Low ignorance, moral degradation of character, and mental depravity, are inseparable companions; and in the breast of an ignorant man, the passions of envy and revenge hold unbridled dominion. It was in the month of April that I witnessed the painful spectacle of two fellow-creatures being launched into the abyss of eternity, and a third, being tortured beyond the sufferings of mere death, not for his crimes, but as a terror to others; and this, not to deter others from the commission of crimes, but to stimulate them to a more active and devoted performance of their duties to their owners. My spirits had not recovered from the depression produced by that scene, in which my feelings had been awakened in the cause of others, when I was called to a nearer and more immediate apprehension of sufferings, which, I now too clearly saw, were in preparation for myself. My master's health became worse continually, and I expected he would not survive this summer. In this, however, I was disappointed; but he was so ill that he was seldom able to come to the field, and paid but little attention to his plantation, or the culture of his crops. He left the care of the cotton field to me after the month of June, and was not again out on the plantation before the following October; when he one day came out on a little Indian pony that he had used as his hackney, before he was so far reduced as to decline the practice of riding. I suffered very much this summer for want of good and substantial provisions, my master being no longer able to supply me, with his usual liberality, from his own meat house. I was obliged to lay out nearly all my other earnings, in the course of the summer, for bacon, to enable me to bear the hardship and toil to which I was exposed. My master often sent for me to come to the house, and talked to me in a very kind manner; and I believe that no hired overseer could have carried on the business more industriously than I did, until the crop was secured the next winter. Soon after my master was in the field, in October, he sent for me to come to him one day, and gave me, on parting, a pretty good great coat of strong drab cloth, almost new, which he said would be of service to me in the coming winter. He also gave me at the same time a pair of boots which he had worn half out, but the legs of which were quite good. This great coat and these boots were afterwards of great service to me. As the winter came on my master grew worse, and though he still continued to walk about the house in good weather, it was manifest that he was approaching the close of his earthly existence. I worked very hard this winter. The crop of cotton was heavy, and we did not get it all out of the field until some time after Christmas, which compelled me to work hard myself, and cause my fellow-slaves to work hard too, in clearing the land that my master was bound to clear every year on this place. He desired me to get as much of the land cleared in time for cotton as I could, and to plant the rest with corn when cleared off. As I was now entrusted with the entire superintendence of the plantation by my master, who never left his house, it became necessary for me to assume the authority of an overseer of my fellow-slaves, and I not unfrequently found it proper to punish them with stripes to compel them to perform their work. At first I felt much repugnance against the use of the hickory, the only instrument with which I punished offenders, but the longer I was accustomed to this practice, the more familiar and less offensive it became to me; and I believe that a few years of perseverance and experience would have made me as inveterate a negro-driver as any in Georgia, though I feel conscious that I never should have become so hardened as to strip a person for the purpose of whipping, nor should I ever have consented to compel people to work without a sufficiency of good food, if I had it in my power to supply them with enough of this first of comforts. In the month of February, my master became so weak, and his cough was so distressing, that he took to his bed, from which he never again departed, save only once, before the time when he was removed to be wrapped in his winding-sheet. In the month of March, two of the brothers of my mistress came to see her, and remained with her until after the death of my master. When they had been with their sister about three weeks, they came to the kitchen one day when I had come in for my dinner, and told me that they were going to whip me. I asked them what they were going to whip me for? to which they replied, that they thought a good whipping would be good for me, and that at any rate, I must prepare to take it. My mistress now joined us, and after swearing at me in the most furious manner, for a space of several minutes, and bestowing upon me a multitude of the coarsest epithets, told me that she had long owed me a whipping, and that I should now get it. She then ordered me to take off my shirt, (the only garment I had on, except a pair of old tow linen trowsers,) and the two brothers backed the command of their sister, the one by presenting a pistol at my breast, and the other by drawing a large club over his head in the attitude of striking me. Resistance was vain, and I was forced to yield. My shirt being off, I was tied by the hands with a stout bed-cord, and being led to a tree, called the Pride of China, that grew in the yard, my hands were drawn by the rope, being passed over a limb, until my feet no longer touched the ground. Being thus suspended in the air by the rope, and my whole weight hanging on my wrists, I was unable to move any part of my person, except my feet and legs. I had never been whipped since I was a boy, and felt the injustice of the present proceeding with the utmost keenness; but neither justice nor my feelings had any influence upon the hearts of my mistress and her brothers, two men as cruel in temper and as savage in manners as herself. The first strokes of the hickory produced a sensation that I can only liken to streams of scalding water, running along my back; but after a hundred or hundred and fifty lashes had been showered upon me, the pain became less acute and piercing, but was succeeded by a dead and painful aching, which seemed to extend to my very backbone. As I hung by the rope, the moving of my legs sometimes caused me to turn round, and soon after they began to beat me I saw the pale and death-like figure of my master standing at the door, when my face was turned toward the house, and heard him, in a faint voice, scarcely louder than a strong breathing, commanding his brothers-in-law to let me go. These commands were disregarded, until I had received full three hundred lashes; and doubtlessly more would have been inflicted upon me, had not my master, with an effort beyond his strength, by the aid of a stick on which he supported himself, made his way to me, and placing his skeleton form beside me as I hung, told his brothers-in-law that if they struck another stroke he would send for a lawyer and have them both prosecuted at law. This interposition stopped the progress of my punishment, and after cutting me down, they carried my master again into the house. I was yet able to walk, and went into the kitchen, whither my mistress followed, and compelled me to submit to be washed in brine by a black woman, who acted as her cook. I was then permitted to put my shirt on, and to go to my bed. This was Saturday, and on the next day, when I awoke late in the morning, I found myself unable to turn over or to rise. I felt too indignant at the barbarity with which I had been treated to call for help from any one, and lay in my bed made of corn husks until after twelve o'clock, when my mistress came to me and asked me how I was. A slave must not manifest feelings of resentment, and I answered with humility, that I was very sore and unable to get up. She then called a man and a woman, who came and raised me up; but I now found that my shirt was as fast to my back as if it had grown there. The blood and bruised flesh having become incorporated with the substance of the linen, it formed only the outer coat of the great scab that covered my back. After I was down stairs, my mistress had me washed in warm water, and warm grease was rubbed over my back and sides, until the shirt was saturated with oil, and becoming soft, was at length separated from my back. My mistress then had my back washed and greased, and put upon me one of my master's old linen shirts. She had become alarmed, and was fearful either that I should die, or would not be able to work again for a long time. As it was, she lost a month of my labor at this time, and in the end, she lost myself, in consequence of this whipping. As soon as I was able to walk, my master sent for me to come to his bed-side, and told me that he was very sorry for what had happened; that it was not his fault, and that if he had been well I should never have been touched. Tears came in his eyes as he talked to me, and said that as he could not live long, he hoped I would continue faithful to him whilst he did live. This I promised to do, for I really loved my master; but I had already determined, that as soon as he was in his grave, I would attempt to escape from Georgia and the cotton country, if my life should be the forfeiture of the attempt. As soon as I had recovered of my wounds, I again went to work, not in my former situation of superintendent of my master's plantation, for this place was now occupied by one of the brothers of my mistress, but in the woods, where my mistress had determined to clear a new field. After this time, I did nothing but grub and clear land, while I remained in Georgia, but I was always making preparations for my departure from that country. My master was an officer of militia, and had a sword which he wore on parade days, and at other times he hung it up in the room where he slept. I conceived an idea that this sword would be of service to me in the long journey that I intended to undertake. One evening, when I had gone in to see my master, and had remained standing at his bed-side some time, he closed his eyes as if going to sleep, and it being twilight, I slipped the sword from the place where it hung, and dropped it out of the window. I knew my master could never need this weapon again, but yet I felt some compunction of conscience at the thought of robbing so good a man. When I left the room, I took up the sword, and afterwards secreted it in a hollow tree in the woods, near the place at which I worked daily. CHAPTER XV. My master died in the month of May, and I followed him to his grave with a heavy heart, for I felt that I had lost the only friend I had in the world, who possessed at once the power and the inclination to protect me against the tyranny and oppression to which slaves on a cotton plantation are subject. Had he lived, I should have remained with him and never have left him, for he had promised to purchase the residue of my time of my owners in Carolina; but when he was gone, I felt the parting of the last tie that bound me to the place where I then was, and my heart yearned for my wife and children, from whom I had now been separated more than four years. I held my life in small estimation, if it was to be worn out under the dominion of my mistress and her brothers, though since the death of my master she had greatly meliorated my condition by giving me frequent allowances of meat and other necessaries. I believe she entertained some vague apprehensions that I might run away, and betake myself to the woods for a living, but I do not think she ever suspected that I would hazard the untried undertaking of attempting to make my way back to Maryland. My purpose was fixed, and now nothing could shake it. I only waited for a proper season of the year to commence my toilsome and dangerous journey. As I must of necessity procure my own subsistence on my march, it behoved me to pay regard to the time at which I took it up. I furnished myself with a fire-box, as it is called, that is, a tin case containing flints, steel and tinder--this I considered indispensable. I took the great coat that my master had given me, and with a coarse needle and thread quilted a scabbard of old cloth in one side of it, in which I could put my sword and carry it with safety. I also procured a small bag of linen that held more than a peck. This bag I filled with the meal of parched corn, grinding the corn after it was parched in the woods where I worked at the mill at night. These operations, except the grinding of the corn, I carried on in a small conical cabin that I had built in the woods. The boots that my master gave me, I had repaired by a Spaniard who lived in the neighborhood, and followed the business of a cobbler. Before the first of August I had all my preparations completed, and had matured them with so much secrecy, that no one in the country, white or black, suspected me of entertaining any extraordinary design. I only waited for the corn to be ripe, and fit to be roasted, which time I had fixed as the period of my departure. I watched the progress of the corn daily, and on the eighth of August I perceived, on examining my mistress' field, that nearly half of the ears were so far grown, that by roasting them, a man could easily subsist himself; and as I knew that this corn had been planted later than the most of the corn in the country, I resolved to take leave of the plantation and its tenants, for ever, on the next day. I had a faithful dog, called Trueman, and this poor animal had been my constant companion for more than four years, without ever showing cowardice or infidelity, but once, and that was when the panther followed us from the woods. I was accordingly anxious to bring my dog with me; but as I knew the success of my undertaking depended on secrecy and silence, I thought it safest to abandon my last friend, and engage in my perilous enterprise alone. On the morning of the ninth I went to work as usual, carrying my dinner with me, and worked diligently at grubbing until about one o'clock in the day. I now sat down and took my last dinner as the slave of my mistress, dividing the contents of my basket with my dog. After I had finished I tied my dog with a rope to a small tree; I set my gun against it, for I thought I should be better without the gun than with it; tied my knapsack with my bag of meal on my shoulders, and then turned to take a last farewell of my poor dog, that stood by the tree to which he was bound, looking wistfully at me. When I approached him, he licked my hands, and then rising on his hind feet and placing his fore paws on my breast, he uttered a long howl, which thrilled through my heart, as if he had said, "My master, do not leave me behind you." I now took to the forest, keeping, as nearly as I could, a North course all the afternoon. Night overtook me before I reached any watercourse, or any other object worthy of being noticed; and I lay down and slept soundly, without kindling a fire or eating any thing. I was awake before day, and as soon as there was light enough to enable me to see my way, I resumed my journey and walked on, until about eight o'clock, when I came to a river, which I knew must be the Appalachie. I sat down on the bank of the river, opened my bag of meal, and made my breakfast of a part of its contents. I used my meal very sparingly, it being the most valuable treasure that I now possessed; though I had in my pocket three Spanish dollars; but in my situation, this money could not avail me any thing, as I was resolved not to show myself to any person, either white or black. After taking my breakfast, I prepared to cross the river, which was here about a hundred yards wide, with a sluggish and deep current. The morning was sultry, and the thickets along the margin of the river teemed with insects and reptiles. By sounding the river with a pole, I found the stream too deep to be waded, and I therefore prepared to swim it. For this purpose I stripped myself, and bound my clothes on the top of my knapsack, and my bag of meal on the top of my clothes; then drawing my knapsack close up to my head. I threw myself into the river. In my youth I had learned to swim in the Patuxent, and have seldom met with any person who was more at ease in deep water than myself. I kept a straight line from the place of my entrance into the Appalachie, to the opposite side, and when I had reached it, stepped on the margin of the land, and turned round to view the place from which I had set out on my aquatic passage; but my eye was arrested by an object nearer to me than the opposite shore. Within twenty feet of me, in the very line that I had pursued in crossing the river, a large alligator was moving in full pursuit of me, with his nose just above the surface, in the position that creature takes when he gives chase to his intended prey in the water. The alligator can swim more than twice as fast as a man, for he can overtake young ducks on the water; and had I been ten seconds longer in the river, I should have been dragged to the bottom, and never again been heard of. Seeing that I had gained the shore, my pursuer turned, made two or three circles in the water close by me, and then disappeared. I received this admonition as a warning of the dangers that I must encounter in my journey to the North. After adjusting my clothes, I again took to the woods, and bore a little to the east of north; it now being my determination to turn down the country, so as to gain the line of the roads by which I had come to the South. I traveled all day in the woods; but a short time before sundown, came within view of an opening in the forest, which I took to be cleared fields, but upon a closer examination, finding no fences or other enclosures around it, I advanced into it and found it to be an open savannah, with a small stream of water creeping slowly through it. At the lower side of the open space were the remains of an old beaver dam, the central part of which had been broken away by the current of the stream at the time of some flood. Around the margin of this former pond, I observed several decayed beaver lodges, and numerous stumps of small trees, that had been cut down for the food or fortifications of this industrious little nation, which had fled at the approach of the white man, and all its people were now, like me, seeking refuge in the deepest solitudes of the forest, from the glance of every human eye. As it was growing late, and I believed I must now be near the settlements, I determined to encamp for the night, beside this old beaver dam. I again took my supper from my bag of meal, and made my bed for the night amongst the canes that grew in the place. This night I slept but little; for it seemed as if all the owls in the country had assembled in my neighborhood to perform a grand musical concert.--Their hooting and chattering commenced soon after dark, and continued until the dawn of day. In all parts of the southern country, the owls are very numerous, especially along the margins of streams, and in the low grounds with which the waters are universally bordered; but since I had been in the country, although I had passed many nights in the woods at all seasons of the year, I had never before heard so clamorous and deafening a chorus of nocturnal music.--With the coming of the morning I arose from my couch, and proceeded warily along the woods, keeping a continual lookout for plantations, and listening attentively to every noise that I heard in the trees, or amongst the canebrakes. When the sun had been up two or three hours, I saw an appearance of blue sky at a distance through the trees, which proved that the forest had been removed from a spot somewhere before me, and at no great distance from me; and, as I cautiously advanced, I heard the voices of people in loud conversation. Sitting down amongst the palmetto plants, that grew around me in great numbers, I soon perceived that the people whose conversation I heard, were coming nearer to me. I now heard the sound of horses' feet, and immediately afterwards saw two men on horseback, with rifles on their shoulders, riding through the woods, and moving on a line that led them past me, at a distance of about fifty or sixty yards.--Perceiving that these men were equipped as hunters, I remained almost breathless for the purpose of hearing their conversation. When they came so near that I could distinguish their words, they were talking of the best place to take a stand for the purpose of seeing the deer; from which I inferred that they had sent men to some other point, for the purpose of rousing the deer with dogs. After they had passed that point of their way that was nearest to me, and were beginning to recede from me, one of them asked the other if he had heard that a negro had run away the day before yesterday, in Morgan county; to which his companion answered in the negative. The first then said he had seen an advertisement at the store, which offered a hundred dollars reward for the runaway, whose name was Charles. The conversation of these horsemen was now interrupted by the cry of hounds, at a distance in the woods, and heightening the speed of their horses, they were soon out of my sight and hearing. Information of the state of the country through which I was traveling, was of the highest value to me; and nothing could more nearly interest me than a knowledge of the fact, that my flight was known to the white people, who resided round about and before me. It was now necessary for me to become doubly vigilant, and to concert with myself measures of the highest moment. The first resolution that I took was, that I would travel no more in the day-time. This was the season of hunting deer, and knowing that the hunters were under the necessity of being as silent as possible in the woods, I saw at a glance that they would be at least as likely to discover me in the forest, before I could see them, as I should be to see them, before I myself could be seen. I was now very hungry, but exceedingly loath to make any further breaches on my bag of meal, except in extreme necessity. Feeling confident that there was a plantation within a few rods of me, I was anxious to have a view of it, in hope that I might find a corn-field upon it, from which I could obtain a supply of roasting ears. Fearful to stand upright, I crept along through the low ground, where I then was, at times raising myself to my knees, for the purpose of obtaining a better view of things about me. In this way I advanced until I came in view of a high fence, and beyond this saw cotton, tall and flourishing, but no sign of corn. I crept up close to the fence, where I found the trunk of a large tree, that had been felled in clearing the field. Standing upon this, and looking over the plantation, I saw the tassels of corn, at the distance of half a mile, growing in a field which was bordered on one side by the wood, in which I stood. It was now nine or ten o'clock in the morning, and as I had slept but little the night before, I crept into the bushes, great numbers of which grew in and about the top of the fallen tree, and, hungry as I was, fell asleep. When I awoke, it appeared to me from the position of the sun, which I had carefully noted before I lay down, to be about one or two o'clock. As this was the time of the day when the heat is most oppressive, and when every one was most likely to be absent from the forest, I again moved, and taking a circuitous route at some distance from the fields, reached the fence opposite the corn-field, without having met anything to alarm me. Having cautiously examined everything around me, as well by the eye as by the ear, and finding all quiet, I ventured to cross the fence and pluck from the standing stalks about a dozen good ears of corn, with which I stole back to the thicket in safety. This corn was of no use to me without fire to roast it; and it was equally dangerous to kindle fire by night as by day, the light at one time and the smoke at another, might betray me to those who I knew were ever ready to pursue and arrest me. "Hunger eats through stone walls," says the proverb, and an empty stomach is a petitioner, whose solicitations cannot be refused, if there is anything to satisfy them with. Having regained the woods in safety, I ventured to go as far as the side of a swamp, which I knew to be at the distance of two or three hundred yards, by the appearance of the timber. When in the swamp, I felt pretty secure, but determined that I would never again attempt to travel in the neighborhood of a plantation in the daytime. When in the swamp a quarter of a mile, I collected some dry wood and lighted it with the aid of my tinder-box, flint, and steel. This was the first fire that I kindled on my journey, and I was careful to burn none but dry wood, to prevent the formation of smoke. Here I roasted my corn, and ate as much of it as I could. After my dinner I lay down and slept for three or four hours. When I awoke, the sun was scarcely visible through the tree-tops. It was evening, and prudence required me to leave the swamp before dark, lest I should not be able to find my way out. Approaching the edge of the swamp, I watched the going down of the sun, and noted the stars as they appeared in the heavens. I had long since learned to distinguish the north-star from all the other small luminaries of the night; and the seven pointers were familiar to me. These heavenly bodies were all the guides I had to direct me on my way, and as soon as the night had set in, I commenced my march through the woods, bearing as nearly due east as I could. I took this course for the purpose of getting down the country as far as the road leading from Augusta to Morgan County, with the intention of pursuing the route by which I had come out from South Carolina; deeming it more safe to travel the high road by night, than to attempt to make my way at random over the country, guided only by the stars. I traveled all night, keeping the north-star on my left hand as nearly as I could, and passing many plantations, taking care to keep at a great distance from the houses. I think I traveled at least twenty-five miles to-night, without passing any road that appeared so wide, or so much beaten as that which I had traveled when I came from South Carolina. This night I passed through a peach orchard, laden with fine ripe fruit, with which I filled my pockets and hat; and before day, in crossing a corn-field, I pulled a supply of roasting-ears, with which and my peaches, I retired at break of day to a large wood, into which I traveled more than a mile before I halted. Here, in the midst of a thicket of high whortleberry bushes, I encamped for the day. I made my breakfast upon roasted corn and peaches, and then lay down and slept, unmolested, until after twelve o'clock, when I awoke and rose up for the purpose of taking a better view of my quarters; but I was scarcely on my feet, when I was attacked by a swarm of hornets, that issued from a large nest that hung on the limb of a tree, within twenty or thirty feet of me. I knew that the best means of making peace with my hostile neighbors, was to lie down with my face to the ground, and this attitude I quickly took, not however before I had been stung by several of my assailants, which kept humming through the air about me for a long time, and prevented me from leaving this spot until after sundown, and after they had retired to rest for the night. I now commenced the attack on my part, and taking a handful of dry leaves, approached the nest, which was full as large as a half bushel, and thrusting the leaves into the hole at the bottom of the nest, through which its tenants passed in and out, secured the whole garrison prisoners in their own citadel. I now cut off the branch upon which the nest hung, and threw it with its contents into my evening fire, over which I roasted a supply of corn for my night's journey. Commencing my march this evening soon after nightfall, I traveled until about one o'clock in the morning, as nearly as I could estimate the time by the appearance of the stars, when I came upon a road which, from its width and beaten appearance, seemed to be the road to Morgan County. After traveling for a day or two near this road, I at last found myself at daybreak one morning in sight of the home of my late master's friend, spoken of in our journey to Savannah. I was desperately hungry, and the idea swayed me to throw myself upon his generosity and beg for food. It seemed to me that this gentleman was too benevolent a man to arrest and send me back to my cruel mistress; and yet how could I expect, or even hope, that a cotton planter would see a runaway slave on his premises, and not cause him to be taken up and sent home? Failing to seize a runaway slave, when he has him in his power, is held to be one of the most dishonorable acts to which a southern planter can subject himself. Nor should the people of the North be surprised at this. Slaves are regarded, in the South, as the most precious of all earthly possessions; and, at the same time, as a precarious and hazardous kind of property, in the enjoyment of which the master is not safe. The planters may well be compared to the inhabitants of a national frontier, which is exposed to the inroads of hostile invading tribes. Where all are in like danger, and subject to like fears, it is expected that all will be governed by like sentiments, and act upon like principles. I stood and looked at the house of this good planter for more than an hour after the sun had risen, and saw all the movements which usually take place on a cotton plantation in the morning. Long before the sun was up, the overseer had proceeded to the field at the head of the hands; the black women who attended to the cattle, and milked the cows, had gone to the cowpen with their pails; and the smoke ascended from the chimney of the kitchen, before the doors of the great house were opened, or any of the members of the family were seen abroad. At length two young ladies opened the door, and stood in the freshness of the morning air. These were soon joined by a brother; and at last I saw the gentleman himself leave the house and walk towards the stables, that stood at some distance from the house on my left. I think even now that it was a foolish resolution that emboldened me to show myself to this gentleman. It was like throwing one's self in the way of a lion who is known sometimes to spare those whom he might destroy; but I resolved to go and meet this planter at his stables, and tell him my whole story. Issuing from the woods, I crossed the fields unperceived by the people at the house, and going directly to the stables, presented myself to their proprietor, as he stood looking at a fine horse in one of the yards. At first he did not know me, and asked me whose man I was. I then asked him if he did not remember me; and named the time when I had been at his house. I then told at once that I was a runaway: that my master was dead, and my mistress so cruel that I could not live with her: not omitting to show the scars on my back, and to give a full account of the manner in which they had been made. The gentleman stood and looked at me more than a minute, without uttering a word, and then said, "I will not betray you, but you must not stay here. It must not be known that you were on this plantation, and that I saw and conversed with you. However, as I suppose you are hungry, you may go to the kitchen and get your breakfast with my house servants." He then set off for the house, and I followed, but turning into the kitchen, as he ordered me, I was soon supplied with a good breakfast of cold meat, warm bread, and as much new buttermilk as I chose to drink. Before I sat down to breakfast, the lady of the house came into the kitchen, with her two daughters, and gave me a dram of peach brandy. I drank this brandy, and was very thankful for it; but I am fully convinced now that it did me much more harm than good; and that this part of the kindness of this most excellent family was altogether misplaced. Whilst I was taking my breakfast, a black man came into the kitchen, and gave me a dollar that he said his master had sent me, at the same time laying on the table before me a package of bread and meat, weighing at least ten pounds, wrapped up in a cloth. On delivering these things, the black man told me that his master desired me to quit his premises as soon as I had finished my breakfast. This injunction I obeyed, and within less than an hour after I entered this truly hospitable house, I quitted it forever, but not without leaving behind me my holiest blessings upon the heads of its inhabitants. It was yet early in the morning when I regained the woods on the opposite side of the plantation from that by which I had entered it. CHAPTER XVI. I could not believe it possible that the white people whom I had just left, would give information of the route I had taken; but as it was possible that all who dwelt on this plantation might not be so pure of heart as were they who possessed it, I thought it prudent to travel some distance in the woods, before I stopped for the day, notwithstanding the risk of moving about in the open light. For the purpose of precluding the possibility of being betrayed, I now determined to quit this road, and travel altogether in the woods or through open fields, for two or three nights, guiding my march by the stars. In pursuance of this resolution, I bore away to the left of the high road, and traveled five or six miles before I stopped, going round all the fields that I saw in my way, and keeping them at a good distance from me. In the afternoon of this day it rained, and I had no other shelter than the boughs and leaves of a large magnolia tree; but this kept me tolerably dry, and as it cleared away in the evening, I was able to continue my journey by starlight. I have no definite idea of the distance that I traveled in the course of this and the two succeeding nights, as I had no road to guide me, and was much perplexed by the plantations and houses, the latter of which I most carefully eschewed; but on the third night after this I encountered a danger, which was very nearly fatal to me. At the time of which I now speak, the moon having changed lately, shone until about eleven o'clock. I had been on my way two or three hours this evening, and all the world seemed to be quiet, when I entered a plantation that lay quite across my way. In passing through these fields, I at last saw the houses, and other improvements, and about a hundred yards from the house, a peach orchard, which I could distinguish by the faint light of the moon. This orchard was but little out of my way, and a quarter of a mile, as nearly as I could judge, from the woods. I resolved to examine these peach trees, and see what fruit was on them. Coming amongst them, I found the fruit of the kind called Indian peaches in Georgia. These Indian peaches are much the largest and finest peaches that I have ever seen, one of them oftentimes being as large as a common quince. I had filled all my pockets, and was filling my handkerchief with this delicious fruit, which is of deep red, when I heard the loud growl of a dog toward the house, the roof of which I could see. I stood as still as a stone, but yet the dog growled on, and at length barked out. I presume he smelled me, for he could not hear me. In a short time I found that the dog was coming towards me, and I then started and ran as fast as I could for the woods. He now barked louder, and was followed by another dog, both making a terrible noise. I was then pretty light of foot, and was already close by the woods when the first dog overtook me. I carried a good stick in my hand, and with this I kept the dogs at bay, until I gained the fence and escaped into the woods; but now I heard the shouts of men encouraging the dogs, both of which were now up with me, and the men were coming as fast as they could. The dogs would not permit me to run, and unless I could make free use of my heels, it was clear that I must be taken in a few minutes. I now thought of my master's sword, which I had not removed from its quilted scabbard, in my great coat, since I commenced my journey. I snatched it from its sheath, and at a single cut laid open the head of the largest and fiercest of the dogs, from his neck to his nose. He gave a loud yell and fell dead on the ground. The other dog, seeing the fate of his companion, leaped the fence, and escaped into the field, where he stopped, and like a cowardly cur, set up a clamorous barking at the enemy he was afraid to look in the face. I thought this no time to wait to ascertain what the men would say when they came to their dead dog, but made the best of my way through the woods, and did not stop to look behind me for more than an hour. In my battle with the dogs, I lost all my peaches, except a few that remained in my pockets; and in running through the woods I tore my clothes very badly, a disaster not easily repaired in my situation; but I had proved the solidity of my own judgment in putting up my sword as a part of my traveling equipage. I now considered it necessary to travel as fast as possible, and get as far as I could before day from the late battle-ground, and certainly I lost no time; but from the occurrences of the next day, I am of opinion that I had not continued in a straight line all night, but that I must have traveled in a circular or zigzag route. When a man is greatly alarmed, and in a strange country, he is not able to note courses, or calculate distances very accurately. Daylight made its appearance, when I was moving to the South, for the daybreak was on my left hand; but I immediately stopped, went into a thicket of low white oak bushes, and lay down to rest myself, for I was very weary, and soon fell asleep, and did not awake until it was ten or eleven o'clock. Before I fell asleep, I noted the course of the rising sun, from the place where I lay, in pursuance of a rule that I had established; for by this means I could tell the time of day at any hour, within a short period of time, by taking the bearing of the sun in the heavens, from where I lay, and then comparing it with the place of his rising. When I awoke to-day, I felt hungry and after eating my breakfast, again lay down, but felt an unusual sense of disquietude and alarm. It seemed to me that this was not a safe place to lie in, although it looked as well as any other spot that I could see. I rose and looked for a more secure retreat, but not seeing any, lay down again--still I was uneasy, and could not lie still. Finally I determined to get up, and remove to the side of a large and long black log, that lay at the distance of seventy or eighty yards from me. I went to the log and lay down by it, placing my bundle under my head, with the intention of going to sleep again, if I could; but I had not been here more than fifteen or twenty minutes, when I heard the noise of men's voices, and soon after the tramping of horses on the ground. I lay with my back to the log in such a position, that I could see the place where I had been in the bushes. I saw two dogs go into this little thicket, and three horsemen rode over the very spot where I had lain when asleep in the morning and immediately horses and voices were at my back around me, and over me. Two horses jumped over the log by the side of which I lay, one about ten feet from my feet, and the other within two yards from my head. The horses both saw me, took fright, and started to run; but fortunately their riders, who were probably looking for me in the tops of the trees, or expecting to see me start before them in the woods, and run for my life, did not see me, and attributed the alarm of their horses to the black appearance of the log, for I heard one of them say--"Our horses are afraid of black logs: I wonder how they would stand the sight of the negro if we should meet him." There must have been in the troop at least twenty horsemen, and the number of dogs was greater than I could count as they ran in the woods. I knew that all these men and dogs were in search of me, and that if they could find me I should be hunted down like a wild beast. The dogs that had gone into the thicket where I had been, fortunately for me had not been trained to hunt negroes in the woods, and were probably brought out for the purpose of being trained.--Doubtless if some of the kept dogs, as they are called of which there were certainly several in this large pack had happened to go into that thicket, instead of those that did go there, my race would soon have been run. I lay still by the side of the log for a long time after the horses, dogs and men had ceased to trouble the woods with their noise; if it can be said that a man lies still who is trembling in every joint, nerve and muscle, like a dog lying upon a cake of ice; and when I arose and turned round, I found myself so completely bereft of understanding, that I could not tell South from North, nor East from West. I could not even distinguish the thicket of bushes, from which I had removed to come to this place, from the other bushes of the woods. I remained here all day, and at night it appeared to me that the sun set in the south-east. After sundown, the moon appeared to my distempered judgment to stand due North from me, and all the stars were out of their places. Fortunately I had sense enough remaining to know that it would not be safe for me to attempt to travel, until my brain had been restored to its ordinary stability; which did not take place until the third morning after my fright. The three days that I passed in this place I reckon the most unhappy of my life; for surely it is the height of human misery to be oppressed with alienation of mind, and to be conscious of the affliction. Distracted as I was, I had determined never to quit this wood, and voluntarily return to slavery; and the joy I felt on the third morning, when I saw the sun rise in his proper place in the heavens; the black log, the thicket of bushes, and all other things resume the positions in which I found them, may be imagined by those who have been saved from apparently hopeless shipwreck on a barren rock in the midst of the ocean, but cannot be described by any but a poetic pen. I spent this day in making short excursions through the woods, for the purpose of ascertaining whether any road was near to me or not; and in the afternoon I came to one, about a mile from my camp, which was broad, and had the appearance of being much traveled. It appeared to me to lead to the North. Awhile before sundown, I brought my bundle to this road, and lay down quietly to await the approach of night. When it was quite dark, except the light of the moon, which was now brilliant, I took to this road, and traveled all night without hearing or seeing any person, and on the succeeding night, about two o'clock in the morning, I came to the margin of a river, so wide that I could not see across it; but the fog was so dense at this time that I could not have seen across a river of very moderate width. I procured a long pole, and sounded the depth of the water, which I found not very deep; but as I could not see the opposite shore, was afraid to attempt to ford the stream. In this dilemma, I turned back from the river, and went more than a mile to gain the covert of a small wood, where I might pass the day in safety, and wait a favorable moment for obtaining a view of the river, preparatory to crossing it. I lay all day in full view of the high road, and saw, at least, a hundred people pass; from which I inferred, that the country was populous about me. In the evening, as soon as it was dark, I left my retreat, and returned to the river side. The atmosphere was now clear, and the river seemed to be at least a quarter of a mile in width; and whilst I was divesting myself of my clothes, preparatory to entering the water, happening to look down the shore I saw a canoe, with its head drawn high on the beach. On reaching the canoe, I found that it was secured to the trunk of a tree by a lock and chain; but after many efforts, I broke the lock and launched the canoe into the river. The paddles had been removed, but with the aid of my sounding-pole, I managed to conduct the canoe across the water. I was now once more in South Carolina, where I knew it was necessary for me to be even more watchful than I had been in Georgia. I do not know where I crossed the Savannah river, but I think it must have been only a few miles above the town of Augusta. After gaining the Carolina shore, I took an observation of the rising moon and of such stars as I was acquainted with, and hastened to get away from the river, from which I knew that heavy fogs rose every night, at this season of the year, obscuring the heavens for many miles on either side. I traveled this night at least twenty miles, and provided myself with a supply of corn, which was now hard, from a field at the side of the road. At daybreak I turned into the woods, and went to the top of a hill on my left, where the ground was overgrown by the species of pine-tree called spruce in the South. I here kindled a fire, and parched corn for my breakfast. In the afternoon of this day the weather became cloudy, and before dark the rain fell copiously, and continued through the night, with the wind high. I took shelter under a large stooping tree that was decayed and hollow on the lower side, and kept me dry until morning. When daylight appeared, I could see that the country around me was well inhabited, and that the forest in which I lay was surrounded by plantations, at the distance of one or two miles from me. I did not consider this a safe position, and waited anxiously for night, to enable me to change my quarters. The weather was foul throughout the day; and when night returned, it was so dark that I could not see a large tree three feet before me. Waiting until the moon rose, I made my way back to the road, but had not proceeded more than two or three miles on my way, when I came to a place where the road forked, and the two roads led away almost at right angles from each other. It was so cloudy that I could not see the place of the moon in the heavens, and I knew not which of these roads to take. To go wrong was worse than to stand still, and I therefore determined to look out for some spot in which I could hide myself, and remain in this neighborhood until the clearing up of the weather. Taking the right hand road, I followed its course until I saw at the distance, as I computed it in the night, of two miles from me a large forest which covered elevated ground. I gained it by the shortest route across some cotton fields. Going several hundred yards into this wood, I attempted to kindle a fire, in which I failed, every combustible substance being wet. This compelled me to pass the night as well as I could amongst the damp bushes and trees that overhung me. When day came, I went farther into the woods, and on the top of the highest ground that I could see, established my camp, by cutting bushes with my knife, and erecting a sort of rude booth. It was now, by my computation, about the twenty-fifth of August, and I remained here eleven days without seeing one clear night; and in all this time the sun never shone for half a day at once. I procured my subsistence while here from a field of corn which I discovered at the distance of a mile and a half from my camp. This was the first time that I was weather-bound, and my patience had been worn out and renewed repeatedly before the return of the clear weather; but one afternoon I perceived the trees to be much agitated by the wind, the clouds appeared high, and were driven with velocity over my head. I saw the clear sky appear in all its beauty in the north-west. Before sundown the wind was high, the sun shone in full splendor, and a few fleecy clouds, careering high in the upper vault of heaven, gave assurance that the rains were over and gone. At nightfall I returned to the forks of the road, and after much observation, finally concluded to follow the right hand road, in which I am satisfied that I committed a great error. Nothing worthy of notice occurred for several days after this. As I was now in a thickly-peopled country, I never moved until long after night, and was cautious never to permit daylight to find me on the road; but I observed that the north-star was always on my left hand. My object was to reach the neighborhood of Columbia, and get upon the road which I had traveled and seen years before in coming to the South; but the road I was now on must have been the great Charleston road, leading down the country, and not across the courses of the rivers. So many people traveled this road, as well by night as by day, that my progress was very slow; and in some of the nights I did not travel more than eight miles. At the end of a week, after leaving the forks, I found myself in a flat, sandy, poor country; and as I had not met with any river on this road, I now concluded that I was on the way to the sea-board instead of Columbia. In my perplexity, I resolved to try to get information concerning the country I was in, by placing myself in some obscure place in the side of the road, and listening to the conversation of travelers as they passed me. For this purpose I chose the corner of a cotton field, around which the road turned, and led along the fence for some distance. Passing the day in the woods among the pine-trees, I came to this corner in the evening, and lying down within the field, waited patiently the coming of travelers, that I might hear their conversation, and endeavor to learn from that which they said, the name at least of some place in this neighborhood. On the first and second evenings that I lay here, I gleaned nothing from the passengers that I thought could be of service to me; but on the third night, about ten o'clock, several wagons drawn by mules passed me, and I heard one of the drivers call to another and tell him that it was sixty miles to Charleston; and that they should be able to reach the river to-morrow. I could not at first imagine what river this could be; but another of the wagoners inquired how far it was to the Edisto, to which it was replied by some one that it was near thirty miles. I now perceived that I had mistaken my course, and was as completely lost as a wild goose in cloudy weather. Not knowing what to do, I retraced the road that had led me to this place for several nights, hoping that something would happen from which I might learn the route to Columbia; but I gained no information that could avail me anything. At length I determined to quit this road altogether, travel by the north-star for two or three weeks, and after that to trust to Providence to guide me to some road that might lead me back to Maryland. Having turned my face due North, I made my way pretty well for the first night; but on the second, the fog was so dense that no stars could be seen. This compelled me to remain in my camp, which I had pitched in a swamp. In this place I remained more than a week, waiting for clear nights; but now the equinoctial storm came on, and raged with a fury which I had never before witnessed in this annual gale; at least it had never before appeared so violent to me, because, perhaps, I had never been exposed to its blasts, without the shelter of a house of some kind. This storm continued four days; and no wolf ever lay closer in his lair, or moved out with more stealthy caution than I did during this time. My subsistence was drawn from a small corn-field at the edge of the swamp in which I lay. After the storm was over, the weather became calm and clear, and I fell into a road which appeared to run nearly north-west. Following the course of this road by short marches, because I was obliged to start late at night and stop before day, I came on the first day, or rather night, of October, by my calendar, to a broad and well-frequented road that crossed mine at nearly right angles. These roads crossed in the middle of a plantation, and I took to the right hand along this great road, and pursued it in the same cautious and slow manner that I had traveled for the last month. When the day came I took refuge in the woods as usual, choosing the highest piece of ground that I could find in the neighborhood. No part of this country was very high, but I thought people who visited these woods, would be less inclined to walk to the tops of the hills, than to keep their course along the low grounds. I had lately crossed many small streams; but on the second night of my journey on this road, came to a narrow but deep river, and after the most careful search, no boat or craft of any kind could be found on my side. A large flat, with two or three canoes, lay on the opposite side, but they were as much out of my reach as if they had never been made. There was no alternative but swimming this stream, and I made the transit in less than three minutes, carrying my packages on my back. I had as yet fallen in with no considerable towns, and whenever I had seen a house near the road, or one of the small hamlets of the South in my way, I had gone round by the woods or fields, so as to avoid the inhabitants; but on the fourth night after swimming the small river, I came in sight of a considerable village, with lights burning and shining through many of the windows. I knew the danger of passing a town, on account of the patrols with which all southern towns are provided, and making a long circuit to the right, so as totally to avoid this village, I came to the banks of a broad river, which, upon further examination, I found flowing past the village, and near its border. This compelled me to go back, and attempt to turn the village on the left, which was performed by wandering a long time in swamps and pine woods. It was break of day when I regained the road beyond the village, and returning to the swamps from which I had first issued, I passed the day under their cover. On the following night, after regaining the road, I soon found myself in a country almost entirely clear of timber, and abounding in fields of cotton and corn. The houses were numerous, and the barking of dogs was incessant. I felt that I was in the midst of dangers, and that I was entering a region very different from those tracts of country through which I had lately passed, where the gloom of the wilderness was only broken by solitary plantations or lonely huts. I had no doubt that I was in the neighborhood of some town, but of its name, and the part of the country in which it was located, I was ignorant. I at length found that I was receding from the woods altogether, and entering a champaign country, in the midst of which I now perceived a town of considerable magnitude, the inhabitants of which were entirely silent, and the town itself presented the appearance of total solitude. The country around was so open, that I despaired of turning so large a place as this was, and again finding the road I traveled, I therefore determined to risk all consequences, and attempt to pass this town under cover of darkness. Keeping straight forward, I came unexpectedly to a broad river, which I now saw running between me and the town. I took it for granted that there must be a ferry at this place, and on examining the shore, found several small boats fastened only with ropes to a large scow. One of these boats I seized, and was quickly on the opposite shore of the river. I entered the village and proceeded to its centre, without seeing so much as a rat in motion. Finding myself in an open space, I stopped to examine the streets, and upon looking at the houses around me, I at once recognized the jail of Columbia, and the tavern in which I had lodged on the night after I was sold. This discovery made me feel almost at home, with my wife and children. I remembered the streets by which I had come from the country to the jail, and was quickly at the extremity of the town, marching towards the residence of the paltry planter, at whose house I had lodged on my way South. It was late at night, when I left Columbia, and it was necessary for me to make all speed, and get as far as possible from that place before day. I ran rather than walked, until the appearance of dawn, when I left the road and took shelter in the pine woods, with which this part of the country abounds. I had now been traveling almost two months, and was still so near the place from which I first departed that I could easily have walked to it in a week, by daylight; but I hoped, that as I was now on a road with which I was acquainted, and in a country through which I had traveled before, that my future progress would be more rapid, and that I should be able to surmount, without difficulty, many of the obstacles that had hitherto embarrassed me so greatly. It was now in my power to avail myself of the knowledge I had formerly acquired of the customs of South Carolina. The patrol are very rigid in the execution of the authority with which they are invested; but I never had much difficulty with these officers anywhere. From dark until ten or eleven o'clock at night, the patrol are watchful, and always traversing the country in quest of negroes, but towards midnight these gentlemen grow cold, or sleepy, or weary, and generally betake themselves to some house, where they can procure a comfortable fire. I now established, as a rule of my future conduct, to remain in my hiding place until after ten o'clock, according to my computation of time; and this night I did not come to the road until I supposed it to be within an hour of midnight, and it was well for me that I practiced so much caution, for when within two or three hundred yards of the road, I heard people conversing. After standing some minutes in the woods, and listening to the voices at the road, the people separated, and a party took each end of the road, and galloped away upon their horses. These people were certainly a band of patrollers, who were watching this road, and had just separated to return home for the night. After the horsemen were quite out of hearing, I came to the road, and walked as fast as I could for hours, and again came into the lane leading to the house, where I had first remained a few days, in Carolina. Turning away from the road I passed through this plantation, near the old cotton-gin house in which I had formerly lodged, and perceived that every thing on this plantation was nearly as it was when I left it. Two or three miles from this place I again left the road, and sought a place of concealment, and from this time until I reached Maryland, I never remained in the road until daylight but once, and I paid dearly then for my temerity. I was now in an open, thickly-peopled country, in comparison with many other tracts through which I had passed; and this circumstance compelled me to observe the greater caution. As nearly as possible, I confined my traveling within the hours of midnight and three o'clock in the morning. Parties of patrollers were heard by me almost every morning before day. These people sometimes moved directly along the roads, but more frequently lay in wait near the side of the road, ready to pounce upon any runaway slave that might chance to pass; but I knew by former experience that they never lay out all night, except in times of apprehended danger; and the country appearing at this time to be quiet, I felt but little apprehension of falling in with these policemen, within my traveling hours. There was now plenty of corn in the fields, and sweet potatoes had not yet been dug. There was no scarcity of provisions with me, and my health was good, and my strength unimpaired. For more than two weeks I pursued the road that had led me from Columbia, believing I was on my way to Camden.--Many small streams crossed my way, but none of them were large enough to oblige me to swim in crossing them. CHAPTER XVII. On the twenty-fourth of October, according to my computation, in a dark night, I came to a river which appeared to be both broad and deep. Sounding its depth with a pole, I found it too deep to be forded, and after the most careful search along the shore, no boat could be discovered. This place appeared altogether strange to me, and I began to fear that I was again lost. Confident that I had never before been where I now found myself, and ignorant of the other side of the stream, I thought it best not to attempt to cross this water until I was better informed of the country through which it flowed. A thick wood bordered the road on my left, and gave me shelter until daylight. Ascending a tree at sunrise that overlooked the stream, which appeared to be more than a mile in width, I perceived on the opposite shore a house, and one large and several small boats in the river. I remained in this tree the greater part of the day, and saw several persons cross the river, some of whom had horses; but in the evening the boats were all taken back to the place at which I had seen them in the morning. The river was so broad that I felt some fear of failing in the attempt to swim it; but seeing no prospect of procuring a boat to transport me, I resolved to attempt the navigation as soon as it was dark. About nine o'clock at night, having equipped myself in the best manner I was able, I undertook this hazardous navigation, and succeeded in gaining the farther shore of the river, in about an hour, with all my things in safety. On the previous day I had noted the bearing of the road, as it led from the river, and in the middle of the night I again resumed my journey, in a state of perplexity bordering upon desperation; for it was now evident that this was not the road by which we had traveled when we came to the southern country, and on which hand to turn to reach the right way I knew not. After traveling five or six miles on this road, and having the north-star in view all the time, I became satisfied that my course lay northwest, and that I was consequently going out of my way; and to heighten my anxiety, I had not tasted any animal food since I crossed the Savannah river--a sensation of hunger harassed me constantly; but fortune, which had been so long adverse to me, and had led me so often astray, had now a little favor in store for me. The leaves were already fallen from some of the more tender trees, and near the road I this night perceived a persimmon tree, well laden with fruit, and whilst gathering the fallen persimmons under the tree, a noise over head arrested my attention. This noise was caused by a large opossum, which was on the tree gathering fruit like myself. With a long stick the animal was brought to the ground, and it proved to be very fat, weighing at least ten pounds. With such a luxury as this in my possession, I could not think of traveling far without tasting it, and accordingly halted about a mile from the persimmon tree, on a rising ground in a thick wood, where I killed my opossum, and took off its skin, a circumstance that I much regretted, for with the skin I took at least a pound of fine fat. Had I possessed the means of scalding my game, and dressing it like a pig, it would have afforded me provision for a week; but as it was, I made a large fire and roasted my prize before it, losing all the oil that ran out in the operation, for want of a dripping-pan to catch it. It was daylight when my meat was ready for the table, and a very sumptuous breakfast it yielded me. Since leaving Columbia, I had followed as nearly as the course of the roads permitted, the index of the north-star; which, I supposed, would lead me on the most direct route to Maryland; but I now became convinced, that this star was leading me away from the line by which I had approached the cotton country. I slept none this day, but passed the whole time, from breakfast until night, in considering the means of regaining my lost way. From the aspect of the country I arrived at the conclusion, that I was not near the sea-coast; for there were no swamps in all this region; the land lay rather high and rolling, and oak timber abounded. At the return of night, I resumed my journey earlier than usual; paying no regard to the roads, but keeping the north-star on my left hand, as nearly as I could. This night I killed a rabbit, which had leaped from the bushes before me, by throwing my walking stick at it. It was roasted at my stopping place in the morning, and was very good. I pursued the same course, keeping the north-star on my left hand for three nights; intending to get as far East as the road leading from Columbia to Richmond, in Virginia; but as my line of march lay almost continually in the woods, I made but little progress; and on the third day, the weather became cloudy, so that I could not see the stars. This again compelled me to lie by, until the return of fair weather. On the second day, after I had stopped this time, the sun shone out bright in the morning, and continued to shed a glorious light during the day; but in the evening, the heavens became overcast with clouds; and the night that followed was so dark, that I did not attempt to travel. This state of the weather continued more than a week; obliging me to remain stationary all this time. These cloudy nights were succeeded by a brisk wind from the north-west, accompanied by fine clear nights, in which I made the best of my way towards the north-east, pursuing my course across the country without regard to roads, forests, or streams of water; crossing many of the latter, none of which were deep, but some of them were extremely muddy. One night I became entangled in a thick and deep swamp; the trees that grew in which, were so tall, and stood so close together, that the interlocking of their boughs, and the deep foliage in which they were clad, prevented me from seeing the stars. Wandering there for several hours, most of the time with mud and water over my knees, and frequently wading in stagnant pools, with deep slimy bottoms, I became totally lost, and was incapable of seeing the least appearance of fast land. At length, giving up all hope of extricating myself from this abyss of mud, water, brambles, and fallen timber, I scrambled on a large tussock, and sat down to await the coming of day, with the intention of going to the nearest high land, as soon as the sun should be up. The nights were now becoming cool, and though I did not see any frost in the swamp where I was in the morning, I have no doubt that hoar frost was seen in the dry and open country. After daylight I found myself as much perplexed as I was at midnight. No shore was to be seen; and in every direction there was the same deep, dreary, black solitude. To add to my misfortune, the morning proved cloudy, and when the sun was up, I could not tell the east from the west. After waiting several hours for a sight of the sun, and failing to obtain it, I set out in search of a running stream of water, intending to strike off at right angles, with the course of the current, and endeavor to reach the dry ground by this means; but after wandering about, through tangled bushes, briars, and vines, clambering over fallen tree-tops, and wading through fens overgrown with saw grass, for two or three hours, I sat down in despair of finding any guide to conduct me from this detestable place. My bag of meal that I took with me at the commencement of my journey was long since gone; and the only provisions that I now possessed were a few grains of parched corn, and near a pint of chestnuts that I had picked up under a tree the day before I entered the swamp. The chestnut-tree was full of nuts, but I was afraid to throw sticks or to shake the tree, lest hunters or other persons hearing the noise, might be drawn to the place. About ten o'clock I sat down under a large cypress tree, upon a decaying log of the same timber, to make my breakfast on a few grains of parched corn. Near me was an open space without trees, but filled with water that seemed to be deep, for no grass grew in it, except a small quantity near the shore. The water was on my left hand, and as I sat cracking my corn, my attention was attracted by the playful gambols of two squirrels that were running and chasing each other on the boughs of some trees near me. Half pleased with the joyous movements of the little animals, and half covetous of their carcasses, to roast and devour them, I paid no attention to a succession of sounds on my left, which I thought proceeded from the movement of frogs at the edge of the water, until the breaking of a stick near me caused me to turn my head, when I discovered that I had other neighbors than spring frogs. A monstrous alligator had left the water, and was crawling over the mud, with his eyes fixed upon me. He was now within fifteen feet of me, and in a moment more, if he had not broken the stick with his weight, I should have become his prey. He could easily have knocked me down with a blow of his tail; and if his jaws had once been closed on a leg or an arm, he would have dragged me into the water, spite of any resistance that I could have made. At the sight of him, I sprang to my feet, and running to the other end of the fallen tree on which I sat, and being there out of danger, had an opportunity of viewing the motions of the alligator at leisure. Finding me out of his reach, he raised his trunk from the ground, elevated his snout, and gave a wistful look, the import of which I well understood; then turning slowly round, he retreated to the water, and sank from my vision. I was much alarmed by this adventure with the alligator, for had I fallen in with this huge reptile in the night time, I should have had no chance of escape from his tusks. The whole day was spent in the swamp, not in traveling from place to place, but in waiting for the sun to shine, to enable me to obtain a knowledge of the various points of the heavens. The day was succeeded by a night of unbroken darkness; and it was late in the evening of the second day before I saw the sun. It being then too late to attempt to extricate myself from the swamp for that day, I was obliged to pass another night in the lodge that I had formed for myself in the thick boughs of a fallen cypress tree, which elevated me several feet from the ground, where I believed the alligator could not reach me if he should come in pursuit of me. On the morning of the third day the sun rose beautifully clear, and at sight of him I set off for the East. It must have been five miles from the place where I lay to the dry land on the East of the swamp; for with all the exertion that fear and hunger compelled me to make, it was two or three o'clock in the afternoon when I reached the shore, after swimming in several places, and suffering the loss of a very valuable part of my clothes, which were torn off by the briars and snags. On coming to high ground I found myself in the woods, and hungry as I was, lay down to await the coming of night, lest some one should see me moving through the forest in daylight. When night came on, I resumed my journey by the stars, which were visible, and marched several miles before coming to a plantation. The first that I came to was a cotton field; and after much search, I found no corn nor grain of any kind on this place, and was compelled to continue on my way. Two or three miles further on I was more fortunate, and found a field of corn which had been gathered from the stalks and thrown in heaps along the ground.--Filling my little bag, which I still kept, with this corn, I retreated a mile or two in the woods, and striking fire, encamped for the purpose of parching and eating it. After despatching my meal, I lay down beside the fire and fell into a sound sleep, from which I did not awake until long after sunrise; but on rising and looking around me, I found that my lodge was within less than a hundred yards of a new house that people were building in the woods, and upon which men were now at work. Dropping instantly to the ground, I crawled away through the woods, until being out of sight of the house, I ventured to rise and escape on my feet. After I lay down in the night, my fire had died away and emitted no smoke; this circumstance saved me. This affair made me more cautious as to my future conduct. Hiding in the woods until night again came on, I continued my course eastward, and some time after midnight came upon a wide, well beaten road, one end of which led, at this place, a little to the left of the north-star, which I could plainly see. Here I deliberated a long time, whether to take this road, or continue my course across the country by the stars; but at last resolved to follow the road, more from a desire to get out of the woods, than from a conviction that it would lead me in the right way. In the course of this night I saw but few plantations, but was so fortunate as to see a ground-hog crossing the road before me. This animal I killed with my stick, and carried it until morning. At the approach of daylight, turning away to the right, I gained the top of an eminence, from which I could see through the woods for some distance around me. Here I kindled a fire and roasted my ground-hog, which afforded me a most grateful repast, after my late fasting and severe toils. According to custom my meal being over, I betook myself to sleep, and did not awake until the afternoon; when descending a few rods down the hill, and standing still to take a survey of the woods around me, I saw, at the distance of half a mile from me, a man moving slowly about in the forest, and apparently watching, like myself, to see if any one was in view. Looking at this man attentively, I saw that he was a black, and that he did not move more than a few rods from the same spot where I first saw him. Curiosity impelled me to know more of the condition of my neighbor; and descending quite to the foot of the hill, I perceived that he had a covert of boughs of trees, under which I saw him pass, and after some time return again from his retreat. Examining the appearance of things carefully, I became satisfied that the stranger was, like myself, a negro slave, and I determined, without more ceremony, to go and speak to him, for I felt no fear of being betrayed by one as badly off in the world as myself. When this man first saw me, at the distance of a hundred yards from him, he manifested great agitation, and at once seemed disposed to run from me; but when I called to him, and told him not to be afraid, he became more assured, and waited for me to come close to him. I found him to be a dark mulatto, small and slender in person, and lame in one leg. He had been well bred, and possessed good manners and fine address. I told him I was traveling, and presumed this was not his dwelling place: upon which he informed me that he was a native of Kent county, in the State of Delaware, and had been brought up as a house-servant by his master, who, on his death-bed, had made his will, and directed him to be set free by his executors, at the age of twenty-five, and that in the meantime he would be hired out as a servant to some person who should treat him well. Soon after the death of his master, the executors hired him to a man in Wilmington, who employed him as a waiter in his house for three or four months, and then took him to a small town called Newport, and sold him to a man who took him immediately to Baltimore, where he was again sold or transferred to another man, who brought him to South Carolina, and sold him to a cotton planter, with whom he had lived more than two years, and had run away three weeks before the time I saw him, with the intention of returning to Delaware. That being lame, and becoming fatigued by traveling, he had stopped here and made this shelter of boughs and bark of trees, under which he had remained more than a week before I met him. He invited me to go into his camp as he termed it, where he had an old skillet, more than a bushel of potatoes, and several fowls, all of which he said he had purloined from the plantations in the neighborhood. This encampment was in a level, open wood, and it appeared surprising to me that its occupant had not been discovered and conveyed back to his master before this time. I told him that I thought he ran great risk of being taken up by remaining here, and advised him to break up his lodge immediately, and pursue his journey, traveling only in the night time. He then proposed to join me, and travel in company with me; but this I declined, because of his lameness and great want of discretion, though I did not assign these reasons to him. I remained with this man two or three hours, and ate dinner of fowls dressed after his rude fashion.--Before leaving him, I pressed upon him the necessity of immediately quitting the position he then occupied, but he said he intended to remain there a few days longer, unless I would take him with me. On quitting my new acquaintance, I thought it prudent to change my place of abode for the residue of this day, and removed along the top of the hill that I occupied at least two miles, and concealed myself in a thicket until night, when returning to the road I had left in the morning, and traveling hard all night, I came to a large stream of water just at the break of day. As it was too late to pass the river with safety this morning at this ford, I went half a mile higher, and swam across the stream in open daylight, at a place where both sides of the water were skirted with woods. I had several large potatoes that had been given to me by the man at his camp in the woods, and these constituted my rations for this day. At the rising and setting of the sun, I took the bearing of the road by the course of the stream that I had crossed, and found that I was traveling to the northwest, instead of the north or northeast, to one of which latter points I wished to direct my march. Having perceived the country in which I now was to be thickly peopled, I remained in my resting place until late at night, when returning to the road and crossing it, I took once more to the woods, with the stars for my guides, and steered for the northeast. This was a fortunate night for me in all respects. The atmosphere was clear, the ground was high, dry, and free from thickets. In the course of the night I passed several corn fields, with the corn still remaining in them, and passed a potato lot, in which large quantities of fine potatoes were dug out of the ground and lay in heaps covered with vines; but my most signal good luck occurred just before day, when passing under a dog-wood tree, and hearing a noise in the branches above me, I looked up and saw a large opossum amongst the berries that hung upon the boughs. The game was quickly shaken down, and turned out as fat as a well-fed pig, and as heavy as a full-grown raccoon. My attention was now turned to searching for a place in which I could secrete myself for the day, and dress my provisions in quietness. This day was clear and beautiful until the afternoon, when the air became damp, and the heavens were overhung with clouds. The night that followed was dark as pitch, compelling me to remain in my camp all night. The next day brought with it a terrible storm of rain and wind, that continued with but little intermission, more than twenty-four hours, and the sun was not again visible until the third day; nor was there a clear night for more than a week. During all this time I lay in my camp, and subsisted upon the provisions that I had brought with me to this place. The corn and potatoes looked so tempting, when I saw them in the fields, that I had taken more than I should have consumed, had not the bad weather compelled me to remain at this spot; but it was well for me, for this time, that I had taken more than I could eat in one or two days. At the end of the cloudy weather, I felt much refreshed and strengthened, and resumed my journey in high spirits, although I now began to feel the want of shoes--those which I wore when I left my mistress having long since been worn out, and my boots were wrap straps of hickory bark about my feet to keep the leather from separating, and falling to pieces. It was now, by my computation, the month of November, and I was yet in the State of South Carolina. I began to consider with myself, whether I had gained or lost, by attempting to travel on the roads; and, after revolving in my mind all the disasters that had befallen me, determined to abandon the roads altogether, for two reasons: the first of which was, that on the highways I was constantly liable to meet persons, or to be overtaken by them; and a second, no less powerful, was, that as I did not know what roads to pursue, I was oftener traveling on the wrong route than on the right one. Setting my face once more for the north-star, I advanced with a steady, though slow pace, for four or five nights, when I was again delayed by dark weather, and forced to remain in idleness nearly two weeks; and when the weather again became clear, I was arrested on the second night by a broad and rapid river, that appeared so formidable that I did not dare to attempt its passage until after examining it in daylight. On the succeeding night, however, I crossed it by swimming--resting at some large rocks near the middle. After gaining the north side of this river, which I believed to be the Catawba, I considered myself in North Carolina, and again steered towards the North. CHAPTER XVIII. The month of November is, in all years, a season of clouds and vapors; but at the time of which I write, the good weather vanished early in the month, and all the clouds of the universe seemed to have collected in North Carolina. From the second night after crossing the Catawba, I did not see the north-star for the space of three weeks; and during all this time, no progress was made in my journey; although I seldom remained two days in the same place, but moved from one position to another, for the purpose of eluding the observation of the people of the country, whose attention might have been attracted by the continual appearance of the smoke of my fires in one place. There had, as yet, been no hard frost, and the leaves were still on the oak trees, at the close of this cloudy weather; but the northwest wind which dispelled the mist, also brought down nearly all the leaves of the forest, except those of the evergreen trees; and the nights now became clear, and the air keen with frost. Hitherto the oak woods had afforded me the safest shelter, but now I was obliged to seek for groves of young pines to retire to at dawn. Heretofore I had found a plentiful subsistence in every corn-field and potato-lot, that fell in my way; but now began to find some of the fields in which corn had grown, destitute of the corn, and containing nothing but the stalks. The potatoes had all been taken out of the lots where they grew, except in some few instances where they had been buried in the field; and the means of subsistence became every day more difficult to be obtained; but as I had fine weather, I made the best use of those hours in which I dared to travel, and was constantly moving from a short time after dark until daylight. The toil that I underwent for the first half of the month of December was excessive, and my sufferings for want of food were great. I was obliged to carry with me a stock of corn, sufficient to supply me for two or three days, for it frequently happened that I met with none in the fields for a long time. In the course of this period I crossed innumerable streams, the greater portion of which were of small size, but some were of considerable magnitude; and in all of them the water had become almost as cold as ice. Sometimes I was fortunate enough to find boats or canoes tied at the side of the streams, and when this happened, I always made free use of that which no one else was using at the time; but this did not occur often, and I believe that in these two weeks I swam over nine rivers, or streams, so deep that I could not ford them. The number of creeks and rivulets through which I waded was far greater, but I cannot now fix the number. In one of these fine nights, passing near the house of a planter, I saw several dry hides hanging on poles under a shed. One of these hides I appropriated to myself, for the purpose of converting it into moccasins, to supply the place of my boots, which were totally worthless. By beating the dry hide with a stick it was made sufficiently pliable to bear making it into moccasins; of which I made for myself three pair, wearing one, and carrying the others on my back. One day as I lay in a pine thicket, several pigs which appeared to be wild, having no marks on their ears, came near me, and one of them approached so close without seeing me, that I knocked it down with a stone, and succeeded in killing it. This pig was very fat, and would have weighed thirty if not forty pounds. Feeling now greatly exhausted with the fatigues that I had lately undergone, and being in a very great forest, far removed from white inhabitants, I resolved to remain a few days in this place, to regale myself with the flesh of the pig, which I preserved by hanging it up in the shade, after cutting it into pieces. Fortune, so adverse to me heretofore, seemed to have been more kind to me at this time, for the very night succeeding the day on which I killed the pig, a storm of hail, snow, and sleet, came on, and continued fifteen or sixteen hours. The snow lay on the ground four inches in depth, and the whole country was covered with a crust almost hard enough to bear a man. In this state of the weather I could not travel, and my stock of pork was invaluable to me. The pork was frozen where it hung on the branches of the trees, and was as well preserved as if it had been buried in snow; but on the fourth day after the snow fell, the atmosphere underwent a great change. The wind blew from the South, the snow melted away, the air became warm, and the sun shone with the brightness, and almost with the warmth of Spring. It was manifest that my pork, which was now soft and oily, would not long be in a sound state. If I remained here, my provisions would become putrid on my hands in a short time, and compel me to quit my residence to avoid the atmosphere of the place. I resolved to pursue my journey, and prepared myself, by roasting before the fire, all my pork that was left, wrapping it up carefully in green pine leaves, and enveloping the whole in a sort of close basket, that I made of small boughs of trees. Equipping myself for my journey with my meat in my knapsack, I again took to the woods, with the stars for my guide, keeping the north-star over my left eye. The weather had now become exceedingly variable, and I was seldom able to travel more than half of the night. The fields were muddy, the low grounds in the woods were wet, and often covered with water, through which I was obliged to wade--the air was damp and cold by day, the nights were frosty, very often covering the water with ice an inch in thickness. From the great degree of cold that prevailed, I inferred, either that I was pretty far North, or that I had advanced too much to the left, and was approaching the mountain country. To satisfy myself as far as possible of my situation, one fair day, when the sky was very clear, I climbed to the top of a pine tree that stood on the summit of a hill, and took a wide survey of the region around me. Eastward, I saw nothing but a vast continuation of plantations, intervened by forests; on the South, the faint beams of a winter sun shed a soft lustre over the woods, which were dotted at remote distances, with the habitations of men, and the openings that they had made in the green champaign of the endless pine-groves, that nature had planted in the direction of the midday sun. On the North, at a great distance, I saw a tract of low and flat country, which in my opinion was the vale of some great river, and beyond this, at the farthest stretch of vision, the eye was lost in the blue transparent vault, where the extremity of the arch of the world touches the abode of perpetual winter.--Turning westward, the view passed beyond the region of pine trees, which was followed afar off by naked and leafless oaks, hickories, and walnuts; and still beyond these rose high in air, elevated tracts of country, clad in the white livery of snow, and bearing the impress of mid-winter. It was now apparent that I had borne too far westward, and was within a few days' travel of the mountains. Descending from my observations, I determined on the return of night to shape my course, for the future, nearly due East, until I should at least be out of the mountains. According to my calendar, it was the day before Christmas that I ascended the pine-tree; and I believe I was at that time in the north-western part of North Carolina, not far from the banks of the Yadkin river. On the following night I traveled from dark until, as I supposed, about three or four o'clock in the morning, when I came to a road which led as I thought in an easterly direction. This road I traveled until daylight, and encamped near it in an old field, overgrown with young pines and holly-trees. This was Christmas-day, and I celebrated it by breakfasting on fat pork, without salt, and substituted parched corn for bread. In the evening, the weather became cloudy and cold, and when night came it was so dark that I found difficulty in keeping in the road, at some points where it made short angles. Before midnight it began to snow, and at break of day the snow lay more than a foot deep. This compelled me to seek winter quarters; and fortunately, at about half a mile from the road, I found, on the side of a steep hill, a shelving rock that formed a dry covert, with a southern prospect. Under this rock I took refuge, and kindling a fire of dry sticks, considered myself happy to possess a few pounds of my roasted pork, and more than half a gallon of corn that I carried in my pockets. The snow continued falling, until it was full two feet deep around me, and the danger of exposing myself to discovery by my tracks in the snow, compelled me to keep close to my hiding place until the third day, when I ventured to go back to the road, which I found broken by the passage of numerous wagons, sleds and horses, and so much beaten that I could travel it with ease at night, the snow affording good light. Accordingly at night I again advanced on my way, which indeed I was obliged to do, for my corn was quite gone, and not more than a pound of my pork remained to me. I traveled hard through the night, and after the morning star rose; came to a river; which I think must have been the Yadkin. It appeared to be about two hundred yards wide, and the water ran with great rapidity in it. Waiting until the eastern horizon was tinged with the first rays of the morning light, I entered the river at the ford, and waded until the water was nearly three feet deep, when it felt as if it was cutting the flesh from the bones of my limbs, and a large cake of ice floating downward, forced me off my balance, and I was near falling. My courage failed me, and I returned to the shore; but found the pain that already tormented me greatly increased, when I was out of the water, and exposed to the action of the open air. Returning to the river, I plunged into the current to relieve me from the pinching frost, that gnawed every part of my skin that had become wet; and rushing forward as fast as the weight of the water, that pressed me downward, would permit, was soon up to my chin in melted ice, when rising to the surface, I exerted my utmost strength and skill to gain the opposite shore by swimming in the shortest space of time. At every stroke of my arms and legs, they were cut and bruised by cakes of solid ice, or weighed down by floating masses of congealed snow. It is impossible for human life to be long sustained in such an element as that which encompassed me; and I had not been afloat five minutes before I felt chilled in all my members, and in less than the double of that time, my limbs felt numbed, and my hands became stiff, and almost powerless. When at the distance of thirty feet from the shore, my body was struck by a violent current, produced by a projecting rock above me, and driven with resistless violence down the stream. Wholly unable to contend with the fury of the waves, and penetrated by the coldness of death, in my inmost vitals, I gave myself up for lost, and was commending my soul to God, whom I expected to be my immediate Judge, when I perceived the long hanging branch of a large tree, sweeping to and fro, and undulating backward and forward, as its extremities were washed by the surging current of the river, just below me. In a moment I was in contact with the tree, and making the effort of despair, seized one of its limbs. Bowed down by the weight of my body, the branch yielded to the power of the water, which rushing against my person, swept me round like the quadrant of a circle, and dashed me against the shore, where clinging to some roots that grew near the bank, the limb of the tree left me, and springing with elastic force to its former position, again dipped its slender branches in the mad stream. Crawling out of the water, and being once more on dry land, I found my circumstances little less desperate than when I was struggling with the floating ice.--The morning was frosty, and icicles hung in long pendant groups from the trees along the shore of the river and the hoar frost glistened in sparkling radiance upon the polished surface of the smooth snow, as it whitened all the plain before me, and spread its chill but beautiful covering through the woods. There were three alternatives before me, one of which I knew must quickly be adopted. The one was to obtain a fire, by which I could dry and warm my stiffened limbs; the second was to die, without the fire; the third, to go to the first house, if I could reach one, and surrender myself as a runaway slave. Staggering, rather than walking forward, until I gained the cover of a wood, at a short distance from the river, I turned into it, and found that a field bordered the wood within less than twenty rods of the road. Within a few yards of this fence I stopped, and taking out my fire apparatus, to my unspeakable joy found them dry and in perfect safety. With the aid of my punk, and some dry moss gathered from the fence, a small flame was obtained, to which dry leaves being added from the boughs of a white oak tree, that had fallen before the frost of the last autumn had commenced, I soon had fire of sufficient intensity to consume dry wood, with which I supplied it, partly from the fence and partly from the branches of the fallen tree. Having raked away the snow from about the fire, by the time the sun was up, my frozen clothes were smoking before the coals--warming first one side and then the other--I felt the glow of returning life once more invigorating my blood, and giving animation to my frozen limbs. The public road was near me on one hand, and an enclosed field was before me on the other, but in my present condition it was impossible for me to leave this place to-day, without danger of perishing in the woods, or of being arrested on the road. As evening came on, the air became much colder than it was in the forenoon, and after night the wind rose high and blew from the northwest, with intense keenness. My limbs were yet stiff from the effects of my morning adventure, and to complete my distress I was totally without provisions, having left a few ears of corn, that I had in my pocket, on the other side of the river. Leaving my fire in the night, and advancing into the field near me, I discovered a house at some distance, and as there was no light, or sign of fire about it, I determined to reconnoitre the premises, which turned out to be a small barn, standing alone, with no other inhabitants about it than a few cattle and a flock of sheep. After much trouble, I succeeded in entering the barn by starting the nails that confined one of the boards at the corner. Entering the house I found it nearly filled with corn, in the husks, and some from which the husks had been removed, was lying in a heap in one corner. Into these husks I crawled, and covering myself deeply under them, soon became warm, and fell into a profound sleep, from which I was awakened by the noise of people walking about in the barn and talking of the cattle and sheep, which it appeared they had come to feed, for they soon commenced working in the corn husks with which I was covered, and throwing them out to the cattle. I expected at every moment that they would uncover me; but fortunately before they saw me, they ceased their operations, and went to work, some husking corn, and throwing the husks on the pile over me, while others were employed in loading the husked corn into carts, as I learned by their conversation, and hauling it away to the house. The people continued working in the barn all day, and in the evening gave more husks to the cattle and went home. Waiting two or three hours after my visiters were gone, I rose from the pile of husks, and filling my pockets with ears of corn, issued from the barn at the same place by which I had entered it, and returned to the woods, where I kindled a fire in a pine thicket, and parched more than half a gallon of corn. Before day I returned to the barn, and again secreted myself in the corn husks. In the morning the people again returned to their work, and husked corn until the evening. At night I again repaired to the woods, and parched more corn. In this manner I passed more than a month, lying in the barn all day, and going to the woods at night; but at length the corn was all husked, and I watched daily the progress that was made in feeding the cattle with the husks, knowing that I must quit my winter retreat before the husks were exhausted. Before the husked corn was removed from the barn, I had conveyed several bushels of the ears into the husks, near my bed, and concealed them for my winter's stock. Whilst I lay in this barn there were frequent and great changes of weather. The snow that covered the earth to the depth of two feet when I came here, did not remain more than ten days, and was succeeded by more than a week of warm rainy weather, which was in turn succeeded by several days of dry weather, with cold high winds from the North. The month of February was cloudy and damp, with several squalls of snow and frequent rains. About the first of March, the atmosphere became clear and dry, and the winds boisterous from the West. On the third of this month, having filled my little bag and all my pockets with parched corn, I quitted my winter quarters about ten o'clock at night, and again proceeded on my way to the North, leaving a large heap of corn husks still lying in the corner of the barn. On leaving this place, I again pursued the road that had led me to it for several nights; crossing many small streams in my way, all of which I was able to pass without swimming, though several of them were so deep that they wet me as high as my arm-pits.--This road led nearly northeast, and was the only road that I had fallen in with, since I left Georgia, that had maintained that direction for so great a distance. Nothing extraordinary befell me until the twelfth of March, when venturing to turn out earlier than usual in the evening, and proceeding along the road, I found that my way led me down a hill, along the side of which the road had been cut into the earth ten or twelve feet in depth, having steep banks on each side, which were now so damp and slippery that it was impossible for a man to ascend either the one or the other. Whilst in this narrow place, I heard the sound of horses proceeding up the hill to meet me. Stopping to listen, in a moment almost two horsemen were close before me, trotting up the road. To escape on either hand was impossible, and to retreat backwards would have exposed me to certain destruction. Only one means of salvation was left, and I embraced it. Near the place where I stood, was a deep gully cut in one side of the road, by the water which had run down here in time of rains. Into this gully I threw myself, and lying down close to the ground, the horsemen rode almost over me, and passed on. When they were gone I arose, and descending the hill, found a river before me. In crossing this stream I was compelled to swim at least two hundred yards; and found the cold so oppressive, after coming out of the water, that I was forced to stop at the first thick woods that I could find and make a fire to dry myself. I did not move again until the next night; and on the fourth night after this, came to a great river, which I suppose was the Roanoke. I was obliged to swim this stream, and was carried a great way down by the rapidity of the current. It must have been more than an hour from the time that I entered the water, until I reached the opposite shore, and as the rivers were yet very cold, I suffered greatly at this place. Judging by the aspect of the country, I believed myself to be at this time in Virginia; and was now reduced to the utmost extremity for want of provisions. The corn that I had parched at the barn and brought with me, was nearly exhausted, and no more was to be obtained in the fields at this season of the year. For three or four days I allowed myself only my two hands full of parched corn per day; and after this I traveled three days without tasting food of any kind; but being nearly exhausted with hunger, I one night entered an old stack-yard, hoping that I might fall in with pigs, or poultry of some kind. I found, instead of these, a stack of oats, which had not been threshed. From this stack I took as much oats in the sheaf as I could carry, and going on a few miles, stopped in a pine forest, made a large fire, and parched at least half a gallon of oats, after rubbing the grain from the straw. After the grain was parched, I again rubbed it in my hands, to separate it from the husks, and spent the night in feasting on parched oats. The weather was now becoming quite warm, though the water was cold in the rivers; and I perceived the farmers had everywhere ploughed their fields, preparatory to planting corn. Every night I saw people burning brush in the new grounds that they were clearing of the wood and brush; and when the day came, in the morning after I obtained the oats, I perceived people planting corn in a field about half a mile from my fire. According to my computation of time, it was on the night of the last day of March that I obtained the oats; and the appearance of the country satisfied me that I had not lost many days in my reckoning. I lay in this pine-wood two days, for the purpose of recruiting my strength, after my long fast; and when I again resumed my journey, determined to seek some large road leading towards the North, and follow it in future; the one that I had been pursuing of late, not appearing to be a principal high-way of the country. For this purpose, striking off across the fields, in an easterly direction, I traveled a few hours, and was fortunate enough to come to a great road, which was manifestly much traveled, leading towards the northeast. My bag was now replenished with more than a gallon of parched oats, and I had yet one pair of moccasins made of raw hide; but my shirt was totally gone, and my last pair of trowsers was now in actual service. A tolerable waistcoat still remained to me, and my great coat, though full of honorable scars, was yet capable of much service. Having resolved to pursue the road I was now in, it was necessary again to resort to the utmost degree of caution to prevent surprise. Traveling only after it was dark, and taking care to stop before the appearance of day, my progress was not rapid, but my safety was preserved. The acquisition of food had now become difficult, and when my oats began to fail, I resorted to the dangerous expedient of attacking the corn-crib of a planter that was near the road. The house was built of round logs, and was covered with boards. One of these boards I succeeded in removing, on the side of the crib opposite from the dwelling, and by thrusting my arm downwards, was able to reach the corn--of which I took as much as filled my bag, the pockets of my great coat, and a large handkerchief that I had preserved through all the vicissitudes of my journey. This opportune supply of corn furnished me with food more than a week, and before it was consumed I reached the Appomattox river, which I crossed in a canoe that I found tied at the shore, a few miles above the town of Petersburg. Having approached Petersburg in the night, I was afraid to attempt to pass through it, lest the patrol should fall in with me; and turning to the left through the country, reached the river, and crossed in safety. The great road leading to Richmond is so distinguishingly marked above the other ways in this part of Virginia, that there was no difficulty in following it, and on the third night after passing Petersburg, I obtained a sight of the capitol of Virginia. It was only a little after midnight, when the city presented itself to my sight; but here, as well as at Petersburg, I was afraid to attempt to go through the town, under cover of the darkness, because of the patrol. Turning, therefore, back into a forest, about two miles from the small town on the south-side of the river, I lay there until after twelve o'clock in the day, when loosening the package from my back, and taking it in my hand in the form of a bundle, I advanced into the village, as if I had only come from some plantation in the neighborhood. This was on Sunday, I believe, though according to my computation it was Monday; but it must have been Sunday, for the village was quiet, and in passing it I only saw two or three persons, whom I passed as if I had not seen them. No one spoke to me, and I gained the bridge in safety, and crossed it without attracting the least attention. Entering the city of Richmond, I kept along the principal street, walking at a slow pace, and turning my head from side to side, as if much attracted by the objects around me. Few persons were in the street, and I was careful to appear more attentive to the houses than to the people. At the upper end of the city I saw a great crowd of ladies and gentlemen, who were, I believe, returning from church. Whilst these people were passing me, I stood in the street, on the outside of the foot pavement, with my face turned to the opposite side of the street. They all went by without taking any notice of me; and when they were gone, I again resumed my leisure walk along the pavement, and reached the utmost limit of the town without being accosted by any one. As soon as I was clear of the city I quickened my pace, assumed the air of a man in great haste, sometimes actually ran, and in less than an hour was safely lodged in the thickest part of the woods that lay on the North of Richmond, and full four miles from the river. This was the boldest exploit that I had performed since leaving my mistress, except the visit I paid to the gentleman in Georgia. My corn was now failing, but as I had once entered a crib secretly, I felt but little apprehension on account of future supplies. After this time I never wanted corn, and did not again suffer by hunger, until I reached the place of my nativity. After leaving Richmond, I again kept along the great road by which I had traveled on my way South, taking great care not to expose my person unnecessarily. For several nights I saw no white people on the way, but was often met by black ones, whom I avoided by turning out of the road; but one moonlight night, five or six days after I left Richmond, a man stepped out of the woods almost at my side, and accosting me in a familiar manner, asked me which way I was traveling, how long I had been on the road, and made many inquiries concerning the course of my late journey. This man was a mulatto, and carried a heavy cane, or rather club, in his hand. I did not like his appearance, and the idea of a familiar conversation with any one seemed to terrify me. I determined to watch my companion closely, and he appeared equally intent on observing me; but at the same time that he talked with me, he was constantly drawing closer to and following behind me. This conduct increased my suspicion, and I began to wish to get rid of him, but could not at the moment imagine how I should effect my purpose. To avoid him, I crossed the road several times; but still he followed me closely. The moon, which shone brightly upon our backs, cast his shadow far before me, and enabled me to perceive his motions with the utmost accuracy, without turning my head towards him. He carried his club under his left arm, and at length raised his right hand gently, took the stick by the end, and drawing it slowly over his head, was in the very act of striking a blow at me, when springing backward, and raising my own staff at the same moment, I brought him to the ground by a stroke on his forehead; and when I had him down, beat him over the back and sides with my weapon, until he roared for mercy, and begged me not to kill him. I left him in no condition to pursue me, and hastened on my way, resolved to get as far from him before day as my legs would carry me. This man was undoubtedly one of those wretches who are employed by white men to kidnap and betray such unfortunate people of color as may chance to fall into their hands but for once the deceiver was deceived, and he who intended to make prey of me, had well nigh fallen a sacrifice himself. The same night I crossed the Pammunky river, near the village of Hanover by swimming, and secreted myself before day in a dense cedar thicket. The next night, after I had traveled several miles, in ascending a hill I saw the head of a man rise on the opposite side, without having heard any noise. I instantly ran into the woods, and concealed myself behind a large tree. The traveler was on horseback, and the road being sandy, and his horse moving only at a walk, I had not heard his approach until I saw him. He also saw me; for when he came opposite the place where I stood, he stopped his horse in the road, and desired me to tell him how far it was to some place, the name of which I have forgotten. As I made no answer, he again repeated the inquiry; and then said, I need not be afraid to speak, as he did not wish to hurt me; but no answer being given him, he at last said I might as well speak, and rode on. Before day I reached the Matapony river, and crossed it by wading; but knowing that I was not far from Maryland, I fell into a great indiscretion, and forgot the wariness and caution that had enabled me to overcome obstacles apparently insurmountable. Anxious to get forward, I neglected to conceal myself before day; but traveled until daybreak before I sought a place of concealment, and unfortunately, when I looked for a hiding place, none was at hand. This compelled me to keep on the road, until gray twilight, for the purpose of reaching a wood that was in view before me; but to gain this wood I was obliged to pass a house that stood at the road side, and when only about fifty yards beyond the house, a white man opened the door, and seeing me in the road, called to me to stop. As this order was not obeyed, he set his dog upon me. The dog was quickly vanquished by my stick, and setting off to run at full speed, I at the same moment heard the report of a gun, and received its contents in my legs, chiefly about, and in my hams. I fell on the road, and was soon surrounded by several persons, who it appeared were a party of patrollers, who had gathered together in this house. They ordered me to cross my hands, which order not being immediately obeyed, they beat me with sticks and stones until I was almost senseless, and entirely unable to make resistance.--They then bound me with cords, and dragged me by the feet back to the house, and threw me into the kitchen, like a dead dog. One of my eyes was almost beaten out, and the blood was running from my mouth, nose and ears; but in this condition they refused to wash the blood from my face, or even to give me a drink of water. In a short time a justice of the peace arrived, and when he looked at me, ordered me to be unbound, and to have water to wash myself, and also some bread to eat. This man's heart appeared not to be altogether void of sensibility, for he reprimanded in harsh terms those who had beaten me; told them that their conduct was brutal, and that it would have been more humane to kill me outright, than to bruise and mangle me in the manner they had done. He then interrogated me as to my name, place of abode, and place of destination, and afterwards demanded the name of my master. To all these inquiries I made no reply, except that I was going to Maryland, where I lived. The justice told me it was his duty under the law to send me to jail; and I was immediately put into a cart, and carried to a small village called Bowling Green, which I reached before ten o'clock. There I was locked up in the jail, and a doctor came to examine my legs, and extract the shot from my wounds. In the course of the operation he took out thirty-four buck shot, and after dressing my legs left me to my own reflections. No fever followed in the train of my disasters, which I attributed to the reduced state of my blood, by long fasting, and the fatigues I had undergone. In the afternoon, the jailer came to see me, and brought my daily allowance of provisions, and a jug of water. The provisions consisted of more than a pound of corn-bread and some boiled bacon. As my appetite was good, I immediately devoured more than two-thirds of this food, but reserved the rest for supper. For several days I was not able to stand, and in this period found great difficulty in performing the ordinary offices of life for myself, no one coming to give me any aid; but I did not suffer for want of food, the daily allowance of the jailer being quite sufficient to appease the cravings of hunger. After I grew better, and was able to walk in the jail, the jailer frequently called to see me, and endeavored to prevail on me to tell where I came from; but in this undertaking he was no more successful than the justice had been in the same business. I remained in the jail more than a month, and in this time became quite fat and strong, but saw no way by which I could escape. The jail was of brick, the floors were of solid oak boards, and the door, of the same material, was secured by iron bolts, let into its posts, and connected together by a strong band of iron, reaching from the one to the other. Every thing appeared sound and strong, and to add to my security, my feet were chained together, from the time my wounds were healed. This chain I acquired the knowledge of removing from my feet, by working out of its socket a small iron pin that secured the bolt that held the chain round one of my legs. The jailer came to see me with great regularity, every morning and evening, but remained only a few minutes when he came, leaving me entirely alone at all other times. When I had been in prison thirty-nine days, and had quite recovered from the wounds that I had received, the jailer was late in coming to me with my breakfast, and going to the door I began to beat against it with my fist, for the purpose of making a noise. After beating some time against the door I happened, by mere accident, to strike my fist against one of the posts, which, to my surprise, I discovered by its sound, to be a mere hollow shell, encrusted with a thin coat of sound timber, and as I struck it, the rotten wood crumbled to pieces within. On a more careful examination of this post, I became satisfied that I could easily split it to pieces, by the aid of the iron bolt that confined my feet. The jailer came with my breakfast, and reprimanded me for making a noise. This day appeared as long to me, as a week had done heretofore; but night came at length, and as soon as the room in which I was confined, had become quite dark, I disentangled myself from the irons with which I was bound, and with the aid of the long bolt, easily wrenched from its place the large staple that held one end of the bar, that lay across the door. The hasps that held the lock in its place, were drawn away almost without force, and the door swung open of its own weight. I now walked out into the jail-yard, and found that all was quiet, and that only a few lights were burning in the village windows. At first I walked slowly along the road, but soon quickened my pace, and ran along the high-way, until I was more than a mile from the jail, then taking to the woods, I traveled all night, in a northern direction. At the approach of day I concealed myself in a cedar thicket, where I lay until the next evening, without any thing to eat. On the second night after my escape, I crossed the Potomac, at Hoe's ferry, in a small boat that I found tied at the side of the ferry flat; and on the night following crossed the Patuxent, in a canoe, which I found chained at the shore. About one o'clock in the morning, I came to the door of my wife's cabin, and stood there, I believe, more than five minutes, before I could summon sufficient fortitude to knock. I at length rapped lightly on the door, and was immediately asked, in the well-known voice of my wife, "Who is there?"--I replied "Charles." She then came to the door, and opening it slowly, said, "Who is this that speaks so much like my husband?" I then rushed into the cabin and made myself known to her, but it was some time before I could convince her, that I was really her husband, returned from Georgia. The children were then called up, but they had forgotten me. When I attempted to take them in my arms, they fled from me, and took refuge under the bed of their mother. My eldest boy, who was four years old when I was carried away, still retained some recollections of once having had a father, but could not believe that I was that father. My wife, who at first was overcome by astonishment at seeing me again in her cabin, and was incapable of giving credit to the fidelity of her own vision, after I had been in the house a few minutes, seemed to awake from a dream; and gathering all three of her children in her arms, thrust them into my lap, as I sat in the corner, clapped her hands, laughed, and cried by turns; and in her ecstasy forgot to give me any supper, until I at length told her that I was hungry. Before I entered the house I felt as if I could eat anything in the shape of food; but now that I attempted to eat, my appetite had fled, and I sat up all night with my wife and children. When on my journey I thought of nothing but getting home, and never reflected, that when at home, I might still be in danger; but now that my toils were ended, I began to consider with myself how I could appear in safety in Calvert county, where everybody must know that I was a runaway slave. With my heart thrilling with joy, when I looked upon my wife and children, who had not hoped ever to behold me again; yet fearful of the coming of daylight, which must expose me to be arrested as a fugitive slave, I passed the night between the happiness of the present and the dread of the future. In all the toils, dangers, and sufferings of my long journey, my courage had never forsaken me. The hope of again seeing my wife and little ones, had borne me triumphantly through perils, that even now I reflect upon as upon some extravagant dream; but when I found myself at rest under the roof of my wife, the object of my labors attained, and no motive to arouse my energies, or give them the least impulse, that firmness of resolution which had so long sustained me, suddenly vanished from my bosom; and I passed the night, with my children around me, oppressed by a melancholy foreboding of my future destiny. The idea that I was utterly unable to afford protection and safeguard to my own family, and was myself even more helpless than they, tormented my bosom with alternate throbs of affection and fear, until the dawn broke in the East, and summoned me to decide upon my future conduct. In the morning I went to the great house and showed myself to my master and mistress. They gave me a good breakfast, and advised me at first to conceal myself, but afterwards to work in the neighborhood for wages. For eight years, I lived in this region of country and experienced a variety of fortune. At last I had saved near $400, and bought near Baltimore twelve acres of land, a yoke of oxen, and two cows, and attended the Baltimore market. I had the great misfortune to lose my wife. I married in two years, and of my second wife had four children. Ten years of happiness and comparative ease I enjoyed on my little farm, and I had settled down into contentment, little fearing any more trouble. But a sad fate was before me. CHAPTER XIX. In the month of June, 18--, as I was ploughing in my lot, three gentlemen rode up to my fence, and alighting from their horses, all came over the fence and approached me, when one of them told me he was the sheriff, and had a writ in his pocket, which commanded him to take me to Baltimore. I was not conscious of having done any thing injurious to any one; but yet felt a distrust of these men, who were all strangers to me. I told them I would go with them, if they would permit me to turn my oxen loose from the plough; but it was my intention to seek an opportunity of escaping to the house of a gentleman, who lived about a mile from me. This purpose I was not able to effect, for whilst I was taking the yoke from the oxen, one of the gentlemen came behind me, and knocked me down with a heavy whip, that he carried in his hand. When I recovered from the stunning effects of this blow, I found myself bound with my hands behind me, and strong cords closely wrapped about my arms. In this condition I was forced to set out immediately, for Baltimore, without speaking to my wife, or even entering my door. I expected that, on arriving at Baltimore, I should be taken before a judge for the purpose of being tried, but in this I was deceived. They led me to the city jail, and there shut me up, with several other black people, both men and women, who told me that they had lately been purchased by a trader from Georgia. I now saw the extent of my misfortune, but could not learn who the persons were, who had seized me. In the evening, however, one of the gentlemen, who had brought me from home, came into the jail with the jailer, and asked me if I knew him. On being answered in the negative, he told me that he knew me very well; and asked me if I did not recollect the time when he and his brother had whipped me, before my master's door, in Georgia. I now recognized the features of the younger of the two brothers of my mistress; but this man was so changed in his appearance, from the time when I had last seen him, that if he had not declared himself, I should never have known him. When I left Georgia, he was not more than twenty-one or two years of age, and had black, bushy hair. His hair was now thin and gray, and all his features were changed. After lying in jail a little more than two weeks, strongly ironed, my fellow prisoners and I were one day chained together, handcuffed in pairs, and in this way driven about ten miles out of Baltimore, where we remained all night. On the evening of the second day, we halted at Bladensburg. On the next morning, we marched through Washington, and as we passed in front of the President's house, I saw an old gentleman walking in the grounds, near the gate. This man I was told was the President of the United States. Within four weeks after we left Washington, I was in Milledgeville in Georgia, near which the man who had kidnapped me resided. He took me home with him, and set me to work on his plantation; but I had now enjoyed liberty too long to submit quietly to the endurance of slavery. I had no sooner come here, than I began to devise ways of escaping again from the hands of my tyrants, and of making my way to the northern States. The month of August was now approaching, which is a favorable season of the year to travel, on account of the abundance of food that is to be found in the corn-fields and orchards; but I remembered the dreadful sufferings that I had endured in my former journey from the South, and determined, if possible, to devise some scheme of getting away, that would not subject me to such hardships. After several weeks of consideration, I resolved to run away, go to some of the seaports, and endeavor to get a passage on board a vessel, bound to a northern city. With this view, I assumed the appearance of resignation and composure, under the new aspect of my fortune; and even went so far as to tell my new master that I lived more comfortably with him, in his cotton fields, than I had formerly done, on my own small farm in Maryland; though I believe my master did me the justice to give no credit to my assertions on this subject. From the moment I discovered in Maryland, that I had fallen into the hands of the brother of my former mistress, I gave up all hope of contesting his right to arrest me, with success, at law, as I supposed he had come with authority to reclaim me as the property of his sister; but after I had returned to Georgia, and had been at work some weeks on the plantation of my new master, I learned that he now claimed me as his own slave, and that he had reported he had purchased me in Baltimore. It was now clear to me that this man, having by some means learned the place of my residence, in Maryland, had kidnapped and now held me as his slave, without the color of legal right; but complaint on my part was useless, and resistance vain. I was again reduced to the condition of a common field slave, on a cotton plantation in Georgia, and compelled to subsist on the very scanty and coarse food allowed to the southern slave. I had been absent from Georgia almost twenty years, and in that period great changes had doubtlessly taken place in the face of the country, as well as in the condition of human society. I had never been in Milledgeville until I was brought there by the man who had kidnapped me in Maryland, and I was now a slave among entire strangers, and had no friend to give me the consolation of kind words, such as I had formerly received from my master in Morgan county. The plantation on which I was now a slave, had formerly belonged to the father of my mistress; and some of my fellow slaves had been well acquainted with her in her youth. From these people I learned, that after the death of my master, and my flight from Georgia, my mistress had become the wife of a second husband, who had removed with her to the State of Louisiana more than fifteen years ago. After ascertaining these facts, which proved beyond all doubt that my present master had no right whatsoever to me, in either law or justice, I determined that before encountering the dangers and sufferings that must necessarily attend my second flight from Georgia, I would attempt to proclaim the protection of the laws of the country, and try to get myself discharged from the unjust slavery in which I was now held. For this purpose, I went to Milledgeville, one Sunday, and inquired for a lawyer of a black man whom I met in the street. This person told me that his master was a lawyer, and went with me to his house. The lawyer, after talking to me some time, told me that my master was his client, and that he therefore could not undertake my cause; but referred me to a young gentleman, who he said would do my business for me. Accordingly to this young man I went, and after relating my whole story to him, he told me that he believed he could not do any thing for me, as I had no witnesses to prove my freedom. I rejoined, that it seemed hard that I must be compelled to prove myself a freeman: and that it would appear more consonant to reason that my master should prove me to be a slave. He, however, assured me that this was not the law of Georgia, where every man of color was presumed to be a slave until he could prove that he was free. He then told me that if I expected him to talk to me, I must give him a fee; whereupon I gave him all the money I had been able to procure, since my arrival in the country, which was two dollars and seventy-five cents. When I offered him this money, the lawyer tossed his head, and said such a trifle was not worth accepting; but nevertheless he took it, and then asked me if I could get some more money before the next Sunday. That if I could get another dollar, he would issue a writ and have me brought before the court; but if he succeeded in getting me set free, I must engage to serve him a year. To these conditions I agreed, and signed a paper which the lawyer wrote, and which was signed by two persons as witnesses. The brother of my pretended master was yet living in this neighborhood, and the lawyer advised me to have him brought forward, as a witness, to prove that I was not the slave of my present pretended owner. On the Wednesday following my visit to Milledgeville, the sheriff came to my master's plantation, and took me from the field to the house, telling me as I walked beside him that he had a writ which commanded him to take me to Milledgeville. Instead, however, of obeying the command of his writ, when we arrived at the house he took a bond of my master that he would produce me at the court-house on the next day, Friday, and then rode away, leaving me at the mercy of my kidnapper. Since I had been on this plantation, I had never been whipped, although all the other slaves, of whom there were more than fifty, were frequently flogged without any apparent cause. I had all along attributed my exemption from the lash to the fears of my master. He knew I had formerly run away from his sister, on account of her cruelty, and his own savage conduct to me; and I believed that he was still apprehensive that a repetition of his former barbarity might produce the same effect that it had done twenty years before. His evil passions were like fire covered with ashes, concealed, not extinguished. He now found that I was determined to try to regain my liberty at all events, and the sheriff was no sooner gone than the overseer was sent for, to come from the field, and I was tied up and whipped, with the long lashed negro whip, until I fainted, and was carried in a state of insensibility to my lodgings in the quarter. It was night when I recovered my understanding sufficiently to be aware of my true situation. I now found that my wounds had been oiled, and that I was wrapped in a piece of clean linen cloth; but for several days I was unable to leave my bed. When Friday came, I was not taken to Milledgeville, and afterwards learned that my master reported to the court that I had been taken ill, and was not able to leave the house. The judge asked no questions as to the cause of my illness. At the end of two weeks I was taken to Milledgeville, and carried before a judge, who first asked a few questions of my master, as to the length of time that he had owned me, and the place where he had purchased me. He stated in my presence that he had purchased me, with several others, at public auction, in the city of Baltimore, and had paid five hundred and ten dollars for me. I was not permitted to speak to the court, much less to contradict this falsehood in the manner it deserved. The brother of my master was then called as a witness by my lawyer, but the witness refused to be sworn or examined, on account of his interest in me, as his slave. In support of his refusal, he produced a bill of sale from my master to himself, for an equal, undivided half part of the slave ----. This bill of sale was dated several weeks previous to the time of trial, and gave rise to an argument between the opposing lawyers that continued until the court adjourned in the evening. On the next morning I was again brought into court, and the judge now delivered his opinion, which was that the witness could not be compelled to give evidence in a cause to which he was really, though not nominally, a party. The court then proceeded to give judgment in the cause now before it, and declared that the law was well settled in Georgia that every negro was presumed to be a slave, until he proved his freedom by the clearest evidence. That where a negro was found in the custody or keeping of a white man, the law declared that white man to be his master, without any evidence on the subject. But the case before the court was exceedingly plain and free from all doubt or difficulty. Here the master has brought this slave into the State of Georgia, as his property, has held him as a slave ever since, and still holds him as a slave. The title of the master in this case is the best title that a man can have to any property; and the order of the court is, that the slave ---- be returned to the custody of his master. I was immediately ordered to return home, and from this time until I left the plantation my life was a continual torment to me. The overseer often came up to me in the field, and gave me several lashes with his long whip over my naked back, through mere wantonness; and I was often compelled, after I had done my day's work in the field, to cut wood, or perform some other labor at the house, until long after dark. My sufferings were too great to be borne long by any human creature; and to a man who had once tasted the sweets of liberty, they were doubly tormenting. There was nothing in the form of danger that could intimidate me, if the road on which I had to encounter it led me to freedom. That season of the year most favorable to my escape from bondage, had at length arrived. The corn in the fields was so far grown as to be fit for roasting; the peaches were beginning to ripen, and the sweet potatoes were large enough to be eaten; but notwithstanding all this; the difficulties that surrounded me were greater than can easily be imagined by any one who has never been a slave in the lower country of Georgia. In the first place I was almost naked, having no other clothes than a ragged shirt of tow cloth, and a pair of old trowsers of the same material, with an old woollen jacket that I had brought with me from home. In addition to this, I was closely watched every evening, until I had finished the labor assigned me, and then I was locked up in a small cabin by myself for the night. This cabin was really a prison, and had been built for the purpose of confining such of the slaves of this estate as were tried in the evening, and sentenced to be whipped in the morning. It was built of strong oak logs, hewn square, and dovetailed together at the corners. It had no window in it; but as the logs did not fit very close together, there was never any want of air in this jail, in which I had been locked up every night since my trial before the court. On Sundays I was permitted to go to work in the fields, with the other people who worked on that day, if I chose so to do; but at this time I was put under the charge of an old African negro, who was instructed to give immediate information if I attempted to leave the field. To escape on Sunday was impossible, and there seemed to be no hope of getting out of my sleeping room, the floor of which was made of strong pine plank. Fortune at length did for me that which I had not been able to accomplish, by the greatest efforts, for myself. The lock that was on the door of my nightly prison was a large stock lock, and had been clumsily fitted on the door, so that the end of the lock pressed against the door-case, and made it difficult to shut the door even in dry weather. When the weather was damp, and the wood was swollen with moisture, it was not easy to close the door at all. Late in the month of September the weather became cloudy, and much rain fell. The clouds continued to obscure the heavens for four or five days. One evening, when I was ordered to my house as it was called, the overseer followed me without a light, although it was very dark. When I was in the house, he pushed the door after me with all his strength. The violence of the effort caused the door to pass within the case at the top, for one or two feet, and this held it so fast that he could not again pull it open. Supposing, in the extreme darkness, that the door was shut, he turned the key; and the bolt of the lock passing on the outside of the staple intended to receive it, completely deceived him. He then withdrew the key, and went away. Soon after he was gone, I went to the door, and feeling with my hands, ascertained that it was not shut. An opportunity now presented itself for me to escape from my prison-house, with a prospect of being able to be so far from my master's residence before morning, that none could soon overtake me, even should the course of my flight be ascertained. Waiting quietly, until every one about the quarter had ceased to be heard, I applied one of my feet to the door, and giving it a strong push, forced it open. The world was now all before me, but the darkness was so profound, as to obscure from my vision the largest objects, even a house, at the distance of a few yards. But dark as it was, necessity compelled me to leave the plantation without delay, and knowing only the great road that led to Milledgeville, amongst the various roads of this country, I set off at a brisk walk on this public highway, assured that no one could apprehend me in so dark a night. It was only about seven miles to Milledgeville, and when I reached that town several lights were burning in the windows of the houses; but keeping on directly through the village, I neither saw nor heard any person in it, and after gaining the open country, my first care was to find some secure place where shelter could be found for the next day; but no appearance of thick woods was to be seen for several miles, and two or three hours must have elapsed before a forest of sufficient magnitude was found to answer my purposes. It was perhaps three o'clock in the morning, when I took refuge in a thick and dismal swamp that lay on the right hand of the road, intending to remain here until daylight, and then look out for a secret place to conceal myself in, during the day. Hitherto, although the night was so extremely dark, it had not rained any, but soon after my halt in the swamp the rain began to fall in floods, rather than in showers, which made me as wet as if I had swam a river. Daylight at length appeared, but brought with it very little mitigation of my sufferings; for the swamp, in which my hiding-place was, lay in the midst of a well-peopled country, and was surrounded on all sides by cotton and corn fields, so close to me that the open spaces of the cleared land could be seen from my position. It was dangerous to move, lest some one should see me, and painful to remain without food when hunger was consuming me. My resting place in the swamp was within view of the road; and, soon after sunrise, although it continued to rain fast, numerous horsemen were seen passing along the road by the way that had led me to the swamp. There was little doubt on my mind that these people were in search of me, and the sequel proved that my surmises were well founded. It rained throughout this day, and the fear of being apprehended by those who came in pursuit of me, confined me to the swamp, until after dark the following evening, when I ventured to leave the thicket, and return to the high road, the bearing of which it was impossible for me to ascertain, on account of the dense clouds that obscured the heavens. All that could be done in my situation, was to take care not to follow that end of the road which had led me to the swamp. Turning my back once more upon Milledgeville, and walking at a quick pace, every effort was made to remove myself as far as possible this night from the scene of suffering, for which that swamp will be always memorable in my mind. The rain had ceased to fall at the going down of the sun; and the darkness of this second night was not so great as that of the first had been. This circumstance was regarded by me as a happy presage of the final success that awaited my undertaking. Events proved that I was no prophet; for the dim light of this night was the cause of the sad misfortune that awaited me. In a former part of this volume, the reader is made acquainted with the deep interest that is taken by all the planters, far and wide, around the plantation from which a slave has escaped by running away. Twenty years had wrought no change in favor of the fugitive; nor had the feuds and dissentions that agitate and distract the communities of white men, produced any relaxation in the friendship that they profess to feel, and really do feel, for each other, on a question of so much importance to them all. More than twenty miles of road had been left behind me this night; and it must have been two or three o'clock in the morning, when, as I was passing a part of the road that led through a dense pine grove, where the trees on either side grew close to the wheel tracks, five or six men suddenly rushed upon me from both sides of the road, and with loud cries of "Kill him! kill him!" accompanied with oaths and opprobrious language, seized me, dragged me to the ground, and bound me fast with a long cord, which was wrapped round my arms and body, so as to confine my hands below my hips. In this condition I was driven, or rather dragged, about two miles to a kind of tavern or public house, that stood by the side of the road; where my captors were joined, soon after daylight, by at least twenty of their companions, who had been out all night waiting and watching for me on the other roads of this part of the country. Those who had taken me were loudly applauded by their fellows; and the whole party passed the morning in drinking, singing songs, and playing cards at this house. At breakfast time they gave me a large cake of corn bread and some sour milk for breakfast. About ten o'clock in the morning my master arrived at the tavern, in company with two or three other gentlemen, all strangers to me. My master, when he came into my presence, looked at me, and said, "Well, ----, you had bad luck in running away this time;" and immediately asked aloud, what any person would give for me. One man, who was slightly intoxicated, said he would give four hundred dollars for me. Other bids followed, until my price was soon up to five hundred and eighty dollars, for which I was stricken off, by my master himself, to a gentleman, who immediately gave his note for me, and took charge of me as his property. CHAPTER XX. The name of my new master was Jones, a planter, who was only a visiter in this part of the country; his residence being about fifty miles down the country. The next day, my new master set off with me to the place of his residence; permitting me to walk behind him, as he rode on horseback, and leaving me entirely unshackled. I was resolved, that as my owner treated me with so much liberality, the trust he reposed in me should not be broken until after we had reached his home; though the determination of again running away, and attempting to escape from Georgia, never abandoned me for a moment. The country through which we passed, on our journey, was not rich. The soil was sandy, light, and, in many places, much exhausted by excessive tillage. The timber, in the woods where the ground was high, was almost exclusively pine; but many swamps, and extensive tracts of low ground intervened, in which maple, gum, and all the other trees common to such land in the South, abounded. No improvement in the condition of the slaves on the plantations, was here perceptible; but it appeared to me, that there was now even a greater want of good clothes, amongst the slaves on the various plantations that we passed, than had existed twenty years before. Everywhere, the overseers still kept up the same custom of walking in the fields with the long whip, that has been elsewhere described; and everywhere, the slaves proved, by the husky appearance of their skins, and the dry, sunburnt aspect of their hair, that they were strangers to animal food. On the second day of our journey, in the evening, we arrived at the residence of my master, about eighty miles from Savannah. The plantation, which had now become the place of my residence, was not large, containing only about three hundred acres of cleared land, and having on it about thirty working slaves of all classes. It was now the very midst of the season of picking cotton, and, at the end of twenty years from the time of my first flight, I again had a daily task assigned me, with the promise of half a cent a pound for all the cotton I should pick, beyond my day's work. Picking cotton, like every other occupation requiring active manipulation, depends more upon sleight than strength, and I was not now able to pick so much in a day as I was once able to do. My master seemed to be a man ardently bent on the acquisition of wealth, and came into the field, where we were at work, almost every day; frequently remonstrating, in strong language, with the overseer, because he did not get more work done. Our rations, on this place, were a half peck of corn per week; in addition to which, we had rather more than a peck of sweet potatoes allowed to each person. Our provisions were distributed to us on every Sunday morning by the overseer; but my master was generally present, either to see that justice was done to us, or that injustice was not done to himself. When I had been here about a week, my master came into the field one day, and, in passing near me, stopped and told me that I had now fallen into good hands, as it was his practice not to whip his people much. That he, in truth, never whipped them, nor suffered his overseer to whip them, except in flagrant cases. That he had discovered a mode of punishment much more mild, and, at the same time, much more effectual than flogging; and that he governed his negroes exclusively under this mode of discipline. He then told me, that when I came home in the evening I must come to the house; and that he would then make me acquainted with the principles upon which he chastised his slaves. Going to the house in the evening, according to orders, my master showed me a pump, set in a well in which the water rose within ten feet of the surface of the ground. The spout of this pump was elevated at least thirteen feet above the earth, and when the water was to be drawn from it, the person who worked the handle ascended by a ladder to the proper station.--The water in this well, although so near the surface, was very cold; and the pump discharged it in a large stream. One of the women employed in the house, had committed some offence for which she was to be punished; and the opportunity was embraced of exhibiting to me the effect of this novel mode of torture upon the human frame. The woman was stripped quite naked, and tied to a post that stood just under the stream of water, as it fell from the spout of the pump. A lad was then ordered to ascend the ladder, and pump water upon the head and shoulders of the victim; who had not been under the waterfall more than a minute, before she began to cry and scream in a most lamentable manner. In a short time, she exerted her strength, in the most convulsive throes, in trying to escape from the post; but as the cords were strong, this was impossible. After another minute or a little more, her cries became weaker, and soon afterwards her head fell forward upon her breast; and then the boy was ordered to cease pumping the water. The woman was removed in a state of insensibility; but recovered her faculties in about an hour. The next morning she complained of lightness of head, but was able to go to work. This punishment of the pump, as it is called, was never inflicted on me; and I am only able to describe it, as it has been described to me, by those who have endured it. When the water first strikes the head and arms, it is not at all painful; but in a very short time, it produces the sensation that is felt when heavy blows are inflicted with large rods, of the size of a man's finger. This perception becomes more and more painful, until the skull bone and shoulder blades appear to be broken in pieces. Finally, all the faculties become oppressed; breathing becomes more and more difficult; until the eye-sight becomes dim, and animation ceases. This punishment is in fact a temporary murder; as all the pains are endured, that can be felt by a person who is deprived of life by being beaten with bludgeons; but after the punishment of the pump, the sufferer is restored to existence by being laid in a bed, and covered with warm clothes. A giddiness of the head, and oppression of the breast, follows this operation, for a day or two, and sometimes longer. The object of calling me to be a witness of this new mode of torture, doubtlessly, was to intimidate me from running away; but like medicines administered by empirics, the spectacle had precisely the opposite effect, from that which it was expected to produce. After my arrival on this estate, my intention had been to defer my elopement until the next year, before I had seen the torture inflicted on this unfortunate woman; but from that moment my resolution was unalterably fixed, to escape as quickly as possible. Such was my desperation of feeling, at this time, that I deliberated seriously upon the project of endeavoring to make my way southward, for the purpose of joining the Indians in Florida. Fortune reserved a more agreeable fate for me. On the Saturday night after the woman was punished at the pump, I stole a yard of cotton bagging from the cotton-gin house, and converted it into a bag, by means of a coarse needle and thread that I borrowed of one of the black women. On the next morning, when our weekly rations were distributed to us, my portion was carefully placed in my bag, under pretence of fears that it would be stolen from me, if it was left open in the loft of the kitchen that I lodged in. This day being Sunday, I did not go to the field to work as usual, on that day, but under pretence of being unwell, remained in the kitchen all day, to be better prepared for the toils of the following night. After daylight had totally disappeared, taking my bag under my arm, under pretense of going to the mill to grind my corn, I stole softly across the cotton fields to the nearest woods, and taking an observation of the stars, directed my course to the eastward, resolved that in no event should anything induce me to travel a single yard on the high road, until at least one hundred miles from this plantation. Keeping on steadily through the whole of this night, and meeting with no swamps, or briery thickets in my way, I have no doubt that before daylight the plantation was more than thirty miles behind me. Twenty years before this I had been in Savannah, and noted at that time that great numbers of ships were in that port, taking in and loading cotton. My plan was now to reach Savannah, in the best way I could, by some means to be devised after my arrival in the city, to procure a passage to some of the northern cities. When day appeared before me, I was in a large cotton field, and before the woods could be reached, it was gray dawn; but the forest bordering on the field was large, and afforded me good shelter through the day, under the cover of a large thicket of swamp laurel that lay at the distance of a quarter of a mile from the field. It now became necessary to kindle a fire, for all my stock of provisions, consisting of corn and potatoes, was raw and undressed. Less fortunate now than in my former flight, no fire apparatus was in my possession, and driven at last to the extremity, I determined to endeavor to produce fire by rubbing two sticks together, and spent at least two hours of incessant toil, in this vain operation, without the least prospect of success. Abandoning this project at length, I turned my thoughts to searching for a stone of some kind, with which to endeavor to extract fire from an old jack-knife, that had been my companion in Maryland for more than three years. My labors were fruitless. No stone could be found in this swamp, and the day was passed in anxiety and hunger, a few raw potatoes being my only food. Night at length came, and with it a renewal of my traveling labors. Avoiding with the utmost care, every appearance of a road, and pursuing my way until daylight, I must have traveled at least thirty miles this night. Awhile before day, in crossing a field, I fortunately came upon a bed of large pebbles, on the side of a hill. Several of these were deposited in my bag, which enabled me when day arrived to procure fire, with which I parched corn and roasted potatoes sufficient to subsist me for two or three days. On the fourth night of my journey, fortune directed me to a broad, open highway, that appeared to be much traveled. Near the side of this road I established my quarters for the day in a thick pine wood, for the purpose of making observations upon the people who traveled it, and of judging thence of the part of the country to which it led. Soon after daylight a wagon passed along, drawn by oxen, and loaded with bales of cotton; then followed some white men on horseback, and soon after sunrise a whole train of wagons and carts, all loaded with bales of cotton, passed by, following the wagon first seen by me. In the course of the day, at least one hundred wagons and carts passed along this road towards the south-east, all laden with cotton bales; and at least an equal number came towards the west, either laden with casks of various dimensions, or entirely empty. Numerous horsemen, many carriages, and great numbers of persons on foot, also passed to and fro on this road, in the course of the day. All these indications satisfied me that I must be near some large town, the seat of an extensive cotton market. The next consideration with me was to know how far it was to this town, for which purpose I determined to travel on the road the succeeding night. Lying in the woods until about eleven o'clock, I rose, came to the road and traveled it until within an hour of daylight, at which time the country around me appeared almost wholly clear of timber; and houses became much more numerous than they had been in the former part of my journey. Things continued to wear this aspect until daylight, when I stopped, and sat down by the side of a high fence that stood beside the road. After remaining here a short time, a wagon laden with cotton passed along, drawn by oxen, whose driver, a black man, asked me if I was going towards town. Being answered in the affirmative, he then asked me if I did not wish to ride in his wagon. I told him I had been out of town all night, and should be very thankful to him for a ride; at the same time ascending his wagon and placing myself in a secure and easy position on the bags of cotton. In this manner we traveled on for about two hours, when we entered the town of Savannah. In my situation there was no danger of any one suspecting me to be a runaway slave; for no runaway had ever been known to flee from the country and seek refuge in Savannah. The man who drove the wagon passed through several of the principal streets of the city, and stopped his team before a large warehouse, standing on a wharf, looking into the river. Here I assisted my new friend to unload his cotton, and when we were done he invited me to share his breakfast with him, consisting of corn bread, roasted potatoes, and some cold boiled rice. Whilst we were at our breakfast, a black man came along the street, and asked us if we knew where he could hire a hand, to help him to work a day or two. I at once replied that my master had sent me to town to hire myself out for a few weeks, and that I was ready to go with him immediately. The joy I felt at finding employment so overcame me, that all thought of my wages was forgotten. Bidding farewell to the man who had given me my breakfast, and thanking him in my heart for his kindness, I followed my new employer, who informed me that he had engaged to remove a thousand bales of cotton from a large warehouse, to the end of a wharf at which a ship lay, that was taking in the cotton as a load. This man was a slave, but hired his time of his master at two hundred and fifty dollars a year, which he said he paid in monthly instalments. He did what he called job work, which consisted of undertaking jobs, and hiring men to work under him, if the job was too great to be performed by himself. In the present instance he had seven or eight black men, beside me, all hired to help him to remove the cotton in wheel-barrows, and lay it near the end of the wharf, when it was taken up by sailors and carried on board the ship that was receiving it. We continued working hard all day; and amongst the crew of the ship was a black man, with whom I resolved to become acquainted by some means. Accordingly at night after we had quit our work, I went to the end of the wharf against which the ship lay moored, and stood there a long time, waiting for the black sailor to make his appearance on deck. At length my desires were gratified. He came upon the deck, and sat down near the main-mast, with a pipe in his mouth, which he was smoking with great apparent pleasure. After a few minutes, I spoke to him, for he had not yet seen me as it appeared, and when he heard my voice, he rose up and came to the side of the ship near where I stood. We entered into conversation together, in the course of which he informed me that his home was in New-York; that he had a wife and several children there, but that he followed the sea for a livelihood, and knew no other mode of life. He also asked me where my master lived, and if Georgia had always been the place of my residence. I deemed this a favorable opportunity of effecting the object I had in view, in seeking the acquaintance of this man, and told him at once that by law and justice I was a free man, but had been kidnapped near Baltimore, forcibly brought to Georgia, and sold there as a slave. That I was now a fugitive from my master, and in search of some means of getting back to my wife and children. The man seemed moved by the account of my sufferings, and at the close of my narrative, told me he could not receive me on board the ship, as the captain had given positive orders to him, not to let any of the negroes of Savannah come on board, lest they should steal something belonging to the ship. He further told me that he was on watch, and should continue on deck two hours. That he was forced to take a turn of watching the ship every night, for two hours; but that his turn would not come the next night until after midnight. I now begged him to enable me to secrete myself on board the ship, previous to the time of her sailing, so that I might be conveyed to Philadelphia, whither the ship was bound with her load of cotton. He at first received my application with great coldness, and said he would not do any thing contrary to the orders of the captain; but before we parted, he said he should be glad to assist me if he could, but that the execution of the plan proposed by me, would be attended with great dangers, if not ruin. In my situation there was nothing too hazardous for me to undertake, and I informed him that if he would let me hide myself in the hold of the ship, amongst the bags of cotton, no one should ever know that he had any knowledge of the fact; and that all the danger, and all the disasters that might attend the affair, should fall exclusively on me. He finally told me to go away, and that he would think of the matter until the next day. It was obvious that his heart was softened in my favor; that his feelings of compassion almost impelled him to do an act in my behalf, that was forbidden by his judgment, and his sense of duty to his employers. As the houses of the city were now closed, and I was a stranger in the place, I went to a wagon that stood in front of the warehouse, and had been unladen of the cotton that had been brought in it, and creeping into it, made my bed with the driver, who permitted me to share his lodgings amongst some corn tops that he had brought to feed his oxen. When the morning came, I went again to the ship, and when the people came on deck, asked them for the captain, whom I should not have known by his dress, which was very nearly similar to that of the sailors. On being asked if he did not wish to hire a hand, to help to load his ship, he told me I might go to work amongst the men, if I chose, and he would pay me what I was worth. My object was to procure employment on board the ship, and not to get wages; and in the course of this day I found means to enter the hold of the ship several times, and examine it minutely. The black sailor promised that he would not betray me, and that if I could find the means of escaping on board the ship he would not disclose it. At the end of three days, the ship had taken in her loading, and the captain said in my presence that he intended to sail the day after. No time was now to be lost, and asking the captain what he thought I had earned, he gave me three dollars, which was certainly very liberal pay, considering that during the whole time that I had worked for him my fare had been the same as that of the sailors, who had as much as they could consume of excellent food. The sailors were now busy in trimming the ship and making ready for sea, and observing that this work required them to spend much time in the hold of the ship, I went to the captain and told him, that as he had paid me good wages and treated me well, I would work with his people the residue of this day, for my victuals and half a gallon of molasses; which he said he would give me. My first object now, was to get into the hold of the ship with those who were adjusting the cargo. The first time the men below called for aid, I went to them, and being there, took care to remain with them. Being placed at one side of the hold, for the purpose of packing the bags close to the ship's timbers, I so managed as to leave a space between two of the bags, large enough for a man to creep in and conceal himself. This cavity was near the opening in the centre of the hold, that was left to let men get down, to stow away the last of the bags that were put in. In this small hollow retreat among the bags of cotton, I determined to take my passage to Philadelphia, if by any means I could succeed in stealing on board the ship at night. When the evening came, I went to a store near the wharf, and bought two jugs, one that held half a gallon, and the other, a large stone jug, holding more than three gallons. When it was dark I filled my large jug with water; purchased twenty pounds of pilot bread at a bakery, which I tied in a large handkerchief; and taking my jugs in my hand, went on board the ship to receive my molasses of the captain, for the labor of the day. The captain was not on board, and a boy gave me the molasses; but, under pretence of waiting to see the captain, I sat down between two rows of cotton bales that were stowed on deck. The night was very dark, and, watching a favorable opportunity, when the man on deck had gone forward, I succeeded in placing both my jugs upon the bags of cotton that rose in the hold, almost to the deck. In another moment I glided down amongst the cargo, and lost no time in placing my jugs in the place provided for them, amongst the bales of cotton, beside the lair provided for myself. Soon after I had taken my station for the voyage, the captain came on board, and the boy reported to him that he had paid me off, and dismissed me. In a short time, all was quiet on board the ship, except the occasional tread of the man on watch. I slept none at all this night; the anxiety that oppressed me preventing me from taking any repose. Before day the captain was on deck, and gave orders to the seamen to clear the ship for sailing, and to be ready to descend the river with the ebb tide, which was expected to flow at sunrise. I felt the motion of the ship when she got under weigh, and thought the time long before I heard the breakers of the ocean surging against her sides. In the place where I lay, when the hatches were closed, total darkness prevailed; and I had no idea of the lapse of time, or of the progress we made, until, having at one period crept out into the open space, between the rows of cotton bags, which I have before described, I heard a man, who appeared from the sound of his voice to be standing on the hatch, call out and say, "That is Cape Hatteras." I had already come out of my covert several times into the open space; but the hatches were closed so tightly, as to exclude all light. It appeared to me that we had already been at sea a long time; but as darkness was unbroken with me, I could not make any computation of periods. Soon after this, the hatch was opened, and the light was let into the hold. A man descended for the purpose of examining the state of the cargo; who returned in a short time. The hatch was again closed, and nothing of moment occurred from this time, until I heard and felt the ship strike against some solid body. In a short time I heard much noise, and a multitude of sounds of various kinds. All this satisfied me that the ship was in some port; for I no longer heard the sound of the waves, nor perceived the least motion in the ship. At length the hatch was again opened, and the light was let in upon me. My anxiety now was, to escape from the ship, without being discovered by any one; to accomplish which I determined to issue from the hold as soon as night came on, if possible. Waiting until sometime after daylight had disappeared, I ventured to creep to the hatchway, and raise my head above deck. Seeing no one on board, I crawled out of the hold, and stepped on board a ship that lay alongside of that in which I had come a passenger. Here a man seized me, and called me a thief, saying I had come to rob his ship; and it was with much difficulty that I prevailed upon him to let me go. He at length permitted me to go on the wharf; and I once more felt myself a freeman. I did not know what city I was in; but as the sailors had all told me, at Savannah, that their ship was bound to Philadelphia, I had no doubt of being in that city. In going along the street, a black man met me, and I asked him if I was in Philadelphia.--This question caused the stranger to laugh loudly; and he passed on without giving me any answer. Soon afterwards I met an old gentleman, with drab clothes on, as I could see by the light of the lamps. To him I propounded the same question, that had been addressed a few moments before to the black man. This time, however, I received a civil answer, being told that I was in Philadelphia. This gentleman seemed concerned for me, either because of my wretched and ragged appearance, or because I was a stranger, and did not know where I was. Whether for one cause or the other, I knew not; but he told me to follow him, and led me to the house of a black man, not far off, whom he directed to take care of me until the morning. In this house I was kindly entertained all night, and when the morning came, the old gentleman in drab clothes returned, and brought with him an entire suit of clothes, not more than half worn, of which he made me a present, and gave me money to buy a hat and some muslin for a couple of shirts. He then turned to go away, and said, "I perceive that thee is a slave, and has run away from thy master. Thee can now go to work for thy living; but take care that they do not catch thee again." I then told him, that I had been a slave, and had twice run away and escaped from the State of Georgia. The gentleman seemed a little incredulous of that which I told him; but when I explained to him the cause of the condition in which he found me, he seemed to become more than ever interested in my fate. This gentleman, whose name I shall not publish, has always been a kind friend to me. After remaining in Philadelphia a few weeks, I resolved to return to my little farm in Maryland, for the purpose of selling my property for as much as it would produce, and of bringing my wife and children to Pennsylvania. On arriving in Baltimore, I went to a tavern keeper, whom I had formerly supplied with vegetables from my garden. This man appeared greatly surprised to see me; and asked me how I had managed to escape from my master in Georgia. I told him, that the man who had taken me to Georgia was not my master; but had kidnapped me, and carried me away by violence. The tavern keeper then told me, that I had better leave Baltimore as soon as possible, and showed me a hand-bill that was stuck up against the wall of his bar-room, in which a hundred and fifty dollars reward was offered for my apprehension. I immediately left this house, and fled from Baltimore that very night. When I reached my former residence, I found a white man living in it, whom I did not know. This man, on being questioned by me, as to the time he had owned this place, and the manner in which he had obtained possession, informed me, that a black man had formerly lived here; but he was a runaway slave, and his master had come, the summer before, and carried him off. That the wife of the former owner of the house was also a slave; and that her master had come about six weeks before the present time, and taken her and her children, and sold them in Baltimore to a slave-dealer from the South. This man also informed me, that he was not in this neighborhood at the time the woman and her children were carried away; but that he had received his information from a black woman, who lived half a mile off. This black woman I was well acquainted with; she had been my neighbor, and I knew her to be my friend. She had been set free, some years before by a gentleman of this neighborhood, and resided under his protection, on a part of his land, I immediately went to the house of this woman, who could scarcely believe the evidence of her own eyes, when she saw me enter her door. The first word's she spoke to me were, "Lucy and her children have all been stolen away." At my request, she gave me the following account of the manner in which my wife and children, all of whom had been free from their birth, were seized and driven into southern slavery. "A few weeks," said she, "after they took you away, and before Lucy had so far recovered from the terror produced by that event, as to remain in her house all night with her children, without some other company, I went one evening to stay all night with her; a kindness that I always rendered her, if no other person came to remain with her. "It was late when we went to bed, perhaps eleven o'clock; and after we had been asleep some time, we were awakened by a loud rap at the door. At first we said nothing; but upon the rap being several times repeated, Lucy asked who was there. She was then told, in a voice that seemed by its sound to be that of a woman, to get up and open the door; adding, that the person without had something to tell her that she wished to hear. Lucy, supposing the voice to be that of a black woman, the slave of a lady living near, rose and opened the door; but, to our astonishment, instead of a woman coming in, four or five men rushed into the house and immediately closed the door; at which one of the men stood, with his back against it, until the others made a light in the fire-place, and proceeded deliberately to tie Lucy with a rope.--Search was then made in the bed for the children; and I was found and dragged out. This seemed to produce some consternation among the captors, whose faces were all black, but whose hair and visages were those of white men. A consultation was held among them, the object of which was to determine whether I should also be taken along with Lucy and the children, or be left behind, on account of the interest which my master was supposed to feel for me. "It was finally agreed, that as it would be very dangerous to carry me off, lest my old master should cause pursuit to be made after them, they would leave me behind, and take only Lucy and the children. One of the number then said it would not do to leave me behind, and at liberty, as I would immediately go and give intelligence of what I had seen; and if the affair should be discovered by the members of the abolition society, before they had time to get out of Maryland, they would certainly be detected and punished for the crimes they were committing. "It was finally resolved to tie me with cords, to one of the logs of the house, gag me by tying a rope in my mouth, and confining it closely to the back of my neck. They immediately confined me, and then took the children from the bed. The oldest boy they tied to his mother, and compelled them to go out of the house together. The three youngest children were then taken out of bed, and carried off in the hands of the men who had tied me to the log. I never saw nor heard any more of Lucy or her children. "For myself, I remained in the house, the door of which was carefully closed and fastened after it was shut, until the second night after my confinement, without anything to eat or drink. On the second night some unknown persons came and cut the cords that bound me, when I returned to my own cabin." This intelligence almost deprived me of life; it was the most dreadful of all the misfortunes that I had ever suffered. It was now clear that some slave-dealer had come in my absence and seized my wife and children as slaves, and sold them to such men as I had served in the South. They had now passed into hopeless bondage, and were gone forever beyond my reach. I myself was advertised as a fugitive slave, and was liable to be arrested at each moment, and dragged back to Georgia. I rushed out of my own house in despair and returned to Pennsylvania with a broken heart. For the last few years, I have resided about fifty miles from Philadelphia, where I expect to pass the evening of my life, in working hard for my subsistence, without the least hope of ever again seeing my wife and children;--fearful, at this day, to let my place of residence be known, lest even yet it may be supposed, that as an article of property, I am of sufficient value to be worth pursuing in my old age. THE END. * * * * * [Transcriber's Notes: The transcriber made these changes to the text to correct obvious errors: p. 18 burthersome --> burthensome p. 18 aristocrary -->aristocracy p. 23 vetebræ --> vertebræ p. 24 charnal --> charnel p. 91 aad --> and p. 98 jair --> jail p. 122 successsion --> succession p. 122 liven --> linen p. 152 of errands --> on errands p. 192 corspe --> corpse p. 211 disagreeble --> disagreeable p. 230 guitly --> quilty p. 244 thives --> thrives p. 249 stool --> stood p. 252 rearch --> reach p. 267 pototoes --> potatoes p. 386 "Charles.' --> "Charles." End of Transcriber's Notes] 
5729	----	PEGGY STEWART NAVY GIRL AT HOME BY GABRIELLE E. JACKSON AUTHOR OF "SILVER HEELS," "THREE GRACES" SERIES, "CAPT. POLLY" SERIES, ETC. WITH FRONTISPIECE BY NORMAN ROCKWELL 1920 THIS LITTLE STORY OF ANNAPOLIS IS MOST AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED TO H.W.H. WHOSE SUNNY SOUL AND CHEERY VOICE HELPED TO MAKE MANY AN HOUR HAPPY FOR THE ONE HE CALLED "LITTLE MOTHER" CONTENTS CHAPTER I. SPRINGTIDE II. THE EMPRESS III. "DADDY NEIL" IV. IN OCTOBER'S DAYS V. POLLY HOWLAND VI. A FRIENDSHIP BEGINS VII. PEGGY STEWART: CHATELAINE VIII. A SHOCKING DEMONSTRATION OF INTEMPERANCE IX. DUNMORE'S LAST CHRISTMAS X. A DOMESTIC EPISODE XI. PLAYING GOOD SAMARITAN XII. THE SPICE OF PEPPER AND SALT XIII. THE MASQUERADERS' SHOW XIV. OFF FOR NEW LONDON XV. REGATTA DAY XVI. THE RACE XVII. SHADOWS CAST BEFORE XVIII. YOU'VE SPOILED THEIR TEA PARTY XIX. BACK AT SEVERNDALE CHAPTER I SPRINGTIDE "Peggy, Maggie, Mag, Margaret, Marguerite, Muggins. Hum! Half a dozen of them. Wonder if there are any more? Yes, there's Peggoty and Peg, to say nothing of Margaretta, Gretchen, Meta, Margarita, Keta, Madge. My goodness! Is there any end to my nicknames? I mistrust I'm a very commonplace mortal. I wonder if other girls' names can be twisted around into as many picture puzzles as mine can? What do YOU think about it Shashai!" [Footnote: Shashai. Hebrew for noble, pronounced Shash'a-ai.] and the girl reached up both arms to draw down into their embrace the silky head of a superb young colt which stood close beside her; a creature which would have made any horse-lover stop stock-still and exclaim at sight of him. He was a magnificent two-year-old Kentuckian, faultless as to his points, with a head to set an artist rhapsodizing and a-tingle to put it upon his canvas. His coat, mane and tail were black as midnight and glossy as satin. The great, lustrous eyes held a living fire, the delicate nostrils were a-quiver every moment, the faultlessly curved ears alert as a wild creature's. And he WAS half wild, for never had saddle rested upon his back, girth encircled him or bit fretted the sensitive mouth. A halter thus far in his career had been his only badge of bondage and the girl caressing him had been the one to put it upon him. It would have been a bad quarter of an hour for any other person attempting it. But she was his "familiar," though far from being his evil genius. On the contrary, she was his presiding spirit of good. Just now, as the splendid head nestled confidingly in her circling arms, she was whispering softly into one velvety ear, oh, so velvety! as it rested against her ripe, red lips, so soft, so perfect in their molding. The ear moved slightly back and forth, speaking its silent language. The nostrils emitted the faintest bubbling acknowledgment of the whispered words. The beautiful eyes were so expressive in their intelligent comprehension. "Too many cooks spoil the broth, Shashai. Too many grooms can spoil a colt. Too many mistresses turn a household topsy-turvy. How about too many names, old boy? Can they spoil a girl? But maybe I'm spoiled already. How about it?" and a musical laugh floated out from between the pretty lips. The colt raised his head, whinnied aloud as though in denial and stamped one deer-like, unshod fore-hoof as though to emphasize his protest; then he again slid his head back into the arms as if their slender roundness encompassed all his little world. "You old dear!" exclaimed the girl softly, adding: "Eh, but it's a beautiful world! A wonderful world," and broke into the lilting refrain of "Wonderful world" and sang it through in a voice of singularly, haunting sweetness. But the words were not those of the popular song. They had been written and set to its air by Peggy's tutor. She seemed to forget everything else, though she continued to mechanically run light, sensitive fingers down the velvety muzzle so close to her face, and semi-consciously reach forth the other hand to caress the head of a superb wolfhound which, upon the first sweet notes, had risen from where she lay not far off to listen, thrusting an insinuating nose under her arm. She seemed to float away with her song, off, off across the sloping, greening fields to the broad, blue reaches of Bound Bay, all a-glitter in the morning sunlight. She was seated in the crotch of a snake-fence running parallel with the road which ended in a curve toward the east and vanished in a thin-drawn perspective toward the west. There was no habitation, or sign of human being near. The soft March wind, with its thousand earthy odors and promises of a Maryland springtide, swept across the bay, stirring her dark hair, brushed up from her forehead in a natural, wavy pompadour, and secured by a barrette and a big bow of dark red ribbon, the long braid falling down her back tied by another bow of the same color. The forehead was broad and exceptionally intellectual. The eyebrows, matching the dark hair, perfectly penciled. The nose straight and clean- cut as a Greek statue's. The chin resolute as a boy's. The teeth white and faultless. And the eyes? Well, Peggy Stewart's eyes sometimes made people smile, sometimes almost weep, and invariably brought a puzzled frown to their foreheads. They were the oddest eyes ever seen. Peggy herself often laughed and said: "My eyes seem to perplex people worse than the elephant perplexed the 'six blind men of Hindustan' who went to SEE him. No two people ever pronounce them the same color, yet each individual is perfectly honest in his belief that they are black, or dark brown, or dark blue, or deep gray, or SEA green. Maybe Nature designed me for a chameleon but changed her mind when she had completed my eyes." Peggy Stewart would hardly have been called a beautiful girl gauged by conventional standards. Her features were not regular enough for perfection, the mouth perhaps a trifle too large, but she was "mightily pleasin' fer to study 'bout," old Mammy insisted when the other servants were talking about her baby. "Oh, yes," conceded Martha Harrison, the only white woman besides Peggy herself upon the plantation. "Oh, yes, she's pleasing enough, but if her mother had lived she'd never in this world a-been allowed to run wild as a boy, a-getting tanned as black as a--a, darky." Martha was a most devoted soul who had come from the North with her mistress when that lady left her New England home to journey to Maryland as Commander Stewart's bride. He was only a junior lieutenant then, but that was nearly eighteen years before this story opens. She had not seen many colored people while living in the Massachusetts town in which she had been born and her experience with them was limited to the very few who, after the Civil War, had drifted into it. Of the true Southern negro, especially those of the ante-bellum type, she had not the faintest conception. It had all been a revelation to her. The devotion of the house servants to their "white folks," to whom so many had remained faithful even after liberation, was a never-ending source of wonder to the good soul. Nor could she understand why those old family retainers stigmatized the younger generations as "shiftless, no-account, new-issue niggers." That there could be marked social distinctions among these colored people never occurred to her. That generations of them had been carefully trained by master and mistress during the days of slavery, and that the younger generations had had no training whatever, was quite beyond Martha's grasp. Colored people were COLORED PEOPLE, and that ended it. But as the years passed, Martha learned many things. She had her own neatly-appointed little dining-room in her own well-ordered little wing of the great, rambling colonial house which Peggy Stewart called home, a house which could have told a wonderful history of one hundred eighty or more years. We will tell it later on. We have left Peggy too long perched upon her snake-fence with Shashai and Tzaritza. The lilting song continued to its end and the dog and horse stood as though hypnotized by the melody and the fingers' magnetic touch. Then the song ended as abruptly as it had begun and Peggy slid lightly from her perch to the ground, raised both arms, stretching hands and fingers and inclining her head in a pose which would have thrilled a teacher of "Esthetic Posing" in some fashionable, faddish school, though it was all unstudied upon the girl's part. Then she cried in a wonderfully modulated voice: "Oh, the joy, joy, joy of just being ALIVE on such a day as this! Of being out in this wonderful world and free, free, free to go and come and do as we want to, Shashai, Tzaritza! To feel the wind, to breathe it in, to smell all the new growing things, to see that water out yonder and the blue overhead. What is it, Dr. Llewellyn says: 'To thank the Lord for a life so sweet.' WE all do, don't we? _I_ can put it into words, or sing it, but you two? Yes, you can make God understand just as well. Let's all thank Him together--you as He has taught you, and I as He has taught me. Now:" It was a strange picture. The girl standing there in the beautiful early spring world, her only companions a thoroughbred, half-wild Kentucky colt and a Russian wolfhound, literally worth their weight in gold, absolutely faultless in their beauty, and each with their wonderfully intelligent eyes fixed upon her. At the word "Now," the colt raised his perfect head, drew in a deep breath and then exhaled it in a long, trumpet-like whinny. The dog voiced her wonderful bell-like bay; the note of joy sounded by her kind when victory is assured. The girl raised her head, and parting her lips gave voice to a long- drawn note of ecstasy, ending in a little staccato trill and the same upflinging of the arms. It was all a rhapsody of springtide, the semi-wild things' expression of intoxicating joy at being alive and their absolute mutual harmony. The animals felt it as the girl did, and surely God acknowledged the homage. Such spontaneous, sincere thanks are rare. "Let's go now." The horse's slender flanks quivered; his withers twitched with the nervous energy awaiting an outlet; the dog stood alert for the first motion. Resting one hand upon those sensitive withers the girl gave a quick spring, landing lightly as thistledown astride the colt's back, holding the halter strap in her firm, brown fingers. Her costume was admirably adapted to this equestrian if somewhat unusual feat for a young lady. It consisted of a dark blue divided riding skirt of heavy cloth, and a midshipman's jumper, open at the throat, a black regulation neckerchief knotted sailor-fashion on her well-rounded chest. Anything affording freer action could hardly have been designed for her sex. And a bonny thing she looked as she sat there, the soft wind toying with the loose hairs which had escaped their bonds, and bringing the faintest rose tint into her cheeks. It was still too early in the spring for the clear, dark skin to have grown "black as a darky's." "On to the end of nowhere!" she cried. "We'll beat you to the goal, Tzaritza. Go!" At the word the colt sprang forward with an action so true, so perfect that he and the girl seemed one. The dog gave a low bark like a laugh at the challenge and with incredibly long, graceful leaps circled around and around the pair, now running a little ahead, then executing a wide circle, and again darting forward with that derisive bark. Shashai's speed was not to be scorned--his ancestors held an international fame for swiftness, endurance and jumping--but no horse can compete with a wolfhound. On, on they sped, the happiest, maddest, merriest trio imaginable, down the road to the point where the perspective seemed to end it but where in reality it turned abruptly, leaving the one following its course the choice of taking a sudden dip down to the water's edge or wheeling to the right and leaping "brake, bracken and scaur." The girl did not tighten her single guiding strap, she merely bent forward to speak softly into one ear laid back to catch the words: "Right--turn!" Just beyond was a high fence dividing the lane where it crossed two estates. It was surmounted by a stile of four steps. There was no pause in the colt's or dog's speed. Tzaritza cleared it like a--wolfhound. Shashai with his rider skimmed over like a bird, landing upon the soft turf beyond with scarcely a sound. Oh, the beauty of it all! Then on again through a patch of woodland which looked as though a huge gossamer veil had been laid over it. If ever pastelle colors were displayed to perfection Nature here held her exhibition. Soft pinks, pale blues, silver grays, the tenderest greens with here and there a touch of the maple buds' rich mahogany reds, and above and about the maddest melody of bird songs from a hundred throats. As the horse swung along in his perfect gait, the great dog making playful leaps and feinted snaps at his beautiful muzzle with a dog's derisive smile and sense of humor, and if any one doubts that dogs have this quality they simply don't know the animal, the girl sang at the top of her voice. They covered the ground with incredible swiftness and presently the lane grew broader, giving evidence of more traffic where a wood road crossed it at right angles. Just a little beyond this point an old gentleman appeared in sight. He was walking with his hands clasped behind him and his head bent to examine every foot of the roadway. Evidently he was too absorbed to be aware of the trio bearing down upon him. He wore the clerical garb of the Church of England, and his face would have attracted attention in any part of the world, it was so pure, so refined, so like a cameo in its delicacy of outline, and the skin held the wonderful softness and clearness we sometimes see in old age. He must have been over seventy. Just then he became aware of the colt's light hoofbeats and looked up. He was tall and slight but very erect, and his face lighted up with a smile absolutely illuminating as he recognized his approaching friends. The girl bent forward to say: "One bell, Shashai." Whereupon her mount slackened his gait to the gentlest amble, but the dog went bounding on to greet the newcomer. First she dropped down at his feet, burying her nose in her forepaws as though to make obeisance, but at his words: "Ah, Tzaritza! Good Tzaritza, welcome!" she instantly sprang up, rested her forepaws upon his shoulders, and looked into his face with the most limpid pair of eyes ever seen; eyes filled with something deeper than human love can ever summon to human eyes, for those have human speech to supplement their appeal. "Tzaritza. Dear, faithful Tzaritza," said the old man in the tenderest tone as he caressed the magnificent, silky head now nestling against his face as a child's might have nestled. "Good dog. Good dog. But here are Peggy and Shashai. My little girl, warm greetings," he cried as Shashai came to an instant statue-like standstill at Peggy's one word, "Halt!" and she slid from his back, braced at "attention" and saluted in all gravity, the clergyman returning the salute with much dignity. Then in an instant the martial attitude and air were discarded and springing forward the girl slipped to his side, caught one hand and by a quick, graceful motion circled his arm about her waist and laid her head upon his shoulder just where Tzaritza's had but a moment before rested, her face alight with affection as she exclaimed: "To meet you 'way, 'way out here, Compadre!" "'Far from the madding crowd,' Filiola. Five miles to the good for these old legs of seventy-four summers. They have served me well. I have no fault to find with them. They are stanch friends and have carried me many a mile. But you, my child? You and Tzaritza and Shashai? Come hither, my beauty," and the free hand was extended to the colt which instantly advanced for the proffered caress. "Ah, thou bonny, bonny creature! Thou jewel among thy fellows. Ah, but you possess a masculine frailty. Ah, yes, I've detected it. Oh, Shashai, Shashai, is thy heart reached only through thy stomach?" for now the colt was nozzling most insinuatingly at one of the ample pockets of the old gentleman's top coat. Never had those pockets failed him since the days when he had ceased to be nourished by his dam's milk, and his faith in their bounty was not misplaced, for a slender white hand was inserted to be withdrawn with the lump of sugar Shashai had counted upon and held forth upon the palm from which the velvety lips took it as daintily as a young lady's fingers could have taken it. Three was the dole evidently for when three had been eaten Shashai gravely bowed his head three times in acknowledgment of his treat and then turned to nibble at the budding trees, his benefactor returning to Peggy. "So this is heyday and holiday, dear heart, is it? Saturday's emancipation from your old Dominie Exactus when you may range wood and field unmolested, with never a thought for his domination and tyranny." "As though you ever dominated or tyrannized over me!" protested the girl. "I'd do anything, ANYTHING for you--you know that, don't you?" There was deep reproach in her voice. Then, it changed suddenly as she asked: "But where is Doctor Claudius?" "In his stall, eating his fill. I wished to use my own legs today," smiled her companion. "His are exceptionally good ones, but my own will grow stiff if I do not use them more." Just then Shashai suddenly raised his head and stood with ears alert and nostrils extended. Tzaritza rose from the ground where she had dropped down after greeting Dr. Llewellyn, and stood with ears raised, though neither man nor girl yet heard the faintest sound. "Some one's coming and coming in a hurry," said Peggy quietly, "or THEY wouldn't look like THAT." As she spoke the dull thud of hoofs pounding rapidly upon soft turf was borne to their ears, and a moment later a big gray horse ridden by a little negro boy, as tattered a specimen of his race as one might expect to see, came pounding into sight. With some difficulty he brought the big horse to a standstill in front of them and grabbing off his ragged cap stammered out his message: "Howdy, Massa Dominie. Sarvint, Missy Peggy, but Josh done sont me fer ter fin' yo' an' bring you back yon' mighty quick, kase--kase, de--de sor'el mar' done got mos' kilt an' lak' 'nough daid right dis minit. He say, please ma'am, come quick as Shazee kin fotch yo' fo' de Empress, she mighty bad an'--" "What has happened to her, Bud?" interrupted Peggy, turning to spring upon Shashai's back, but pausing to learn some particulars. The Empress was one of the most valuable brood mares upon the estate and her foal, still dependent upon her for its nourishment, was Peggy's pride and joy. "She done got outen de paddock and nigh 'bout bus' herself wide open on de flank on dat dummed MAS-CHINE what dey trims de hedges wid. She bleeged ter bleed ter death, Joshi say." Peggy turned white. "Excuse me, please--I must go as fast as I can. Home, Shashai, four bells and a jingle!" she cried and the colt swept away like a tornado, Tzaritza in the lead. "Golly, but she's one breeze, ain' she, sah?" "She is a wonderful girl and will make a magnificent woman if not spoiled in the next ten years," replied Dr. Llewellyn, though the words were more an oral expression of his own thoughts than a reply to the negro boy. CHAPTER II THE EMPRESS As the half-wild colt swept up to the paddock from which the valuable brood mare Empress had made her escape, Peggy was met by one of the stable hands. "Where is she?" she asked, her dark eyes full of concern and anxiety. "Up yonder in de paster," answered the negro, pointing to a green upland. A touch with her heel started Shashai. A moment later she slipped from her mount to hurry to a little group gathered around a dark object lying upon the ground. With the pitiful little cry: "Oh, Empress! My beauty," Peggy was upon her knees beside the splendid animal. "Shelby, Shelby, how did it happen? Oh, how did it?" she cried as she lifted the horse's head to her lap. The panting creature looked at her with great appealing, terror-stricken eyes, as though imploring her to save the life-spark now flickering so fitfully. "God knows, miss," answered the foreman of the paddock. "We did not find her until a half hour ago. If I'd a-found her sooner it would never a- come to this. We ain't never had no such accident on the estate since _I_ been on it, and I'd give all I'm worth if we could a-just have missed THIS one. Some fool, _I_ can't find out who, left them hedge shears a-hanging wide open across the gate and the gate unlatched, and she must a run foul of 'em, 'cause we found 'em and all the signs o' what had happened, but we couldn't find HER for more 'n hour, and then THIS is what we found. I sent Bud for you and Jim for the Vet, but we've all come too late." The man spoke low and hurriedly, and never for a moment ceased his care for the mare. The veterinary who had arrived but a few moments before Peggy stood by helpless to do more than had already been done by Shelby, the veteran horse-trainer who had been on the estate for years, and who loved the animals as though they were his children. It was evident that the Empress' moments were numbered. She had severed one of the great veins in her flank and had nearly bled to death before discovered. Her little foal stood near, surprised at his dam's indifference to his needs, his little baby face and great round eyes, so like his mother's, filled with questioning doubt. As Peggy bent over the beautiful dying mare's head, tears streaming from her eyes, for she had cared for her and loved her since colthood, the little foal gave a low nicker and coming up behind the girl, thrust his soft muzzle over her shoulder and nestled his head against her face, trembling and quivering with a terror he could not understand. Peggy raised one arm to clasp it around the little creature's warm neck. The Empress tried to nicker an answer to her baby but the effort cost her last breath and heart-throb. It ended in a fluttering sigh and her head lay still and at rest upon Peggy's lap. The splendid animal, which had so often carried Peggy upon her back, the mother of Shashai, and many another splendid horse whose fame was widely known, lay lifeless. Her little son nestled closer to the one he knew and loved best as though begging her protection. Peggy held him close, sobbing upon his warm neck. "You'd better get up, Miss Peggy," said Shelby kindly. Peggy bent and kissed the great silky head. "Good-bye, Empress. I'll care for your baby," she said. Shelby lifted the splendid head from the girl's lap and helped her to her feet. The little colt still huddled close to her. "Have you any orders, miss, about her?" asked Shelby, nodding toward the dead mare. "She shall be buried in the circle and shall have a monument. We owe her much. Her foal shall be my charge." "And I reckon mine, too. If we raise him now it will be a miracle. He's going to miss his dam's milk." "I think I can manage," answered Peggy. "Bud, come with me. I wish you to go down to Annapolis with a note to Doctor Feldmeyer. He will understand what I wish to do. Ride in on Nancy Lee. Come, little one," and with the little colt's neck beneath her circling arm Peggy walked slowly back to the paddock from which barely three hours before the splendid mare, now lying lifeless in the pasture, had dashed, leaving a trail of her life's blood behind her to guide those who came too late. It was all the outcome of one person's disregard of orders: One of the hands had quit his work to gossip, leaving his great hedge shears hanging carelessly across the gate, and the gate unfastened. The Empress, gamboling with her foal, had rushed upon them, cut herself cruelly, then maddened by the pain and terrified by the flowing blood, had dashed away as only a frightened horse can, running until she fell from exhaustion. Peggy went back to the inclosure in which the Empress, as the most honored of the brood mares, had lived with her foal. The little stable, a very model of order and appointment, stood at one end of it. She opened the gate, intending to leave the colt in the inclosure, but he huddled closer and closer to her side. "Why Roy, baby, what is it!" asked Peggy, as she would have spoken to a child. The little thing could only press closer and nicker its baby nicker. Peggy hesitated a moment, then said: "It will never do to leave you now. You are half starved, you poor little thing. Eight weeks are NOT many to have lived. Come." And as though he understood every word and was comforted, the baby horse nickered again and walked close by her side. She went straight to the house, circling the garden, rich in early spring blossoms, to enter a little inclosure around which the servants' quarters were built, one building, a trifle more pretentious than the rest, evidently that of some upper servant. As Peggy and her four-footed companion drew near, a trim little old colored woman looked out of the door. She was immaculate in a black and white checked gingham, a large white apron and a white turban, suggestive of ante-bellum days. Instantly noting signs of distress upon her young mistress' face she hurried toward her, crying softly in her melodious voice: "Baby! Honey! What's de matter? 'What's done happen? What fo' yo' bring Roy up hyer? Where de Empress at?" "Oh Mammy, Mammy, the Empress is dead. She--" "What dat yo' tellin' me, baby? De Empress daid? Ma Lawd, wha' Massa Neil gwine do to we-all when he hyar DAT? He gwine kill SOMEBODY dat's sartin suah. What kill her?" Peggy told the story briefly, Mammy Lucy, who had been mammy to her and her father before her, listening attentively, nodding her head and clicking her tongue in consternation. Such news was overwhelming. But Mammy Lucy had not lived on this estate for over sixty years without storing up some wisdom for emergencies, and before Peggy had finished the pitiful tale she was on her way to the great kitchen at the opposite end of the inclosure where Aunt Cynthia ruled as dusky goddess of the shining copper kettles and pans upon the wall. "Sis Cynthy, we-all in trebbilation and we gotter holp dis hyer pore chile. She lak fer ter breck her heart 'bout de Empress and she sho will if dis hyer colt come ter harm. Please, ma'am, gimme a basin o' fresh, warm milk. Bud he done gone down ter 'Napolis fer a nussin' bottle, but dat baby yonder gwine faint an' die fo' dat no 'count nigger git back wid dat bottle. I knows HIM, I does." "Howyo' gwine mak' dat colt drink?" asked Cynthia skeptically. "De Lawd on'y knows, but HE gwine show me how," was Mammy Lucy's pious answer. The next second she cried "Praise Him! _I_ got it," and ran into her cabin to return with a piece of snowy white flannel. Meanwhile Cynthia had warmed the bowlful of milk. Hastily catching up a huge oilcloth apron, Mammy enveloped herself in it and then hurried back to Peggy and her charge. From that moment Roy's artificial feeding began. Peggy raised his head while Mammy opened his mouth by inserting a skilful finger where later the bit would rest, then slipped in the milk-sopped woolen rag. After a few minutes the small beastie which had never known fear, understood and sucked away vigorously, for he had not fed for hours and the poor inner- colt was grumbling sorely at the long fast. The bowlful of milk soon disappeared, and he stood nozzling at Peggy ready for a frolic, his woes forgotten. "Now what yo' gwine do wid him, honey?" asked Mammy. "I'd like to put him to sleep on the piazza, but I'm afraid I can't," answered Peggy, smiling sadly, for the loss of the Empress had struck deeply. "No, yo' suah cyant do dat," was Mammy's reply. "You'll be bleeged fer ter put him yonder in de paddock." "He will be so lonesome," said Peggy doubtfully. Just then the great wolfhound came bounding up. She thrust her nose into her mistress' hand and gave a low bark of delight. She was almost as tall as the colt, and seemed to understand his needs. She then turned to give a greeting lick upon the colt's nose. He jerked away, as though resenting the lady's familiarity, but nickered softly. He had known Tzaritza from the first moment he became aware of things terrestrial and they had often gamboled together when the Empress was disinclined for a frolic. Peggy's eyes brightened. "Tzaritza, attention!" The splendid hound raised her head to look into her young mistress' eyes with keen intelligence. "Come," and followed by the hound and colt Peggy hurried back to the stables. They had brought the Empress down from the pasture and laid her upon the soft turf of the large circular grass-plot in front of the main building. The men were now digging her grave. "Tzaritza, scent," commanded Peggy, stroking the Empress' neck. The hound made long, deep sniffs at the still form. "Come." Peggy then laid her hand upon the little colt's neck. The scent was the same. Tzaritza understood. "Guard," said Peggy. "Woof-woof," answered Tzaritza deep down in her throat. Peggy then led the way to the Empress' paddock. Roy capered through the gate; Tzaritza, with her newly-assumed responsibility upon her, entered with dignity. From that hour she scarcely left her charge, lying beside him when he rested in the shade of the great beeches, nestling close in the little stable at night, following him wherever he chose to go during his liberty hours of the day, for thenceforth he was rarely confined to the paddock. Before the Empress was laid away Bud returned with the nursing bottle. The rubber nipples were thrust into the Empress' mouth and thus getting the mother scent all else was very simple. Roy tugged away at his bottle like a well-conducted, well-conditioned baby, Tzaritza watching with keen intelligent eyes. She soon knew the feeding hours as well as Peggy or Mammy, and promptly to the minute led her charge to Mammy's door. If Mammy happened to be elsewhere she sought Cynthia, and so had the interest grown that there was not a man, woman or child upon the place who would not have dropped anything in order to minister to the needs of Tzaritza's charge. And so passed the early springtide, Roy waxing fat and strong, Tzaritza never relaxing her care, though at first it was a sore trial to her to remain behind with her foster-son while her beloved mistress galloped away upon Shashai. But that word "Guard" was sacred. In the course of a few weeks, however, Roy was well able to follow his half-brother, Shashai, and Tzaritza's freedom was restored. The trio was rarely separated and to see Peggy in her hammock on the lawn, or on the piazza, meant to see the colt and Tzaritza also, though Roy was rapidly outgrowing piazzas and lawns, and Peggy was beginning to be puzzled as to what was to be done with him when he could no longer come clattering up the steps and across the piazza after his foster-mother. With the summer came word that her father would come home on a month's leave and August was longed for with an eagerness he could not have dreamed. Everything must be in perfect order to receive him, and Peggy flew from house to garden, from garden to stables, from stables to paddock keyed to a state of excitement which infected every member of the household. Dr. Llewellyn smiled sympathetically. Harrison, the housekeeper, stalked after her, doing her best to carry out her orders, while announcing that: NOW, she guessed, there would be some hope of making Mr. Neil see the folly of letting a girl of Peggy's age run wild as a hawk forever and a day. She'd have one talk with him he'd do well to take heed to or she'd know why. Mammy Lucy said little but watched her young mistress' radiant face. It was eight months since Master Neil had been home and deep in her tender old heart she understood better than any one else what his coming meant to Peggy. Harrison might have a better idea of what was wise and best for her young charge, but Mammy's love taught her many things which Harrison could never learn. Meanwhile Peggy spent the greater part of her days down at the paddock, for Shashai must be broken to saddle and bridle in order to receive his master in proper style. A blanket and halter might answer for the mad gallops across country which they had hitherto taken, but Daddy Neil was coming home for a month and the horses must do the place credit. With this end in view, Peggy betook herself to the paddock one morning before breakfast, saddle and bridle borne behind her by Bud. Shashai welcomed her with his clear nicker, sweeping up to the gate in his long, rocking stride so like the Empress'. Tzaritza with her foster-son followed in Peggy's wake, Tzaritza sniffing inquiringly at the saddle, Roy pranking thither and yonder, rich just in the joy of being alive. Shashai had never quite overcome his jealousy of his young half-brother, and now laid back his ears in reproof of his unseemly gambols; Shashai's own babyhood was not far enough in the background for him to be tolerant. Peggy entered the paddock and Shashai at once nozzled her for his morning lumps of sugar. For the first time in his memory they were not forthcoming, and his great eyes looked their wondering reproach. "Not yet, Shashai. "We must keep them for a reward if you behave well." She slipped an arm over the beautifully arched neck and laid her face against the satiny smoothness. Shashai approved the caress but would have approved the sugar much more. "Give me the saddle, Bud." The little negro boy handed her the light racing saddle; a very featherweight of a saddle. "Steady, Shashai." The colt stood like a statue expecting the girl as usual to spring upon his back. Instead she placed upon it a stiff, leather affair which puzzled him not a little, and from which dangled two curious contrivances. These, however, she quickly caught up and fastened over the back and their metallic clicking ceased to annoy him. The buckling was a little strenuous. Hitherto a surcingle had served to hold the blanket upon his back, but this contraption had TWO surcingles and a stiff leather strap to boot, which Peggy's strong hands pulled tighter than any straps had ever before been pulled around him. He quivered slightly but stood the test and--a lump of sugar was held beneath his eager nostrils, If THAT followed it was worth while standing to have that ugly, stiff thing adjusted. "Now the headstall, Bud. Did you coat the bit with the melted sugar as I told you?" "Yes'm, missie. It's fair cracklin' wid sugar, an' onct he gits a lick ob dat bit he ain' never gwine let go, yo' hyar me." "Now, my bonny one, we'll see," said Peggy, as she unstrapped the bit, and the headstall without it was no more than the halter to which Shashai had been accustomed. Then very gently she held the bit toward him. He tried to take it as he would have taken the sugar and his look of surprise when his lips closed over the hard metal thing was amusing. Nevertheless, it tasted good and he mouthed and licked it, gradually getting it well within his mouth. At an opportune moment Peggy slipped the right buckle into place, quickly following it by the left one. Shashai started. "Steady, Shashai. Steady, boy," she said gently and the day was won. No shocks, no lashings, no harsh words to make the sight of that headstall throw him into a panic whenever it was produced. Dozens of horses had been so educated by Peggy Stewart. Shashai sucked at his queer mouthpiece as a child would suck a stick of candy, and while he was enjoying its sweetness Peggy brought forth lump number two. Four was his daily allowance, and as he enjoyed number two she let down the stirrups which had seemed likely to startle him. "Stand outside, Bud, he may be a little frightened when the saddle creaks." The boy left the paddock. "Stand, Shashai," commanded Peggy, resting her hand upon the colt's withers. He knew perfectly well what to expect, but why that strange groaning and creaking? The blanket had never done so. The sensitive nerves quivered and he sprang forward, but Peggy had caught her stirrups and her low voice quieted him as she swayed and adapted herself to his gait. Around and around the paddock they loped in perfect harmony of motion. She did not draw upon the bridle rein, merely holding it as she had been accustomed to hold her halter strap, guiding by her knees. Shashai tossed his head partly in nervous irritation at the creaking saddle, partly in the joy of motion, and joy won the day. Then Peggy began to draw slightly upon her reins. The colt shook his head impatiently as though asking: "Wherefor the need? I know exactly where you wish to go." "Oh, my bonny one, my bonny one, that is just it! I know that you know, but someday someone else won't know, and if I don't teach you now just what the bit means the poor mouth may pay the penalty. It may anyway, in spite of all I can do, but I'll do my best to make it an easy lesson. Oh why, why will people pull and tug as they do on a horse's mouth when there is nothing in this world so sensitive, or that should be so lightly handled. So be patient, Shashai. We only use it because we must, dear. Now, right, turn!" And with the words she pressed her right knee against the colt, at the same time drawing gently upon the right rein. Shashai turned because he had always done so at the words and the pressure, accepting the bit's superfluous hint like the gentleman he was. "Open the gate, Bud. We'll go for a spin," ordered Peggy as she swung around the paddock. "Won't yo' jump, missie?" asked Bud eagerly. The delight of his life was to see his young mistress take a fence. "Not this time," answered Peggy over her shoulder. Bud opened the gate as they came around again and as Peggy cried: "Four bells, Shashai," the colt sprang through, Tzaritza and Roy joining in with a happy bark and neigh. All so simply, so easily done by love's gentle rule. CHAPTER III "DADDY NEIL" "Stand there, little girl. Why, why--how has it come about! When did you do it? I went away nine months ago leaving a little girl in Mammy Lucy's and Harrison's charge and I have returned to find a young lady. Peggy, baby, what have you done with my little girl?" Commander Stewart stood in the big living-room of Severndale, his hand upon Peggy's shoulder as he held her at arm's length to look at her in puzzled surprise. He had just experienced one of those startling revelations which often arouse parents to the fact that their children have stolen a march upon them, and sprung into very pleasing young men or women while they themselves have been in an unobserving somnolent state. It is invariably a shock and one which few parents escape. Peggy laughed, colored a rosy pink but obeyed, a little thrill of innocent triumph passing over her, for Daddy Neil's eyes held something more than surprise, and Peggy's feminine soul detected the underlying pride and admiration. "By the great god Neptune, you've taken a rise out of me this time, child. How old ARE you, anyway!" "As though you didn't know perfectly well, you tease," laughed Peggy, turning swiftly and nestling in his arms. The arms held her closely and the sun-tanned cheek rested upon her dark, silky hair. The eyes were singularly soft and held a suggestion of moisture. It did not seem so very long ago to Daddy Neil since Peggy's beautiful mother had been in that very room with him nestling in his arms in that same confiding little manner. How like her Peggy had grown in looks and a thousand little mannerisms. From the moment Peggy had met him at the Round Bay station to this one, he had lived in a sort of waking dream, partly in the past, partly in the present, and in the strangest possible mental confusion. His memory picture of Peggy as he had left her in October of the previous year was of the little hoyden in short skirts, laughing and prancing from morning till night, and leading Mammy Lucy a life of it. In nine months the little romp had blossomed into a very charming young girl, dainty and sweet as a wild rose in her white duck sailor suit, with its dark red collar, her hair braided in soft coils about her head and adorned with a big red bow. The embryo woman stood before him. "Yes, HOW old are you?" he insisted, looking at her with mingled, puzzled eyes. "Oh, Daddy, you know I was fourteen in January," she said half reproachfully. "You sent me such beautiful things from Japan." "Yes, but you might be eighteen now from your looks and height. And living here alone with the servants. Why--why, it's, it's all out of order; you are off your course entirely. You must have someone with you, or go somewhere, or--or--well SOMETHING has got to be done and right off, too," and poor perplexed Neil Stewart ran his hand through his curly, gray-tinged hair in a distracted manner. Peggy looked startled, then serious. Such a contingency as this incumbent upon growing up had never entered her head. Must the old order of things which she so loved, and all the precious freedom of action, give way to something entirely new? Harrison had more than once hinted that such would be the case when Daddy Neil came home and found a young lady where he expected to find a little girl. "Oh, Daddy, please don't talk about that now. You've only just got here and I've ten thousand things to tell and show you. Let's not think of the future just yet. It's such a joy to just live now. To have you here and see you and hug you, and love you hard," cried Peggy suiting her actions to her words. Mr. Stewart shook his head, but did not beggar his response to the caress. It sent a glow all through him to feel that this beautiful young girl was his daughter, the mistress of the home he so loved, but so rarely enjoyed. "We'll have a truce for a week, honey, and during that time we'll do nothing but enjoy each other. Then we'll take our reckoning and lay our course by chart, for I'm convinced that I, at least, have been running on dead reckoning and you--well--I guess the good Lord's been at the helm and taken in hand my job with a good deal of credit to Himself and confounded little to me. But it's my watch from now on. I wish your mother were here, sweetheart. You need her now," and Neil Stewart again drew the young girl into his strong, circling arm. "I'd resign tomorrow if--if--well, when I resign I want four stripes at least on my sleeve to leave you as a memory in the years to come. Now show me the ropes. I'm a stranger on board my own ship." For an hour Peggy did the honors of the beautiful home, Jerome, the old butler, who had been "Massa Neil's body servant" before he entered the Academy at eighteen, where body servants had no place, hovering around, solicitous of his master's comfort; Harrison making a hundred and one excuses to come into the room; Mammy Lucy, with the privileges of an old servant making no excuses at all but bobbing in and out whenever she saw fit. Luncheon was soon served in the wonderful old dining-room, one side of which was entirely of glass giving upon a broad piazza overlooking Round Bay. From this room the view was simply entrancing and Neil Stewart, as he sat at the table at which Peggy was presiding with such grace and dignity, felt that life was certainly worth while when one could look up and encounter a pair of such soft brown eyes regarding him with such love and joy, and see such ripe, red lips part in such carefree, happy smiles. "Jerome, don't forget Daddy Neil's sauce. "Yes, missie, lamb. I knows--I knows. Cynthy, she done got it made to de very top-notch pint," answered Jerome, hurrying away upon noiseless feet and in all his immaculate whiteness from the crown of his white woolly head to his duck uniform, for the Severndale servants wore the uniforms of the mess-hall rather than the usual household livery. Neil Stewart could not abide "cit's rigs." Moreover, in spite of the long absences of the master, everything about the place was kept up in ship-shape order; Harrison and Mammy Lucy cooperated with Jerome in looking well to this. "Now, Daddy," cried Peggy happily when luncheon ended, "come out to the stables and paddock; I've a hundred things to show you." "A stable and a paddock for an old salt like me," laughed her father. "I wonder if I shall know a horse's hock from his withers? Yet it DOES seem good to see them, and smell the grass and woods and know it's all mine and that YOU are mine," he cried, slipping his arm through hers and pacing off with her. "Some day," he added, "I am coming here to settle down with you to enjoy it all, and when I do I mean to let four legs carry me whenever there is the least excuse for so doing. My own have done enough pacing of the quarter-deck to have earned that indulgence." "And won't it be just--paradise," cried Peggy rapturously. They were now nearing the paddock. To one side was a long row of little cottages occupied by the stable hands' families. Mr. Stewart paused and smiled, for out of each popped a funny little black woolly head to catch a glimpse of "Massa Captain," as all the darkies on the place called him. "Good Lord, where DO they all come from, Peggy? Have they all been born since my last visit? There were not so many here then." "Not quite all," answered Peggy laughing. "Most of them were here before that, though there are some new arrivals either in the course of nature or new help. You see the business is growing, Daddy, and I've had to take on new hands." Neil Stewart started. "Was this little person who talked in such a matter-of-fact way about "taking on new hands" his little Peggy? "Yes, yes--I dare say," he answered in a sort of daze. Peggy seemed unaware of anything the least unusual and continued: "I want you to see THIS family. It is Joshua Jozadak Jubal Jones'. They might all be of an age, but they are not--quite. Come here, boys, and see Master Captain," called Peggy to the three piccaninnies who were peeping around the corner of the cottage. Three black, grinning little faces, topped by the kinkiest of woolly heads, came slowly at her bidding, each one glancing half-proudly, yet more or less panic- stricken, at the big man in white flannels. "Hello, boys. Whose sons are you? Miss Peggy tells me you are brothers." "Yas, sir. We is. We's Joshua Jozadak Jubal Jones's boys. I'se Gus--de ol'es. Der's nine haid o' us, but we's de oniest boys. De yethers ain' nothin' but gurls." "And how old are you!" "I'se nine I reckons." "And what is your name?" "My name Gus, sah." "That's only HALF a name. Your whole name is really Augustus remember." The "Massa Captain's" voice boomed with the sound of the sea. Augustus and his brothers were duly impressed. If Gus really meant Augustus, why Augustus he would be henceforth. The Massa Captain had said it and what the Massa Captain said--went, especially when he gave a bright new dime to enforce the order. "And YOUR name?" continued the questioner, pointing at number two. "I'se jist Jule, sah," was the shy reply. "That's a nickname too. I can't have such slipshod, no-account names for my hands' children. It isn't dignified. It isn't respectful. It's a disgrace to Miss Peggy. Do you hear?" "Yas--yas--sir. We--we hears," answered the little darkies in chorus, the whites of their eyes rolling and their knees fairly smiting together. How could they have been guilty of thus slighting their adored young mistress? "Please, sah, wha's his name ef taint Jule?" Augustus plucked up heart of grace to ask. "He is Julius, JUL-I-US, do you understand?" "Yas--sir. Yas--sir." Another dime helped the memory box. "And YOUR name?" asked the Massa Captain of quaking number three. There was a long, significant pause, then contortions as though number three were suffering from a violent attack of colic. At length, after two or three futile attempts he blurted out: "I'se--I'se Billyus, sah!" There was a terrific explosion, then Neil Stewart tossed the redoubtable Billyus a quarter, crying: "You win," and walked away with Peggy, his laughter now and again borne back to his beneficiaries. Peggy never knew where that month slipped to with its long rides on Shashai, Daddy Neil riding the Emperor, the magnificent sire of all the small fry upon the place, from those who had already gone, or were about to be sent out into the great world beyond the limits of Severndale, to Roy, the latest arrival. Neil Stewart wondered and marveled more and more as each day slipped by. Then, too, were the delightful paddles far up the Severn in Peggy's canoe, exploring unsuspected little creeks, with now and again a bag in the wild, lonely reaches of the river, followed by a delicious little supper of broiled birds, done to a turn by Aunt Cynthia. There were, too, moonlight sails in Peggy's little half-rater, which she handled with a master hand. As a rule, one of the boys accompanied her, for the mainsail and centerboard were pretty heavy for her to handle unaided, but with Daddy Neil on board--well, not much was left to be desired. During that month Peggy learned "how lightly falls the foot of time which only treads on flowers," and was appalled when she realized that only five more days remained of her father's leave. Neil Stewart, upon his part, was sorely perplexed, for it had come to him with an overwhelming force that Peggy was almost a young lady, and to live much longer as she had been living was simply out of the question. Yet how solve the problem? He and Dr. Llewellyn talked long and earnestly upon the subject when Peggy was not near, and fully concurred in their view-point; a change must be made, and made right speedily. Should Peggy be sent to school? If so, where? Much depended upon the choice in her case. Her whole life had been so entirely unlike the average girl's. Why she scarcely knew the meaning of companions of her own age of either sex. Neil Stewart actually groaned aloud as he thought of this. Dr. Llewellyn suggested a companion for the young girl. Mr. Stewart groaned again. Whom should he choose? So far as he knew there was not a relative, near or remote, to whom he could turn, and a hit-or-miss choice among strangers appalled him. "I give you my word, Llewellyn, I'm aground--hard and fast. I can't navigate that little cruiser out yonder," and he nodded toward the lawn where Peggy was giving his first lessons to Roy in submitting to a halter. It was a pretty picture, too, and one deeply imprinted upon Neil Stewart's memory. "We will do our best for her and leave the rest to the dear Lord," answered the good Doctor, his cameo-like face turned toward the lawn to watch the girl whom he loved as a daughter. "He will show us the way. He has never yet failed to." "Well, in all reverence, I wish He'd show it before I leave, for I tell you I don't like the idea of going away and leaving that little girl utterly unprotected." "I should call her very well protected," said Dr. Llewellyn mildly. "Oh, yes, in a way. You are here off and on, and the servants all the time, but look at the life she leads, man. Not a girl friend. Nothing that other girls have. I tell you it's bad navigating and she'll run afoul rocks or shoals. It isn't natural. For the Lord's sake DO something. If I could be here a month longer I'd start something or burst everything wide open. It's simply got to be changed." And Neil Stewart got up from his big East India chair to pace impatiently up and down the broad piazza, now and again giving an absent-minded kick to a hassock, or picking up a sofa pillow to heave it upon a settee, as though clearing the deck for action. He was deeply perturbed. Peggy glanced toward him, and quick to notice signs of mental disturbance, left her charge to Tzaritza's care and came running toward the piazza. As she ran up the four steps giving upon the lawn she asked half laughingly, half seriously: "Heavy weather, Daddy Neil? Barometer falling?" Neil Stewart paused, looked at her a moment and asked abruptly: "Peggy, how would you like to go to a boarding school?" "To boarding school!" exclaimed Peggy in amazement. "Leave Severndale and all this and go away to a SCHOOL?" The emphasis upon the last word held whole volumes. Her father nodded. "I think I'd die," she said, dropping upon a settee as though the very suggestion had deprived her of strength. Her father's forehead puckered into a perplexed frown. If Peggy were sent to boarding school the choice of one would be a nice question. "Well, what SHALL I do with you?" demanded the poor man in desperation. "Leave me right where I am. Compadre will see that I'm not quite an ignoramus, Harrison keeps me decently clad and properly lectured, and Mammy looks to my feeding when I'm well and dosing when I'm not, which, thank goodness, isn't often. Why Daddy, I'm so happy. So perfectly happy. Please, please don't spoil it," and Peggy rose to slip her arm within her father's and "pace the deck" as he called it. "But you haven't a single companion of your own age or station," he protested. "Do I look the maiden all forlorn as the result?" she asked, laughing up at him. "You look--you look--exactly like your mother, and to me she was the most beautiful woman I have ever seen," and Peggy found herself in an embrace which threatened to smother her. She blushed with pleasure. To be like her mother whom she scarcely remembered, for eight years had passed since that beautiful mother slipped out of her life, was the highest praise that could have been bestowed upon her. "Daddy, will you make a truce with me?" Her father stopped to look down at her, doubtful of falling into a snare, for he had wakened to the fact that his little fourteen-year-old daughter had a pretty long head for her years. Peggy's white teeth gleamed behind her rosy lips and her eyes danced wickedly. "What are you hatching for your old Dad's undoing, you witch?" "Nothing but a truce. It is almost the first of September. Will you give me just one more year of this glorious freedom? I shall be nearly sixteen then, and then if you still wish it, I'll go to a finishing school, or any other old school you say to be polished off for society and to do the honors of Severndale properly when you retire. But, Daddy, please, please, don't send me this year. I love it all so dearly--and I'll be good--I truly will." At the concluding words the big dark eyes filled. Her father bent down to kiss away the unshed tears. His own eyes were troublesome. "I sign the truce, sweetheart, for one year, but I want a detailed report every week, do you understand?" "You shall have it, accurate as a ship's log." Five days later he had joined his ship and Peggy was once more alone, yet, even then, over yonder under the shadow of the dome of the chapel at the Naval Academy the future was being shaped for the young girl: a future so unlike one those who loved her best could possibly have foreseen or planned. CHAPTER IV IN OCTOBER'S DAYS September slipped by, a lonely month for Peggy as contrasted with August. At first she did not fully realize how lonely, but as the days went by she missed her father's companionship more and more. Formerly, after one of his brief visits she had taken up her usual occupations, fallen back into the old order of things, and been happy in her dumb companions. But this time she could not settle down to anything. She was restless, and as nearly unhappy as it was possible for Peggy Stewart to be. She could not understand it. Poor little Peggy, how could she analyze it? How reason out that her life, dearly as she loved it, was an unnatural one for a young girl, and, consequently, an unsatisfactory one. Dr. Llewellyn was troubled. Tender, wise and devoted to the girl, he had long foreseen this crisis. It was all very well for the child Peggy to run wild over fields and woodland, to ride, drive, paddle, sail, fish or do as the whim of the moment prompted, happy in her horses and her dogs. Mammy and Harrison were fully capable of looking to her corporal needs and he could look to her mental and spiritual ones, and did do so. Situated as Severndale was, remote from the other estates upon the river and never brought into social touch with its neighbors, Peggy was hardly known. When Neil Stewart came home on leave he was only too glad to get away from the social side of his life in the service, and the weeks spent with his little girl at Severndale had always been the delight of his life. They took him into a new world all his own in which the small vexations of the outer service world were entirely forgotten. And how he looked forward to those visits. He rarely spoke of them to his friends, mentioned Severndale to very few and hardly a dozen knew of Peggy's existence. It was a peculiar attitude, but Neil Stewart had never been reconciled to the cruel fate which had taken from him the beautiful wife he had loved so devotedly, and the thought of guests at Severndale without her there to entertain them as she had been accustomed to, was peculiarly abhorent to him. He became almost morbid on the subject and did not realize that he was growing selfish in his sorrow and making Peggy pay the penalty. But something in the way of an awakening had come to him during his recent visit, and it had shocked him. The child Peggy was a child no longer but a very charming young girl on the borderland of womanhood. In a year or two she would be a young woman and entitled to her place in the social world. Poor Neil Stewart, more than once upon retiring to his bedroom after one of his delightful evenings spent with Peggy, desperately ran his fingers through his curly hair and asked aloud: "What under the sun AM I to do? I can't leave that child vegetating here any longer, yet who will come to live with her or where shall I send her?" But the question was still unanswered when he left Severndale and now Peggy was beginning to experience something of her father's unrest. October came. Her work with Dr. Llewellyn was resumed. Each Sunday she drove into Annapolis to old St. Ann's with Harrison; a modest, unobtrusive little figure who attended the service and slipped away again almost unnoticed. Indeed, if given a thought at all she was vaguely supposed to be some connection of the eminently respectable elderly woman accompanying her. Harrison was a rather stately imposing body in her black taffeta, or black broadcloth, as the season demanded. People did not inquire. It was not their affair. The rector on one or two occasions had spoken to Harrison, but Harrison had been on her dignity. She replied politely but did not encourage intimacy and, if the truth must be confessed, Dr. Smith, rather piqued, decided that he had done his duty and would make no further advances. This had happened some time before the beginning of this story. In October, as usual, a number of colts were disposed of. Some were sold to people in the adjacent towns or counties, others sent to remote purchasers who had seen them in their baby days, followed their up- bringing and training, and waited patiently for them to arrive at the stipulated age, four years, before becoming their property. No colt was ever sold under four years of age. This was an inviolable law of Severndale, mutually agreed upon by Dr. Llewellyn, the business manager, Shelby, the foreman, and Peggy, the mistress. "Ain't going to have no half-baked stock sent off THIS place if I have the say-so," had been Shelby's fiat. "I've seen too many fine colts mined by being BRUCK too young and then sold to fools who don't seem to sense that a horse's backbone's like gristle 'fore he's turned three. Then they load him down fit to kill him, or harness him in a way no horse could stand, or drive him off his legs, and, when he's played out, they get back at the man who sold him to them, and like as not there's a lawsuit afoot that the price of the colt four times over couldn't square, to say nothing of a reputation NO stock-farm can afford to have." Shelby's sense was certainly very sound horse-sense and was rigidly abided by. Consequently, the colts which left Severndale were in the pride and glory of their young horsehood, and this year they were a most promising lot. There were eleven to be disposed of, and, thanks to Peggy's care and training, as fine a bunch of horseflesh as could be found in the land. She had trained--not broken, she could not tolerate that word--every one and each knew his or her name and came at Peggy's call as a child, loving and obeying her implicitly. Among them were two exceptionally beautiful creatures--a splendid chestnut with a white star in the middle of his forehead, and a young filly, half-sister to the chestnut and little Boy. The chestnut was called Silver Star, the filly Columbine, for the singular gentleness of her disposition. She was a golden bay, slender and lithe as a fawn, with great fawn-like brown eyes full of gentleness and love for all, and for Peggy in particular. She had been sold, under the usual conditions during the previous year and was soon to be sent to her new home. One morning, the second week in October, Peggy opened a letter which held unusual interest for her. It was from a lady whose home was in Wilmot Hall in Annapolis. Wilmot Hall was the hotel near the Naval Academy and mostly patronized by the officers and their families. The letter was from the wife of a naval officer who wished either to hire or purchase a riding horse for her niece who would spend the winter with her. She stated very explicitly that the horse must be well broken ("Yes, broken!" fairly snorted Peggy. "Broken! I wonder if she would want a literally 'broken' horse? Why will they never say trained!") and gentle, as her niece had ridden very little. The letter then went on to ask if Mrs. Harold might call some day and hour agreed upon. But what amused Peggy most, and caused her to laugh aloud as she took a spoonful of luscious sliced peaches, was the manner in which the letter was addressed. Old Jerome who was serving her in the pretty delft breakfast-room took an old retainer's privilege to ask: "What 'musin' you, honey-chile?" "Didn't know I was an esquire, did you, Jerome? Well I am, because this letter says so. It is addressed to M. C. Stewart, Esq. As I am the only M. C. Stewart I must be the esquire to boot. Wonder what the lady will think when I sign myself Margaret C. Stewart," and Peggy's silvery laugh filled the room. "Don' yo' mind what dey calls yo', baby. How dey gwine know yo's our young mist'ess? Don' yo' let dat triflin' trebble yo' pretty haid," said the faithful old soul, fearful lest his mistress' pride might be touched, and hastening to serve the second course of her breakfast in his best "quality style." "It doesn't trouble me even a little bit, Jerome. It's just funny. I'm going to answer that letter right after breakfast, and I wish I could see my correspondent's face when she finds that her 'esquire' is one of her own sex. But I'll never dare let her guess I'm just a girl." "Jes' a gurl! Jes' a gurl," sputtered Jerome. "Kyant yo' just give her a hint dat yo's a yo'ng lady and we-all's mistiss?" "'Fraid not, Jerome. She will have to learn that when she comes out here to see Silver Star, if she really comes. I'd let her have Columbine if she were not sold. If that girl, who ever she is, could not ride Columbine she would fall out of a rocking chair. But Star is a darling and never cuts pranks unless Shashai sets him a bad example. I fear Shashai will never forget his colt tricks," and Shashai's mistress wagged her pretty head doubtfully. "Shas'ee's all right, Miss Peggy. Don' yo' go fer ter 'line him. When I sees yo' two a kitin' way over de fiel's an' de fences, I says ter ma sef, Gawd-a-mighty, Je'ome, yo's got one pintedly hansome yo'ng mistess AN' she kin ride for fair." "And that same young mistress is in a fair way to be spoiled by your flattery that is pretty certain," laughed Peggy, rising from the breakfast table and gathering up the pile of letters she had been reading. "Huh, Huh. Spiled nothin'," protested Jerome as she disappeared into the adjoining library. Seating herself at her very business-like desk she wrote in a clear, angular hand: Severndale, Round Bay Station. October 20, 19-- Mrs. G. F. Harold, Wilmot Hall, Annapolis, Md. Dear Madam: Your favor of October eighteenth has been duly received and contents noted. In reply would say that I shall be very glad to have you call and inspect our stock. We have one colt, a four-year old, sired by the Emperor, dam the Empress, which I shall be glad to show you. There are also others, but I am considering pedigree, disposition and gait since you state that you wish a horse for an inexperienced rider. Would suggest that you run out to Round Bay Station, via B. A. Short Line R. R. on Saturday, October the twenty-third, 1.30 P. M. weather permitting, where I shall meet and convey you to Severndale. Awaiting your pleasure I am Very truly yours, Margaret C. Stewart How little it often requires to change our whole future. Little did Peggy guess as she wrote that letter in Dr. Llewellyn's most approved form, that it was destined to entirely revolutionize her life, introduce her to a hitherto unknown world and round out her future in a manner beyond the fondest hopes of "Daddy Neil." This is a big world of little things. The letter went upon its way and in the course of the morning Peggy almost forgot it. At ten o'clock Dr. Llewellyn came for the regular morning lessons. If these were a little unusual for a girl of Peggy's age she was certainly none the worse for her very practical knowledge of mathematics, her ability to conduct correctly the business side of the estate, for upon this, as the business manager, good Dr. Llewellyn insisted, and if that bonny, well-poised, level little head sometimes grew weary over investments, and interest, and profits and losses, and nestled down confidingly upon his shoulder, the subjects were none the less fully digested, and Peggy knew to a dollar, as he did, whence her income was derived and to what use it was put. Then, too, Dr. Llewellyn in his love for the classics made them a fairy world for the girl and the commingling of the practical with the ideal maintained the balance. When one o'clock came dinner was served and after that Dr. Llewellyn went his way and Peggy hurried off to her beloved horses. On this day Columbine was to bid good-bye to Severndale. As Peggy entered the big airy stable with its row upon row of scrupulously neat box stalls, for no other sort was permitted in Severndale, Columbine greeted her from one of them, as though asking: "Why am I kept mewed up in here while all my companions are enjoying their daily liberty out yonder?" Peggy opened the gate and entered the stall. The beautiful creature nestled to her like a petted child. "Oh, my bonny one, my bonny one, how can I send you away?" asked Peggy softly. "Will they be good to you out yonder? Will they understand what a prize they have got? Washington is far away and so big and so fashionable, they tell me. It would break my heart to have you misused." The filly nickered softly. "I am going to send a little message with you. If they read it they will surely pay heed to it." She drew from the pocket of her blouse a little package. It was not over an inch wide or three long, and was carefully sealed in a piece of oil silk. Parting the thick, luxuriant mane, she tied her missive securely underneath. When the silky hair fell back in place the little message was completely concealed. Peggy clasped her arms about the filly's neck, kissed the soft muzzle and said: "Good-bye, dear. I'll never forget you and I wonder if I shall ever hear of you or see you again?" Her eyes were full of tears as she left the stable. Two hours later Columbine was led from her happy home. What later befell her we will learn in a future volume of Peggy Stewart. Meanwhile we must follow Peggy's history. On the following Saturday, in the golden glow of an October afternoon, with the hills a glory of color and the air as soft as wine, Peggy drove Comet and Meteor, her splendid carriage horses, to the Bound Bay station to meet Mrs. Harold and her niece. Tzaritza bounded along beside the surrey and old Jess, the coachman of fifty years, sat beside his young mistress, almost bursting with pride as he watched the skill with which she handled the high-spirited animals, for Jess had taught her to drive when she was so tiny that he had to hold her upon his lap, and keep the little hands within the grasp of his big black ones. Leaving the horses in his care she stepped upon the little platform which did primitive duty as a station, to await the arrival of the electric car which could already be heard humming far away up the line. As her guests stepped from the car she advanced to meet them, saying as she extended her hand to Mrs. Harold: "This is Mrs. Harold, I reckon. I am Peggy Stewart. I am glad to meet you." There was not the least hesitation or self-consciousness and the frank smile which accompanied the words revealed all her pretty, even teeth. "I got your message and I am right glad to welcome you to Severndale." The lady looked a trifle bewildered. She had expected to meet the owner of Severndale, or, certainly, a mature woman. Her correspondence had, it is true, been with a Margaret C. Stewart, whom she assumed to be Mr. Stewart's wife or some relative. Intuitively Peggy grasped the situation, but kept a perfectly sober face. "I am very glad to come," said her guest, and added: "This is my niece, Polly Howland." "It's nice to see and know you. I don't see many girls of my own age. Will you come to the surrey?" and she indicated with a graceful motion of her hand the carriage in waiting just beyond. Mrs. Harold and her niece followed their guide. Old Jess made a sweeping bow. He must do the honors properly. Peggy helped her guests into the rear seat, then sprang lightly into the front one, drew on a pair of chamois gloves, and taking the reins from Jess, gave a low, clear whistle. Instantly Tzaritza bounded up from beneath some shrubbery where she had lain hidden, and cavorting to the horses' heads made playful snaps at their muzzles. The next second they had reared upon their hind legs. Mrs. Harold gave a little cry of terror and Polly laid hold of the side of the surrey. Peggy flashed an amused, dazzling smile over her shoulder at them as she said reassuringly: "Don't be frightened. Down, Tzaritza. Steady, my beauties." At her words the beautiful span settled down as quiet as lambs and swung into a gait which whirled the surrey along the picturesque, woodland road at a rate not to be despised, while Peggy drove with the master- hand of experience. Indeed she seemed to guide more by words than reins, or some perfectly understood signal to the splendid creatures which arched their necks, or laid back an ear to catch each low spoken word. For a time Peggy's guests were too absorbed in watching her marvelous skill and almost uncanny power over her horses to make any comment. Then the young girl broke into a perfect ecstasy of delight as she cried: "Oh, how do you do it? How beautiful they are and what a superb dog. It is a Russian wolfhound, isn't it?" "Yes, she is a wolfhound. But I don't quite understand. Do what?" and Peggy glanced back questioningly. "Why drive like that. Make them obey you so perfectly." "Oh! Why I reckon it is because I have driven all my life. I can't remember when I haven't, and I love and understand them so well. That is all there is to it, I think. They will do almost anything for me. You see I was here when they were born and they have known me from the very first. That makes a lot of difference. And I have a great deal to do about the paddock. I superintend it. The horses are never afraid of me and if they don't know the meaning of fear one can do almost anything with them," How simple it was all said. Mrs. Harold was more and more puzzled. The drive was longer than she had expected it to be and she had ample time to observe her young hostess. "And your mother or aunt, whom I infer is my correspondent, shall I meet her at Severndale!" "My mother is not living, Mrs. Harold, and I have no own aunt; only an aunt by marriage, the widow of Daddy's only brother, but I have never seen her." "Then I am at a loss to understand with whom I have been corresponding about a wonderful horse called Silver Star. Someone who signs her letters Margaret C. Stewart, and who evidently knows what she is writing about, too, for she writes to the point and has told me a dozen things which no one but an experienced business woman would think of telling. Yet you tell me there is neither a Mrs. nor Miss Stewart at Severndale." "I am afraid I am the only Miss Stewart at Severndale, though I am never called Miss Stewart. I'm just Miss Peggy to the help, and Peggy to my friends. But, of course, when I write business letters I have to sign my full name." "You write business letters. Do you mean to tell me you wrote those letters'?" "I'm the only Margaret Stewart," answered Peggy, her eyes twinkling. "But here we are at Severndale." The span made a sharp turn and sped along a beautiful avenue over-arched by golden beeches and a moment later swept up to a stately old colonial mansion which must have looked out over the reaches of Round Bay for many generations. CHAPTER V POLLY HOWLAND It must be admitted that during the drive from the station Peggy's curiosity concerning her guests had been fully as lively as theirs regarding her. She had never known girl friends; there was but one home within reasonable reach of her own which harbored a girl near her own age and during the past year even this one had been sent off to boarding school, her parents realizing that the place was too remote to afford her the advantages her age demanded. Consequently, Peggy experienced a little thrill when she met Polly Howland. Here was a girl of her own age, her own station, and, if intuition meant anything, a kindred spirit. The moment of their introduction had been too brief for Peggy to have a good look at Polly, but now that they had reached Severndale she meant to have it, and while Mrs. Howland and Polly were exclaiming over the beauty of the old place, and the former was wondering how she could have lived in Annapolis so long without even being aware of its existence, Peggy, while apparently occupied in caring for her guests' welfare, was scrutinizing those guests very closely. What she saw was a lady something past forty, a little above the average height, slight and graceful, with masses of dark brown hair coiled beneath a very pretty dark blue velvet toque, a face almost as fresh and fair as a girl's, large, dark brown expressive eyes, which held a light that in some mysterious manner appealed to Peggy and drew her irresistibly. They were smiling eyes with a twinkle suggestive of a sense of humor, a sympathetic understanding of the view-point of those of fewer years, which the mouth beneath corroborated, for the lips held a little curve which often betrayed the inward emotions. Her voice was soft and sweet and its intonation fell soothingly upon Peggy's sensitive ears. Taken altogether, her elder guest had already won Peggy's heart, though she would have found it hard to explain why. And Polly Howland? To describe Polly Howland in cold print would be impossible, for Polly was something of a chameleon. What Peggy saw was a young girl not quite as tall as herself, but slightly heavier and straight and lithe as a willow. Her fine head was topped with a great wavy mass of the deepest copper-tinted hair, perfectly wonderful hair, which glinted and flashed with every turn of the girl's head, and rolled back from a broad forehead white and clear as milk. The eyes beneath the forehead were a perfect cadet blue, with long lashes many shades darker than the hair. They were big eyes, expressive and constantly changing with Polly's moods, now flashing, now laughing, again growing dark, deep and tender. The nose had an independent little tilt, but the mouth was exquisitely faultless and mobile and expressive to a rare degree. Polly's eyes and mouth would have attracted attention anywhere. Of course Peggy did not take quite this analytical view of either of her guests, though in a vague way she felt it all and an odd sense of happiness filled her soul which she would have found it hard to explain. She led the way through the spacious hall and dining-room to the broad piazza from which the view was simply entrancing, and said: "Won't you and Miss Howland be seated, Mrs. Harold; I am sure you must be hungry after your ride through this October air. We will have some refreshments and then go out to the paddock to see Silver Star." Touching a little silver bell, which was promptly answered by Jerome, she ordered: "Something extra nice for my guests, Jerome, and please send word to Shelby that we will be out to the paddock in half an hour." "Yes, missie, lamb, I gwine bring yo' a dish fitten f o' a queen." Mrs. Harold dropped into one of the big East India porch chairs, saying: "This is one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen. Polly, dear, look at the wonderful reds of those wings contrasted with the foliage back of them. Why have we never known of Severndale? Have you lived here long, Miss Stewart?" "Would you mind calling me just Peggy? Miss Stewart makes me feel so old and grown-up," said Peggy unaffectedly. Mrs. Harold smiled approvingly and Polly cried: "Yes, doesn't it? I hate to be called Miss Howland. I'm not, anyway, for I have an older sister. Have you, too?" "No," answered Peggy. "I have no one in the world but Daddy Neil, and he is away nearly all the time. I wish he were not. I miss him terribly. He spent August with me and I have never before missed him as I do this time. I have always lived here, Mrs. Harold. I was born here," she concluded in reply to Mrs. Harold's question. "But your companions?" Mrs. Harold could not refrain from asking. Peggy smiled. "That was Daddy Neil's deepest concern during his last visit. He had not thought much about it before, I guess. I dare say you will think it odd, but my companions are mostly four-footed ones, though I am--what shall I call it? Guarded? chaperoned? cared for? by Harrison, Mammy Lucy and Jerome, with my legal guardian, Dr. Llewellyn to keep me within bounds. I dare say most people would consider it very unusual, but I am very happy and never lonely. Yes, Jerome, set the tray here, please," she ended as the butler returned bearing a large silver tray laden with a beautiful silver chocolate service, egg-shell cups straight from Japan, a plate of the most delicate, flaky biscuits, divided, buttered and steaming, flanked by another plate piled high with little scalloped- edged nut cakes, just fresh from Aunt Cynthia's oven. Taking her seat beside the table Peggy poured and Jerome served in his most dignified manner, while Mrs. Harold marveled more and more and Polly thought she had never in all her life seen a girl quite like Peggy. "It is one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen," said Mrs. Harold. "I am glad you like it, for I love it. Few people know of it. I mean few who come to Annapolis. I have lived here so quietly since Mamma's death when I was six years old. Daddy comes whenever he can, but he has asked for sea duty since Mamma left us. He has missed her so." "In which class did your father graduate, Miss Peggy!" "In 18--, Mrs. Harold." "Why then he must have been in the Academy when Mr. Harold was there. He graduated two years later. I wonder if they knew each other. Mr. Harold would have been a youngster, and your father a first-classman, and first-classmen HAVE been known to notice youngsters." Peggy looked puzzled. Although she had always lived within ten miles of the Academy, she had never entered its gates, and knew nothing of its ways or rules. Polly was wiser, having spent a month with her aunt. She laughed as she explained: "A first-classman is a lordly being who is generally at odds with a second-classman, but inclined to protect a third-classman, or youngster, simply because the second-classman is inclined to make life a burden for him, just as he in turn is ready to torment the life out of a fourth- classman, or plebe. I am just beginning to understand it. It seemed perfectly ridiculous at first, but I guess some of those boys are the better for the running they get. I've only been here since the first of October, but I've learned a whole lot in four weeks. Maybe you will come over to see us some time and you will understand better then." "I'd love to, I am sure. But may I offer you something more? No? Then perhaps we would better go down to the paddock." They stepped from the piazza and walked through the beautifully kept garden. On either side late autumn flowers were blooming, the box hedges were a deep, waxen green, and gave forth a rich, aromatic odor. Polly cried: "I just can't believe that you--you--why that you are the mistress of all this. I don't believe you can be one bit older than I am." "I was fourteen last January," answered Peggy simply. "And I fifteen last August," cried Polly with the frankness of her years. "Then you are exactly five months older than I am, aren't you?" Peggy's smile was wonderfully winning. "And when I look at all this and hear you talk I feel just about five YEARS YOUNGER," was Polly's frank reply. "Why I've never done a single thing in my life.'' "Not one?" asked Mrs. Harold, smiling significantly. "Oh well, nothing like all THIS," protested Polly. They had now reached a large inclosure. At the further end were a number of low buildings, evidently stables. Nearer at hand, outside the inclosure, were larger buildings--barns and offices. The inclosure was still soft and green in its carpeting of turf and patches of clover. Eight or ten horses were running at large, free and halterless. Further on was another inclosure in which several brood mares were grazing quietly or frisking about with, their colts. Some had come to the high paling to gaze inquiringly at the strangers. "Oh, Tanta, Tanta, just look at them," cried Polly in a rapture. "And which is to be mine?" "None of those spindle-legs yonder," was Peggy's amused answer. "They will be running at large for a long time yet. I don't even begin training them until they are a year old--at least not in anything but loving and obeying me. But most of them learn that very quickly. You must look in this paddock for Silver Star, Miss Polly. Shall I call him?" "Will he really come?" asked Polly incredulously. For answer Peggy slipped into the paddock, saying as she shot back the bolt: "We used to have a much simpler fastening, but they learned how to undo it and make their escape. For that reason we are obliged to have these high fences. They have a strain of hunter blood and a six-foot barrier doesn't mean much to some of them." How bonny the girl looked as she stood there. The horses which were in a little group near the buildings at the opposite end of the paddock, raised their heads inquiringly. The girl gave a long, clear whistle which was instantly answered by a chorus of loud neighs, as the group broke into a mad gallop and bore down upon her. It seemed to Mrs. Harold and Polly as though the on-rushing creatures must bear her down, but just when the speed was the maddest, when heads were tossing most wildly, and tails and manes waving like banners, Peggy cried: "Halt! Steady, my beauties!" and as one the beautiful animals came to a standstill their hoofs stirring up a cloud of dust, so suddenly did they brace their forefeet. The next second they were crowding around her, nuzzling her hair, her shoulders, her hands, evidently begging in silent eloquence for some expected dainty. Peggy carried a small linen bag. She opened it and instantly the air was filled with the soft, bubbling whinny with which a horse begs. "Quiet, Meteor. Be patient, Don. Wait, Queen. Oh, Shashai, will you never learn manners?" she cried as her pet stretched his long neck and catching the little bag in his teeth snatched it from her hands, then, with all the delight of a child who has played a clever trick, away he dashed across the paddock. "Shashai! Shashai, how dare you! Halt!" she called after him, but the graceful creature had no idea of halting. For a moment Peggy looked at her guests very much as a baffled schoolmistress might look in the event of her pupil's open defiance, then cried: "This will never, never do. If he disobeys me once I shall never be able to do anything with him again. Please excuse me a moment. I must catch him." "Are you in the habit of chasing whirlwinds?" asked Mrs. Harold laughing. "You must be able to run faster than most people," laughed Polly, but even as she spoke Peggy cried: "Star! Star! Come." And out from the group slipped a superb chestnut. He came close to the girl, slipping his beautiful head across her shoulder and nestling against her face with the affection of a child. She clasped her arm up around the satiny neck and said softly: "We must catch Shashai, Star," then turning like a flash, she rested one hand lightly upon his withers, gave a quick spring and sat astride the horse's back. Polly gave a little cry and clasped her hands, her eyes sparkling with delight at this marvelous equestrian feat. Mrs. Harold was too amazed to speak. "After him! Four bells, Star," cried Peggy, and away rushed the pair as though horse and rider were one creature, Peggy's divided cloth skirt, which up to that moment Mrs. Harold had not noticed, fluttering back to reveal the nattiest little patent leather riding boots imaginable. It was one of the prettiest pictures Mrs. Harold and Polly had ever beheld. But that race was not to end so quickly. Shashai boasted the same blood as Silver Star, and was every bit as intelligent as his older brother. Moreover he had no mind to give up his treasure-trove. He knew that little bag and its contents too well and was minded to carry it to the end of the paddock and there rend and tear it, until its contents were spilled and he could eat his companions' share as well as his own. And that was exactly what Peggy did not propose to permit, either for his well-being or in justice to the other pets. As the extraordinary game of tag ranged around the big paddock, Polly fairly danced up and down in excitement, crying: "Tanta, Tanta, I didn't know any one COULD ride like that girl. Why it is more wonderful than a circus. And isn't she beautiful? Oh, I want to know her better. I am sure she must be a perfect dear. Why if I could ever ride half as well I'd be the proudest girl in the world." "And how simply and unostentatiously she does everything. Polly, I suspect we shall be the richer for several things besides a handsome horse when we return to Wilmot." Meanwhile Peggy was bearing down upon the thief and his plunder, though he darted and dodged like a cat, but in an unguarded moment he gave Star the advantage and was cornered. "Shashai, halt! Steady. Down. My pardon." Never was human speech more perfectly understood and obeyed. The game was up and the superb horse stopped, dropped upon his knees and touched the ground with his muzzle, the bag still held in his teeth. "Up, Shashai," and the horse was again upon his feet. Peggy reached over and taking hold of his flowing forelock led him back to the gate. Nothing could have been more demure than the manner in which he minced along beside her. At the gate Peggy slipped from Star's back as snow slips from a sunny bank, and stretching forth her hand said: "Give it to me, Shashai." The mischievous colt dropped the bag into her hand. "Good boy," and a caress rewarded the reformed one. Then Polly's enthusiasm broke forth. How had she ever done it? Who had taught her to ride like that? Could she, Polly, ever hope to do so? Peggy laughed gaily, and explained Shelby's methods as best she could, giving a little outline of her life on the estate which held a peculiar interest for Mrs. Harold, who read more between the lines than Peggy guessed, and who then and there resolved to know something more of this unusual girl to whose home they had been so curiously led. She had been thrown with young people all her life and loved them dearly, and here to her experienced eyes was a rare specimen of young girlhood and her heart warmed to her. "I'd give anything to ride as you do," said Polly quite in despair of ever doing so. "Why I can't remember when I haven't ridden. Shelby put me on a horse when Mammy Lucy declared I was too tiny to sit in a chair, and oh, how I love it and them. It is all so easy, so free--so--I don't quite know how to express it. But I must not take any more of your time talking about myself. Please excuse me for having talked so much. I wanted you to see Silver Star's paces but I did not plan to show them in just this way. But isn't he a dear? I don't know how I can let him go away from Severndale, but he as well as the others must. We sent Columbine only a few days ago. She has the sweetest disposition of any horse I have ever trained. It nearly broke my heart to send her off. They are all relatives. Shashai and Star are half-brothers. Shashai is my very own and I shall never sell him. Would you like to try Star, Miss Polly? I can get you a riding skirt. Shall you ride cross or side? He is trained for both." "Not today, I think," answered Mrs. Harold for Polly. "We must make our arrangements for Star and then we will see about riding lessons. I wish you would undertake to teach Polly." "Oh, would you really let me teach her?" cried Peggy enthusiastically. "I think the obligation would be all on the other side," laughed Mrs. Harold. "It would be a privilege too great to claim." "There would be no obligation whatever. I'd just love to," cried Peggy eagerly. "Why it would be perfectly lovely to have her come out here every day. Please walk back to the house and let us talk it over," Peggy's eyes were sparkling. "Oh, Tanta, may I?" "Slowly, Polly. My head is beginning to swim with so many ideas crowding into it," but Polly Howland knew from the tone that the day was as good as won. CHAPTER VI A FRIENDSHIP BEGINS As they walked back to the house the girls talked incessantly, Mrs. Harold listening intently but saying very little. She was drawing her own conclusions, which were usually pretty shrewd ones. Commander Harold had for the past four years been stationed either at the Naval Academy, or on sea duty on board the Rhode Island when she made her famous cruise around the world. Mrs. Harold had remained at Wilmot Hall during the winter of 1907 and 1908, Polly's sister Constance spending it with her. Later Commander Harold had duty at the Academy, but recently with his new commission, for he had been a commander only a few months, he had been given one of the new cruisers and was at sea once more. They had no children, their only child having died many years before, but Mrs. Harold, loving young people as she did, was never without them near her. This winter her niece, Polly Howland, would remain with her and she was anxious to make the winter a happy one for the young girl. This she had a rare opportunity of doing, for her pretty sitting-room in Wilmot Hall was a gathering place for the young people of the entire neighborhood and the midshipmen in particular, who loved it dearly and were devoted to its mistress, loving her with the devotion of sons, and invariably calling her "the Little Mother," and her sitting-room "Middies' Haven." And a happier little rendezvous it would have been hard to find, for Mrs. Harold loved her big foster-sons dearly, strove in every way to make the place a home for them and to develop all that was best in their diverse characters. It was to this home that Polly had come to pass the winter and now a new phase had developed, the outcome of what seemed to be chance, but it is to be questioned whether anything in this great world of ours is the outcome of chance. If so wisely ordered in some respects, why not in all? So it is not surprising that Mrs. Harold watched and listened with rare sympathy and a keen intuition as the girls walked a little ahead of her, talking together as freely and frankly as though they had known each other for years instead of hours only. "Couldn't you come out on the electric car every morning?" Peggy was asking. "If you could do that for about two weeks I am sure you would be able to ride BEAUTIFULLY at the end of them." "Not in the morning, I'm afraid. You see I am an Annapolis co-ed," Polly answered laughing gaily at Peggy's mystified expression. "Yes I am, truly. You see I came down here to spend the winter with Aunt Janet because she is lonely when Uncle Glenn is away. But, of course, I can't just sit around and do nothing, or frolic all the time. Had I remained at home I should have been in my last year at high school, but Tanta doesn't want me to go to the one down here. Oh we've had the funniest discussions. First she thought she'd engage a governess for me, and we had almost settled on that when the funniest little thing changed it all. Isn't it queer how just a little thing will sometimes turn your plans all around?" "What changed yours?" asked Peggy, more deeply interested in this new acquaintance and the new world she was introducing her into than she had ever been in anything in her life. "You'll laugh at me, I dare say, if I tell you, but I don't mind. Up at my own home in Montgentian, N. J., I had a boy chum. We have known each other since we were little tots and always played together. He is two years older than I am, but I was only a year behind him when he graduated from the high last spring. My goodness, how I worked to catch up, for I was ashamed to let him be so far ahead of me. I couldn't quite catch up, though, and he graduated a year ahead of me in spite of all I could do. Then he took a competitive examination for Annapolis and passed finely, entering the Academy last June. I was just tickled to death for we are just like brother and sister, we have been together so much. Then Tanta sent for me and I came back with her on September 30. One day we were over in the yard and the boys--men, I dare say I ought to call them, for some of them are tall as bean poles, only they have all been Aunt Janet's 'boys' ever since they entered the Academy--were teasing me, and telling me I couldn't work with Ralph any longer. I got mad then and said I guessed I COULD work with him if I saw fit, and I meant to, too. Oh, they laughed and jeered at me until I could have slapped every single one of them, but I then and there made up my mind to follow THIS year's academic course if I died in the attempt, and when we went home I talked it all over with Aunt Janet. She's such a dear, and always ready to listen to anything we young people have to tell her. So I really am a co-ed. Yes, I am; I knew you'd smile. I have an instructor, a retired captain, a friend of Aunt Janet's, who lives at Wilmot, and Aunt Janet has rented an extra room next mine for a schoolroom, and every morning at nine o'clock Captain Pennell and I settle down to real hard work. I have 'math' and mechanical drawing just exactly as Ralph has, and the same French, Spanish and English course, but what I love best of all is learning all about a boat and how to sail her, how to swim, and the gym work. And Captain Pennell is teaching me how to fence and to shoot with a rifle and a revolver. Oh, it is just heaps and heaps of fun. I didn't dream a girl could learn all those things, but Captain Pennell is such a dear and so interesting. He seems to have something new for each day. But HOW Aunt Janet's boys do run me and ask me when I'm coming out for cutter drill, or field artillery or any old thing they know I CAN'T do. But never mind. I know just exactly what all their old orders mean, and I am learning all about our splendid big ships and the guns and everything just as fast as ever I can. But, my goodness, I shall talk you to death. Mother says I never know when to stop once I get started. I beg your pardon," and Polly looked quite abashed as they drew near the piazza. "Why I think it is all perfectly fascinating. How I'd love to do some of those things. I can shoot and swim and sail my boat, but I've never been in a gymnasium or done any of those interesting things. I wish Compadre could hear all about it. They wanted to send me away to a big finishing school this winter but I begged so hard for one more year's freedom that Daddy Neil consented, but I think he would love to have me know about the things you are learning." "Oh, Tanta, couldn't we make some sort of a bargain? Couldn't Peggy come to us three days of the week and work with Captain Pennell and me, and then I come out three to learn to ride?" Peggy's eyes shone as she listened. She had not realized how hungry she had been for young companionship until this sunny-souled young girl had dropped into her little world. Mrs. Harold smiled sympathetically upon the enthusiastic pair. "Perhaps we can make a mutually beneficial bargain," she said. "I think I shall accept Silver Star upon your recommendation, Miss Peggy, and what I have already seen. Then if you are willing to undertake it, Polly shall be taught to ride by you, and you in turn must come to us at Wilmot to join Captain Pennell's class of fencing, gym work or whatever else seems wise or you wish to. But who must decide the question, dear?" How unconsciously she had dropped into the term of endearment with this young girl. It was so much a part of her nature to do so. Peggy's cheeks became rose-tinted with pleasure, and her eyes alight with happiness. Her smile was radiant as she slipped to Mrs. Harold's side saying: "Oh, if Compadre were only here to decide it right away. He is my guardian you know, and, of course, I must do as he wishes, but I hope--oh I HOPE, he will let me do this." "And what is it you so wish to do, Filiola?" asked a gentle voice within the room. Peggy gave a little cry of delight. "Oh, Compadre, when did you come? We have just been talking about you," cried Peggy, flitting to the side of the tall, handsome old gentleman and slipping her arm about him as his encircled her shoulder, and he looked down upon her with a pair of benign dark eyes as he answered: "I have been luxuriating and feasting for the past half hour while waiting for a truant ward. Jerome took pity upon me and fed me to keep me in a good temper. "Oh, Compadre, I want you to know my new friend, Mrs. Harold and her niece, Polly Howland. We have been having the loveliest visit together." Dr. Llewellyn advanced to meet the guests, one arm still encircling his ward, the other extended to take Mrs. Harold's hand as he said: "This is a great pleasure, madam. To judge by my little girl's face she has found a congenial companion. I am more than delighted to meet both aunt and niece." "And we are ALMOST the same age! Isn't that lovely!" cried Polly. Dr. Llewellyn exchanged a significant glance with Mrs. Harold, then asked: "Have you imparted your peculiar power to your niece, Mrs. Harold?" Mrs. Harold looked mystified. "I am afraid I don't quite understand," she smiled. "Your chaplain at the Academy is an old friend of mine. We occasionally hobnob over the chess board and a modest glass of wine. I hear of things beyond Round Bay and Severndale; I am interested in that gathering of young men in the Academy and often ask questions. The chaplain is deeply concerned for their welfare and has told me many things, among others something of a certain lady to whom they are devoted and who has a remarkable influence over them. It has interested me, too, for they are at the most impressionable, susceptible period of their lives and a wise influence can do much for them. I am glad to meet 'The Little Mother of Middies' Haven.'" Dr. Llewellyn's eyes twinkled as he spoke. Mrs. Harold blushed like a girl as she asked: "Have my sins found me out?" "It is a pity we could not find all 'sins' as salutary. I may be a retired old clergyman, with no greater responsibilities upon my shoulders than keeping one unruly little girl within bounds," he added, giving a tweak to Peggy's curls, "and looking after her father's estate-- I tutored HIM when he was a lad--but I hear echoes of the doings of the outer world now and again. Yes--yes, now and again, and when they are cheering echoes I rejoice greatly. But let us be seated and hear the wonderful news which will cause an explosion presently unless the safety-valves are opened," he concluded, placing chairs for Mrs. Harold and Polly with courtly grace. They talked for an hour and at its end Dr. Llewellyn and Mrs. Harold had settled upon a plan which caused Peggy and Polly to nearly prance for joy. Mrs. Harold was to talk it over with Captain Pennell and phone out to Severndale the next morning, and if all went well, Peggy would go to Annapolis to take up certain branches of the work with Polly, and in the intervening mornings continue her work with Dr. Llewellyn, and Polly in return would spend three afternoons with her. Star was hired then and there for the winter, but would live at Severndale until Polly's horse-WOMAN-ship was a little more to be relied upon. Before Mrs. Harold and Polly realized where the afternoon had gone it was time to return to Annapolis. They were driven to the station by Jess, Peggy and Dr. Llewellyn riding beside the carriage on Shashai and Dr. Claudius, Dr. Llewellyn's big dapple-gray hunter, for the old clergyman was an aristocrat to his fingertips and lived the life of his Maryland forebears, at seventy sitting his horse as he had done in early manhood, and even occasionally following the hounds. It was a pretty sight to see him and Peggy ride, his great horse making its powerful strides, while Shashai flitted along like a swallow, full of all manner of little conceits and pranks though absolutely obedient to Peggy's low- spoken words, or knee-pressure, for the bridle rein was a quite superfluous adjunct to her riding gear, and she would have ridden without a saddle but for conventionalities. They bade their guests good-bye at the little station, and rode slowly back to Severndale in the golden glow of the late afternoon, Peggy talking incessantly and the good doctor occasionally asking a question or telling her something of the world over in the Academy of which she knew so little, but of which fate seemed to have ordained she should soon know much more. There was a quiet little talk up in Middies' Haven that evening, and Captain Pennell learned from Mrs. Harold of the little girl up at Round Bay. He was not only willing to accept Peggy as a second pupil, but delighted to welcome the addition to his "Co-ed Institution" as he called it. He had grown very fond of his pupil in the brief time she had worked with him, but felt sure that a little competition would lend zest to the work. He was deeply interested in the novel plan and wished his pupil to give her old chum and schoolmate a lively contest. Moreover, he was a lonely man whom ill-health and sorrow had left little to expect from life. His wife and only daughter had died in Guam soon after the end of the Spanish war, in which he had received the wound which had incapacitated him for service and forced him to retire in what should have been the prime of life. Since that hour he had lived only to kill time; the deadliest fate to which a human being can be condemned. Until Polly entered his lonely world it would have been hard to picture a duller life than he led, but her sunshiny soul seemed to have reflected some of its light upon him, and he was happier than he had been in years. It is safe to say that the description of Peggy, her home, her horses and all pertaining to her, lost nothing in Polly's telling and it was agreed that she should become a special course co-ed upon the following Monday. And out at Severndale an equally eager, enthusiastic little body was awaiting the ringing of the telephone bell, and when at nine o'clock Sunday morning its cheerful jingling summoned Peggy from her breakfast table, she was as happy as she well could be and promised faithfully to be at Wilmot at nine o'clock the following morning. And so began a friendship destined to last as long as the girls lived, and the glorious autumn days were filled with delights for them both. To Peggy it was a wonderful world. The Tuesday following Polly went to Severndale and her first riding lesson began, with more or less quaking upon her part, it must be confessed. She felt tremendously high up in the air when she first found herself upon Silver Star's back. But he behaved like a gentleman, seeming to realize that the usual order of things was being reversed and that he was teaching instead of being taught. So, in spite of Shashai's wicked hints for a prank, he conducted himself in a manner most exemplary and Polly went back to Wilmot Hall as enthusiastic as she well could be. Mrs. Harold had invited Peggy to spend the week-end at Wilmot. She wished her to meet some of Polly's friends and she, herself, wished to know the young girl better. So Dr. Llewellyn's permission was asked and promptly granted, and with his consent won that of Harrison and Mammy Lucy was a mere form. Nevertheless, Peggy was too wise to overlook asking, for Harrison fancied herself the embodiment of the law, and Mammy Lucy, in her own estimation at least, stood for the dignity of the Stewart family. And the preparations for the little week-end visit were undertaken with a degree of ceremony which might have warranted a trip to Europe. Peggy's suitcase was packed by Mammy's own hands, Harrison hovering near to make sure that nothing was overlooked, to Mammy's secret disgust, for she felt herself fully capable of attending to it. Then came the question of going in, Peggy very naturally expecting to go by the electric car as she had during the week. But NO! Such an undignified entrance into Wilmot was not to be thought of. She must be driven in by Jess. "But Mammy, how ridiculous," protested Peggy. "I can get a boy at the station to carry my suitcase to the hotel." Mammy looked at her in disdain. "Git one ob dem no 'count dirty little nigger boys what hangs round dat railway station to tote yo' shute case, a-tailin' long behime yo' for all de worl lak a tromp. What yo' 'spose yo' pa would say to we-all if we let yo' go a-visitin' in amy sich style as dat, an' yo' a Stewart AN' de daughter ob a naval officer who's gwine visit de wife ob one ob his 'Cademy frien's! Chile, yo's cl'ar crazy. Yo' go in de proper style lemme tell yo', or yo' aim gwine go 'tall. Yo' hear ME?" And Peggy had to meekly submit, realizing that there were SOME laws which even a Stewart might not violate. So on Saturday afternoon Comet and Meteor tooled the surrey along by beautiful woodland and field, Peggy clad in her pretty autumn suit and hat, her suitcase at Jess' feet, and herself as properly dignified as the occasion demanded, while in her secret heart she resolved to enlist Mrs. Harold upon her side and in future make her visits with less ceremony. CHAPTER VII PEGGY STEWART: CHATELAINE Peggy had entered a new world. Plunged into one, would perhaps better express it, so sudden had been her entrance, and her letters to Daddy Neil, now on his way to Guantanamo for the fall drills, were full of an enthusiasm which almost bewildered him and started a new train of thought. As he knew most members of the personnel of the ships comprising the Atlantic fleet, he, of course, knew Commander Harold, though it had never occurred to him to associate him with Annapolis, or to make any inquiry regarding his home or his connections. Like many another, he was merely a fellow-officer. He was not a classmate, so his interest was less keen than it would have been had such been the case. Moreover, Harold was in a different division of the fleet and they very rarely met. But now the whole situation was changed by Peggy's letter. He would hunt up Mr. Harold at the first opportunity and with this common interest to bind them, much pleasure was in store. True to her word, Peggy sent her letter off every Sunday afternoon--a conscientious report of the week's happenings. Her "log," she called it, and it was the comfort of Daddy Neil's life. Meanwhile, she spent about half of her time with Mrs. Harold and Polly, and in a very short time became as good a chum of Mrs. Harold's "boys," the midshipmen, as was Polly. There was always something doing over at the Academy, and as Mrs. Harold's guest, Peggy was naturally included. At present football practice was absorbing the interest of the Academic world and its friends, for in a few weeks the big Army-Navy game would take place up in Philadelphia and Mrs. Harold had already invited Peggy to go to it with her party. Peggy had never even seen a practice game until taken over to the Naval Academy field with her friends, where the boys teased her unmercifully because she asked why they didn't "have a decently shaped ROUND ball instead of a leather watermelon which wouldn't do a thing but flop every which way, and call it tussle-ball instead of football?" There was a little circle which gathered about Mrs. Harold, and which was always alluded to as "her big children." These were men from the different classes in the Academy, for there were no "class rates" in "Middies' Haven," as they called her sitting-room. Peggy met them all, though, naturally, there were some she liked better than others. Among the upper-classmen who would graduate in the spring were three who were at Middies' Haven whenever there was the slightest excuse for being there. These boys who seemed quite grown-up men to fourteen-year-old Peggy, though she soon lost her shyness with them, and learned that they could frolic as well as the younger ones, went by the names of Happy, Wheedles and Shortie, the latter so nicknamed because he was six feet, four inches tall, though the others' nicknames had been bestowed because they really fitted. There were also two or three second-classmen and youngsters who frequently visited Mrs. Harold, one in particular, who fascinated every one with whom he came in touch. His name was Durand Leroux, and, strange to state, he looked enough like Peggy to be her own brother, yet try as they would, no vestige of a relationship could be traced, for Peggy came of purely Southern stock while Durand claimed New England for his birthplace. Nevertheless, it became a good joke and they were often spoken of as the twins, though Durand was three years Peggy's senior. Polly's chum, Ralph Wilbur, was about the same age as Durand, though in the lowest or fourth class, having just entered the Academy, and consequently was counted as very small fry indeed. He was a quiet, undemonstrative chap but Peggy liked him from the moment she met him. He had mastered one important bit of knowledge: That a "plebe" does well to lie low, and as the result of mastering that salient fact he was well liked by the upper-classmen and found them ready to do him a good many friendly turns which a more "raty" fourth-classman would not have found coming his way. Altogether, Peggy found herself a member of a very delightful little circle and was happier than she had ever been in her life. In Mrs. Harold she found the love she had missed without understanding it, and in Polly a companion who filled her days with delight. And what busy days they were. So full of plans, duties and pleasures, for Mrs. Harold had been very quick to understand the barrenness of Peggy's life in spite of her rich supply of this world's goods, and she promptly set about rounding it out as it should have been. And so November with its wonderful Indian Summer slipped on, and it was during one of these ideal days that an absurd episode took place upon the well-conducted estate of Severndale, which caused Peggy to be run most unmercifully by the boys. But before we can tell of it a few words of explanation are needed. As can be readily understood, in a large institution like the Naval Academy, where the boys foregather from every state in the Union, there are all classes and all types represented. Among them are splendid, fine principled fellows, with high moral standards and unimpeachable characters. And there are, alas, those of another type also, and these are the ones who invariably make trouble for others and are pretty sure to disgrace themselves. Fortunately, this type rarely survives the four years' crucial test of character, efficiency and aptitude, but is pretty sure to "pack its little grip and fade away," as the more eligible ones express it, long before it comes time to receive a diploma. Unhappily, there was one man in the present first class who had managed to remain in the Academy in spite of conduct which would have "bilged" (Academy slang for the man who has to drop out) a dozen others, and who was the source of endless trouble for under-classmen over whom he contrived to exert a wholly malign influence. He seemed to be not only utterly devoid of principle and finer feeling, but to take a perfectly fiendish delight in corrupting the younger boys. His one idea of being "a man" seemed to lie in the infringement of every regulation of the Academy, and to induce others to do likewise. He had caused the president of his class endless trouble and mortification, and distressed Mrs. Harold beyond measure, for her interest in all in the Academy was very keen, and especially in the younger boys, whom she knew to be at the most susceptible period of their lives. Had his folly been confined to mere boyish nonsense it might have been overlooked, but it had gone on from folly to vicious conduct and his boast was that it was his duty to harden the plebes, his idea of hardening them being to get them intoxicated. Now if there is one infringement of rules more sure to bring retribution upon the perpetrator than any other, it is intoxication, and the guilty one is most summarily dealt with. This was fully known to Blue, the delinquent referred to, but he had by some miraculous method thus far managed to escape conviction if not suspicion, though more than one unfortunate under-classman had been forced to tender his resignation as the result of going the pace with Blue. So serious had the situation become that the president of the first class had quietly set about a little plan in cooperation with other members of his class which would be pretty sure to rid the Academy of its undesirable acquisition. It was only a question of giving Blue enough time to work his own undoing, and as things had begun to shape, this seemed pretty sure to take place. Naturally, with feeling running so strong, Peggy heard a good deal of it when she visited Middies' Haven, especially since Durand Leroux, whom she had grown to like so well, seemed to have been selected by Blue as his newest victim, greatly to Mrs. Harold's distress, for she knew Durand to be far too easily led, and too generous and unsuspicious to believe evil of any one. Happy-go- lucky, carefree and ever ready for any frolic, he was exactly the type to fall a victim to Blue's insidious influence, for Blue could be fascinating to a degree when it served his turn. Blue was debarred the privilege of visiting Middies' Haven, and his resentment of this prompted him to try to wreak his vengeance upon Mrs. Harold's boys. To their credit be it told that he had hitherto failed, but she had misgivings of Durand; he was too mercurial. Now Peggy had, as chatelaine of Severndale, been more than once obliged to order the dismissal of some of the temporary hands employed about the paddock, for Shelby was rigid upon the rule of temperance. He would have no bibblers near the animals under his charge. He had seen too much trouble caused by such worthless employees. Consequently, Peggy was wise beyond her years to the gravity of intemperance and had expressed herself pretty emphatically when Blue was discussed within the privacy of Middies' Haven, for what was told there was sacred. That was an unwritten law. And all this led to a ridiculous situation one day in the middle of November, for comedy and tragedy usually travel side by side in this world. It fell upon an ideal Saturday afternoon, a half-holiday at the Academy. It also happened to be Wheedles' birthday, and Mrs. Harold never let a birthday pass without some sort of a celebration if it were possible to have one. She had told Peggy about it, and Peggy had promptly invited a little party up to Round Bay. Now visiting for the midshipmen beyond the confines of the town of Annapolis is forbidden, but Mrs. Harold, as the wife of an officer, was at liberty to take out a party of friends in one of the Academy launches, so she promptly got together a congenial dozen, Ralph, Happy, Shortie, Wheedles and Durand, Captain Pennell and four others besides Polly and herself, and in the crispness of the Indian Summer afternoon, steamed away up the Severn to Round Bay. Peggy had asked the privilege of providing the birthday feast and understanding the pleasure it would give her to do so, Mrs. Harold had agreed most readily. So immediately after luncheon formation the party embarked at the foot of Maryland Avenue and a gayer one it would have been hard to find. Knowing the average boy's appetite and the midshipman's in particular, Mrs. Harold had, with commendable forethought, brought with her a big box of crullers, in nowise disturbed by the thought that it might spoil their appetites for the delayed luncheon. Breakfast is served at seven A.M. in Bancroft Hall, and the interval between that and twelve-thirty luncheon is long enough at best. If you add to that another hour and a half it is safe to conclude that starvation will be imminent. Hence her box of crullers to avoid such a calamity. The launch puffed and chugged its way up the river, running alongside the pretty Severndale dock sharp to the minute of four bells. Peggy stood ready to welcome them. "Oh, isn't this lovely. Scramble ashore as fast as you can, for Aunt Cynthia is crazy lest her fried chicken 'frazzle ter a cinder,'" she cried as she greeted her guests. "Who said fried chicken?" cried Happy. "That last cruller you warned me against eating never fazed me a bit, Little Mother," asserted Wheedles, as he assisted Mrs. Harold up the stone steps leading from the dock. "Beat you in a race to the lawn, Polly," shouted Ralph, back in boyhood's world now that he was beyond the bounds of Bancroft, and the next moment he and Polly were racing across the lawn like a pair of children, for it seemed so good to be away for a time from the unrelaxing discipline of the Academy, and Polly realized this as well as the others. "We are to have luncheon out under the oaks," said Peggy. "It is too heavenly a day to be indoors. Jerome and Mammy have everything ready so we have nothing to do but eat. You won't mind picnicking will you, Mrs. Harold." "Mind!" echoed Mrs. Harold. "Why it is simply ideal, Peggy dear. What do you say, sons?" she asked turning to the others. "Say! Say! Let's give the Four-N Yell right off for Peggy Stewart, Chatelaine of Severndale!" cried Wheedles, and out upon the clear, crisp autumn air rang the good old Navy cheer: "N--n--n--n! A--a--a--a! V--v--v--v! Y--y--y--y! Navy! Peggy Stewart! Peggy Stewart! Peggy Stewart!" Peggy's cheeks glowed and her eyes shone. It was something to win that cheer from these lads, boys at heart, though just at manhood's morning, and sworn to the service of their flag. How she wished Daddy Neil could hear it. Captain Pennell, into whose life during the past month had come some incentive to live, joined in the yell with a will, giving his cap a toss into the air when the echoes of it went floating out over the Severn, while Mrs. Harold and Polly waved their sweaters wildly, and yelled with all their strength. Never had Severndale been more beautiful than upon that November afternoon. October's rich coloring had given place to the dull reds, burnt-umbers, and rich wood browns of late autumn, though the grass was still green underfoot, and the holly and fir trees greener by contrast. And Peggy was in her element. Never in all her short life had she been so happy. All the instincts of her Stewart ancestors with their Southern hospitality was finding expression as she led the way to a grove of mighty oaks, tinged by night frosts to the richest maroon, and literally kings of their surroundings, for the deep umber tones of the beeches only served to emphasize their coloring. Beneath them was spread a long table fairly groaning with suggestions of the feast to come, and near it, flanked by Jerome and Mammy, stood Dr. Llewellyn. As the party came laughing, scrambling or walking toward it he advanced to welcome Mrs. Harold, saying: "Did you realize that there would be thirteen at the feast unless a fourteenth could be pressed into service? Consider me as merely a necessary adjunct, please, and don't let the young people regard me as a kill-joy because I wear a long coat buttoned straight up to my chin. The only difference really is that I have to keep mine buttoned whereas they have to HOOK THEIR collars," and the good doctor laughed. Introductions followed and then no time was lost in seating the luncheon party. Then came a moment's pause. Peggy understood and Mrs. Harold's intuition served her. She nodded to Dr. Llewellyn, and none there ever forgot the light which illumined the fine old face as he bowed his head and said softly in his beautifully modulated voice as though speaking to a loved companion. "Father, for a world so beautiful, for a day so perfect, for the joy and privilege of association with these young people, and the new life which they infuse into ours, we older ones thank Thee. Bring into their lives all that is finest, truest, purest and best--true manhood and womanhood. Amen." Not a boy or girl but felt the beauty of those simple words and remembered them for many a day. The grove was not far enough from the house to chance the ruin of any of Aunt Cynthia's dainties. A grassy path led straight to it from her kitchen and at the conclusion of Dr. Llewellyn's grace Peggy nodded slightly to Jerome who in turn nodded to Mammy Lucy, who passed the nod along to some invisible individual, the series of nods bringing about a result which nearly wrecked the dignity of the entire party, for out from behind the long brick building in which Aunt Cynthia ruled supreme, filed a row of little darkies each burdened with a dish, each bare- footed, each immaculate in little white shirt and trousers, each solemnly rolling eyes, the whites of which rivaled his shirt, and each under Cynthia's dire threat of having his "haid busted wide open if he done tripped or spilled a thing," walking as though treading upon eggs. Along they came, their eyes fixed upon Jerome, for literally they were "between the devil and the deep sea," Jerome and Cynthia being at the beginning and end of that path. Jerome and Mammy received and placed each steaming dish, the very personification of dignity, and in nowise disconcerted by the titter, which soon broke into a full-lunged shout, at the piccaninnies' solemn faces. It was all too much for good Captain Pennell and the boys, and any "ice" which might possibly have congealed the party, was then and there smashed to smithereens. "Great! Great!" shouted Captain Pennell, clapping his hands like a boy. "Eh, this is going some," cried Happy. "Bully for Chatelaine Peggy!" was Wheedles' outburst. "Who says Severndale isn't all right?" echoed Ralph. "Peggy, this is simply delicious," praised Mrs. Harold. Peggy glowed and Jerome and Mammy beamed, while the little darkies beat a grinning retreat to confide excitedly to Aunt Cynthia: "Dem gemmens an' ladies yonder in de grove was so mighty pleased dat dey jist nachally bleiged fer ter holler and laugh." Far from proving drawbacks to the feast the captain and the doctor entered heart and soul into the frolic, the doctor as host, slyly nodding to the ever alert Jerome or Mammy to replenish plates, the captain waxing reminiscent and telling many an amusing tale, and Mrs. Harold beaming happily upon all, while to and from Cynthia's realm ran the little darkies full of enthusiasm for "dem midshipmen mens who suah could eat fried chicken, corn fritters, glazed sweet 'taters, and waffles nuff fer ter bust most mens." Certainly, Aunt Cynthia knew her business and if ever a picnic feast was appreciated, that one was. But the climax came with the dessert. CHAPTER VIII A SHOCKING DEMONSTRATION OF INTEMPERANCE The merrymaking was at its height. The festive board had been cleared for dessert. "Cleared for action," Captain Pennell said. "Not heavy fire I hope," sighed Shortie. "Peggy, will you excuse me, but I have surely got to let out a reef if anything more is coming," and Shortie let out a hole or two in the leather belt which encircled the region into which innumerable waffles had disappeared. "There are others; yes there are CERTAINLY others," laughed the captain. "Peggy, my child, to play Circe and still smile is absolutely cruel. The ancient Circe frowned upon her victims." "And how can I swallow another morsel," was Polly's wail. "Peggy Stewart, why will you have so many good things all at once? Couldn't you have spread it out over several meals and let us have it on the instalment plan?" "Wheedles couldn't have his birthday that way," laughed Peggy, unwittingly letting a cat escape from a bag, for woe upon the midshipman whose birthday is known. Thus far Wheedles had kept it a profound secret, and Mrs. Harold and Polly, who were wise to what was likely to happen to him if it were known, had kept mum. But, alack, they had forgotten to warn Peggy and her words touched off the mine. "Eh? What? Never! Something doing? You're a sly one. Thought you'd get off scot-free, did you? Not on your sweet life! Let's give him what for. Excuse this digression, Peggy; it's a ceremony never omitted. It would have been attended to earlier in the day had we suspected, and it can't be delayed any longer. Besides we MUST shake down that which has gone before if more is to follow. Beg pardon, Little Mother, but you know the traditions. Make our peace with Dr. Llewellyn for this little side- show," and the next second Wheedles was in full flight with all his chums hotfoot upon his trail. How in the world those boys could run as they did after such a feast without apoplexy following, must remain a mystery to all excepting those who have lived in their midst. Over the lawn, dodging behind the oaks, vaulting the fence into the adjoining field, to the consternation of half a dozen sleek, sedate Alderney cows, tore Wheedles, his pursuers determined to overhand him and administer the drubbing incident to the iniquity of having a birthday. Dr. Llewellyn and Captain Pennell rose to their feet, one shouting, the other yelling with the rest of the mob, while Mrs. Harold and the girls could only sit and laugh helplessly. It was Shortie's long legs which overtook the quarry, both coming to the ground with a crash which would have killed outright any one but a football tackle and a basket-ball captain. In a second the whole bunch had the laughing, helpless victim. "Look the other way please, people," called Shortie, promptly placing Wheedles across his knee--two men holding his arms, two more his kicking legs--while Shortie properly and deliberately administered twenty sounding spanks. Then releasing him he said to the others who were nothing loath: "Finish the job. I've done my part and I've had one corking big feed." And they finished it by holding poor Wheedles by his shoulders and feet and bumping him upon the grass until he must have seen stars--AND THE DINNER WAS WELL SHAKEN DOWN. "NOW will you try to get away from us?" they demanded, putting him upon his feet. "It's all over but the shouting, Little Mother, and we'll be good," they laughed as they trooped back to the table, settling blouses, and giving hasty pats to their dishevelled pates, for Wheedles had certainly given them a run for their money. Meanwhile, Jerome and Mammy had looked on half in consternation, half in glee, for where is your pure-blooded African, old or young, who doesn't sympathize with monkey-shines? As the administrators of justice were in the midst of their self-imposed duties, the half-dozen little darky servitors appeared around the corner of the house bearing the dessert, and there is no telling what might have happened to it had not Aunt Cynthia, hearing the uproar, and "cravin' fer ter know ef de rown' worl' was a-comin' to an end," followed close behind her satellites. That great mold of ice cream, mound of golden wine jelly, dishes of cakes galore would certainly have met total destruction but for her prompt and emphatic command: "Yo' chillern 'tend to yo' bisness an' nemmine what gwine on over yander." That saved the feast, for the little darkies were convinced that "one ob dose young mens liked ter be kill fer suah." Had it been mid-July instead of a Maryland November that ice cream could not have vanished more quickly, and in the process of its disappearance, Jerome vanished also. This was not noticed by Peggy's guests, but his return was hailed with first a spontaneous shout and then a: "Rah! Rah! Hoohrah! Hoohrah! Navy Hoohrah!" and "Oh that's some cake!" "Nothing the matter with THAT edifice." "Who said we couldn't eat any more?" For with the dignity of a majordomo Jerome bore upon its frilled paper doily a huge chocolate layer cake, ornately decorated with yellow icing, and twenty dark blue candles, their yellow flames barely flickering in the still air, while behind him walked his little trenchermen, one bearing a big glass pitcher of amber cider, another, dishes of nuts, and another a tray of Mammy Lucy's home-made candies. If ever a birthday cake was enjoyed and appreciated, certainly that one was, and there is no telling how long the merry party would have lingered over the nuts, candies and cider had not a startling interruption taken place. The afternoon was well advanced. Mrs. Harold, the captain and Dr. Llewellyn had reached the limit of their appetites and were now watching and listening to the merry chatter of the young people who sat sipping the cider--they had long since passed beyond the DRINKING point--and eating the black walnuts and hickory nuts which had been gathered upon the estate, for Severndale was famous for its cider and nuts. The cider was made from a brand of apples which had been grown in the days of Peggy's great-grandfather and carefully cultivated for years. They ripened late, and needed a touch of frost to perfect them. The ciderhouse and press stood just beyond the meadow in which the Severndale cows led a luxurious life of it, and the odor of the rich fruit invariably drew a line of them to the dividing fence, where they sniffed and peered longingly at "forbidden fruit." But if every dog, as we are told, has his day, certainly a cow may hope to have hers some time. That it should have happened to be Wheedles' day also was merely accidental. As in most respectable communities there is almost invariably an individual or two whose conduct is open to criticism, so in Severndale's eminently irreproachable herd of sleek kine there was one obstreperous creature and her offspring. They were possessed to do the things their more well conducted sisters never thought of doing. The cow had a strain of distinctly plebian blood which, transmitted to her calf, probably accounted for their eccentricities. If ever a fence was broken through, if ever a brimming pail of milk was overturned, if a stable towel was chewed to ribbons, a feed bin rifled, it could invariably be traced to Betsy Brindle and her incorrigible daughter Sally Simple, and this afternoon they surpassed themselves. As Peggy's guests sat in that blissful state of mind and body resulting from being "serenely full, the epicure would say," they were startled by an altogether rowdy, abandoned "Moo-oo-oo-oo," echoed in a higher key, and over the lawn came two as disreputable-looking animals as one could picture, for Betsy Brindle and her daughter, a pretty little year-old heifer, were unquestionably, undeniably, hopelessly intoxicated. Betsy was swaying and staggering from side to side, wagging her head foolishly and mooing in the most maudlin manner, while Sally, whose potations affected her quite differently, was cavorting madly thither and yonder, one moment almost standing upon her head, with hind legs and tail waving wildly in mid- air, the next with the order reversed and pawing frantically at the clouds. Behind the arrant ones in mad chase and consternation came the young negro lad whose duty it was to see that the cattle were properly housed at nightfall. He had gone to the meadow for his charges only to find these incorrigibles, as upon many another occasion, missing. How long they had been at large he could not guess. At last, after long search, he discovered them in the inclosure where the barreled apples were kept and two whole barrels rifled. When this had taken place his African mind did not analyze, though a scientist could have told him almost to an hour and explained also that in the cows' double stomachs the apples had promptly fermented and become highly intoxicating, with the present result. But poor Cicero was petrified. His young mistress entertaining "de quality" and his unruly charges scandalizing her by tearing into their very midst. "Moo--o--moo, e--moooo--" bellowed Betsy, making snake tracks across the lawn. "Moo, Moo, Moo, Moo, Mooee--" echoed Sally in lively staccato, doing a wild Highland fling with quite original steps. "Hi dar! Come 'long away. Get off en dat lawn. Come away from dat 'ar pa'ty," screamed Cicero. "Ma Lawd-a-mighty, dem cows gwine 'grace me an' ruin me fer evah," and it would doubtless have proved true had not the boys sprung to their feet to join in the cowherd's duties, only too ready for any prank which presented an outlet for their fun-loving souls. Shortie promptly took command of the defending forces, and crying: "Come on, fellows, head the old lady off before she knocks the table endwise," was off with a rush, the others hotfoot after him, waving arms and shouting until poor old Betsy Brindle's addled head must have thought all the imps of the lower regions turned loose upon her. Circling wide, the boys made a complete barrier beyond which the poor tipsy cow dared not force her way. So with a hopelessly pathetic "moo" and a look at her adversaries which might have done credit to the mock turtle of Lewis Carrol's creation, she surrendered forthwith, and promptly flopped down in the middle of the lawn. Not so her daughter. Not a bit of it! SHE had not finished her fling and never did madder chase ensue than the one which at length ended in effectually cornering the flighty one. "Lemme tote her home. Fer de Lawd's sake, sah, lemme tote her home quick, 'fore Unc' Jess an' Missie Peggy kill me daid," begged Cicero. "You tote her home, you spindly little shaver! She'd part her cable and go adrift in half a minute after you got under way. Come on, boys, we've got to convoy this craft into her home port. Make fast," and with the experience of three years' training in seamanship, Shortie and his companions proceeded to make fast the recalcitrate Sally, and amidst hoots and yells calculated to sober up the most hopeless inebriate, they led her to her barn where Cicero read her the riot act as he fastened her in her stall. Meanwhile Betsy had succumbed to slumber and at Dr. Llewellyn's suggestion was left to sleep off the effects of her over- indulgence. When the boys got back from the barn poor Peggy was run unmercifully. "And we thought Severndale a model home. A well-conducted establishment. Yet the very first time we come out here we find even the COWS with a jag on that a confirmed toper couldn't equal if he tried, and yet you pose as a model young woman, Peggy Stewart, and are accepted in all good faith as our Captain Polly's friend. Watch out, Little Mother. Watch out. We can't let our little Captain visit where even the COWS give way to such disgraceful performances." Poor Peggy was incapable of defending herself for she and Polly had laughed until they were weak, and for many a long day after Peggy heard of her tipsy cows. When peace once more descended upon the land it was almost time for the visitors to return to Annapolis, but before departing they visited the paddock, the stables, and the beautiful old colonial house. And so ended Wheedles' birthday, and the next excitement was caused by the Army-Navy game to which Peggy went with Mrs. Harold's party, enjoying the outing as only a girl whose experiences have been limited, and who is ready for new impressions, can enjoy. And with the passing of the game November passed also and before she knew it Christmas was upon her, and Christmas hitherto for Peggy had meant merely gifts from Daddy Neil and a merrymaking for the servants. Without manifesting undue curiosity Mrs. Harold had learned a good deal concerning Peggy's life and nothing she had learned had touched her so deeply as the loneliness of the holiday season for the young girl. It seemed to her the most unnatural she had ever heard of, and something like resentment filled her heart when she thought of Neil Stewart's unconscious neglect of his little daughter. She argued that his failing to appreciate that he was neglectful did not excuse the fact, and she resolved that this year Peggy should spend the holidays with her and Polly at Wilmot, and the servants at Severndale could look to their own well-being. Nevertheless, Peggy laid her plans for the pleasure of the Severndale help and saw to it that they would have a happy time under Harrison's supervision. Then Peggy betook herself to Wilmot for the happiest Christmastide she had ever known. The holiday season at the Academy is always a merry one, but until very recently, there has been no Christmas recess and the midshipmen had to find amusement right in the little old town of Annapolis, or within the Academy's limits. The frolicking begins with the Christmas eve hop given by the midshipmen. Mrs. Harold had not allowed Polly to attend the hops given earlier in the winter, for she was a wise woman and felt that social diversions of that nature were best reserved for later years, when school-days were ended. But she made an exception at the Christmas season, when Polly in common with other girls, had a holiday, and Peggy and Polly would go to the hop. Unless one has seen a hop given at the Academy it is difficult to understand the beauty of the scene, and to Peggy it seemed a veritable fairy-land, with its lights, its banners, its lovely girls, uniformed laddies and music "which would make a wooden image dance," she confided to Mrs. Harold, and added: "And do you know, I used to rebel and be so cranky when Miss Arnaud came to give me dancing-lessons when I was a little thing. I just HATED it, and how she ever made me learn I just don't know. But I had to do as she said, and maybe I'm not glad that I DID. Why, Little Mother, suppose I HADN'T learned. Wouldn't I have been ashamed of myself now?" Mrs. Harold pulled a love-lock as she answered: "You train your colts, girlie, and they are the better for their training, aren't they?" Peggy gave a quick glance of comprehension, and her lips curved in a smile as she said: "But they never behave half as badly as I used to with Miss Arnaud." And so the Christmas eve was danced away. Christmas morning was the merriest Peggy had ever known. Long before daylight she was wakened by Polly shaking her and crying: "Peggy, wake up! Wake up! What do you think? Aunt Janet has filled stockings and hung them on the foot of the bed. She must have slipped in while we were sound asleep, and oh, I don't wonder we slept after that dance, do you?" rattled on Polly, scrambling around to close the window and turn on the steam, for the morning was a snappy one. "Whow! Ooo!" yawned Peggy, to whom late hours were a novelty and who felt as though she had dropped asleep only ten minutes before. "Why, Polly Howland, it's pitch dark, and midnight! I know it is," she protested. "How do you know there are stockings there, anyway?" "I was shivering and when I reached over to get the puff cover my hand touched something bumpy. I've felt of it and I KNOW it's a stocking. I never thought of having one, for I thought all those things were way back in little girl days. But turn on the electric lights quick--they're on your side of the bed--and we'll see what's in them; the stockings, I mean." Peggy turned the button and the lights flashed up. "Goodness, isn't it freezing cold," she cried. "Let's put the puff cover around us," and rolled up in the big down coverlet the girls dove into their bumpy stockings, exclaiming or laughing over the contents, for evidently the boys had been in the secret, for out of Peggy's came a little bronze cow and calf labeled "C. and S." "Now what in the world does C. and S. stand for, I wonder?" she said. "Oh, Peggy, those are the initials for 'Clean and Sober,' the report the officer-of-the-deck makes when the enlisted men come aboard after being on liberty. If they are intoxicated and untidy they check them up D. and D.--which means Drunk and Dirty. You'll never hear the last of Betsy Brindle's caper." "Well look and see what they've run you about, for you won't escape, I'll wager," laughed Peggy as merrily as though it were broad daylight instead of five A.M. Polly dove into her stocking to fish out a tiny rocking horse with a doll riding astride it. The horse was to all intents and purposes on a mad gallop, for his rider's hair, DYED A VIVID RED, was streaming out behind, her collar was flying loose, her feet were out of the stirrups and one shoe was gone. The mad rider bore the legend: "Lady Gilpin." A dozen other nonsensical things followed, but down in the toe of each was a beautiful 19-- class pin for each of the girls, with "Co-ed 19--" engraved on them and cards saying "with the compliments of the bunch." By the time the stockings' contents were investigated it was time to dress and go with Mrs. Harold to see the Christmas Parade, always given before breakfast in Bancroft Hall and through the Yard. Mrs. Harold tapped upon the girls' door and was greeted with "Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!" She entered, taking them in her arms and saying: "Dozens and dozens for each of you, my little foster-daughters. I am so glad to have you with me, for Christmas isn't Christmas without young people to enjoy it, and I think I've got some of the very sweetest and best to be had--both daughters and sons. There are no more children like my foster-children. I am one lucky old lady." "Old!" cried Peggy indignantly, "Why you'll never, never seem old to us, for you just think, and see, and feel every single thing as we do." "That's a pretty compliment," replied Mrs. Harold, sealing her words with a kiss which was returned with earnest warmth, for Peggy was learning to love this friend very dearly. The Christmas Parade was funny enough, for the midshipmen had sent to Philadelphia for their costumes and every living thing, from Fiji Islanders, to priests, bears, lions, ballet girls or convicts raced through the Yard to the music of "Tommy's band" as they called the ridiculous collection of wind instruments over which one of the midshipmen waved his baton as bandmaster. When this great show ended, all hurried away to dress for breakfast formation, for many were the invitations to breakfast with friends out in town, legal holidays being the only days upon which such privileges were allowed. Mrs. Harold had a party of five beside Polly and Peggy and the griddle cakes which vanished that morning rivaled the number of waffles which had disappeared at Severndale. When breakfast ended Mrs. Harold said: "Can you young people give me about two hours out of your day? Polly and I have laid a little plan for someone's pleasure, which we know will be enhanced if you boys cooperate with us." "Count on us, Little Mother." "We'll do anything we can for you, for you do enough for us." "Sure thing," were the hearty replies, while Peggy slipped to her side to whisper: "I'd almost be willing to give up my 'Co-ed' class pin if you asked me to." "No such sacrifice as that, honey. But let's all go up to Middies' Haven where I'll tell you all about it." CHAPTER IX DUNMORE'S LAST CHRISTMAS When Mrs. Harold's little breakfast party returned to her sitting-room, she dropped into her favorite chair before the blazing log fire, motioning to the others to gather about her. Polly and Peggy promptly perched upon the arms of her chair, nestling close; Durand squatted, Turk-fashion, upon a big cushion at her feet. Wheedles leaned with unstudied grace against the mantel-shelf, while Happy, Ralph, and Shortie seated themselves upon the big couch whose capacity seemed to be something like the magic tent of the Arabian Nights' tale, and capable of indefinite expansion. "What is it, Little Mother?" asked Wheedles, while Durand glanced up with his deep, dark eyes, and a slight quiver of the sensitive mouth. "Just a little plan I have for Dunmore's happiness today" she answered, alluding to a second-classman who had been severely injured upon the football field late in October, and who had been paralyzed ever since. His people lived far away and it was difficult for them to reach him, and the day would have been a sad one but for his chums in the Academy and his many friends. Among these latter none were more devoted than Mrs. Harold and Polly, for Lewis Dunmore had been one of the Little Mother's boys since he first entered the Academy and she was nearly heart-broken at the serious outcome of his accident, as no hope was entertained of his recovery. All knew this, and the tenderest sympathy went out to the sick lad who had never for a moment ceased to hope for ultimate recovery and whose patience, courage and cheerfulness under conditions so terrible, filled with admiration the hearts of all who knew him. Polly had been untiring in her devotion to him, and "the little foster- sister," as he called her, spent many an hour in the hospital, reading, talking, or whistling like a bird, for whistling was Polly's sole accomplishment. Peggy often went with her, for she loved to make others happy, and many a weary hour was made less weary for him by the two girls, and Peggy had sent many a dainty dish from Severndale, or the fruit and flowers for which it was noted. She knew Polly and Mrs. Howland had planned something for Christmas day, but waited for them to tell her, feeling delicate about asking questions. She had sent over every dainty she could think of and great bunches of mistletoe. Mrs. Harold smiled upon the young faces she loved so dearly and said "Yesterday morning Polly and I sent up a lot of Christmas greens and a tree for Lewis, and later went up to dress it, arranging with the nurses to put it in his room when he was sleeping that it might be the first thing his eyes fell upon when he wakened this morning. He has probably been looking at it many an hour, but we told the nurses we would come up about ten-thirty to give him the presents. We wanted to make it a merry hour for him, and so a lot of nonsensical things were put on for his friends also, among them you boys and some others to whom I have written, and who will meet us there. Can you join us?" "Can we! Well why not? Sure! Poor old chap!" were some of the hearty responses. "I knew I could count upon you, so let us start at once. Go get ready, girls." The girls flew to their room and a moment later came back coated and furred, for the walk up to the hospital on the hill was a bleak one. The boys were inured to all sorts of weather, and their heavy overcoats were a safe protection against it. It was a merry, frolicking party which set forth, and as they crossed the athletic field a lively snowballing took place, for a light snow had fallen the day before, turning the Yard into a beautiful white world. Mrs. Harold was not to be outdone by any of her young people, but catching up handfuls of snow in her woolen-gloved hands tossed snowballs with the best of them. The contrast from the joy, the vigorous health of the group entering Dunmore's room to the still, helpless figure lying upon the cot was pathetic. The invalid could not move his head, but his great brown eyes, and fine mouth smiled his welcome to his friends, and he said: "Oh, it was great! Great! I saw it the first thing when I woke up. And the holly and mistletoe up here over my bed. I don't see how they got it hung there without my knowing when they did it." "That was our secret," cried Polly. "And Peggy sent over the mistletoe from Severndale, though she didn't know we were to have the tree." "Peggy, you are all right," was Dunmore's hearty praise. "But that tree is the prettiest thing ever. I'm as crazy as a kid about it. I sort of dreaded Christmas, but you people have fixed it up all right and I'm no end grateful. It's a great day after all." Peggy who was standing where Dunmore could not see her glanced at Polly. Polly nodded in quick understanding. "The day all right," and the poor lad helpless as some lifeless thing. The girls' eyes filled with quick tears which they hastened to wink away, for not for worlds would they have saddened what both knew to be the last Christmas Lewis could pass in this world, and Polly cried: "Now, Tanta, let us have the presents!" For an hour the room was the scene of a happy merrymaking, as Shortie, because he was "built on lines to reach the top-gallants," they said, distributed the gifts, funny or dainty, and Lewis' bed looked like a stand in a bazaar. Mrs. Harold had given him a downy bathrobe; Peggy had made him a hop pillow; Polly had made up a nonsense jingle for each day for a month, sealing each in an envelope and labelling it with dire penalties if read before the date named. But best of all, the class had sent him his class-ring and when it was slipped upon his finger by his roommate, the poor lad broke down completely. Mrs. Harold hastened to the bedside and the others did their best to relieve the situation. The class-ring is never worn by a second-classman until the last exam is passed by the first class. Then the new class-rings blossom forth in all their glory, for this ring is peculiarly significant: It is looked forward to as one of the greatest events in the class' history, and is a badge of union forever. Realizing that Dunmore could not be with them when the time came for them to put on their own, his classmates had unanimously voted to give him his as a Christmas gift, and nothing they could have done could possibly have meant so much to him. He was prouder than he had ever been before in his life, but--with the gift came the faint premonition of the inevitable; the first doubt of future recovery; the first hint that perhaps he had been harboring false hopes, and it almost overwhelmed him, and Mrs. Harold read it all in a flash. But Peggy saved the day. Slipping to his side she said: "Aren't you proud to be the very first to wear it? They wanted to give you a Christmas present, but couldn't think of a single thing you'd enjoy while you were so ill. Then they thought of the ring. Of course you could enjoy THAT, and there was no reason in the world that you shouldn't either, and the other boys will be happy seeing you wear it and count the days before they can put theirs on. And it is such a beauty, isn't it? We are all so glad you've got it. You can just wiggle your finger and crow over the others every time they come to visit you." Lewis looked up at her and smiled. He understood better than she guessed why she had talked so fast, and was grateful, but the pang was beneath the smile nevertheless. Then dinner-hour drawing near the white-capped nurse came in as a gentle hint that her patient had had about all the excitement he could stand, and Mrs. Harold suggested their departure. Their last glance showed them Lewis Dunmore looking at his class-ring, for he could move that arm just enough to enable him to raise the hand within his range of vision. The week following was a happy one for all. Each afternoon an informal dance was given in the gymnasium and the girls pranced to their hearts' content. As the week drew to an end the weather grew colder and colder until with Saturday came a temperature which froze College Creek solid. This was most unusual for the season, but was hailed with wild rejoicings by the boys and girls, for skating is a rare novelty in Annapolis. Saturday dawned an ideal winter day, clear, cold, and white. "Can you skate, Peggy?" asked Polly, diving into her closet for a pair of skates which she had brought South with her, though with small hope of using them. "Y--e--s," answered Peggy, doubtfully. "I can skate--after a fashion, but I'm afraid my skating will not show to very great advantage beside yours, you Northern lassie." "Nonsense. I'll wager one of Aunt Cynthia's cookies that you can skate as well as I can, though you never would admit it." There had not been much chance for stirring exercise for the girls since the snow fell and really cold weather set in, for there was not much pleasure in riding under such conditions, and they had both missed the healthy outdoor sport. But the prospect of skating set them both a- tingle to get upon the ice and they were eagerly awaiting the official order from the Academy, for no one is allowed upon the ice until it is pronounced entirely safe by the authorities, and the Commandant gives permission. Of course, this does not apply to the townspeople or to that section of the creek beyond the limits of the Academy, but it is very rigidly enforced within it. As the girls were eager to learn whether the brigade would have permission that afternoon, they went over to hear the orders read at luncheon formation, and came back nearly wild with delight to inform Mrs. Harold that not only was permission granted but that the band would play at the edge of the creek from four until six o'clock. "And if THAT won't be ideal I'd like to know what can be," cried Polly, and scarcely had she spoken when the telephone rang. "Hello. Yes, it's Polly. Of course we can. What time! To the very minute. Yes, Peggy's right here beside me and fairly dancing up and down to know what we are talking about. No, don't come out for us; we will meet you at the gate at three-thirty sharp. Good-bye," and snapping the receiver into its socket, Polly whirled about to catch Peggy in a regular bear hug and cry: "It was Happy. He and the others want us ALL to come over at three- thirty. Aunt Janet, too. They have an ice-chair for her; they borrowed it from someone. Oh, won't it be fun!" Peggy's dark eyes sparkled, then she said: "But my skates. They are 'way out at Severndale." Without a word Mrs. Harold walked to the telephone and a moment later was talking with Harrison. The skates would be sent in by the two o'clock car. Promptly at three-thirty the girls and Mrs. Harold entered the Maryland Avenue gate where they were met by Shortie, Wheedles, Happy, Durand and Ralph; Durand promptly appropriating Peggy, while Ralph, cried: "Come on, Polly, this is going to be like old times up at Montgentian." It would have been hard to picture a prettier sight than the skaters presented that afternoon, the boys in their heavy reefers and woolen watch-caps; the girls in toboggan caps and sweaters. Over in the west the sky was a rich rosy glow, for the sun sinks behind the hills by four-thirty during the short winter afternoons. The Naval Academy band stationed at the edge of the broad expanse of the ice-bound creek was sending its inspiring strains out across the keen, frosty air which seemed to hold and toy with each note as though reluctant to let it die away. The boys took turns in pushing Mrs. Harold's chair, spinning it along over the smooth surface of the ice in the wake of Peggy, Polly and the others, who now and again joined hands to "snap-the-whip," "run-the- train," or go through some pretty figure. Polly and Ralph were clever at this and very soon Peggy caught the trick. The creek was crowded, for nearly half the town as well as the people from the Yard were enjoying the rare treat. The band had just finished a beautiful waltz to which all had swung across the creek in perfect rhythm, when one of the several enlisted men, stationed along the margin of the creek, and equipped with stout ropes and heavy planks in the event of accident, sounded "attention" on a bugle. Instantly, every midshipman, officer, or those in any way connected with the Academy, halted and stood at attention to hear the order. "No one will be allowed to go below the bridge. Ice is not safe," rang out the order. Nearly every one heard and to hear was, of course, to obey for all in the Academy, but there are always heedless ones, or stupid ones in this world, and in the numbers gathered upon the ice that afternoon there were plenty of that sort, and it sometimes seems as though they were sent into this world to get sensible people into difficulties. Of course the heedless ones were too busy with their own concerns to pay heed to the warning. A group of young girls from the town were skating together close to the lower bridge. Durand and Peggy were near the Marine Barracks shore, when they became aware of their reckless venturing upon the dangerous ice. "Durand, look," cried Peggy. "Those girls must be crazy to go out there after hearing that order." "They probably never heard it at all. Some of those cits make me tired. They seem to have so little sense. Now I'll bet my sweater that every last person connected with the Yard heard it, but, I'd bet TWO sweaters that not half the people from the town did, yet there was no reason they shouldn't. It was read for their benefit just exactly as much as ours, but they act as though we belonged to some other world and the orders were for our benefit, but their undoing." "Not quite so bad as all that, I hope," laughed Peggy, as they joined hands and swung away. A moment later she gave a sharp cry. Durand had turned and was skating backward with Peggy "in tow." He spun around just in time to see a little girl about ten years of age throw up her hands and crash through the rotten ice. Peggy had seen her as she laughingly broke away from the group of older girls to dart beneath the bridge. "Quick! Beat it for help," shouted Durand, flinging off his reefer and striking out for the screaming girls. He had not made ten strides when a second girl in rushing to her friend's assistance, went through too, the others darting back to safer ice and shrieking for help. Durand now had a proposition on hand in short order, but Peggy's wits worked rapidly: If she left Durand to go for help he would have his hands more than full. Moreover, the alarm had already been sounded and the Jackies were coming on a run. So she did exactly as Durand was doing: laid flat upon the ice and worked her way toward the second struggling victim. Durand had caught the child and was doing his best to keep her afloat and himself from being dragged into the freezing water, but Peggy's victim was older and heavier. "Oh, save me! Save me!" she screamed. "Hush. Keep still and we'll get you out," commanded Peggy, doing her utmost to keep free of the wildly thrashing arms, while holding on to the girl's coat with all the strength of desperation. It would have gone ill with the girl and Peggy, however, had not help come from the bridge where the Jackies had acted as such men invariably do: promptly and without fuss. In far less time than seemed possible, two of them, with ropes firmly bound about their bodies, were in the water, while two more pulled them and their struggling charges to safety, and two more in the perfect order of their discipline drew Peggy and Durand from their perilous situation, and just then Mrs. Harold's party came rushing up, she and Polly white with terror. "Peggy, Peggy, my little girl! If anything had happened to you," cried Mrs. Harold, gathering her into her arms. "But there hasn't. Not a single thing, Little Mother. I'm not hurt a bit, and only a little wet and that won't hurt me because my clothes are so thick." But the girl's voice shook and she trembled in spite of her words, for the last few minutes had taxed both strength and courage. Meantime the boys had gathered about Durand, but boy-like made light of the episode though down in their hearts they knew it had required pluck and steady nerve to do as he had done, and their admiration found expression in hauling off their reefers to force them upon him, or in giving him a clip upon the back and telling him he was "all right," and to "come on back to Bancroft for a rub-down after his bath." But no one underrated the courage of either and they were hurried home to be cared for, though it was many hours before Mrs. Harold could throw off the horror of what might have happened, and Peggy was a heroine for many a day to her intense annoyance. CHAPTER X A DOMESTIC EPISODE In spite of the scare all had received the previous Saturday, the New Year's eve hop was thoroughly enjoyed, for neither Durand nor Peggy was the worse for the experience, and the old year was danced out upon light, happy toes, only one shadow resting upon the joyous evening. For over a year, there had been an officer stationed at the Academy who had been a source of discord among his fellow-officers, and a martinet with the midshipmen. He was small, petty, unjust, and not above resorting to methods despised by his confreres. He was loathed by the midshipmen because they could never count upon what they termed "a square deal," and consequently never knew just where they stood. There were several who seemed to have incurred his especial animosity, and Durand in particular he hated: hated because the boy's quick wits invariably got him out of the scrapes which his mischievous spirit prompted, and "Gumshoes," as the boys had dubbed the officer, owing to his habit of sneaking about "looking for trouble," was not clever enough to catch him. And thus it came about that, being once more circumvented by Durand on New Year's eve in a trivial matter at which any other officer would have laughed, he resorted to ways and means which a man with a finer sense of honor would have despised and--again he failed. But his chance came on New Year's day, when Durand, led into one of the worst scrapes of his life by Blue, fell into his clutches and the outcome was so serious that the entire brigade was restricted to the Yard's limits for three months, and gloom descended not only upon the Academy but upon all its friends. Naturally, with her boys debarred from Middies' Haven, Mrs. Harold could do little for the girls, and their only sources of pleasure lay in such amusements as the town afforded and these were extremely limited. So much time was spent at Severndale with Peggy, and it was during one of these visits that Mrs. Harold figured in one of the domestic episodes of Severndale. They were not new to Peggy for she was Southern-born and used to the vagaries and childlike outbreaks of the colored people. But even though Mrs. Harold had lived among them a great deal, and thought she understood them pretty thoroughly, she had yet to learn some of the African's eccentricities. January dragged on, the girls working with Captain Pennell and Dr. Llewellyn. During the month, one of the hands, Joshua Jozadak Jubal Jones, by the way, fell ill with typhoid fever, and was removed to the hospital. From the first his chances of recovery seemed doubtful, and "Minervy" his wife, as strapping, robust a specimen of her race as poor Joshua was tiny and, as she expressed it, "pore and pindlin'," was in a most emotional frame of mind. Again and again she came up to the great house to "crave consolatiom" from Miss Peggy, or Mammy Lucy, though, truth to tell, Mammy's sympathies were not very deeply enlisted. Minervy Jones did not move in the same SOCIAL SET in which Mammy held a dignified position: Mammy was "an emerged Baptis'"; Minervy a "Shoutin' Mefodist," and a strong feeling existed between the two little colored churches. Peggy visited the hospital daily and saw that Joshua lacked for nothing. Mrs. Harold was deeply concerned for Peggy's sake, for Peggy looked to the well-being of all the help upon the estate with the deep interest which generations of her ancestors had manifested, indeed regarded as incumbent upon them and part of their obligation to their dependents. Days passed and poor Joshua grew no better, Minervy meanwhile spending most of her time in Aunt Cynthia's kitchen where she could sustain the inner woman with many a tidbit from the white folks' table, and speculate upon what was likely to become of them if her "pore lil chillern were left widderless orphans." It need hardly be added that the prospective "widderless orphans" were left to shift largely for themselves while she was accepting both mental and physical sustenance. It was upon one of these visits, so indefinitely prolonged that Mammy's patience was at the snapping point, that she decided to give a needed hint. Entering the kitchen she said to Aunt Cynthia: "'Pears ter me yo' must have powerful lot o' time on han', Sis' Cynthy." "Well'm I AIN'T. No ma'am, not me," was Cynthia's prompt reply, for to tell the truth she was beginning to weary of doling out religious consolation and bodily sustenance, yet hospitality demanded something. "Well, I reckons Miss Peggy's cravin' fer her luncheon, an' it's high time she done got it, too. Is yo' know de time?" "Cou'se I knows de time," brindled Cynthia, "but 'pears lak time don' count wid some folks. Kin YO' see de clock, Mis' Jones?" The question was sprung so suddenly that Minerva jumped. "Yas'm, yas'm, Mis' Johnson, I kin see hit; yis, I kin," answered Minervy, craning her neck for a pretended better view. "Well, den, please, ma'am, tell me just 'zactly what it IS." This was a poser. Minervy knew no more of telling time than one of her own children, but rising from her chair, she said: "I 'clar ter goodness, I'se done shed so many tears in ma sorrer and grief over Joshua dat I sho' is a-loosin' ma eyesight." She then went close to the clock, looked long and carefully at it, but shook her head doubtfully. At length a bright idea struck her and turning to Cynthia she announced: "Why, Sis' Cynthia, I believes yo' tryin' ter projec' wid me; dat clock don' STRIKE 'TALL. But I 'clar I mus' be a-humpin' masef todes dera chillern. I shore mus'." "Yes, I'd 'vise it pintedly," asserted Cynthia, while Mammy Lucy added: "It's sprisin' how some folks juties slips dey min's." Three days later word came to Severndale that Joshua could hardly survive the day and Peggy, as she felt duty bound, went over to Minervy's cabin. She found her sitting before her fire absolutely idle. "Minervy," she began, "I have had word from the hospital and Joshua is not so well. I think you would better go right over." "Yas'm, yas'm, Miss Peggy, I spec's yo' sees it dat-a-way, honey, but-- but yo' sees de chillern dey are gwine car'y on scan'lus if I leaves 'em. My juty sho' do lie right hyer, yas'm it sho' do." "But Minervy, Joshua cannot live." "Yas'm, but he ain' in his min' an' wouldn't know me no how, but dese hyer chillerns is ALL got dey min's cl'ar, an' dey STUMMICKS empty. No'm, I knows yo' means it kindly an' so I teks hit, but I knows ma juty," and nothing Peggy could say had any effect. That night Joshua died. The word came to Severndale early the following morning. "Well," said Mrs. Harold, "from her philosophical resignation to the situation yesterday, I don't imagine she will be greatly overcome by the news." "Mh--um," was Mammy's non-committal lip-murmur, and Peggy wagged her head. Mrs. Harold and Polly were spending the week at Severndale, and were dressing for breakfast. Their rooms communicated with Peggy's and they had been laughing and talking together when the 'phone message came. "Mammy," called Peggy. "Please send word right down to Minervy." "Yas, baby, I sends it, and den yo' watch out," warned Mammy. "What for?" asked Peggy. "Fo' dat 'oman. She gwine mak one fuss DIS time ef she never do again." "Nonsense, Mammy, I don't believe she cares one straw anyway. She is the most unfeeling creature I've ever seen." "She may be ONfeelin' but she ain' ON-doin', yo' mark me," and Mammy went off to do as she was bidden. Perhaps twenty minutes had passed when the quiet of the lower floor was torn by wild shrieks and on-rushing footsteps, with voices vainly commanding silence and decorum: commands all unheeded. Then came a final rush up the stairs and Minervy distraught and dishevelled burst into Mrs. Harold's room, and without pausing to see whom she was falling upon, flung her arms about that startled woman, shrieking: "He's daid! He's daid! Dem pore chillern is all widderless orphans. I felt it a-comin'! Who' gwine feed an' clothe and shelter dose pore lambs? Ma heart's done bruck! Done bruck!" "Minervy! Minervy! Do you know what you are doing! Let go of Mrs. Harold this instant," ordered Peggy, nearly overcome with mortification that her guest should meet with such an experience at Severndale. "Do you hear me? Control yourself at once." She strove to drag the hysterical creature from Mrs. Harold, but she might as well have tried to drag away a wild animal. Minervy continued to shriek and howl, while Mammy, scandalized beyond expression, scolded and stormed, and Jerome called from the hall below. Then Mrs. Harold's sense of humor came to her rescue and she had an inspiration, for she promptly decided that there was no element of grief in Minervy's emotions. "Minerva, Minerva, HAVE you ordered your mourning? You knew Joshua could not live," she cried. Had she felled the woman with a blow the effect could not have been more startling. Instantly the shrieks ceased and releasing her hold Minervy struck an attitude: "No'm, I HASN'T! I cyant think how I could a-been so careless-like, an' knowin' all de endurin' time dat I boun' fer ter be a widder. How could I a-been so light-minded?" "Well, you have certainly got to have some black clothes right off. It would be dreadful not to have proper mourning for Joshua." Meanwhile Peggy and Polly had fled into the next room. "I sho' mus', ma'am. How could I a-been so 'crastinatin' an' po' Joshua a-dyin' all dese hyer weeks. I am' been 'spectful to his chillern; dat I ain't. Lemme go right-way an' tink what I's needin'. But please ma'am, is YO' a widder 'oman? Case ef yo' is yo's had spurrience an' kin tell me bes' what I needs." It was with difficulty that Mrs. Harold controlled her risibles, so utterly absurd rather than pathetic was the whole situation, for not one atom of real grief for Joshua lay in poor, shallow Minervy's heart. Then Mrs. Harold replied: "No, Minervy. I am not a widow; at least I am only a GRASS widow, and they do not wear mourning, you know." "No'm, no'm, I spec's not. But what mus' I git for masef an' does po' orphans!" "Well, you have a black skirt, but have you a waist and hat? And you would better buy a black veil; not crape, it is too perishable; get nun's veiling, and--" "Nun's veilin'? Nun's veilin'?" hesitated Minervy. "But I ain' NO NUN, mistiss, I'se a WIDDER. I ain' got no kind er use fer dem nunses wha' don' never mahry. I'se been a mahryin' 'oman, _I_ is." "Well you must choose your own veil then," Mrs. Harold managed to reply. "Yas'm, I guesses I better, an' I reckons I better git me a belt an' some shoes, 'case if I gotter be oneasy in ma min' dars no sort o' reason fer ma bein' uneasy in ma FOOTS too, ner dem chillern neither. Dey ain' never is had shoes all 'roun' ter onct, but I reckons dey better he fitted out right fer dey daddy's funeral. Dey can't tend it hut onct in all dey life-times no how. And 'sides, I done had his life assured 'gainst dis occasiom, an' I belongs ter de sassiety wha' burys folks in style wid regalions. Dey all wears purple velvet scaffses ober dey shoulders an' ma'ches side de hearse. Dar ain' nothin' cheap an' no 'count bout DAT sassiety. No ma'am! An' I reckons I better git right long and look arter it all," and Minervy, still wiping her eyes, hurried from the room, Mammy's snort of outrage unheeded, and her words: "NOW what I done tole yo', baby? I tells yo' dat 'oman ain' mo'n ha'f human if she IS one ob ma own color. _I_'S a cullured person, but she's jist pure nigger, yo' hyar me?" and Mammy flounced from the room. Polly and Peggy reentered Mrs. Harold's room. She had collapsed upon the divan, almost hysterical, and Polly looked as though someone had dashed cold water in her face. Peggy was the only one who accepted the situation philosophically. With a resigned expression she said: "THAT'S Minervy Jones. She is one type of her race. Mammy is another. Now we'll see what she'll buy. I'll venture to say that every penny she gets from Joshua's life-insurance will be spent upon clothes for herself and those children." "And _I_ started the idea," deplored Mrs. Harold. "Oh, no, you did not. She would have thought of it as soon as she was over her screaming, only you stopped the screaming a little sooner, for which we ought to be grateful to you. She is only one of many more exactly like her." "Do you mean to tell me that there are many as heedless and foolish as she is?" demanded Mrs. Harold. "Dozens. Ask Harrison about some of them." "Well, I never saw anything like her," cried Polly, indignantly. "I think she is perfectly heartless." "Oh, no, she isn't. She simply can't hold more than one idea at a time. Just now it's the display she can make with her insurance money. They insure each other and everything insurable, and go half naked in order to do so. The system is perfectly dreadful, but no one can stop them. Probably every man and woman on the place knows exactly what she will receive and half a dozen will come forward with money to lend her, sure of being paid back by this insurance company. It all makes me positively sick, but there is no use trying to control them in that direction. I don't wonder Daddy Neil often says they were better off in the old days when a master looked after their well-being." An hour later Minervy was driving into Annapolis, three of her boon companions going with her, the "widderless orphans" being left to get on as best they could. She spent the entire morning in town, returning about three o'clock with a wagonful of purchases. Poor Joshua's remains were being looked after by the Society and would later come to Severndale. Mrs. Harold and the girls were sitting in the charming living-room when Jerome came to ask if Miss Peggy would speak with Minervy a moment. "Oh, DO bring her in here," begged Mrs. Harold. Peggy looked doubtful, but consented, and Jerome went to fetch the widow. When she entered the room Mrs. Harold and the girls were sorely put to it to keep sober faces, for Minervy had certainly outdone herself; not only Minervy, but her entire brood which followed silently and sheepishly behind her. Can Minervy's "mourning" be described? Upon her head rested a huge felt hat of the "Merry Widow" order, and encircling it was a veil of some sort of stiff material, more like crinoline than crape. There were YARDS of it, and so stiff that it stuck straight out behind her like a horse's tail. Under the brim was a white WIDOW'S ruche. Her waist was a black silk one adorned with cheap embroidery, and a broad belt displayed a silver buckle at least four inches in diameter, ornamented with a huge glass carbuncle at least half the buckle's size. On her own huge feet were a pair of shining patent-leather shoes sporting big gilt buckles, and each child wore PATENT-LEATHER DANCING POMPS. "Why, Minervy," cried Peggy, really distressed, "How COULD you?" "Why'm, ain' we jist right? I thought I done got bargains wha' jist nachally mak' dat odder widow 'oman tek a back seat AN' sit down. SHE didn't git no sich style when James up an died," answered Minervy, reproach in her tone and eyes. "But, Minervy," interposed Mrs. Harold. "That bright red stone in the buckle; how can you consider THAT MOURNING? And your veil shouldn't stick--I mean it ought to hang down properly." Minervy looked deeply perturbed. Shifting from one patent-leather-shod foot to the other, she answered: "Well'm, well'm, I dare say you's had more spurrience in dese hyer t'ings 'n I is, but dat ston certain'y did strike ma heart. But ef yo' say 'taint right why, pleas ma'am git a pair o' scissors an' prize it out, tho' I done brought de belt fer de sake ob dat buckle. Well, nemmine. I reckons I kin keep it, an' if I ever marhrys agin it sho will come in handy." The combined efforts of Mrs. Harold, Peggy and Polly eventually got Minervy passably presentable as to raiment, but there they gave up the obligation. On the following Sunday the funeral was held with all the ceremony and display dear to the African heart, but "Sis Cynthia, Mammy Lucy and Jerome were too occupied with domestic duties to attend." "I holds masef clar 'bove sich goin's-on," was Mammy's dictum. "When _I_ dies, I 'spects ter be bur'rid quiet an' dignumfied by ma MISTISS, an' no sich crazy goin's on as dem yonder." Later Minervy and her "nine haid ob chillern" betook themselves into the town of Annapolis where matrimonial opportunities were greater, and, sure enough, before two months were gone by she presented herself to Peggy, smiling and coy, to ask: "Please, ma'am, is yo' got any ol' white stuff wha' I could use fer a bridal veil?" "A BRIDAL veil?" repeated Peggy, horrified at this new development. "Yas'm, dat's what I askin' fer. Yo' see, Miss Peggy, dat haid waiter man at de Central Hotel, he done fall in love wid ma nine haid o' po' orphanless chillern an' crave fer ter be a daddy to 'em. An' Miss Peggy, honey, Johanna she gwine be ma bride's maid, an' does yo' reckon yo's got any ole finery what yo' kin giv' her? She's jist 'bout yo' size, ma'am." Johanna was Minervy's eldest daughter. "Yes. I'll get exactly what you want," cried Peggy, her lips set and her eyes snapping, for her patience was exhausted. Going to her storeroom Peggy brought to light about three yards of white cotton net and a pistachio green mull gown, long since discarded. It was made with short white lace sleeves and low cut neck. "Here you are," she said, handing them to Minervy who was thrown into a state of ecstacy. "But wait a moment; it lacks completeness," and she ran to her room for a huge pink satin bow. "There, tell Johanna to pin THAT on her head and the harlequin ice will be complete." But her sarcasm missed its mark. Then Peggy went to her greenhouses and gathering a bunch of Killarney roses walked out to the little burial lot where the Severndale help slept and laying them upon Joshua's grave said softly: "YOU were good and true and faithful, and followed your light." [Footnote: NOTE--The author would like to state that this episode actually did take place upon the estate of a friend.] CHAPTER XI PLAYING GOOD SAMARITAN February had passed and March was again rushing upon Severndale. A cold, wild March, too. Perhaps because it was coming in like a lion it would go out like a lamb. It is nearly a year since we first saw Peggy Stewart seated in the crotch of the snake-fence talking with Shashai and Tzaritza, and in that year her whole outlook upon life has changed. True it was then later in the month and spring filled the air, but a few weeks make vast changes in a Maryland springtide. And Daddy Neil was coming home soon! Coming in time for an alumni meeting during June week at the Academy, and Mr. Harold was coming also. These facts threw every one at Severndale, as well as Mrs. Harold and Polly into a flutter of anticipation. But several weeks--yes, three whole months in fact--must elapse before they would arrive, for the ships were only just leaving Guantanamo for Hampton Roads and then would follow target practice off the Virginia Capes. Mrs. Harold and Polly were going to run down to Hampton Roads for a week, to meet Mr. Harold, but Commander Stewart's cruiser would not be there. He was ordered to Nicaragua where one of the periodical insurrections was taking place and Uncle Sam's sailor boys' presence would probably prove salutary. At any rate, Neil Stewart could not be at Hampton Roads, and consequently Peggy decided not to go down with her friends, though urged to join them. Meanwhile she worked away with Compadre and as March slipped by acquired for Severndale a most valuable addition to its paddock. It all came about in a very simple manner, as such things usually do. All through Maryland are many small farms, some prosperous, some so slack and forlorn that one wonders how the owners subsist at all. It often depends upon the energy and industry of the individual. These farmers drive into Annapolis with their produce, and when one sees the animals driven, and vehicles to which they are harnessed, one often wonders how the poor beasts have had strength to make the journey even if the vehicle has managed to hold together. Often there is a lively "swapping" of horses at the market-place and a horse may change owners three or four times in the course of a morning. It so happened that Peggy had driven into Annapolis upon one of these market days, and having driven down to the dock to make inquiry for some delayed freight, was on her way back when she noticed a pair of flea- bitten gray horses harnessed to a ramshackle farm wagon. The wagon wheels were inches thick with dry mud, for the wagon had probably never been washed since it had become its present owner's property. The harness was tied in a dozen places with bits of twine, and the horses were so thin and apparently half-starved that Peggy's heart ached to see them. Pulling up her own span she said to Jess: "Oh, Jess, how CAN any one treat them so? They seem almost too weak to stand, but they have splendid points. Those horses have seen better days or I'm much mistaken and they come of good stock too." "Dey sho' does, missie," answered Jess, pleased as Punch to see his young mistress' quick eye for fine horseflesh, though it must be admitted that the fine qualities of these horses were well disguised, and only a connoisseur could have detected them. As they stood looking at the horses the owner came up accompanied by another man. They were in earnest conversation, the owner evidently protesting and his companion expostulating. Something impelled Peggy to tarry, and without seeming to do so, to listen. She soon grasped the situation: The horses' owner owed the other man some money which he was unable to pay. The argument grew heated. Peggy was unheeded. The upshot was the transfer of ownership of one of the span of horses to the other man, the new owner helping unharness the one chosen, its mate looking on with surprised, questioning eyes, as though asking why he, too, was not being unharnessed. The new owner did not seem over-pleased with his bargain either (he lacked Peggy's discernment) and vented his ill-temper upon the poor horse. Presently he led him away, the mate whinnying and calling after his companion in a manner truly pathetic. "Quick, Jess," ordered Peggy, "go and find out who that man is and where he is taking that horse, but don't let him suspect why." Jess scrambled out of the surrey, saying: "Yo' count on ME, Miss Peggy. I's wise, I is; I ketches on all right." Peggy continued to watch. The man sat down upon an upturned box near his wagon, buried his face in his hands and seemed oblivious of all taking place around him. Presently the horse turned toward him and nickered questioningly. The man looked up and reaching out a work-hardened hand, stroked the poor beast's nose, saying: "'Taint no use, Pepper; he's done gone fer good. Everythin's gone, and I wisht ter Gawd I was done gone too, fer 'taint no use. The fight's too hard for us." Just then he caught the eye of the young girl watching him. There was something in her expression which seemed to spell hope: he felt utterly hopeless. She smiled and beckoned to him. She was so used to being obeyed that his response was as a matter of course to her. He moved slowly toward the surrey, resting his hand upon the wheel and looking up at her with listless eyes. "You want me, miss?" he asked. Peggy said gently: "I couldn't help seeing what happened; I was right here. Please don't think me inquisitive, but would you mind telling me something about your horses? I love them so, and--and--and--I think yours have good blood." The furrowed, weatherbeaten face seemed transformed as he answered: "Some of the best in the land, miss. Some of the best. How did ye guess it?" "I did not guess it; I knew it. I raise horses." "Then you're Miss Stewart from Severndale, ain't ye?" "Yes, and you?" "I'm jist Jim Bolivar. I live 'bout five mile this side of Severndale. Lived there nigh on ter twenty year, but YO' wouldn't never know me, o' course, though I sometimes drives over to yo' place." "But how do you expect to drive back all that distance with only one horse? Did you sell the other, or only lend him?" For a moment the man hesitated. Then looking into the clear, tender eyes he said: "He had ter go, miss. Everything's gone ag'in me for over a year; I owed Steinberger fifty dollars; I couldn't pay him; I'd given Salt fer s'curity." "Salt?" repeated Peggy in perplexity. "Yes'm, Pepper's mate. I named 'em Pepper 'n Salt when they was young colts," and a faint smile curved the speaker's lips. Peggy nodded and said: "Oh, I see. That was clever. They DO look like pepper and salt." "Did," corrected the man. "There ain't but one now. But Salt were worth more 'n fifty dollars; yes, he were." "He certainly was," acquiesced Peggy. "Do you want to sell Pepper too?" "I'd sell my HEART, miss, if I could get things fer Nell." "Who is Nell?" "My girl, miss. Nigh 'bout yo' age, I reckons, but not big an' healthy an' spry like yo'. She's ailin' most o' the time, but we's mighty po,' miss, mighty po'. We ain't allers been, but things have gone agin us pretty steady. Last year the hail spoilt the crops, an' oh well, yo' don't want ter hear 'bout my troubles." "I want to hear about any one's troubles if I can help them. How shall you get back to your place?" "Reckon I'll have ter onhitch an' ride Pepper back, on'y I jist natchelly hate ter see Nell's face when I get thar 'thout Salt. She set sich store by them horses, an' they'd foiler her anywheres. I sort ter hate ter start, miss." "Listen to me," said Peggy. "What does Nell most need?" "Huh! MOST need? Most need? Well if I started in fer ter tell what she MOST needs I reckon you'd be scart nigh ter death. She needs everythin' an' seems like I can't git nothin'." "Well what did you hope to get for her?" asked Peggy, making a random shot. "Why she needs some shoes pretty bad, an' the doctor said she ought ter have nourishin' things ter eat, but, somehow, we can't seem ter git many extras." "Will you go into the market and get what you'd like from Mr. Bodwell? Here, give him this and tell him Miss Stewart sent you," and hastily taking a card from her case, Peggy wrote upon it: "Please give bearer what is needed," and signed her name. "Get a good thick steak and anything else Nell would like." The man hesitated. "But I ain't askin' charity, miss." "This is for NELL, and maybe I'll buy Pepper--if SHE will sell him," flashed Peggy, with a radiant smile. "I'll do as yo' tell me, miss. Mebbe it's Providence. Nell always says: 'The good Lord'll tell us how, Dad,' an' mebbe she's right, mebbe she is," and worn, weary, discouraged Jim Bolivar went toward the market. During his absence Jess returned. "Dat man's a no' 'count dead beat, Miss Peggy. Yas'm, he is fer a fac', an' he gwine treat dat hawse scan'lous." Peggy's eyes grew dark. "We'll see," was all she said, but Jess chuckled. Most of the help at Severndale knew that look. "Jess, unharness that horse and tie him behind the surrey," was her next astonishing order. "Fo' de Lawd's sake, Miss Peggy, what yo' bown' fer ter do? Yo' gwine start hawsestealin'?" Jess didn't know whether to laugh or take it seriously. When Jim Bolivar returned Pepper was trying to reason out the wherefor of being hitched behind such a handsome vehicle as Peggy's surrey, and Jess was protesting: "But--but--butter," stammered Jess, "Miss Peggy, yo' am' never in de roun' worl' gwine ter drive from de town an' clar out ter Severndale wid dat disrep'u'ble ol' hawse towin' 'long behime WE ALL?" "I certainly am, and what is more, Jim Bolivar is going to sit on the back seat and hold the leader. He has got to get HOME and he can't without help. Mr. Bolivar, please do as I say," Peggy's voice held a merry note but her little nod of authority meant "business." "But look at me, miss," protested Bolivar. "I ain't fit ter ride with yo', no how." "I am not afraid of criticism," replied Peggy, with the little up- tilting of the head which told of her Stewart ancestry. "When I know a thing is right I DO it. Steady, Comet. Quiet, Meteor," for the horses had been standing some time and seemed inclined to proceed upon two legs instead of four. "We'll stop at Brooks' for the shoes, then we'll go around to Dove's; I've a little commission for him." "Yas'm, yas'm," nodded Jess. The shoes were bought, Peggy selecting them and giving them to Bolivar with the words: "It will soon be Easter and this is my Easter gift to Nellie, with my love," she added with a smile which made the shoes a hundred-fold more valuable. Then off to the livery stable. "Mr. Dove, do you know a man named Steinberger?" "I know an old skinflint by that name," corrected Dove. "Well, you are to buy a horse from him. Seventy-five dollars OUGHT to be the price, but a hundred is available if necessary. But do your best. The horse's name is Salt--yes--that is right," as Dove looked incredulous, "and he is a flea-bitten gray--mate to this one behind us. Steinberger bought him today, and I want you to beat him at his own game if you can, for he has certainly beaten a better man." "You count on me, Miss Stewart, you count on me. Whatever YOU say goes with me." "Thank you, I'll wait and see what happens." Their homeward progress was slower than usual, for poor half-starved Pepper could not keep pace with Comet and Meteor. About four miles from Annapolis Bolivar directed them into a by-road which led to an isolated farm, as poor, forlorn a specimen as one could find. But in spite of its disrepair there was something of home in its atmosphere and the dooryard was carefully brushed. Turkey red curtains at the lower windows gave an air of cheeriness to the lonely place. As they drew near a hound came bounding out to greet them with a deep-throated bark, and a moment later a girl about Peggy's age appeared at the door. Peggy thought she had never seen a sweeter or a sadder face. She was fair to transparency with great questioning blue eyes, masses of golden hair waving softly back from her face and gathered into a thick braid. She walked with a slight limp, and looked in surprise at the strange visitors, and her big blue eyes were full of a vague doubt. "It's all right, honey. It's all right," called Bolivar. "'Aint nothin' but Providence a-workin' out, I reckon, jist like yo' say. "We have brought your father and Pepper home. Salt is all right, Nelly. You will see him again pretty soon." "Oh, has anything happened to Salt, Dad?" asked the girl quickly. "Well, not anything, so-to-speak. Jist let Miss Stewart, here, run it and it'll come out all right. I'm bankin' on that, judgin' from the way she's done so far. She's got a head a mile long, honey, she has, an' has mine beat ter a frazzle. Mine's kind o' wore out I reckon, an' no 'count, no more. Come long out an' say howdy." Nelly Bolivar came to the surrey and smiling up into Peggy's face, said: "Of course I know who you are, everybody does, but I never expected to really, truly know you, and I'm a right proud girl to shake hands with you," and a thin hand, showing marks of toil, was held to Peggy. There was a sweet dignity in the act and words. Peggy took it in her gloved one, saying: "I didn't suspect I was so well known. For a quiet girl I'm beginning to know a lot of people. But I must go now, it is getting very late. Your father is going to bring Pepper over to see me soon and maybe he will bring you, too. He has such a lot to tell you that I'll not delay it a bit longer. Good-bye, and remember a lot of pleasant things are going to happen," and with the smile which won all who knew her, Peggy drove away. If people's right ears burn when others are speaking kindly of them, Peggy's should have burned hard that evening, for Nelly Bolivar listened eagerly as her father told of the afternoon's experiences and Peggy's part in them. Two days later Salt was delivered at Severndale. Dove had been as good as his word. Shelby gave him one glance and said: "Well, if some men knew a HOSS as quick as that thar girl does, there'd be fewer no 'count beasts in the world. Put him in a stall and tell Jim Jarvis I want him to take care of him as if he was the Emperor. I know what I'm sayin', an' Miss Peggy knows what she's a-doin', an' that's more 'n I kin say for MOST women-folks." So Salt found himself in the lap of luxury and one week of it so transformed him that at the end of it poor Pepper would hardly have known his mate. Yet with all the care bestowed upon him the poor horse grieved for his mate, and never did hoof-beat fall upon the ground without his questioning neigh. Peggy visited him every day and was touched by his response to her petting; it showed what Nelly had done for him. But she was quick to understand the poor creature's nervous watching for his lost mate, and evident loneliness. At length she had him turned into the paddock with the other horses, but even this failed to console him. He stood at the paling looking down the road, again and again neighing his call for the companion which failed to answer. Peggy began to wonder what had become of Jim Bolivar. Two more weeks passed. Mrs. Harold and Polly had returned from Old Point and upon a beautiful April afternoon Polly and Peggy were out on the little training track where Polly, mounted upon Silver Star, was taking her first lesson in hurdles; a branch of her equestrian education which thus far had not been taken up. Star was beautifully trained, and took the low hurdles like a lapwing, though it must be confessed that Polly felt as though her head had snapped off short the first time he rose and landed. "My gracious, Peggy, do you nearly break your neck every time you take a fence?" she cried, settling her hat which had flopped down over her face. "Not quite," laughed Peggy, skimming over a five-barred hurdle as though it were five inches. "But, oh, Polly, look at Salt! Look at him! He acts as though he'd gone crazy," she cried, for the horse had come to the fence which divided his field from the track and was neighing and pawing in the most excited manner, now and again making feints of springing over. "Why I believe he would jump if he only knew how," answered Polly eagerly. "And I believe he DOES know how already," and Peggy slipped from Shashai to go to the fence. Just then, however, the sound of an approaching vehicle caught her ears, and the next instant Salt was tearing away across the field like a wild thing, neighing loudly with every bound, and from the roadway came the answering neigh for which he had waited so long, and Pepper came plodding along, striving his best to hasten toward the call he knew and loved. But Pepper had not been full-fed with oats, corn and bran-mashes, doctored by a skilled hand, or groomed by Jim Jarvis, as Salt had been for nearly four blissful weeks, and an empty stomach is a poor spur. But he could come to the fence and rub noses with Salt, and Peggy and Polly nearly fell into each other's arms with delight. "Oh, doesn't it make you just want to cry to see them?" said Polly, half tearfully. "They shan't be separated again," was Peggy's positive assertion. "How do you do, Mr. Bolivar? Why, Nelly, have you been ill?" for the girl looked almost too sick to sit up. "Yes, Miss Peggy, that's why Dad couldn't come sooner. He had to take care of me. He has fretted terribly over it too, because--" "Now, now! Tut, tut, honey. Never mind, Miss Peggy don't want to hear nothin' 'bout--" "Yes she does, too, and Nelly will tell us, She is coming right up to the house with us--this is my friend Miss Polly Howland, Nelly--Nelly Bolivar, Polly--and while you go find Shelby, Mr. Bolivar, and tell him I say to take--oh, here you are, Shelby. This is Mr. Bolivar. Please take him up to your cottage and take GOOD care of him, and give Pepper the very best feed he ever had. Then turn him out in the pasture with Salt. "We will be back again in an hour to talk horse just as fast as we can, and DON'T FORGET WHAT I TOLD YOU ABOUT PEPPER'S POINTS." "I won't, Miss Peggy, but I ain't got to open more'n HALF an eye no how." Peggy laughed, then slipping her arm through Nelly's, said: "Come up to the house with us. Mammy will know what you need to make you feel stronger, and you are going to be Polly's and my girl this afternoon." Quick to understand, Polly slipped to Nelly's other side, and the two strong, robust girls, upon whom fortune and Nature had smiled so kindly, led their less fortunate little sister to the great house. CHAPTER XII THE SPICE OF PEPPER AND SALT About an hour later the girls were back at the paddock, Nelly's face alight with joy, for it had not taken good old Mammy long to see that the chief cause of Nelly's lack of strength was lack of proper nourishment, and her skilled old hands were soon busy with sherry and raw eggs as a preliminary, to be followed by one of Aunt Cynthia's dainty little luncheons; a luncheon composed of what Mammy hinted "mus' be somethin' wha' gwine fer ter stick ter dat po' chile's ribs, 'case she jist nachelly half-starved." Consequently, the half-hour spent in partaking of it did more to put new life in little Nelly Bolivar than many days had done before, and there was physical strength and mental spirit also to sustain her. The old carryall still stood near the training track and saying: "Now you sit in there and rest while Polly and I do stunts for your amusement," Peggy helped Nelly into the seat. "I feel just like a real company lady," said Nelly happily, as she settled herself to watch the girls whom she admired with all the ardor of her starved little soul. "You ARE a real company lady," answered Peggy and Polly, "and we are going to entertain you with a sure-enough circus. All you've got to do is to applaud vigorously no matter how poor the show. Come on, Polly," and springing upon their horses, which had mean-time been patiently waiting in the care of Bud, off they raced around the track, Nelly watching with fascinated gaze. Meanwhile Pepper and Salt had been rejoicing in their reunion, Salt full of spirit and pranks as the result of his good care, and poor Pepper, for once full-fed, wonderfully "chirkered" up in consequence, though in sharp contrast to his mate. As Peggy and Polly cavorted around the track, racing, jumping and cutting all manner of pranks, Salt's attention to his mate seemed to be diverted. The antics of Star and Shashai, unhampered, happy and free as wild things, seemed to excite him past control. Again and again he ran snorting toward the paling, turning to whinny an invitation to Pepper, but, even with his poor, half-starved stomach for once well-filled, Pepper could not enthuse as his mate did; ONE square meal a year cannot compensate for so many others missed, and bring about miracles. Around and around the track swept the girls, taking hurdles, and cutting a dozen antics. At length Peggy, who had been watching Salt, stopped, and saying to Polly: "I'm going to try an experiment," she slipped from Shashai's back. Going to the fence she vaulted the four-foot barrier as easily as Shashai would have skimmed over six. Salt came to her at once, but Pepper hesitated. It was only momentary, for soon both heads were nestling confidingly to her. She was never without her little bag of sugar and a lump or two were eagerly accepted. Then going to Salt's side she crooned into his ear some of her mysterious "nightmare talk," as Shelby called it. It was a curious power the girl exercised over animals--almost hypnotic. Salt nozzled and fussed over her. Then saying: "Steady, boy. Steady." She gave one of her sudden springs and landed astride his back, saddleless and halterless. He gave a startled snort and tore away around the paddock. Polly was now used to any new departure, but Nelly gave a little shriek and clasped her hands. "She is all right, don't be frightened," smiled Polly. "She can do anything with a horse; I sometimes think she must have been a horse herself once upon a time." Nelly looked puzzled, but Polly laughed. Meanwhile Peggy was talking to her unusual mount. He seemed a trifle bewildered, but presently struck into a long, sweeping run--the perfect stride of the racer. Peggy gave a quick little nod of understanding as she felt the long, gliding motion she knew so well. As she came around to her friends she reached forward and laying hold of a strand of the silvery mane, said softly: "Who--ooa. Steady." What was it in the girl's voice which commanded obedience? Salt stopped close to his mate and began to rub noses with him as though confiding a secret. "Bud," commanded Peggy, "go to the stable and fetch me a snaffle bridle." The bridle was brought and carefully adjusted. "Come, Salt, NOW we will put it to the test; those flank muscles mean something unless I'm mistaken." During all this Shelby and Bolivar had come up to the paddock and stood watching the girl. "Ain't she jist one fair clipper?" asked Shelby, proudly. "Lord, but that girl's worth about a dozen of your ornery kind. She's a thoroughbred all through, she is." "Well, I ain't never seen nothin' like that, fer a fact, I ain't. I knowed them was good horses, but, well, I didn't know they was SADDLE horses." "They've more'n SADDLE horses, man, an' I'm bettin' a month's wages your eyes'll fair pop out inside five minutes. I know HER ways. I larned 'em to her, some on 'em, at least--but most was born in her. They HAS ter be. There's some things can't be L'ARNT, man." Once more Peggy started, this time her mount showing greater confidence in her. At first they loped lightly around the paddock, poor old Pepper alternately following, then stopping to look at his mate, apparently trying to reason it all out. Gradually the pace increased until once more Salt swept along in the stride which from time immemorial has distinguished racing blood. The fifth time around the broad field, Peggy turned him suddenly and making straight for the paling, cried in a ringing voice: "On! On! Up--Over!" The horse quivered, his muscles grew tense, then there was a gathering together of the best in him and the fence was taken as only running blood takes an obstacle. Then HER surprise came: Pepper meantime seemed to have lost his wits. As Salt neared the fence, the mate who for years had plodded beside him began to tear around and around the field, snorting, whinnying and giving way to the wildest excitement. As Salt skimmed over the fence Pepper's decorum fled, and with a loud neigh he tore after him, made a wild leap and cleared the barrier by a foot, then startled and shaken from his unwonted exertion, he stood with legs wide apart, trembling and quivering. In an instant Peggy had wheeled her mount and was beside the poor frightened creature; frightened because his blood had asserted itself and he had literally outdone himself. Slipping from Salt's back she tossed her bridle to Shelby who had hurried toward her, and taking Pepper's head in her arms petted and caressed him as she would have petted and caressed a child which had made a superhuman effort to perform some seemingly impossible act. "Nelly, Nelly, come here. Come. He will know your voice so much better than mine," she called, and Nelly scrambled out of the wagon as quickly as possible, crying: "Why, Miss Stewart, HOW did you do it. Why we never knew they were so wonderful. Oh, Dad, did you know they could jump and run like that?" "I knew they come o' stock that HAD run, an' jumped like that, but I didn't know all that ginger was in 'em. No I did NOT. It took Miss Stewart fer ter find THAT out, an' she sure has found it. Why, Pepper, old hoss," he added, stroking the horse's neck, "you've sartin' done yo'self proud this day." Pepper nozzled and nickered over him, evidently trying to tell him that the act had been partly inspired by the call of the blood, and partly by his love for his mate. Perhaps Bolivar did not interpret it just that way, but PEGGY DID. "Mr. Bolivar, I know Nelly loves Pepper and Salt, but I'd like to make you an offer for those horses just the same. I knew when I first saw them that they had splendid possibilities and only needed half a chance. You need two strong, able work-horses for your farm--these horses are both too high-bred for such work, that you know as well as I do--so I propose that we make a sensible bargain right now. We have a span of bays; good, stout fellows six years old, which we have used on the estate. They shall be yours for this pair with one hundred and twenty- five dollars to boot. Salt and Pepper are worth six hundred dollars right now, and in a little while, and under proper care and training, will be worth a good deal more. Shelby will bear me out in that, won't you?" "I'd be a plumb fool if I didn't, miss," was Shelby's reply, and Peggy nodded and resumed: "I have paid seventy-five dollars for Salt, adding to that the one-twenty-five and the span, which I value at four hundred, would make it a square deal, don't you think so?" Bolivar looked at the girl as though he thought she had taken leave of her wits. "One hundred and twenty-five dollars, and a span worth four hundred for a pair of horses which a month before he would have found it hard to sell for seventy-five each?--well, Miss Stewart must certainly be crazy." Peggy laughed at his bewilderment. "I'm perfectly serious, Mr. Bolivar," she said. "Yas'm, yas'm, but, my Lord, miss, I ain't seen THAT much money in two year, and your horses--I ain't seen 'em, and I don't want ter; if YOU say they're worth it that goes, but--but--well, well, things has been sort o' tough--sort o' tough," and poor, tired, discouraged Jim Bolivar leaned upon the fence and wept from sheer bodily weakness and nervous exhaustion. Nelly ran to his side to clasp her arms about him and cry: "Dad! Dad! Poor Dad. Don't! Don't! It's all right, Dad. We won't worry about things. God has taken care of us so far and He isn't going to stop." "That ain't it, honey. That ain't it," said poor Bolivar, slipping a trembling arm about her. "It's--it's--oh, I can't jist rightly say what 'tis." "Wall by all that's great, _I_ know, then," exclaimed Shelby, clapping him on the shoulder. "_I_ know, 'cause I've BEEN there: It's bein' jist down, out an' discouraged with everythin' and not a blame soul fer ter give a man a boost when he needs it. I lived all through that kind o' thing afore I came ter Severndale, an' 'taint a picter I like fer ter dwell upon. No it ain't, an' we're goin' ter bust yours ter smithereens right now. You don't want fer ter look at it no longer." "No I don't, I don't fer a fact," answered Bolivar, striving manfully to pull himself together and dashing from his eyes the tears which he felt had disgraced him. Peggy drew near. Her eyes were soft and tender as a doe's, and the pretty lips quivered as she said: "Mr. Bolivar, please don't try to go home tonight. Shelby can put you up, and Nelly shall stay with me. You are tired and worn out and the change will do you good. Then you can see the horses and talk it all over with Shelby, and by tomorrow things will look a lot brighter. And Nelly and I will have a little talk together too." "I can't thank ye, miss. No, I can't. There ain't no words big nor grand enough fer ter do that. I ain't never seen nothin' like it, an' yo've made a kind o' heaven fer Nelly. Yes, go 'long with Miss Peggy, honey. Ye ain't never been so looked after since yo' ma went on ter Kingdom Come." He kissed the delicate little face and turning to Shelby, said: "Now come on an' I'll quit actin' like a fool." "There's other kinds o' fools in this world," was Shelby's cryptic reply. "Jim," he called, "look after them horses," indicating Pepper and Salt, and once more united, the two were led away to the big stable where their future was destined to bring fame to Severndale. Bolivar went with Shelby to his quarters, and their interest in riding having given way to the greater one in Nelly, the girls told Bud to take their horses back to the stable. From that moment, Nelly Bolivar's life was transformed. The following day she and her father went back to the little farm behind the well conditioned span from Severndale, and a good supply of provisions for all, for Shelby had insisted upon giving them what he called, "a good send off" on his own account, and enough oats and corn went with Tom and Jerry, as the new horses were named, to keep them well provisioned for many a day. "Jist give 'em half a show an' they'll earn their keep," advised Shelby. "I'll stop over before long and lend a hand gettin' things ship-shape. I know they're boun' ter get out o' kilter when yo' don't have anybody ter help. One pair o' hands kin only do jist so much no matter how hard they work. Good luck." From that hour Nelly was Peggy's protege. The little motherless girl living so close to Severndale, her home, her circumstances in such contrast to her own, wakened in Peggy an understanding of what lay almost at her door, and so many trips were made to the little farm-house that spring that Shashai and Tzaritza often started in that direction of their own accord when Peggy set forth upon one of her outings. And meanwhile, over in the hospital, Dunmore was growing weaker and weaker as the advancing springtide was bringing to Nelly Bolivar renewed health and strength, so strangely are things ordered in this world, and with Easter the brave spirit took its flight, leaving many to mourn the lad whom all had so loved. For some time the shadow of his passing lay upon the Academy, then spring athletics absorbed every one's interest and Ralph made the crew, to Polly's intense delight. In May he rowed on the plebe crew against a high school crew and beat them "to a standstill." Then came rehearsal for the show to be given by the Masqueraders, the midshipmen's dramatic association, and at this occurred something which would have been pronounced utterly impossible had the world's opinion been asked. The show was to be given the last week in May. Mr. Harold and Mr. Stewart would arrive a few days before, each on a month's leave. As Happy was one of the moving spirits of the show, he was up to his eyes in business. Clever in everything he undertook, he was especially talented in music, playing well and composing in no mediocre manner. He had written practically all the score of the musical comedy to be given by the Masqueraders, and among other features, a whistling chorus. Now if there was one thing Polly could do it was whistle. Indeed, she insisted that it was her only accomplishment and many a happy little impromptu concert was given in Middies' Haven with Happy's guitar, Shortie's mandolin and Durand's violin. Of course, all the characters in the play were taken by the boys, many of them making perfectly fascinating girls, but when the whistling chorus was written by Happy, Polly was no small aid to him, and again and again this chorus was rehearsed in Middies' Haven, sometimes by a few of the number who would compose it, and again by the entire number; the star performer being a little chap from Ralph's class whose voice still held its boyish treble and whose whistle was like a bird's notes. Naturally, Polly had learned the entire score, for one afternoon during the past autumn while the girls were riding through the beautiful woodlands near Severndale, Polly had whistled an answer to a bob-white's call. So perfect had been her mimicry that the bird had been completely deceived and answering repeatedly, had walked almost up to Silver Star's feet. Peggy was enraptured, and then learned that Polly could mimic many bird calls, and whistle as sweetly as the birds themselves. Peggy had lost no time in making this known to the boys, much to Polly's embarrassment, but the outcome had been the delightful little concerts, and Happy had made the various bird notes the theme of his bird chorus. It was a wonderfully pretty thing and bound to make a big hit, so all agreed. Consequently, little Van Nostrand had been drilled until he declared he woke himself up in the night whistling, and so the days sped away. Mr. Harold and Daddy Neil had arrived and the morning of the Masqueraders' show dawned. In less than twelve hours the bird chorus would be on the stage whistling Polly's bird notes. Then Wharton Van Nostrand fell ill with tonsilitis and was packed off to the hospital! Happy was desperate. Who under the sun would take his part? There was not another man whose voice was like Wharton's. Happy flew about like a distracted hen, at length rushing to Mrs. Harold and begging her to give him just TEN minutes private interview. "Why, what under the sun do you want, Happy?" she asked, going into her own room and debarring all the others whose curiosity was at the snapping point. When they emerged Happy's face was brimful of glee, but Mrs. Harold warned: "Mind the promise is only conditional: If Polly says 'yes' well and good, but if you let the secret out you and I will be enemies forevermore." CHAPTER XIII THE MASQUERADERS' SHOW It was the night of the Masqueraders' Show. The auditorium was packed, for Annapolis was thronged with the relatives of the graduating class as well as hundreds of visitors. Among others were Polly Howland's mother, her married sister Constance, and her brother-in-law, Harry Hunter, now an ensign. They had been married at Polly's home in Montgentian, N.J., almost a year ago. Harry Hunter had graduated from the Academy the year Happy and his class were plebes, and had been the two-striper of the company of which Wheedles was now the two-striper. His return to Annapolis with his lovely young wife was the signal for all manner of festive doings, and it need hardly be added that Mrs. Harold's party had a row of seats which commanded every corner of the stage. Mr. Stewart and Peggy were of the party, of course, and anything radiating more perfect happiness than Peggy's face that night it would have been hard to find. Was not Daddy Neil beside her, and in her private opinion the finest looking officer present? Again and again as she sat next him she slipped her hand into his to give it a rapturous little squeeze. Nor was "Daddy Neil" lacking in appreciation of the favors of the gods. The young girl sitting at his side, in spite of her modesty and utter lack of self-consciousness, was quite charming enough to make any parent's heart thrill with pride. With her exceptional tact, Mrs. Harold had won Harrison's favor, Harrison pronouncing her: "A real, born lady, more like your own ma than any one you've met up with since you lost her; SHE was one perfect lady if one ever lived." It had been rather a delicate position for Mrs. Harold to assume, that of unauthorized guardian and counsellor to this young girl who had come into her life by such an odd chance, but Mrs. Harold seemed to be born to mother all the world, and subtly Harrison recognized the fact that Peggy was growing beyond her care and guidance, and the thousand little amenities of the social world in which she would so soon move and have her being. For more than a year this knowledge had been a source of disquietude to the good soul who for eight years had guarded her little charge so faithfully, and she had often confided to Mammy Lucy: "That child is getting clear beyond ME. She's growin' up that fast it fair takes my breath away, and she knows more right now in five minutes than I ever knew in my whole life, though 'twouldn't never in this world do to let her suspicion it." Consequently, once having sized up Mrs. Harold, and fully decided as the months rolled by that she "weren't no meddlesome busybody, a-trying to run things," she was only too glad to ask her advice in many instances, and Peggy's toilet this evening was one of them. Poor old Harrison had begun to find the intricacies of a young girl's toilet a trifle too complex for her, and had gone to Mrs. Harold for advice. The manner in which it was given removed any lingering vestige of doubt remaining in Harrison's soul, and tonight Peggy was a vision of girlish loveliness in a soft pink crepe meteor made with a baby waist, the round neck frilled with the softest lace, the little puffed sleeves edged with it, and a "Madam Butterfly" sash and bow of the crepe encircling her lithe waist. Her hair was drawn loosely back and tied a la pompadour with a bow of pink satin ribbon, another gathering in the rich, soft abundance of it just below the neck. By chance she sat between Mrs. Howland and her father, Mrs. Harold was next Mrs. Howland, with Mr. Harold, Constance and Snap just beyond, and Polly at the very end of the seat, though why she had slipped there Mrs. Howland could not understand. Peggy had instantly been attracted to Mrs. Howland and had fallen in love with Constance as only a young girl can give way to her admiration for another several years her senior. But there was nothing of the foolish "crush" in her attitude: it was the wholesome admiration of a normal girl, and Constance was quick to feel it. Mrs. Howland was smaller and daintier than Mrs. Harold, though in other ways there was a striking resemblance between these two sisters. Mrs. Harold, largely as the result of having lived among people in the service, was prompt, decisive of action, and rather commanding in manner, though possessing a most tender, sympathetic heart. Mrs. Howland, whose whole life had been spent in her home, with the exception of the trips taken with her husband and children when they were young, for she had been a widow many years, had a rather retiring manner, gentle and lovable, and, as Peggy thought, altogether adorable, for her manner with Polly was tenderness itself, and Polly's love for her mother was constantly manifested in a thousand little affectionate acts. She had a little trick of running up to her and half crying, half crooning: "Let me play cooney-kitten and get close," and then nestling her sunny head into her mother's neck, where the darker head invariably snuggled down against it and a caressing hand stroked the spun gold as a gentle voice said: "Mother's sun-child. The little daughter who helps fill her world with light." Polly loved to hear those words and Peggy thought how dear it must be to have some claim to such a tender love and know that one meant so much to the joy and happiness of another. Mrs. Harold had written a great deal of Peggy's history to this sister, so Mrs. Howland felt by no means a stranger to the young girl beside her, and her heart was full of sympathy when she thought of her lonely life in spite of all this world had given her of worldly goods. Meantime the little opera opened with a dashing chorus, a ballet composed, apparently, of about fifty fetching young girls, gowned in the most up-to-date costumes, wearing large picture hats which were the envy of many a real feminine heart in the audience, and carrying green parsols with long sticks and fascinating tassles. Oh, the costumer knew his business and those dainty high-heeled French slippers seemed at least five sizes smaller than they really were as they tripped so lightly through the mazes of the ballet. But alack! the illusion was just a TRIFLE dispelled when the ballet-girls broke into a rollicking chorus, for some of those voices boomed across the auditorium with an undoubtable masculine power. Nevertheless, the ballet was encored until the poor dancers were mopping rouge-tinged perspiration from their faces. One scene followed another in rapid order, all going off without a hitch until the curtain fell upon the first act, and during the interval and general bustle of friend greeting friend Polly and Mrs. Harold disappeared. At first, Mrs. Howland was not aware of their absence, then becoming alive to it she asked: "Connie, dear, what has become of Aunt Janet and Polly?" "I am sure I don't know, mother. They were here only a moment ago," answered Constance. "I saw them go off with Happy, beating it for all they were worth toward the wings, Carissima," answered Snap, using for Mrs. Howland the name he had given her when he first met her, for this splendid big son-in-law loved her as though she were his own mother, and that love was returned in full. "Peggy, dear, can you enlighten us?" asked Mrs. Howland looking at the girl beside her, for her lips were twitching and her eyes a-twinkle. Peggy laughed outright, then cried contritely: "Oh, I beg your pardon, Mrs. Howland, I did not mean to be rude, but it is a secret, and such a funny one, too; I'd tell if I dared but I've promised not to breathe it." "Run out an extra cable then, daughter," laughed Commander Stewart. "I think this one will hold," was Mrs. Howland's prompt answer, with a little pat upon Peggy's soft arm. "She's a staunch little craft, I fancy. I won't ask a single question if I must not." A moment later the lights were lowered and the curtains were rung back. The scene drew instant applause. It was a pretty woodland with a stream flowing in the background. Grouped upon the stage in picturesque attitudes were about forty figures costumed to represent various birds, and in their midst was a charming little maiden, evidently the only human being in this bird-world, and presently it was disclosed to the audience that she was held as a hostage to these bird-beings, until the prince of their enchanted world should be released from bondage in the land of human beings and restored to them. "Why who in this world can that little chap be?" "I didn't know there was such a tiny midshipman in the whole brigade." "Doesn't he make a perfectly darling girl, though?" "Perfectly lovable, hugable and adorable," were the laughing comments. In the dim light Peggy buried her head in Daddy Neil's lap, trying to smother her laughter. "You--you little conspirator," he whispered. "I believe I've caught on." "Oh, don't whisper it. Don't!" instantly begged Peggy. "Polly would never forgive me for letting out the secret." "You haven't. I just did a little Yankee guessing, and I reckon I'm not far from the mark." "Hush, and listen. Isn't it pretty?" It was, indeed, pretty. The captive princess, captured because she had learned the secret of the bird language, began a little plaintive whistling call, soft, sweet, musical as a flute; the perfect notes of the hermit thrush. This was evidently the theme to be elaborated upon and the chorus took it up, led so easily, so harmoniously and so faultlessly by the dainty little figure with its bird-like notes. From the hermit-thrush's note to the liquid call of the wood-thrush, the wood-peewee, the cardinal's cheery song, the whip-poor-will's insistent questioning, on through the gamut of cat-birds, warblers, bob-whites and a dozen others, ran the pretty chorus, with its variations, the little princess' and her jailor birds' dancing and whistling completing the clever theme. When it ended the house went mad clapping, calling, shouting: "Encore! Encore!" And before it could be satisfied the obliging actors had given their chorus and ballet five times, and the whistlers' throats were dry as powder. As they left the stage for the last time the little princess flung HERself into Mrs. Harold's arms, gasping. "I know my whistle is smashed, destroyed, and mined beyond repair, Aunt Janet, but oh, wasn't it perfectly splendid to do it for the boys and hear that house applaud them." "Them?" cried a feathered creature coming up to give Polly a clap upon the back as he would have given a classmate. "Them! And where the mischief do YOU come in on this show-down? There listen to that. Do you know what it means? It means come out there in front of that curtain and get what's coming to you. Come on." "Oh, I can't! I can't! They'd recognize me and I wouldn't have them for worlds. Not for worlds! It would be perfectly awful," and Polly shrank back abashed. "Recognized! Awful nothing! You've got to come out. It's part of the performance," and hand in hand with Happy and Wheedles the abashed little princess was led before the foot-lights to receive an ovation and enough American beauty roses to hide her in a good-sized bower. As she started back she let fall some of her posies. Instantly, Wheedles was upon his knees, his hand pressed to his heart, and his eyes dancing with fun, as he handed her the roses. Shouts and renewed applause went up from the auditorium. "I KNOW that is a girl. I am positive of it. But WHO can she be?" was the comment of one of the ladies behind Mrs. Howland. "Well I have an idea _I_ might tell her name if I chose," said Mrs. Howland under her breath to Peggy. "Didn't she do it beautifully?" whispered Peggy, squeezing Mrs. Howland's hand in a rapture. "But please don't tell. Please don't." Mrs. Howland smiled down upon the eager face upraised to hers. "Do you think I am likely to?" she asked. Peggy nodded her head in negative, but before she could say more Polly and another girl came walking down the aisle. Even Peggy looked in surprise at the newcomer, then she gave a little gasp. The girl was much taller than Polly, and rather broad shouldered for a girl, but strange to relate, looked enough like Peggy to be her twin. Mr. Stewart gave a startled exclamation and seemed about to rise from his seat. Peggy laid a detaining hand upon his and whispered: "Don't." Her father looked at her as though he did not know whether his wits or hers were departing. The play was again in progress so Polly and her companion took their seats next Mrs. Harold who had returned some minutes before. Polly was doing her best to control her laughter, but the girl with her was the very personification of decorum. "In heaven's name who IS that girl?" Peggy's father asked in a low voice. "He's--he's--" and Peggy broke down. "What?" "Yes--I'll tell you later, but isn't it too funny for words?" "Why child she--he-ahem--that PERSON is enough like you to be your sister. Who--" and poor puzzled Neil Stewart was too bewildered to complete his sentence or follow the play. "Yes; I've known that from the first and it is perfectly absurd," answered Peggy, "but I never realized HOW like me until this minute. But he will catch the very mischief if he is found out. But WHERE did he get those clothes? They aren't a part of the costumes so far as I know." But there is just where Peggy's calculations fell down, for the dainty lingerie gown, with its exquisite Charlotte Corday hat had been added to the costumes to substitute others which had been ordered but could not be supplied. Consequently Peggy had not happened to see it. And the handsome girl? Well she certainly WAS a beauty with her dark hair, perfect eyebrows, flashing dark eyes and faultless teeth. Her skin was dark but the cheeks were mantled with a wonderful color. As the play was still in progress, she could not, of course, enter into conversation with Polly's friends, but her smile was fascinating to a rare degree. At length the second act ended, and Neil Stewart could stand it no longer. "Peggy, introduce me to that girl right off. Why---why, she might be you," and Peggy's father fairly mopped his brow in perturbation. Peggy beckoned to the new arrival who managed to slip around the aisle and come to her end of the seat. If she minced with a rather affected step it was not commented upon. Most people were too fascinated by her beauty to criticise her walk. The look which the two exchanged puzzled Mr. Stewart more than ever. Peggy's lips were quivering as she said: "Miss--er, Miss Leroux, I want you to know Mrs. Howland and my father." "So delighted to," replied "Miss" Leroux, but at the words Mrs. Rowland gave a little gasp and Mr. Stewart who had risen to meet Peggy's friend, started as though some one had struck him, for the voice, even with Durand's best attempts to disguise it to a feminine pitch, held a quality which no girl's voice ever held. "Well I'll be--I'll be--why you unqualified scamp, who ARE you, and what do you mean by looking so exactly like my girl here that I don't know whether I've one daughter or two?" Then Durand fled, laughing as only Durand could--with eyes, lips and an indescribable expression which made both the laugh and himself absolutely irresistible. The following week sped away and before any one quite knew where it had gone the great June ball was a thing of the past and the morning had come which would mean the dividing of the ways for many. Happy, Wheedles, and Shortie had graduated and would have a month's leave. Durand was now a second-classman, Ralph a youngster, and about to start upon the summer practice cruise. The ships were to run down to Hampton Roads and then up to New London, where Mrs. Harold and all her party were to meet them, she and Mrs. Howland having taken rooms at the Griswold for the period the ships would be at New London. They had asked Peggy to go with them and when "Daddy Neil" arrived he was included in the invitation. But Daddy Neil had a plan or two of his own, and these plans he was not long in turning over with Mr. Harold to the satisfaction of all concerned, and they all decided that they "beat the first ones out of sight." As Daddy Neil was a man of prompt action he was not long in carrying them into effect, and they were nothing more nor less than a big house party in New London rather than the hotel life which had been planned. So telegraph wires were kept busy, and in no time one of the Griswold cottages was at the disposal of the entire party. CHAPTER XIV OFF FOR NEW LONDON "Now I'm going to run THIS show, Harold, and you may just as well pipe down," rumbled Neil Stewart in his deep, wholesome voice. "Besides, I'm your ranking officer and here's where I prove it," he added, forcing Mr. Harold into his pet Morris chair and towering above him, his genial laugh filling the room. It was the Sunday afternoon following graduation. Many, indeed the greater portion of the graduates, had left for their homes, or to pay visits to friends before joining their ships at the end of their month's leave, though some still lingered, their plans as yet unformed. Wilmot Hall was practically deserted, for the scattering which takes place after graduation is hard to understand unless one is upon the scene to witness it. Mr. and Mrs. Harold, with Mr. Stewart, Peggy, Mrs. Howland, Constance, Snap, Polly, Shortie, Wheedles and Happy were gathered in Middies' Haven, and Neil Stewart had the floor. Since his return to Severndale he had spent more than half the time at Wilmot where his lodestar, Peggy, was staying with those she had grown to love so dearly, and where she was so entirely happy. Mr. Stewart had taken a room for June week in order to be near her, feeling reluctant to take her away from the friends who had done so much for her; more, a vast deal, he felt, than he could ever repay. It did not take him long to see the change which nine months had made in this little girl of his. Always lovable and exceptionally capable, there was now the added charm which association with a girl of her own age had developed in spontaneity, and her attitude toward Mrs. Harold--the pretty little affectionate demonstrations so unconsciously made--revealed to her father what Peggy had lacked for nearly nine years, and he began to waken to the fact to which Mrs. Harold had been alive for some time: that without meaning to be selfish in his sorrow for Peggy's mother, he had been wholly self-absorbed, leaving Peggy to live her life in a little world of her own creation. During the past two weeks HE had been put through a pretty severe scrutiny by Mrs. Harold, and in spite of her prejudices she began to see how circumstances had conspired to evolve the unusual order of things for both father and daughter, and her heart softened toward the big man who, while so complete a master of every situation on board his own ship, was so helpless to cope with this domestic problem. Nor could she see her way clear to remedy it further than she had already done. It seemed to be one of life's handicaps. But we can not understand the "why" of all things in this world, and must leave a great deal of it to the Father of all. Just now it seemed as though Neil Stewart was the instrument of that ordering. Mr. Harold looked up at him and joined in the laugh. "Maybe you think I'm going to give these fellows a demonstration of insubordination the very first clip. Not on your life. Fire away. You have the deck." "Well, I've got my cottage up there in New London--a good one too, if I can judge by all the hot air that has escaped concerning it. Jerome and Mammy are packed off to open it up and make it habitable against our arrival, and everything's all skee and shipshape so far as THAT part of the plan is blocked out. The ship's in commission but now comes the question of her personnel. You, Harold, and your wife have been good enough to act as second and third in command but we must have junior officers. Thus far the detail foots up only five; just a trifle shy on numbers, and I want it to number, let me see, at least eleven," and he nodded toward the others seated about the room. Some looked at him in doubt. Then Happy said: "But, Mr. Stewart. I'm afraid I've got to beat it for home, sir." "Where is home?" "Up the Hudson, sir." "That's all right. And yours?" indicating Shortie. "Vermont, sir." "And yours?" "Near Philadelphia, sir," said Wheedles. "All within twelve hours of New London, aren't they?" "Yes sir." "Very well; that settles it. You give us ten days at least, and we'll do the Regatta at New London and any other old thing worth doing. Will you wire your people that you're going with us? 'Orders from your superior officer.' Who knows but you may all hit my ship and in that case you may as well fall in at once." "Well you better believe there'll be no kick--I beg your pardon sir--I mean, I'll be delighted," stammered Happy. "That Western Union wire is going to fuse, sir," was Wheedles' characteristic response. "I said last time I was up at New London that I'd be singed and sizzled if I ever went again, sir, and that just goes to show 'what fools we mortals be'," was Shortie's quizzical answer. "Orders received and promptly obeyed. So far so good," was the hearty response. "Now to the next. Mrs. Howland, what about you and your plans! We've got this little girl in tow all tight and fast, but you haven't put out a signal." "It all sounds most enticing, but do you know I have another girl to think about? She is up at Smith College and will graduate in one week. I must be there for THAT if I never do another thing. It is an event in her life and mine." "Hum; yes; I see; of course. We've got to get around that, haven't we? And I dare say YOU two think you've got to be on deck also," he added, nodding at Constance and Snap, who in return nodded their reply in a very positive manner. "Are you going to jump ship too, little captain?" he asked, turning suddenly to Polly. "Oh please don't. We need you so much," pleaded Peggy. "I'd like to see Gail graduate, but oh, I do want to go to New London just dreadfully," cried Polly. "You would better go, dear," said Mrs. Howland, deciding the question for her. "You would have but three days at Northampton and they would hardly mean as much to you as the same number at New London. Constance, Snap and I will go up, and then perhaps we will come on to New London. I must first learn Gail's plans." "You will ALL come up. Every last one of you, Gail too; and if Gail bears even a passing resemblance to the rest of her family she isn't going to disgrace it." "She's perfectly lovely, Mr. Stewart," was Polly's emphatic praise of her pretty, twenty-year-old sister. "Your word goes, captain," answered Mr. Stewart, crossing the room to where the girls sat upon the couch. "Gangway, please," he said, motioning them apart and seating himself between them. "My, but these are pretty snug quarters," he added, placing an arm around each and drawing them close to him. Peggy promptly nestled her head upon his shoulder. "My other shoulder feels lonesome," said Mr. Stewart, smiling into Polly's face. The next second the bronze head was cuddled down also. "That's pretty nice. Best game of rouge et noir ever invented," nodded Neil Stewart, a happy smile upon his strong face. "Now to proceed: There are, thus far, eleven of us. When we capture Gail we shall have twelve. A round dozen. Good! Now how to get up there is the next question. I've hit it! Let's make an auto trip of it.'' "An auto trip," chorused the others. "Sure thing! Why not? Look here, people, this is my holiday. Such a holiday as I haven't had in years, and at the end of it is something else for me. Harold knows, but he's been too wise to give it away. I didn't know it myself until I came through Washington, but--well--it's pretty good news. I didn't mean to blurt it out, but this is sort of a family conclave and I needn't ask you all to keep it in the family; but up there in the Boston Navy Yard is an old fighting machine of which I am to be captain when I get back in harness--" "What! Oh, Daddy! Daddy! How splendid!" cried Peggy. "Oh, I've just got to hug you hard,'' and she smothered him in a regular bear hug. "That's better than the promotion," he said, his eyes shining, and his thoughts harking back to another impulsive young girl who had clasped her arms about him when he received his commission as lieutenant. How like her Peggy was growing. It would have meant a good deal to her could she have lived to see him attain his captaincy. He always recalled her as a young girl. It was almost impossible for him to realize that were she now alive she would be Mrs. Harold's age, though she was considerably younger than himself when they had married. And so it was settled. Neil Stewart was to engage a couple of large touring cars for a month and in these the party was to make the trip to New London. A man of prompt action, he lost no time in putting his plan into effect, and the following Wednesday a merry party set out from Wilmot Hall. Each car carried six comfortably in addition to the chauffeur. Each was provided with everything necessary for the long trip which they calculated would take about three days, and the pairing off was arranged to every one's satisfaction, an arrangement known to have exceptions. Mr. and Mrs. Harold, Happy, Shortie and Polly and Peggy were in one car, Mr. Stewart, Mrs. Howland, Snap, Constance and Wheedles in the other, the extra seat, Mr. Stewart said was to be held in reserve for Gail when Mrs. Howland should bring her to New London. None of the party ever forgot that auto ride through Maryland, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, New York and Connecticut. The weather was ideal, and for the men just ashore after months of sea-duty, and the midshipmen, just emancipated from four years of the strictest discipline and a most limited horizon, it was a most wonderful world of green things, and an endless panorama of beauty. One night was spent in Philadelphia where all stopped at the Aldine and went to see "The Balkan Princess." Another night in New York at the Astor with "Excuse Me" to throw every one into hysterics of laughter. And what a revelation it all was to Peggy. What a new world she had entered. "I didn't know there could be anything like it," she confided to Polly, "and oh, isn't it splendid. But HOW I wish I could just share it with everybody." "It seems to me you are sharing it with a good many bodies, Peggy Stewart. What do you call ten people besides yourself?" "Oh, I mean people who never have or see anything like it. Like Nelly, for instance, and--and--oh just dozens of people who seem to go all their lives and never have any of the things which so many other people have. I wonder why it IS so, Polly? It doesn't seem just right, does it?" "I wonder if you know how many people you make happy in the course of a year, Peggy Stewart. I don't believe you have the least idea, but it's a pity a few of them couldn't lift up their voices and make it known." "Well, I'm right thankful they can't. It would be awful." It was a glorious June afternoon when the two big touring cars swept under the porte-cochere of the Griswold Hotel at New London, and attendants hurried out to assist the new arrivals from them. Mr. Stewart waved them aside and saying to his guests: "Wait here until I find out where that shack of ours is located and then we'll go right over to it and get fixed tip as soon as possible," he disappeared into the hotel to return a moment later with a clerk. "This man will direct us," and presently the cars were rolling down toward the shore road. In five minutes they had stopped before a large bungalow situated far out on one of the rocky points commanding the entire sweep of the bay, and before them riding at anchor was the practice squadron, the good old flagship Olympia, on which Commodore Dewey had fought the battle of Manila Bay, standing bravely out from among her sister ships the Chicago, the Tonopah and the old frigate Hartford anchored along the roadstead. "Oh, Peggy! Peggy! See them! See them! Don't you love them, every inch of them, from the fighting top to the very anchor chains? I do." "I ought to," assented Peggy, "for Dad! loves his ship next to me I believe." "How could he help it?" They were now hurrying into the cottage where Jerome and Mammy were waiting to welcome them. A couple of servants had been sent over from the Griswold to complete the menage with Mammy and Jerome as commanders-in-chief. It was a pretty cottage with a broad veranda running around three sides of it and built far out over the water on the front; an ideal spot for a month's outing. Launches were darting to and from the ships with liberty parties, often with two or three cutters in tow filled with laughing, skylarking midshipmen. On the opposite shore where the old Pequoit House had once stood, was another landing at which many of the ships' boats, or shore boats, were also making landings with parties which had been out to visit the ships. The ships wore a festive air with awnings stretched above their quarter-decks and altogether it was an enchanting picture. Mammy welcomed her family with enthusiasm, and Jerome with the ceremony he never omitted, and in less time than seemed possible all were settled in their spacious, airy rooms. Mr. and Mrs. Harold had a room looking out over the river, with the two girls next them, while Mrs. Howland, Mr. Stewart, Snap and Constance had rooms just beyond, the three boys being quartered on the floor above. "Oh, Peggy, isn't it the dearest place you ever saw?" cried Polly, running out on the balcony upon which their room gave. "And there's the dear old flat-iron," the "flat-iron" being the name bestowed by the boys upon the monitor Tonopah because she set so low in the water and was shaped not unlike one, her turrets sticking up like bumpy handles. "Look, Polly! Look! Some one is wigwagging on the bridge of the Olympia. Oh, Daddy Neil, Daddy Neil, come quickly and tell us what they are saying," she called into the next room. Neil Stewart hurried out to the balcony, slightly lowering his eyelids as he would have done at sea, a little trick acquired by most men who look across the water. "Why they are signalling US," he exclaimed. "That's Boynton on the bridge," mentioning an officer whom he knew, "and the chap signalling is--YOU--no, no I don't mean that, I mean it's the chap who ought to be you, that Devon, Deroux, no--Leroux--isn't that his name? The fellow who rigged up in girl's clothes and fooled me to a frazzle. He's saying-- what's that? Hold on--Yes! 'Welcome to New London' and--'Coming on board.' THAT means that a whole bunch will descend upon us tonight I'll bet all I'm worth. Well, let 'em come! Let 'em come! The more the merrier for there's nothing amiss with the commissary department. Here, Happy, Happy, come and answer that signal out yonder. I'm rusty, but you ought to have it down pat." "Aye, aye, sir," answered Happy, appearing at the window overhead and by some miraculous means scrambling through it and letting himself drop to the balcony where Mr. Stewart and the girls were standing. "Give me a towel, quick, Peggy." Peggy rushed for a towel and a moment later the funny wigwag was answering: "Come along. Delighted." And that night the bungalow was filled to overflowing, for not only did the boys come, but several officers who had known Mr. Stewart and Mr. Harold for years were eager to renew their acquaintance, and talk over old days. "And you've come just in time for the regatta. Going to be a big race this year. The men are up at Gales ferry now and look fit to a finish. How are you planning to see it?" asked the captain of the Olympia. "Haven't planned a thing yet. Why we've only just struck our holding ground, man." "Good, I'm glad of it. That fixes it all right. You are all to be my guests that day--yes--no protests. Rockhill has gone to Europe and left his launch at my service and she's a jim-dandy, let me tell you. She's a sixty-footer and goes through the water like a knife blade. You'll all come with me and we'll see the show from a private box." "Can you carry ALL OF US?" asked Peggy incredulously. "Every last one, little girl, and a dozen more if you like. So fly to the east and fly to the west and then invite the very one whom you love best," answered Captain Boynton, pinching Peggy's velvety cheek. "Oh, there are so many we love best," she laughed, "that we'd never dare ask them all, would we, Polly?" "Let's ask all who are here tonight," was Polly's diplomatic answer, "then no one can feel hurt." "Hoopla!" rose from the other end of the porch where Durand, Ralph, and three of the other boys from the ships were sitting around a big bamboo table drinking lemonade. And so the party was then and there arranged for New London's big day. CHAPTER XV REGATTA DAY Peggy and Polly scrambled out of bed the morning of the Yale-Harvard crew race, to find all the world sparkling and cool with a stiff breeze from the Sound. It was a wonderful day and already the sight presented in the bay was enough to thrill the dullest soul. During the five days in which "Navy Bungalow," as it had been promptly named by the young people, had been occupied by the congenial party from Annapolis, old friendships had strengthened and new ones ripened, and a happier gathering of people beneath one roof it would have been hard to find. Perfect freedom was accorded every one, and the boys who had just graduated soon found their places with the older officers, for the transition, once the diploma is won, is a swift one. As passed midshipmen and "sure enough" junior officers, they had an established position impossible during their student days in the Academy. The boys on the practice cruise also felt a greater degree of liberty, and the fact that they were the proteges of Commander Harold and Captain Stewart gave them an entree everywhere. To Durand the experience was not a new one, for he had the faculty of winning an entree almost anywhere, but to Ralph and his roommate, Jean Paul Nicholas, as bright, merry a chap as ever looked frankly into one's face with a pair of the clearest, snappiest blue eyes ever seen, the world was an entirely new one and fairly overflowing with delightful experiences. Then, too, they were now youngsters instead of plebes, and this fact alone would have been almost enough to fill their cups with joy. The other boys who came from the ships had been second-classmen during the past year, but were now in all the glory of first-classmen, and doing their best to make good during the cruise in order to carry off some of the stripes waiting to be bestowed upon the efficient ones during the coming October. In the two weeks spent with Mrs. Harold at Annapolis, Mrs. Howland had learned to love Peggy Stewart very dearly and Mrs. Harold said: "Madeline, you have won more from Peggy Stewart than you realize. She has a rarely sweet character, though I am forced to admit that she seems to have been navigating uncharted waters. I have never known a girl of her age to live such an extraordinary life and why she is half as lovable, charming and possessed of so much character, is a problem I have been trying all winter to solve. But I rather dread the next few years for her unless some one both wise and affectionate takes that little clipper ship's helm. She is entirely beyond Harrison and Mammy now, and her father hasn't even a passing acquaintance with his only child. He THINKS he has, and he loves her devotedly, but there's more to Peggy Stewart in one hour than Neil Stewart will discover in years at the rate of two months out of twelve spent with her. I think the world of the child, but Polly is MY girl, and has slipped into Constance's place. I want you to let her stay with me, too. I have been so happy this winter, and she with me, but I wish there was someone to be in Peggy's home, or she could be sent to a good school for a year or two. Sometimes I think that would be the best arrangement in the long run." Meanwhile Peggy was entirely unaware of the manner in which her future was being discussed and she and Polly were looking forward to regatta day with the liveliest anticipation. As Peggy and Polly looked out over the bay and up the river that perfect morning Peggy cried: "Oh, Polly COULD anything be lovelier than this day? The sky is like a blue canopy, not a cloud to be seen, the air just sets one nearly crazy, and that blue, sparkling water makes me long to dive head-first into it." "Well, why not?" asked Polly. "It is only half past six and loads of time for a dip before breakfast. Let's get into our bathing suits, bang on the ceiling to wake up Happy, Shortie and Wheedles and make them stick their heads out of the window." It did not take five minutes to carry the suggestion into effect and a golf stick thumping "reveille" under Wheedles' bed effectually brought him back from dreams of Annapolis. Rousing out the other two he stuck a tousled head out of his window to be hailed by two bonny little figures prancing excitedly upon the balcony beneath him. "Hello, great god Sumnus," cried Polly, "Wake up! Oh, but you do look sleepy. Stir up the others. Peggy and I are going down for a dip before breakfast and to judge by your eyes they need the sand washed out of them." "Awh! Whow! Oh," yawned Wheedles, striving vainly to keep his mouth closed and to get his eyes opened. Just then two other heads appeared. "What's doing? House afire?" they asked. "No, it's the other element--water," laughed Peggy. "Come and get into it. That's what we are going to do. You may think those pink and blue JACKETS you're wearing are the prettiest things in the world--WE know they are part of your graduation "trousseau," but bathing suits are in order just now. So put them on and hurry down." "Bet your life," was chorused as the three tousled heads vanished. The average midshipman's "shift" requires as a rule, about two minutes, and passed-middies are no exception. Before it seemed possible three bath-robed figures joined the girls, who had put their raincoats over their bathing suits, and all slipped down to the little beach in front of the cottage and struck out for the float anchored about fifty feet off shore. What a sight the bay and river presented that morning. Hundreds of beautiful yachts, foregathered from every part of the world, for New London makes a wonderful showing Regatta week, and flying the flags of innumerable yacht clubs, were crowding the roadstead. A more inspiring sight it would be difficult to imagine. Just beyond the float, and lying between the Olympia and Navy Bungalow, the pretty little naptha launch on which Captain Stewart's party were to be Captain Boynton's guests, rode lightly at anchor, her bright work reflecting the sunlight, her awning a-flutter, her signal pennant waving bravely. "I've GOT to play I'm a porpoise. I've simply GOT to. Come on, Wheedles, nothing else will work off my pent-up excitement," cried Polly, diving off the float to tumble and turn over and over in the water very like the fish she named, for Polly's training with Captain Pennell during the winter had made her almost as much at home in the water as on land and Peggy swam equally well. While the young people were splashing about Mrs. Harold and Mrs. Howland came out on the piazza to enjoy the sight. For half an hour the five splashed, dove, and gamboled as carefree as five young seals, and with as much freedom, then all hurried into the bathhouses where Mammy and Jerome had already anticipated their needs by hurrying down with a supply of necessary wearing apparel; a trifling matter quite overlooked by the bathers themselves. A gayer, heartier, more glowing group of young people than those gathered at the breakfast table could not have been found in New London or anywhere else; certainly not at the Griswold where the majority of them were either satiated society girls whose winters had been spent in a mad social whirl, or the blase city youths who at nineteen had already found life "such a beastly bore." "Gad," cried Neil Stewart, slapping Shortie's broad shoulders, "but it's refreshing to find fellows of your age who can still show up such a glow in their cheeks, and such a light in their eyes, and an enthusiasm so infectious that it sets a-tingle every drop of blood in an old kerfoozalem like me. Hang fast to it like grim death, for you'll never get it back if you once lose it. That old school down there turns out chaps who can get more out of the simple life than any bunch I know of. It may be the simple life in some respects, but it's got a confounded lot of hard work in it all the same, and when you've finished that you're ready to take your fun, and you take it just as hard as you take your work, and I don't want to see a better bunch of men than that system shows. I was over at the hotel last night, talking with four or five chaps, younger than you fellows here, and I swear it made me sick: Bored to extinction doing nothing. I'd like to take 'em on board for just about one month and if they didn't find something doing in a watch or two I'd know why. Keep right on having your fun, you and the girls-- yes, GIRLS, not a lot of kids playing at being nerve-racked society women." "Hear! Hear!" cried Glenn Harold. "What's stirred you up, old man?" "That bunch over yonder. Keep a little girl as long as you can Peggy, and you, Polly, hold your present course. Who ever charted it for you knew navigation all right." "I guess mother began it and then turned the job over to Aunt Janet, sir," answered Polly. "Well, she knew her business all right. I'm mighty sorry she can't be here today to see the race, but when she comes back from Northampton she'll bring that other girl I'm so anxious to know too. By George, the Rowland crowd puts up a good showing, and they seem to know how to choose their messmates too, if I can judge by Hunter." "Isn't he the dearest brother a girl ever had?" asked Polly enthusiastically, for her love for her brother-in-law was a subject of pleasurable comment to all who knew her. "One of the best ever, as I hear on all sides," was Captain Stewart's satisfactory answer. "But here comes Boynton. Ahoy! Olympia Ahoy!" he shouted, hurrying out upon the piazza as a launch from the Olympia came boiling "four bells" toward Navy Bungalow's dock, the white clad Jackies looking particularly festive and Captain Boynton of the Olympia with Commander Star of the Chicago sitting aft. They waved their caps gaily and shouted in return. "Glorious day! Great, isn't it?" as the launch ran alongside the dock and friends hurried down to meet friends. "We came over to see how early you could be ready. We must get up the course in good season this afternoon in order to secure a vantage point. Mrs. Boynton wants you all--yes--the whole bunch, to come over to the Griswold for an early luncheon. Mrs. Star will be with her and we'll shove off right afterward. Now NO protests," as Captain Stewart seemed inclined to demur. "All right. Your word goes. "We'll report for duty. What's the hour?" "Twelve sharp. There's going to be an all-fired jam in that hotel but Mrs. B. has a private dining-room ready for us and has bribed the head waiter to a degree that has nearly proved my ruin. But never mind. We can't see the Yale-Harvard race every day, and a month hence we'll be up in Maine with all this fun behind us." That luncheon was a jolly one. Captain Boynton had a daughter a little younger than Peggy and Mr. Star a little girl of eight. Promptly at two the party went down to the Griswold dock, gay with excitement and a holiday crowd embarking in every sort of craft, all bound for the course up the river. The naptha launch had been run alongside the long Griswold pier and it did not take long for Captain Boynton's party to scramble aboard. Captain Boynton, Captain Stewart and the girls went forward, some of the boys making for the bow where the outlook was enough to stir older and far more staid souls than any the Frolic carried that day. They cast off, and soon were making their fussy way in and out among the hundreds of launches, yachts and craft of every known description. The crew of the Frolic was a picked one, the coxswain, an experienced hand, as was certainly required THAT day. The pretty launch was dressed in all her bunting, and flying the flag of her club. Through the mass of festive shipping the launch worked her way, guided by the steady hand of the man at her wheel, his gray eyes alert for every move on port or starboard. Peggy and Polly were close beside him. Captain Stewart and Captain Boynton stood a little behind watching the girls, whose eager eyes noted every turn of the wheel. An odd light came into Captain Boynton's eyes as he watched them. Presently he asked Peggy: "Do you think you could handle a launch, little girl?" "Why--perhaps I could--a little," answered Peggy modestly. "Why, Peggy Stewart, there isn't a girl in Annapolis who can handle a launch or a sailboat as YOU do," cried Polly, aroused to emphatic protest. Peggy blushed, and laughingly replied: "Only Polly Howland, the Annapolis Co-Ed." "Eh? What's that?" asked Captain Boynton. "Oh, Polly has had a regular course in seamanship, Captain Boynton, and knows just everything." "Any more than YOU do, miss?" demanded Polly. "Yes, lots," insisted Peggy. "Well, I'll wager anything you could take this launch up the river as easily as the coxswain is doing it," was Polly's excited statement. "How's that, Stewart? Have you been teaching your girl navigation?" "I hadn't a thing to do with it. It's all due to the good friends who have been looking after her while I'VE been shooting up targets. But Polly's right. She CAN handle a craft and so can this little redhead," laughed Captain Stewart, pulling a lock of Polly's hair which the frolicsome wind had loosened. "By Jove, let's test it. Not many girls can do that trick. Coxswain, turn over the wheel to this young lady, but stand by in case you're needed." The coxswain looked a little doubtful, but answered: "Aye, aye, sir." "Oh, ought I?" asked Peggy. "Get busy, messmate," said Captain Boynton. The next second the girl was transformed. Tossing her big hat aside and giving her hair a quick brush, she laid firm hold upon the wheel and instantly forgot all else. Her eyes narrowed to a focus which nothing escaped, and Stewart gave a little nod of gratified pride and stepped back a trifle to watch her. Captain Boynton's face showed his appreciation and Polly's was radiant. The old coxswain muttered: "Well, well, you get on to the trick of that, lassie. You might have served on a man-o-war." They were now well out in the river and making straight for the railway bridge. Peggy alert and absorbed was watching the current as it swirled beneath the arches. "How does the tide set in that middle arch, coxswain?" she asked. "Keep well to starboard, miss," he answered. Peggy nodded, and gave an impatient little gesture as a lumbering power boat, outward bound seemed inclined to cut across her course. "What ails that blunderbuss? I have the right of way. Why doesn't he head inshore?" and she signalled sharply on her siren to the landlubber evidently bent upon running down everything in sight, and wrecking the tub he was navigating. Then with a quick motion she flicked over her wheel and rushed by, making as pretty a circle around him as the coxswain himself could have made. "Holy smoke, but ye have given him the go-by in better shape than I could myself. Whoever taught ye?" "A navy captain down at Annapolis," answered Peggy, as she shot the launch beneath the bridge. "Well, he did the job all right, all right, and I may as well go back and sit down. Faith, I thought we were as good as stove in when I handed over the wheel to ye, but I'm thinking I can learn a fancy touch or two myself." "Oh, no, don't go. I don't know the river, you know, though I want to do my best just to make Daddy proud of me," answered Peggy modestly. "Well then he should be a-yellin' like them crazy loons yonder on the observation train--that's what he should," nodded the coxswain. Neil Stewart was not yelling, but he wasn't missing a thing, and presently Peggy ran the launch into a clear bit of water near the three- mile flag. Bringing her around, she issued her orders, her mind too intent upon the business in hand to be conscious that all on the launch had been watching her with absorbing interest. Anchors were thrown over fore and aft in order to hold the launch steady against the current, then turning the wheel over to the admiring coxswain, Peggy wiped her hands upon her handkerchief and holding out her right one to Captain Boynton, said: "Thank you so much for letting me try. It was perfectly glorious to feel her respond to every touch and thread her way through all that ruck." "Thank me? Great Scott, child, you've done more for the whole outfit than you guess. Stewart, my congratulations." Poor Peggy was overcome, but the boys and Polly were alternately running and praising her, every last one of them as proud as possible to call Peggy Stewart chum. But out yonder the shells were already in the water and the electric spark of excitement had flashed from end to end of that long line of gayly bedecked expectant yachts and launches, as down to them floated the strains of the Yale boating song as it is never sung at any other time, and thousands of eager eyes were peering along the course watching for the first glimpse of the dots which would flash by to victory or defeat. CHAPTER XVI THE RACE The shells had now gotten away and were maneuvering to get into a good position at their stake boats, far beyond the sight of the gay company on hoard the Frolic, which could only guess how things were progressing by the rocketing cheers all along the line of anxiously waiting spectators. Along the course the launches of the committee were darting thither and yonder like water-bugs in their efforts to keep the course clear. Presently arose the cries: "They are off! They are off! They are coming! They are coming," and far up the line the puffing of the observation train could be heard with now and again an excited, hysterical tooting of the engine's whistle, as though in the midst of so much excitement it had to give vent to its own. Presently two dots were visible, looking little more than huge water- bugs in the perspective, the foreshortening changing the long sixty-foot shells into spidery creatures with spreading legs. The observation train following along the shore presented an animated, vari-colored spectacle, with its long chain of cars filled with beautifully gowned women and girls, and men in all the bravery of summer serges and white flannels. Banners were waving and voices cheering, to be caught up and flung back in answering cheers from the craft upon the river. Peggy and Polly stood as girls so often do in stress of excitement, with arms clasped about each others' waists. The boys stood in characteristic attitudes: Durand with his hands upon his hips--lithe and straight as an arrow, but intent upon the onrushing crews; Shortie with his arm thrown over Wheedles' shoulder subconsciously demonstrating the affection he felt for this chum from whom he would so soon be separated and for how long he could not tell. The friendships formed at the Academy are exceptionally firm ones, but with graduation comes a dividing of the ways sometimes for years, sometimes forever. It is a special provision of Providence that youth rarely dwells upon this fact, and the feeling is invariably expressed by: "So long! See you later, old man." Captain Stewart and Commander Harold were a striking evidence of this fact. They had not met until years had elapsed and the common tie of daughter and niece had re-united their interests. But, another strange feature; they had as much in common today as though their ways had divided only the week before. They now stood watching the approaching crews with powerful glasses, their terse comments enlightening their friends as to what was taking place beyond their unaided range of vision. Peggy and Polly were fairly dancing up and down in their eagerness. On came the shells growing every second more defined in outline, although from their distance from the Frolic their progress seemed slow, only the flashing of the blades in and out of the water indicating that the men were not out for a pleasure pull, and the blue ripples astern telling that sixteen twelve-foot sweeps were pushing that water behind them for all they were worth. Thus far Harvard was in the lead by half a length, and holding her own as she drew near the three-mile flag, where the Frolic swung and tugged at her anchors. But it must be admitted that the sympathies and hopes of all in the Frolic centered in the Yale shell; a Yale coach had drilled and scolded and "cussed" and petted the Navy boys to victory only a few weeks before, and Ralph, if no one else, felt that all his future rested in the ability of that Yale coach "to knock some rowing sense into his block." "Daddy Neil! Daddy Neil, yell at them! Yell!" screamed Peggy, breaking away from Polly to run to her father's side and literally shake him, as the crews drew nearer and nearer. "I AM yelling, honey. Can't you hear me?" "I mean yell something that will make those Yale men put--put oh, something into their stroke which will overhaul the red blades." "Ginger? You mean ginger? To make 'em pull like the very--ahem. Like the very dickens? Hi! Shortie, whoop up the Siren--there are only about a dozen of us here but give it hard. Give it for all you're worth when the Yale crew crosses our bow. You girls know it and so do the older women, and the crew can make a try at it. Now be ready. Whoop it up!" Shortie sprang into position as cheer-leader pro-tem and if wild gyrations and a deep voice lent inspiration certainly nothing more was needed, for as the shells came rushing on "Hoo--oo--oo--oo--oooo! Hoo--oo--oo--oo--oooo! Hoo--oo--oo--oo--oooo! Hoo--oo--oo--oo--oooo! Navy! Navy! Navy! Yale! Yale! Yale!" was wailed out over the water, and as upon many another occasion back yonder on the old Severn it had acted as a match to gunpowder to a losing cause with the Navy boys, so it now startled the men in the Yale boat, for they had many friends in the Navy School and had heard that yell too often when they were in the lead in some sport not to know the full significance of it. It meant to the losing people: "Get after the other fellows and beat them in spite of all the imps of the lower regions!" The Yale men had no time to acknowledge the cheer; all their thoughts and energies must center upon the O-n-e, T-w-o, T-h-r-e-e, F-o-u-r, F-i- v-e, etc. of the coxswain and his "Stroke! Stroke! Stroke!" But that yell had done what Peggy hoped and secretly prayed it would: The long blades flashed in and out of the water quicker and cleaner, cutting down Harvard's lead, until just as they swept by the Frolic that discouraging discrepancy was closed and the two shell's noses were even. Yale had made a gallant spurt. "Up anchor and after them," ordered Captain Boynton and the crew sprang to obey orders, eagerness to see the finish lending phenomenal speed to their fingers, and the Frolic was soon in hot pursuit of the shells, Yale now pulling a trifle ahead of her adversary in that last fateful mile. How those eight bare backs swayed back and forth. Harvard's beautiful, long, clean sweep was doing pretty work, but that Siren Yell seemed to have supplied the "ginger" necessary to spur on the Yale men. "Give 'em another! Give 'em another!" shouted Captain Stewart, as the Frolic came abreast of the Yale crew, and fairly shaking Captain Harold in his excitement. "Avast there! Give way, man! Do you want to yank me out of my coat?" he laughed. "I'll yank somebody out of something if those Yale boys don't pull a length ahead of those Johnny Harvards," sputtered Neil Stewart. "Whoop it up fellows--AND friends. The four N Yell for old Yale," bawled Shortie in order to make himself heard above the din and pandemonium of screaming sirens and the yelling, and in spite of it all the Yale crew heard "N--n--n--n! A--a--a--a! V--v--v--v! Y--y--y--y! Yale! Yale! Yale!" and laid their strength to their sweeps. Chests were heaving and breath coming in panting gasps, but the coxswain of the Yale crew was abreast of number three in the Harvard shell, and inch by inch the space was lengthening in favor of the blue-tipped blades. "Yale! Yale! Yale!" yelled the crowd as only such a crowd can yell. Then clear water showed between the shells and the four-mile flag fluttered like a blur as the Yale crew rushed by it. Slower plied the blades, shoulders which had swayed backward and forward in such perfect rhythm drooped, and one or two faces, gray from exhaustion, fell forward upon heaving chests. Then the rowing ceased, the long oars trailed over the water, as Harvard's crew slid by and came to a standstill. Friends flocked to the shells to bring them alongside the floats where, nerve-force coming to the rescue of physical exhaustion, the big fellows managed to scramble to the floats and fairly hug each other as they did an elephantine dance in feet from which some stockings were sagging, and some gone altogether. But who cared whether legs were bare or covered! The Frolic came boiling up to the float at a rate calculated to smash things to smithereens if she did not slow down at short order, everybody yelling, everybody shouting like bedlamites. "Best ever! Best ever! The Siren started it and the Four N. did the trick!" shouted Captain Stewart, while all the others cheered and congratulated in chorus. "Give 'em again. Give 'em again. By Jove, I'm going to get up a race of my own and all you fellows will have to come to yell for us," cried Captain Boynton, and again the Navy Yell sent a thrill through those weary bodies upon the float. Then gathering together all the "sand" left in them they gave the old Eli Yell for their friends of the Navy with more spirit than seemed possible after such a terrific ordeal as they had just undergone. And all those months of training, all that endless grind of hard work, for a test which had lasted but a few minutes, ending in a certain victory for one shell and a certain defeat for the other, since victory surely could not possibly result for both. "See you all at the Griswold tonight," called Captain Boynton, as the launch shoved off and got under way. "Sure thing! Have our second wind by that time we hope," were the cheery answers. "Take the helm again, little skipper," ordered Captain Boynton. "Your Daddy is just dying to have you but modesty forbids him to even look a hint of it." "May I really?" asked Peggy. "Get busy," and Peggy laughed delightedly as she took the wheel from the coxswain who handed it over with: "Now I'll take a lesson from a man-o-war's lassie." Shortie, Happy and Wheedles had now gone aft to "be luxurious" they said, for wicker chairs there invited relaxation and the ladies were more than comfortable. Ralph, Durand and Jean had gone forward to the wheel to watch the little pilot's work, Durand's expressive face full of admiration for this young girl who had grown to be his good comrade. Durand was not a "fusser," but he admired Peggy Stewart more than any girl he had ever known, and the friendship held no element of silly sentimentality. How bonny they both looked, and how strikingly alike. Could there, after all, have been any kindred drop of blood in their ancestry? It did not seem possible, yet how COULD two people look so alike and not have some kinship to account for it? Peggy was not conscious of Durand's close scrutiny. She was too intent upon taking the Frolic back to the Griswold's dock without being stove in, for in the homeward rush of the sightseers, there seemed a very good chance of such a disaster. Nevertheless, there always seems to be a special Providence watching over fools, and to judge by the manner in which some of those launches were being handled, that same Providence had all it could handle that afternoon. They had gone about half the distance, and Peggy was having all she wanted to do to keep clear of one particularly erratic navigator, her face betokening her contempt for the wooden-headed youth at the helm. The badly handled launch was about thirty feet long, and carrying a heavier load than was entirely safe. She was yawing about erratically, now this way, now that. "Well, that gink at the helm is a mess and no mistake," was Durand's scornful comment. "What the mischief is he trying to do with that tub anyhow?" "Wreck it, ruin a better one, and drown his passengers, I reckon," answered Peggy. "And look at that little child. Haven't they any better sense than to let her clamber up on that rail?" exclaimed Polly, for just as the launch in question was executing some of its wildest stunts, a little girl, probably six years of age, had scrambled up astern and was trying to reach over and dabble her hands in the water. "They must be seven kinds of fools," cried Durand. "Say, Peggy, there's going to be trouble there if they don't watch out." But Peggy had already grown wise to the folly--yes, rank heedlessness-- on board the other launch. If any one had the guardianship of that child she was certainly not alive to the duty. "I'm going to slow down a trifle and drop a little astern," she said quietly to Durand. "Don't say a word to any one else but stand by in case that baby falls overboard; they are not taking any more notice of her than if she didn't belong to them. I never knew anything so outrageous. What sort of people can they be, any way?" "Fool people," was Durand's terse rejoinder and his remark seemed well merited, for the three ladies on board were chatteringly oblivious of the child's peril, and the men were not displaying any greater degree of sense. Peggy kept her launch about a hundred feet astern. They had passed the bridge and were nearing the broader reaches of the river where ferry boats were crossing to and fro, and the larger excursion boats which had brought throngs of sightseers to New London were making the navigation of the stream a problem for even more experienced hands, much less the callow youth who was putting up a bluff at steering the "wash tub," as Ralph called it. The older people in the Frolic were not aware of what was happening up ahead. The race was ended, they had been tinder a pretty high stress of excitement for some time, and were glad to settle down comfortably and leave the homeward trip to Peggy and the coxswain who was close at hand. Never a thought of disaster entered their minds. Then it came like a flash of lightning: There was a child's pathetic cry of terror; a woman's wild, hysterical shriek and shouts of horror from the near-by craft. In an instant Durand was out of his white service jacket, his shoes were kicked off and before a wholesome pulse could beat ten he was overside, shouting to Peggy as he took the plunge: "Follow close!" "I'm after you," was the ringing answer. "Heaven save us!" cried Captain Stewart, springing to his feet, while the others started from their chairs. "Trust him. He is all right, Daddy. I've seen him do this sort of thing before," called Peggy, keeping her head and handling her launch in a manner to bring cheers from the other boats also rushing to the rescue. It was only the work of a moment for Durand swimming as he could swim, and the next second he had grasped the child and was making for the Frolic, clear-headed enough to doubt the chance of aid being rendered by the people on the launch from which the child had fallen, but absolutely sure of Peggy's cooperation, for he had tested it under similar conditions once before when a couple of inexperienced plebes had been capsized from a canoe on the Severn, and Peggy, who had been out in her sailboat at the time, had sped to their rescue. A boat-hook was promptly held out to the swimmer and he and his burden were both safe on board the Frolic a moment later, neither much the worse for their dip, though the child was screaming with terror, answering screams from one of the women in the other launch indicating that she had some claim to the unfortunate one. "She's all right. Not a hair harmed. Keep cool and we'll come alongside," ordered Captain Stewart. "Not the least harm done in the world." But the woman continued to shriek and rave until Mrs. Harold said: "I would like to shake her soundly. If she had been paying any attention to the child the accident never could have happened." The dripping baby was transferred to her mother, Captain Harold had clapped Durand on the back and cried: "Boy, you're a trump of the first water," and the rest of the party were telling Peggy that she was "a brick" and "a first-class sport," and "a darling," according to the vocabulary or sex of the individual, when the second feminine occupant of the launch which had been the cause of all the excitement, electrified every one on the Frolic by exclaiming: "Why, Neil! Neil Stewart! Is it possible after all these years? Don't you know me? Don't you know Katherine? Peyton's wife!" For a moment Neil Stewart looked nonplussed. His only brother had married years before. Neil had attended the wedding, meeting the bride then, and only twice afterward, for his brother had died two years after his marriage and Neil had never since laid eyes upon Peyton's wife. If the truth must be told he had not been eager to, for she was not the type of woman who attracted him in the least. Yet here she was before him. By this time the launches had been run up to one of the docks upon the West shore of the Thames. Naturally, both consolation for the emotional mother of the child as well as introductions were now in order, Mrs. Harold and Captain Stewart offering their services. These, however, were declined, but Mrs. Peyton Stewart embraced the opportunity to rhapsodize over "that darling child who had handled the launch with such marvelous skill and been instrumental in saving sweet little Clare's life." Durand, drying off in the launch, seemed to be quite out of her consideration in the scheme of things, for which Durand was duly thankful, for he had taken one of his swift, inexplicable aversions to her. But Madam continued to gash over poor Peggy until that modest little girl was well-nigh beside herself. "And to think you are right here and I have not been aware of it. Oh, I must know that darling child of whose existence I have actually been ignorant. I shall never, never cease to reproach myself." Neil Stewart did not inquire upon what score, but as soon as it could be done with any semblance of grace, bade his undesirable relative farewell, promising to "give himself the pleasure of calling the following day." "And be sure _I_ shall not lose sight of THAT darling girl again," Mrs. Peyton Stewart assured him. "I'm betting my hat she won't either," was Durand's comment to Wheedles, "and I'd also bet there's trouble in store for Peggy Stewart if THAT femme once gets her clutches on her. Ugh! She's a piece of work. "A rotten, bad piece, I'd call it," answered Wheedles under his breath. When Mr. and Mrs. Harold, Captain Stewart and Peggy returned to the launch one might have thought that they, instead of Durand, had been plunged overboard. They seemed dazed, and the run across to the Griswold dock was less joyous than the earlier portion of the day had been. CHAPTER XVII SHADOWS CAST BEFORE Captain Boynton as host entertained the launch party at dinner at the Griswold that evening, and later all attended the dance given in honor of the winning crew. Many of the Yale and Harvard men were old friends of the midshipmen, having been to Annapolis a number of times either to witness or participate in some form of athletics. So old friendships were renewed, and new ones made, though, in some way Peggy and Polly felt less at home with the college men than with "our boys," as they both called all from Annapolis, notwithstanding the fact that "our boys" were in some instances the seniors of the college men. But the Academy life is peculiar in that respect, and tends to extremes. Where the collegian from the very beginning of his career is permitted to go and come almost at will, and as a result of that freedom of action attains a liberty which, alack, has been known to degenerate into license, the midshipman must conform to the strictest discipline, his outgoings limited, with the exception of one month out of the twelve, to the environs of a little, undeveloped town, and with every single hour of the twenty-four accounted for. Yet, on the other hand he must at once shoulder responsibilities which would make the average collegian think twice before he bound himself to assume them. And the result is an exceptional development: they are boys at heart, but men in their ability to face an issue. Ready to frolic, have "a rough house," and set things humming at the slightest provocation, but equal to meet a crisis when one must be met and--with very rare exceptions--gentlemen in word and deed. Peggy's and Polly's chums during the winter just past had been chosen from the best in the Academy, and it was no wonder they drew very sharp, very critical comparisons when brought in touch with other lads. In Peggy's case it was all a novelty, though Polly had known boys all her life. Nevertheless, the ball given at the Griswold would have been joy unalloyed but for one fly in the pot of ointment: A most insistent, buzzing fly, too, in the form of Mrs. Peyton Stewart. Perhaps while all the world is a-tiptoe in the packed ballroom, or crowding the broad piazzas of the hotel, this will be an opportune moment in which to drop a word regarding Mrs. Peyton Stewart. As lads, Neil Stewart and his brother had been devotedly attached to each other. Peyton was five years Neil's junior, and Neil fairly adored the bright little lad. Naturally, Neil had entered the Naval Academy while Peyton was still a small boy at boarding-school. Then Peyton went to college and at the ripe age of twenty-two, married. Had the marriage been a wise one, or one likely to help make a man of the heedless, harum-scarum Peyton, his family, and his brother, would probably have accepted the situation with as good a grace as possible. But it was NOT wise: it was the very essence of folly, for the girl was nearer Neil's age than Peyton's, and came of a family which could never have had anything in common with Peyton Stewart's. She was also entirely frivolous, if not actually designing. Neil was the only member of his family who attended the wedding, which took place in a small New Jersey town, and, as has been stated, had seen his undesirable sister-in-law only twice after her wedding-day. Upon one occasion by accident, and upon the last at his brother's death, only two years after the marriage, and had then and there resolved never to see her again if he could possibly help it, for never had one person rubbed another the wrong way as had Mrs. Peyton rubbed her brother-in-law. Naturally, Peyton had received his share of his inheritance upon the death of his parents, but Neil had inherited Severndale, so while Madam Peyton Stewart was not by any means lacking in worldly goods, she had nothing like the income her brother-in-law enjoyed. But she was by no means short-sighted, and like a flash several thoughts had entered her head when chance brought her in touch with him. She had never been of the type which lets a good opportunity slip for lack of prompt action, so in spite of her hostess' rather excited frame of mind as the result of the afternoon's accident, she persuaded her to attend the ball at the Griswold that evening. She must have something to divert her thoughts from the horror of that precious child's disaster and miraculous rescue from death, she urged, that same child, as a matter of fact, being as gay and chipper as though a header from the stern of a crowded launch into a more crowded river was a mere daily incident in her life. So there sat Madam, gorgeous in white satin and silver, plying her fan and her tongue with equal energy. Presently Peggy danced by with Durand, not a few eyes following the beautiful young girl and handsome boy, and to an individual those who saw them decided that they were brother and sister. This was Mrs. Stewart's opportunity and she made the most of it: Turning to a lady beside her she gurgled: "Oh, that darling child. She is my only niece though I have never met her until this very afternoon. Isn't she a beauty? THINK what a sensation she will be sure to create a year or two hence when she comes out. Don't you envy me? for, of course, there is no one else to introduce her to society. Her mother died years ago." "And the young man with her?" questioned the lady, wondering why the darling niece had not figured more prominently in the aunt's life hitherto. "Is he her brother?" "No. He is the hero of the day. The young naval cadet [save the mark!] who so nobly sprang overboard after sweet little Clare and saved her under such harrowing circumstances. Isn't he simply stunning! Have you ever seen a more magnificent figure? I think he is the handsomest thing I've ever laid my eyes upon. And so devoted to dear Peggy. And they say he has a fortune in his own right. But, that is a minor consideration; the dear child is an heiress herself. Magnificent old home in Maryland and, and, oh, all that, don't you know." Madam's information concerning her niece's affairs seemed to have grown amazingly since that chance encounter during the afternoon. At that moment the dance came to an end and by evil chance Peggy and Durand were not ten feet from Mrs. Stewart. She beckoned to them and, of course, there was nothing to do but respond. They at once walked over to her. "Oh, Mrs. Latimer, let me present my dear niece Miss Stewart to you, and Peggy darling, I MUST know this young hero. You dear, dear boy, weren't you simply petrified when you saw that darling child plunge overboard? You are a wonder. A perfect wonder of heroism. Of course the girls are just raving over you. How could they help it? Uniforms, brass buttons, the gallant rescuer and--now turn your head the other way because you are not supposed to hear this--all the gifts and graces of the gods. Ah, Peggy, I suspect you have rare discrimination even at YOUR age, and well--Mr. Leroux--YOU have not made any mistake, I can assure you." Perhaps two individuals who have suddenly stepped into a hornet's nest may have some conception of Peggy's and Durand's sensations. Peggy looked absolutely, hopelessly blank at this volley. Durand's face was first a thunder-cloud and then became crimson, but not on his own account: Durand was no fool to the ways of foolish women; his mortification was for Peggy's sake; he loathed the very thought of having her brought in touch with such shallowness, exposed to such vulgarity, and the charm of their rarely frank intercourse invaded by suggestions of silly sentimentality. Thus far there had never been a hint, nor the faintest suggestion of it; only the most loyal good fellowship; and his own attitude toward Peggy Stewart was one of the highest esteem for a fine, well-bred girl and the tenderest sense of protection for her lonely, almost orphaned position. He looked at Mrs. Peyton Stewart with eyes which fairly blazed contempt and she had the grace to color tinder his gaze, boy of barely nineteen that he was. "And you are going to let me know you better, aren't you, dear?" persisted Mrs. Stewart. "I am coming to see you. Do ask father to come and talk with me. There are a thousand questions I must ask him, and innumerable incidents of old times to discuss." "Captain Stewart is just across the room. I will tell him you are anxious to see him, Mrs. Stewart, and then I must take you to Mrs. Harold, Peggy, or the other fellows will never find you in this jam," and away fled Durand, quick to find a loophole of escape. Whether Neil Stewart appreciated his zeal in serving the family cause is open to speculations, but it served the turn for the moment. Neil Stewart was obliged to cross the room and talk to his sister-in-law, said sister-in- law taking the initiative to rise at his approach, place her hand upon his arm, and say: "Dear Neil, what a delight after all these years. But pray take me outside. It is insufferably oppressive in here and I have so much I wish to say to you." Just what "dear Neil's" innermost thoughts were need not be conjectured. He escorted the lady from the big ballroom, and Durand whisked Peggy away to Mrs. Harold, though he said nothing to the girl--he was raging too fiercely inwardly, and felt sure if he said anything he would say too much. Nor was Peggy her usual self. She seemed obsessed by a forewarning of evil days ahead. Durand handed her over to the partner who was waiting for her, and saw her glide away with him, then slipping into a vacant chair behind Mrs. Harold, who for the moment happened to be alone, he said: "Little Mother, have you ever been so rip-snorting mad that you have wanted to smash somebody and cut loose for fair, and felt as if you'd burst if you couldn't?" The words were spoken in a half-laughing tone, but Mrs. Harold turned to look straight into the dark eyes so near her own. "What has happened, son?" she asked in the quiet voice which always soothed his perturbed spirit. He repeated the conversation just heard, punctuating it with a few terse comments which revealed volumes to Mrs. Harold. Her face was troubled as she said: "I don't like it. I don't like it even a little bit. I'm afraid trouble is ahead for that little girl. Oh, if her father could only be with her all the time. Outsiders can do so little because their authority is so limited and those who HAVE the authority are either too guileless or debarred by their stations. Dr. Llewellyn, Harrison and Mammy are the only ones who have the least right to say one word, and--" Mrs. Harold ceased and shrugged her shoulders in a manner which might have been copied from Durand himself. "Yes, I know who you mean. And Peggy is one out of a thousand. She and Polly too. Great Scott, there isn't an ounce of nonsense in their heads, and if that old fool--I beg your pardon," cried Durand, fussed at his break, but Mrs. Harold nodded and said: "There are times when it is excusable to call a spade a spade." "Well," continued Durand, "if that femme starts in to talk such rot to Peggy it's going to spoil everything. Why, you never heard such confounded foolishness in all your life." "Come and walk on the terrace with me, laddie, and cool off both mentally and physically. I know just how you feel and I wish I could see the way to ward off the inevitable--at least that which intuition hints to be inevitable-- "And that is?" asked Durand anxiously. "Child, you have been like a son to me for two years. Peggy has grown almost as dear to me as Polly. I long to see that rare little girl blossom into a fine woman and she will if wisely guided, but with such a person as her aunt--" "You don't for a moment think she will go and camp down at Severndale?" demanded Durand, stopping stock-still in consternation at the picture the words conjured up. "I don't KNOW a thing! Not one single thing, but I am gifted with an intuition which is positively painful at times," and Mrs. Harold resumed her walk with a petulant little stamp. Nor was her intuition at fault in the present instance. In some respects Neil Stewart was as guileless and unsuspicious as a child, but Madam Stewart was far from guileless. She was clever and designing to a degree, and before that conversation upon the Griswold piazza, ended she had so cleverly maneuvered that she had been invited to spend the month of September at Severndale, and that was all she wanted: once her entering wedge was placed she was sure of her plans. At least she always HAD been, and she saw no reason to anticipate failure now. But she did not know Peggy Stewart. She thought she had read at a glance the straightforward, modest little girl, but the real Peggy was not to be understood in the brief period of four hours. Meanwhile, Peggy was blissfully unaware of her impending fate, and had almost dismissed Mrs. Stewart's very existence from her thoughts. She and Polly were dancing away the hours in all the joy of fifteen summers, and rumors of a wonderful plan were afloat for the following day. This was no more nor less than a cutter race between the midshipmen of the Olympia and the Chicago. For days the two crews had been practising and were only waiting for the big day to come and pass before holding their own contest. The Chicago really had the picked men, most of them being the regular crew men, and while pulling in a cutter is a far cry from pulling in a shell, nevertheless, the work of trained men usually counts in the long run, and the boys and the Jackies had bet everything they owned, from their best shoes to a month's pay, upon the victory of the Chicago's crew. But the Olympia boys "were lyin' low, an' playin' sly." They had but one crew man in their cutter, but he was "a jim dandy," being no less than Lowell, the stroke oar of the Navy crew, and a man who could "put more ginger into a boatload of fellows than any other in the outfit," so his chums averred. Durand was on the Olympia's crew, and Durand's shoulders were worth considerable to any crew. Nicholas was on the "Old Chi," Ralph on the Olympia, so the forces were about equally divided, and the girls were nearly distracted over the issue, for if they could have had the decision both would have been victorious. The following morning dawned as sparkling and clear as the previous one. "Regular Harold weather," the boys pronounced it, owing to the fact that rarely had Mrs. Harold planned a frolic of any sort back yonder in Annapolis without the weather clerk smiling upon it. When "Colors" came singing across the water at eight o'clock, up went the squadron's bunting in honor of the day, and a pretty picture the ships presented dressed from stem to stern in their gay, varicolored flags. The race would take place at three o'clock in the afternoon but a preliminary pull over the course was in order for the morning, and Captain Boynton of the Olympia and Captain Star of the Chicago were as eager to have all conditions favorable, and the lads "fit to a finish," as though their ages, like those of the contestants were within the first score of life's journey. So their launches were ordered out to watch that morning practice and they ran and jeered each other like a couple of schoolboys out for a lark, and that attitude did more to put spirit in the boys, to establish good feeling and the determination to "Put up a showing for the Old Chi" or "that fighting machine of the old man's," the "old man" being their term of affection for Admiral Dewey, than all the "cussing out" in the English vocabulary could have done. CHAPTER XVIII YOU'VE SPOILED THEIR TEA PARTY So absolutely confident of winning were the people, officers, midshipmen and crew on board the Chicago that they had made all their plans for the elaborate tea and dance to be given on board the ship of the winning crew. Boatloads of Jackies had been sent ashore for evergreens, and a force of men had been put to work decorating the quarter-deck, the wardroom and the steerage until the ship presented a wonderful picture. The dance was to be held on the quarter-deck of the ship of the victorious crew immediately after the race, so the preparations were elaborate and hopes more than sanguine. Already the Chicago's officers mentally pictured the gay gathering upon her tastefully decorated decks; saw the handsomely gowned chaperones and the daintily clad girls in all the bravery of summer gowns dancing to the strains of the ship's band. Oh, it was the prettiest mental vision imaginable! And on the old Olympia? That stately veteran of Manila Bay upon whose bridge his loyal, devoted admirers had outlined in brass-headed nails the very spot where Commodore Dewey's feet had rested as he spoke the memorable words: "When you are ready you may fire, Gridley." And the Olympia's personnel? The admiral of the fleet, the captain and the officers straight down to the very stokers? Well, THEY had an idea of what the Olympia's men were worth when it came to the scratch and a few things were privately moving forward which might have made the Chicago's personnel sit up and take notice had they found time to do so. There were no EVERGREENS brought over the side, it is true, but launches had been darting to and fro with systematic regularity, and each time they came from New London significant-looking boxes, important junior officers, and odd freight came, too, but no one was the wiser. Not only were awnings spread fore and aft, but they were hung in such a way that passing craft, however curious the occupants, could not see what might be taking place on board. But with five bells came a revelation. A steady line of launches put off to the shore, some to the east, some to the west, to return with a gay freight, and as they came up the starboard gangway the festive femininity broke into rapturous exclamations, for on every side were roses! Red roses, white roses, pink roses, pale yellow roses, begged, bought or--hush!--from every farmhouse within a radius of five miles, and every nook and corner of the deck was made snug and attractive with bunting, or rug-covered--well, if not chairs, improvised seats which served the purpose equally well and from which "the get-away" could be clearly seen, the course being a triangular one, starting on the port side of the Olympia and ending on the starboard bow. The Chicago, with all her bravery, lacked the position held by the Olympia. Captain Stewart's party were the guests of the Olympia and had come aboard early. Peggy and Polly were wild with excitement. At least Polly was; Peggy took her pleasures with less demonstration. The cutter crews were already in their boats and ready to pull out to the starter's launch which bobbed gaily within easy range of the quarter-deck. Peggy and Polly hung over the rail calling cheery farewells to Durand and Lowell and telling the others that they would never forgive them if they did not win the trophy. "Win! Win! Fill up that tin cup right now and have it ready to hand over when we come back the proud victors of the day, for we'll be thirsty and you can just bet we're going to come back in that fascinating guise-- winners, we mean. What? Let those lobsters from the 'Chi' beat us out? Not on your life! You just watch us play with them, and pull all around them," shouted Lowell as the cutter shoved off at the coxswain's word. Meanwhile the Chicago's cutter had taken. her berth and was ready for the send-off from the committee's launch. Now a cutter race is no holiday pastime but a long pull and a strong pull from start to finish, for a cutter weighs something over and above a racing shell, to say nothing of her lines being designed for service in stress rather than for a holiday fete. Add to the weight of the boat herself her freight of twelve men, and all pretty husky fellows, and you've got some pulling ahead in order to push that boat through a given distance of water. If all the civil world had been on the alert during the previous day's contest, certainly all the little Navy world assembled at New London was on the alert that afternoon. The decks of the Chicago and Olympia were crowded with friends. The ships' launches were darting about like distracted water-bugs, and innumerable "shore boats" were bringing guests from every direction. Presently, however, the course was cleared, the signals given and the heavy oars took the water as only "man-o-war's men's" oars ever take it: as though one brain controlled the actions of the entire crew. The start was pretty even, the huge sweeps dipping into the water simultaneously and cleanly. Then the Chicago's men began to pull slowly away from the Olympia's, the coxswain right at the outset hitting up the stroke faster than the Olympia's coxswain considered good judgment so early in the race, for that triangle had three sides, as is the rule of triangles, and each side presented a pretty good distance. But the people on the Chicago were cheering and yelling like bedlamites, pleased to the very limit to see their men putting up such a showing, and confident of their ability to hold it to the finish. They did not pause to reason that they had begun at a stroke which meant just a degree more endurance than most men are equal to, but they were sanguine that their ship was to hold a function in their honor. Just astern the Chicago's boat the Olympia's coxswain was keeping up his steady "Stroke! Stroke! Stroke! Stroke!" which sent the boat boiling through the water as though propelled by a gasoline engine. The Olympia's men were holding their own if not breaking a record. "Hold her steady. Keep the stroke. We won't try to set the Thames afire --not YET," were the coach's significant words from his launch. Lowell nodded quick understanding but kept his steady weight against the oar which was setting the stroke for the men behind him, and Durand's eyes hardly left the sway and swing of that splendid broad back just in front of him as on they rushed to the first flag-boat, making the turn of the triangle just a length astern of the Chicago's men, and amidst the cries of: "Hit it up, Olympia! Overhaul 'em! Pull down that lead!" from the launch following, in which several officers were yelling like Comanches. "Takes better men. You didn't know how to pick 'em," were the taunting cries from the Chicago's launch on their starboard beam. "Wait till they round the next stake-boat. They're only playing with you now." "Playing OUT? They've got to do better than this to overhaul US. We are rowing some," were the laughing answers. "Now we'll play for fair. Hit her up to thirty-six," was the order of the Olympia's coxswain, and the oars flashed response to the order, the cutter seeming to fly. There was a quick exclamation from the coxswain of the Chicago's cutter, a sharp command, and the stroke jumped to thirty-eight which sent the boat boiling forward. Another command on the Olympia's as the second stake boat was neared and the Olympia's crew was holding it at forty, a slip to tell, and the boats rounded the second stake-boat bows even. Then came the home stretch; the last telling, racking effort of the two- mile triangle. The Chicago was still pulling a splendid thirty-eight as they swept by the stake-boat, but once the turn was made oars flashed up to forty-two, for the Olympia's nose had forged half a length ahead after that turn. Meantime pandemonium had cut loose in the launches as well as on board the ships, and if yelling, hooting, or calls through megaphones could put power into a stroke, certainly no inspiration was wanting. Half the last stretch was covered, the lads rowing in splendid form when the Chicago's men started in to break the record and their launch went mad as they spurted to forty-six to overhaul their rival's lead. But a forty-six stroke is just a trifle more than can be held in a heavy cutter with twelve, fourteen and sixteen-foot oars weighing many pounds each; it simply could not be held. "Give 'em forty-two for a finish, fellows," bawled the Olympia's coxswain through his megaphone, literally pro bono publico. And forty- two did the trick, for forty-six could not be held, and the Olympia's cutter swept past the stake-boat a length in the lead, while Captain Boynton on the bridge beside the admiral of the fleet fairly jumped up and down. Alas, and alack for the dance on board the Chicago and the tea to be served to her admiring guests! One of the conditions of that tea and dance was victory with a capital V for the hosts. "Bring 'em aboard! Bring 'em aboard! Pass the order," rumbled the admiral. "Just as they are!" questioned Boynton, not quite sure that he understood aright. "Yes! Yes! Bring 'em aboard!" "What will the ladies say?" gasped Boynton. "These rowing togs are rather sketchy." "Hang their clothes! Get 'em some. Pass the word, man. Bring them up the STARBOARD GANGWAY. Bring 'em up, I say, and get down there to welcome them! They own the ship and everything on board!" Boynton lost no time in passing the word and hurrying down to greet the winning crew and it seemed as though the whole personnel of the old Olympia had gone stark mad. But to see and hear was to obey and the Olympia's lads, clad in raiment conspicuous principally for its limitations, came piling up the sacred starboard gangway to be met by Captain Boynton who grasped each hand in turn as he shouted: "You're a bunch worth while! You spoiled their tea party! You busted up their dance, confound you, you scamps! You did 'em up in shape and WE'RE the whole show! Now go below and get fit to be seen, then come back and let the ladies feed you and make fools of you, for they'll DO it all right." And they were fed! They were ready to be. A pull over such a course means an appetite, but whether these level-headed chaps were made fools of is open to question. It was long after dark before that frolic ended, and the ships were a fairy spectacle of electric lights, the band's strains floating across the water as light feet tripped to the inspiring strains of waltz or two-step. That was one of the happiest afternoons and evenings Peggy and Polly had ever known, and so passed many another, for Neil Stewart meant that month to be a memorable one for Peggy, little guessing how soon a less happy one would dawn for her, or how unwittingly he had laid the train for it. For two weeks there were lawn fetes at Navy Bungalow, long auto trips through the beautiful surrounding country and the delightfully cosy family gatherings which all so loved. After Gail's graduation Mrs. Howland returned bringing that golden- haired lassie with her, Snap and Constance coming too. Gail's introduction to the circle was a funny one: Captain Stewart had been curious to see whether "Howland number four would uphold the showing of the family," as he teasingly told Polly, and Polly who was immensely proud of her pretty sister had brindled and protested that: "Gail was the very best looking one of the family." "Then she must be going some," he insisted. She was a sunny, bonny sight in spite of a dusty ride down from Northampton, and Captain Stewart was at the steps to help her from the auto which had been sent up to the New London station to meet her. She stepped out after her mother and Constance, but before Mrs. Howland had a chance to present her Captain Stewart laid a pair of kindly hands upon her shoulders, held her from him a moment, peering at her from under his thick eyebrows in a manner which made a pretty color mantle her cheeks, then said with seeming irrelevance: "No, the Howland family doesn't lie, but on the other hand they don't invariably convey the whole truth. You'll pass, little girl. Yes, you'll pass, and you don't look a day older than Polly and Peggy even if you are hiding away a sheepskin somewhere in that suitcase yonder. Yes, I'll adopt you as my girl, and by crackey I'm going to seal it," and with that he took the bonny face in both hands and kissed each rosy cheek. Poor Gail, if the skies had dropped she couldn't have been more nonplussed. She had heard a good deal of the people she was to visit but had never pictured THIS reception, and for once the girl who had been president of her class and carried off a dozen other honors, was as fussed as a schoolgirl. Peggy came to her rescue. Running up to her she slipped her arms about her and cried: "Don't mind Daddy Neil. We are all wild to know you and we're just BOUND to love you. How could we help it? You belong to us now, you know. Come with me. You are to have the room right next ours--Polly's and mine, I mean--and everything will be perfectly lovely." Within three days after Gail's arrival Happy, Wheedles and Shortie had to leave for their own homes, as their families were clamoring for some of their society during that brief month's leave before they joined their ships. But fortune favored them in one respect, for Happy and Wheedles were ordered to the Connecticut, the flag-ship of the Atlantic fleet, and Shortie to Snap's ship, the Rhode Island in the same fleet. So, contrary to the usual order of things where men in the Academy have been such chums, their ways would not wholly divide. Two weeks later the practice ships weighed anchor for Newport, and the party at Navy Bungalow was broken up. Mrs. Howland, Constance, Gail and Snap returned to Montgentian. Captain Stewart and Captain Harold were obliged to rejoin their ships, Mrs. Harold, with Polly and Peggy, going on to Newport, thence along the coast, following the practice squadron until its return to Annapolis the last day of August when all midshipmen go on a month's leave and the Academy is deserted. Mrs. Harold was to spend September with her sister, a pleasure upon which she had long counted. Peggy was invited to join her, but alas! Captain Stewart had rendered THAT impossible by asking his sister-in-law to pass September at Severndale. Of this Peggy had not learned at once, but was bitterly disappointed when she did, though she strove to conceal it from her father, when, too late, he awakened to what he had done. Mrs. Stewart had contrived to spend as many hours as possible at Navy Bungalow, but she had certainly not succeeded in winning the friendship of its inmates, and Neil Stewart bitterly regretted the impulse which had prompted him to invite her to Severndale. When too late he realized that he had fallen into a cleverly planned trap, dragging Peggy with him. And what was still worse, that there would be no one at hand to help her out of the situation into which his short-sightedness had involved her. As a last resort he wrote to Dr. Llewellyn: "I've been seven kinds of a fool. Watch out for Peggy. She's up against it, I am afraid, and it is all my doing. I'll write you at length later. Meanwhile, I'm afraid there'll be ructions." Poor Dr. Llewellyn was hopelessly bewildered by that letter and prepared for almost anything. Mrs. Harold and Polly bade Peggy good-bye at New York. Jerome and Mammy acting as her body-guard upon the homeward journey. It was a hard wrench, and the two girls who had been such close companions for so long felt the separation keenly. "But you know we'll meet in October and have all next winter before us," were Polly's optimistic parting words, little guessing how the coming winter would be changed for both her and Peggy. It had been arranged that Mrs. Stewart should arrive at Severndale on the fifth of September. Peggy reached there on the second and in a half- hearted way went about her preparations for receiving her aunt. Nor were Mammy and Jerome more enthusiastic. They had pretty thoroughly sized up their expected guest while at New London. Nevertheless, noblesse oblige was the watchword at Severndale. CHAPTER XIX BACK AT SEVERNDALE The first two days of Peggy's return to Severndale were almost overwhelming for the girl. True, Dr. Llewellyn met and welcomed her, and strove in his gentle, kindly manner to make the lonely home-coming a little less lonely. It was all so different from what she had anticipated. That he was there to welcome her at all was a mere chance. He had planned a trip north and completed all his arrangements, when an old, and lifelong friend fell desperately ill. Deferring his trip for the friend's sake, Neil Stewart's letter caught him before his departure, and after reading that his own pleasures and wishes were set aside. Duty, which had ever been his watchword, held him at Severndale. "When questioned by him--circumspectly it is true--Peggy's answers conveyed no idea of pending trouble, nor did they alter his charitable view of the world or his fellow beings. "Why, Filiola, I think it must be the very happiest solution of the situation here: I am getting too old and prosy to make life interesting for you; your father will not be retired for several years yet, so there is little hope of your claiming his companionship; Mrs. Harold is a most devoted friend, but friendships in the service must so often be broken by the exigencies of the duties; she may be compelled to leave Annapolis at almost any time, and if she is, your friend Polly will be obliged to leave also. Why, little one, it seems to me quite providential that you should have met your aunt in New London and that she will visit you here," and good Dr. Llewellyn stroked with gentle touch the pretty brown hair resting against his shoulder, and looked smilingly down upon the troubled young face. "Yes, Compadre, I know you think it will be quite for the best and I'm sure it would if--if--" Peggy paused. She hated to say anything uncomplimentary of the person whom the law said she must regard as her aunt. "Are you prejudiced, my dear?" There was mild reproof in Dr. Llewellyn's tone. "I am afraid I am. You see I have been with the 'Little Mother,' and I do love her so, and Polly's mother, too, and oh, Compadre, she is lovely. Perfectly lovely. If you could only see Polly with her. There is something--something in their attitude toward each other which makes me understand just what Mamma and I might have been to each other had she lived. I never guessed what it meant until last winter, or felt it as I did up there in New London. Daddy Neil is dear and precious but Mamma and I would have been just what Polly and HER mother are to each other; I know it." "Will it not be possible for you and your aunt to grow very deeply attached to one another? She, I understand, is quite alone in the world, and you should mean a great deal to each other." Peggy's slight form shuddered ever so little in his circling arm. That little shudder conveyed more to Dr. Llewellyn than a volume of words could have done. He knew the sensitive, high-strung girl too well not to comprehend that there must be something in Mrs. Peyton Stewart's personality which grated harshly upon her, and concluded that it would be wiser not to pursue the subject. "Go for a spin upon Shashai's silky back, and let Tzaritza's long leaps carry yon into a world of gladness. Nelly has been asking for you and the five-mile ride to her home will put things straighter." "I'll go," answered Peggy, and left him to get into her linen riding skirt, for it was still very warm in Maryland. From the moment of her return Tzaritza had never left Peggy's side, and her horses, especially Shashai, Roy and Star had greeted her with every demonstration of affection. She now made her way to the paddock intending to take out her favorite, but when she called him the other two came bounding toward her, nozzling, whinnying, begging for her caresses. "What SHALL I do with all three of you?" cried Peggy. "I can't ride three at once." "You'll be having one grand time to git shet o' the other two whichever one you DO take; they've been consoling themselves for your absence by stickin' together as thick as thieves: Where one goes, there goes 'tothers," laughed Shelby, who had gone down to the paddock with her. "Then let them come along if they want to," and Peggy joined in the laugh. "You couldn't lose 'em if you tried; first they love you, and then they're so stuck on each other you'd think it was one body with a dozen legs." Without another word Peggy sprang to Shashai's back. Then with the clear whistle her pets knew so well, was off down the road. That was a mad, wild gallop but when she came to Nelly's home her cheeks were glowing and her eyes shining as of old. "Oh, HAVE you seen Pepper and Salt?" was almost the first question Nelly asked. "Well, I guess I have, and aren't they wonders? Oh, I'm so glad I saw them that day. Do you know they are to be entered in the horse-show and the steeple-chase this fall? Well, they are. Shelby has made them such beauties. But now tell me all about yourself. I'm going to write to Polly tonight and she will never forgive me if I don't tell her just everything. You are looking perfectly fine. And how is the knee?" "Just as well as its mate. I wouldn't know I had ever been lame. Your doctor is a wonder, Miss Peggy, and he was so kind. He said you told him you had adopted me and he was bound to take extra good care of me because I was YOUR girl now. I didn't know you had told him to attend me until after you had gone away and I can't thank you enough, but father is so worried because he thinks he will never be able to pay such a bill as Doctor Kendall's ought to be for curing me. But I tell him it will come out all right, just as it always has before, for things are looking up right smart on the farm now. Tom and Jerry certainly do earn their keep, as Mr. Shelby said they would, and they are so splendid and big and round and roly-poly, and strong enough to pull up a tree, father says. Don't you want to come and see them?" "Indeed I do," and following the beaming, healthy girl whose once pale cheeks were now rounded and rosy, Peggy walked to the stump lot just beyond the little cottage where she was heartily greeted by Jim Bolivar, who said: "Well, if it ain't a sight fit ter chirker up a dead man ter see ye back again, Miss Peggy. Will you shake hands with me, miss? It's a kind o' dirty and hard hand but it wants ter hold your little one jist a minute ter try ter show ye how much the man it belongs ter thinks of ye." Peggy laid her own pretty little hand in Jim Bolivar's, saying: "I wish I could make you understand how glad I am to shake hands with you, and it always makes me so happy to have people like me. It hurts if they don't, you know." "Well, you ain't likely ter be hurt none ter speak of; no, you ain't, little girl, an' that's a fact. God bless ye! And look at Nelly. Ain't she a clipper? My, things is jist a hummin' on the little old farm now, an' 'fore ye know it we'll be buildin' a piazzy. Now come 'long an' see Tom and Jerry." And so from one to another went the little chatelaine of Severndale, welcomed at every turn, cheery, helpful, sunny, beloved yet, oh, so lonely in her young girlhood. And thus passed the first days of Peggy's return to Severndale. Then the eventful one of Mrs. Stewart's arrival dawned. It was a gloriously sunny one; cool from a shower during the previous night. Mrs. Stewart would arrive at five in the afternoon. All morning Peggy had been busy looking to the preparations for her aunt's reception. Harrison had followed out her young mistress' orders to the letter, for somehow of late, Harrison had grown to defer more and more to "Miss Peggy," though secretly, she was not in the least favorably inclined toward the prospective addition to the household: Mammy's report had not tended to pre-dispose her in the lady's favor. Nevertheless, she was a guest, and a guest at Severndale stood for more than a mere word of five letters. Peggy ordered the surrey to meet the five P. M. car but chose to ride Shashai, and when Jess set forth with the perfectly appointed carriage and span, Peggy, in her pretty khaki habit fox-trotted beside Comet and Meteor, Tzaritza, as usual, bounding on ahead. They had gone possibly half the distance when a mad clatter of hoof- beats caused her to exclaim: "Oh, Jess, they have leaped the paddock fence!" "Dey sho' has, honey-chile. Dey sho' has," chuckled Jess. "Dat lady what's a-comin' gwine get a 'ception at 'tention what mak' her open her eyes." "Oh, but I did not want her to have such a welcome. She will think we are all crazy down here," protested Peggy. "Well, if she think FIVE thoroughbreds tu'ned out fer ter welcome her stan fer crazy folks she gwine start out wid a mistake. Dem hawses gwine mind yo' an' mak' a showin' she ain' gwine see eve'y day of her life lemme tell yo'." But there was no time to discuss the point further, for Silver Star and Roy came bounding up on a dead run, manes and tails waving, and with the maddest demonstrations of joy at having won out in their determination NOT to be left behind. They rushed to Peggy's side, whinnying their "Hello! How are you?" to Shashai, who answered with quite as much abandon. And then came the transformation: At a word from Peggy they fell into stride beside her and finished the journey to the little depot in as orderly a manner as perfectly trained dogs. When they reached it Peggy stationed them in line, and slipping from Shashai's back ordered Tzaritza to "guard." Then she stepped upon the platform to meet the incoming car, just as little less than a year before she had stepped upon it to welcome the ones whom during that year she had learned to love so dearly, and who had so completely altered her outlook upon life, and who were destined to change and--yes--save her future, just as surely as the one now momentarily drawing nearer and nearer was destined to bring a crisis into it. The car came buzzing up to the station. There was a flutter of drapery, as a lady with a white French poodle, snapping and snarling at the world at large, and the brakeman in particular, into whose arms it was thrust, descended from the steps. "Handle Toinette carefully. Dear me, you are crushing her, the poor darling. Here, porter, take this suitcase," were the commands issued. "I ain't no po'tah," retorted the negro who had been singled out by Madam. Then he turned and walked off. "Insolent creature," was the sharp retort, which might have been followed by other comments had not Peggy at that moment advanced to meet her aunt. When the negro saw that the new arrival was a friend of the little lady of Severndale his whole attitude changed in a flash. Doffing his cap he ran toward her saying: "I looks after it fo' YO', Miss Peggy." The accent upon the pronoun was significant. "Thank you, Sam," was the quick, smiling answer. Then: "How do you do, Aunt Katharine? Welcome to Severndale," and her hand was extended to welcome her relative, for Peggy's instincts were rarely at fault. But her aunt was too occupied in receiving Toinette into her protecting embrace to see her niece's hand, and Peggy did not force the greeting. "Will you come to the carriage?" she asked, "I hope you are not very tired from the journey." "On the contrary, I am positively exhausted. I don't see how you can endure those horrid, smelly little cars. We would not consent to ride a mile in them at home. Is this your carriage? Hold my dog, coachman, while I am getting in," and Toinette was thrust into Jess' hand which she promptly bit, and very nearly had her small ribs crushed for her indiscretion, her yelp producing a cry from her doting mistress. "Be careful, you stupid man. You can't handle that delicate little thing as though she were one of your great horses. Now put the suitcase by the driver and leave room here beside me for my niece," were the further commands issued to "Sam." Sam did as ordered, but when a dime was proffered answered: "Keep yo' cash, lady. I done DAT job fer ma little quality lady hyer, an' SHE pays wid somethin' bettah." Mrs. Stewart was evidently NOT in her amiable guise, but turning to Peggy she strove to force a smile and say: "Ignorant creatures, aren't they, dear? But come. I've a thousand questions to ask." "Thank you, Aunt Katharine, but I rode over on my saddle horse, and shall have to ask you to excuse me." Not until that moment did Mrs. Stewart notice the three horses standing like statues just beyond the carriage with the splendid dog lying upon the ground in front of them. Peggy crossed the intervening space and with the one word "Up," to Tzaritza, set her escort in motion. They reached forward long, slim necks to greet her, Tzaritza bounding up to rest her forepaws upon her shoulders and nestle her silky head against Peggy's face, sure of the solicited caress. Then Peggy bounded to Shashai's back, and the little group, wheeling like a flash, led the way from the depot. "Good heavens and earth! It is quite time someone came down here to look after that child. I had no idea she was leading the life of a wild western cowboy," was the exclamation from the rear seat of the surrey, plainly overheard by Jess, and, later duly reported. "Huh, Um," he muttered. The ride to Severndale held no charm for Madam Stewart. She was too intent upon "that child's mad, hoydenish riding. Good heavens, if such were ever seen in New York," New York with its automaton figures jigging up and down in the English fashion through Central Park being her criterion for the world in general. Presently beautiful Severndale was reached. Dr. Llewellyn was waiting upon the terrace to greet his ward's aunt, which he did in his stately, courtly manner, but before ten words were spoken he comprehended all Neil Stewart meant in his letter by the words: "Stand by Peggy. I've landed her up against it," and as the young girl led her aunt into the house, with Mammy, all immaculate dignity following in their wake, he mentally commented: "I fear he HAS made a grave mistake; a very grave one, but Providence ordereth all things and we see darkly. It may be one of the 'wondrous ways.' We must not form our conclusions too hastily. No, not too hastily." And just here we must leave Peggy Stewart upon the threshold of a new world the entrance to which is certainly not enticing. What the experiences of that month were, and the revelations which came into Peggy's life during it; how the perplexing problem was solved and who helped to solve it, must be told in the story of Peggy Stewart at School. But just now we must leave her doing her best to make "Aunt Katharine" comfortable; to smooth out some of the kinks already making a snarl of the usually evenly ordered household, for Mammy had not changed her opinion one particle, and when Harrison went back to her own undisputed realm of the big house she was overheard to remark: "Well, Neil Stewart is a man, so OF COURSE, he's bound to do some fool things, but unless I miss MY guess, he's played his trump card THIS time." 
48294	----	Transcriber's Notes: Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_), and text enclosed by equal signs is in bold (=bold=) The web browser version of this book contains links to Midi, PDF, and MusicXML files for the music scores on pages 94 and 319-320. Additional Transcriber's Notes are at the end. * * * * * Sir Christopher [Illustration] Sir Christopher _A Romance of a Maryland Manor in 1644_ BY MAUD WILDER GOODWIN Author of "The Head of a Hundred," "White Aprons," "The Colonial Cavalier," etc. _Illustrated by_ HOWARD PYLE, AND OTHER ARTISTS [Illustration] Boston Little, Brown, and Company 1901 _Copyright, 1901_, BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY. _All rights reserved_ Entered at Stationers' Hall UNIVERSITY PRESS · JOHN WILSON AND SON · CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A. TO BLANCHE WILDER BELLAMY AND FREDERICK PUTNAM BELLAMY Preface On a bluff of the Maryland coast stand a church, a school, a huddle of gravestones, and an obelisk raised to the memory of Leonard Calvert. These alone mark the site of St. Mary's, once the capital of the Palatinate. It is near this little town, about the middle of the seventeenth century, that my story begins, among the feuds then raging between Catholic and Protestant, Cavalier and Roundhead, Marylander and Virginian. The Virginians of that day were but a generation removed from the pioneers who suffered in the massacre of 1622; and the sons and daughters of those early settlers whose lives were traced in "The Head of a Hundred"[A] appear in the present romance. The adventures of Romney Huntoon, of the Brents, and, most of all, of Christopher Neville and Elinor Calvert, furnish the material of my story; but I venture to hope that the reader will feel beneath the incidents and adventures that throbbing of the human heart which has chiefly interested me. FOOTNOTE: [A] Published 1895. Contents CHAPTER PAGE I. ROBIN HOOD'S BARN 1 II. ST. GABRIEL'S AND ST. INIGO'S 16 III. BLESSING AND BANNING 34 IV. THE LORD OF THE MANOR 49 V. PEGGY 72 VI. THE KING'S ARMS 90 VII. IN GOOD GREEN WOOD 108 VIII. A CLUE 130 IX. A REQUIEM MASS 144 X. THE ORDEAL BY TOUCH 159 XI. THE GREATER LOVE 172 XII. HOW LOVERS ARE CONVINCED 180 XIII. A CHANGE OF VENUE 196 XIV. IN WHICH FATE TAKES THE HELM 215 XV. DIGITUS DEI 223 XVI. LIFE OR DEATH 240 XVII. ROMNEY 256 XVIII. THE EMERALD TAG 274 XIX. THE ROLLING YEAR 292 XX. A BIRTHNIGHT BALL 309 XXI. A ROOTED SORROW 334 XXII. CANDLEMAS EVE 354 XXIII. "HEY FOR ST. MARY'S, AND WIVES FOR US ALL!" 370 XXIV. THE CALVERT MOTTO 392 Illustrations "'Let me go to him!' she shrieked, in her anguish of soul" _Frontispiece_ _From a drawing by Howard Pyle_ "Stretch out thy rod, Cecil" _Page_ 58 _From a drawing by James E. McBurney_ "You are quite a courtier, Master Huntoon" " 116 _From a drawing by S. M. Palmer_ "This is love indeed" " 194 _From a drawing by S. M. Arthurs_ "He sang to the music of his lute, and she to the accompaniment of her whirring wheel" " 301 _From a drawing by S. M. Palmer_ "As it is, I am satisfied. Go!" " 390 _From a drawing by James E. McBurney_ SIR CHRISTOPHER CHAPTER I ROBIN HOOD'S BARN Through the January twilight a sail-boat steered its course by the light of a fire which blazed high in the throat of the chimney at St. Gabriel's Manor. Within the hall, circled by the light from the fire, a Danish hound stretched its lazy length on the floor, and, pillowing his head against the dog's body, lay a boy eight or nine years old. He was a plain laddie, with a freckled nose, a wide mouth, and round apple cheeks over which flaxen curls tumbled in confusion. His big eyes, the redeeming feature of the face, were just now fixed upon the shadows cast by the motion of his joined hands on the wall. At length the lips parted over a row of baby teeth with a gap in the centre, through which the little tongue showed blood-red, as the boy laughed long and loud. "Thee, Knut!" he lisped, with that occasional slip of the letter s which was a lingering trick of babyhood and cost him much shame, "is not that broad-shouldered shadow like Couthin Giles? And the tall one,--why, 'tis the very image of Father Mohl! And the short one ith Couthin Mary. Look how she bows as she goes before the father! And what a fine cowl I have made of my kerchief!" Unconscious of observation as the boy was, he was being closely watched from two directions. In the shadow of the settle by the fire sat a tonsured priest, holding before him a breviary over the top of which he was contemplating the boy on the floor; opposite the priest, on the landing of the stairs, a woman leaned on the balustrade, following with absorbed interest every movement of the chubby hands, and every expression of the childish face, which bore a burlesqued resemblance to her own. After a moment the woman gathered her skirts closer about her and stealing down the winding stair, crept up behind the boy and clasped both hands playfully over his eyes. "Who is it?" she asked gaily. "Mother!" cried the child, wrenching himself free only to jump up and throw himself into the arms outstretched to receive him. "Didst fancy I was like to mithtake thy hands?" he asked. "No, faith! Father Mohl's hands are long and cold, and Couthin Mary's fingers are stiff and hard, no more like to thine than a potato to a puff-ball." "Hush, Cecil! Hush, little ingrate!" whispered the mother, clapping her hands this time over his lips. "I would not thy Cousin Mary heard that speech for a silver crown." Nevertheless, she smiled. Elinor Calvert, as she stood there with one hand on her son's shoulder and the other bending back his face, looked like some sunshiny goddess. Her dress well became her height. She wore a long petticoat of figured damask, beneath a robe of green stuff. Her bodice, long and pointed, fitted the figure closely, and the flowing sleeves of green silk fell back from round white arms. Around her neck was a string of pearls, bearing a heart-shaped miniature set also in pearls, and held to the left side of her bodice by a brooch of diamonds. Her figure was tall, and crowned by a head nobly proportioned and upheld by a white pillar of throat. Her features were heavily moulded, especially the lips and chin. The golden hair which swept her brow softened its marked width, yet the impression conveyed by the face might have been cold had it not been for the softness of the eyes under their fringe of dark lashes. In spite of the flashes of gaiety which marked her intercourse with her son, the prevailing expression of Mistress Calvert's face was sad. Rumor said that there was enough to account for this in the story of her brief married life in England, for Churchill Calvert was a spendthrift and a gambler, who died leaving his widow with her little son a year old, and no other support than the income of a slender dowry. In those dark days of her early widowhood Elinor received a letter from her husband's kinsman, Lord Baltimore. "I know your pride too well," he wrote, "to offer you any help; but you must not deny my right to provide for my godson. Money with me is scarce, but land is plenty, and I offer you in Cecil's name a grant of seven thousand acres in Maryland. It is covered with virgin forest. Like the old outlaw you must needs store your grain in caves and stable your horses and cattle under the trees; wherefore I shall counsel Cecil to name his manor _Robin Hood's Barn_. Should you be willing to remove thither, make up your mind speedily, for at the sailing of a ship now in harbor, our cousins the Brents start for the new world, and would rejoice to have you and Cecil in their keeping." Baltimore was right in foreseeing the struggle in Elinor's mind between pride and love for her child; but he was also right in predicting that love would triumph, and Elinor thanked him and Heaven daily for this asylum, where her boy could grow up safe from the temptations of London which had wrecked his father's life. As she bent over Cecil to-night, her heart was full of contending emotions. She and her boy were safely sheltered under the roof of her dear cousin, Mary Brent, Cecil would soon be old enough to take possession of the manor at Cecil Point, the future was apparently bright with promise; yet she was conscious of some unsatisfied hunger of the heart, and, deeper than that, of a sense of some impending grief; but she was a woman of shaken nerves easily sunk in melancholy. "Hark!" cried Cecil, suddenly pulling himself away from his mother's arms,--"I hear the sound of footsteps outside." At the same moment Mary Brent came slipping down the stairs. "Elinor," she said with a little nervousness, "Giles was expecting a friend to-night." "Ah?" said Elinor, indifferently. "Yes; 'tis a pity he was called to St. Mary's in such haste, for the friend comes on business." "Perchance he may tarry till Giles returns." "I hope so,--but, Elinor,--this business concerns thee." "_Me!_" "Ay, the new-comer is one who would fain have a lease of the manor at Cecil Point." "Robin Hood's Barn? Now, Mary, have I not told thee and Giles that I would hear of no such plan? I am a woman of affairs and can well manage till Cecil is old enough to take control. Another six months we shall rest under your roof,--then, dear cousin, we must be gone to our own." Mary Brent laid her hand upon the younger woman's arm. "Vex me not, Elinor," she said, "by speaking so. Let it be settled that this is your home. 'Tis not kind to talk of leaving me. Besides, you could not live upon your lands without an arm to protect you, stout enough for defence and for toil." "We will hire laborers." "Common laborers are not enough. There must be a man with head to direct as well as hands to work." Cecil, who had stood by an eager listener, suddenly stripped up the sleeve of his jerkin and bared his arm. "Feel that!" he cried, doubling his elbow till the muscle stood out. Mary Brent laughed as she laid her hand upon it. "Truly, 'tis a pretty muscle. Yet will it be better for a few more years of growth. Say, Elinor, wilt thou take this man for thy tenant? Giles has left the lease already drawn for thee, as Cecil's guardian, to sign when thou hast settled terms with the man. Giles says he is as fine a fellow as hath yet set foot in Maryland. He is a gentleman, moreover, and hath a title, having been knighted for gallant service in that ill-fated Cadiz expedition some years since." "Who is the man?" "Neville is his name, Sir Christopher Neville." "Christopher Neville!" repeated Elinor, slowly, but the shuffling of snow-covered feet upon the stepping-stones outside put an end to further speech. Knut began to bark. "Give over barking, thou naughty dog! Hie away to the kitchen and make way for thy betters!" said Mary Brent, making a feint at taking down a stick from over the fireplace. The dog continued barking, and Cecil began to laugh. "Hush, Cecil," said his mother; "where are thy manners? Make haste to open the door!" Cecil ran to the door and flinging it wide let in a great gust of wind. The light from within fell upon a man wrapped in a heavy cloak and wearing a broad-brimmed cavalier hat with plumes at the side. "Come in, good thir!" cried Cecil, "before you are frozen stiff;" and he led the way to the fire, before which Mary Brent stood with outstretched hand of welcome. "My brother Giles is called to St. Mary's; but he left a welcome for you, and bade us keep you without fail till his return." The new-comer bowed low above Mistress Brent's hand. He was a tall, plain man, approaching middle age, with keen eyes, and dents in his face as if Time had nicked it with his sickle. Around his firm-set mouth, hovered a smile that had summered and wintered many disappointments. "Elinor, let me make Sir Christopher Neville known to thee! My cousin, Elinor Calvert, Sir Christopher, the mistress of Cecil Point." With this, Elinor, who had stood still as a statue, moved slowly forward and held out her hand. Neville kissed it. The priest who had sat in the shadow of the settle, a silent observer of the scene before him, rose, now that all eyes were turned toward the stranger, and glided quietly out at the further doorway, murmuring, "_Suscipiat Dominus sacrificium de manibus meis ad laudem et gloriam nominis sui!_" "Come, Cecil!" said Mary Brent. "Let us make ready the hot posset. I have the ale on the fire a-heating and the milk and sugar and spices ready, and with a sippet of bread 'tis wonderful sustaining. Sir Christopher, you will find its sting comforting after your long journey." As she drew the child after her she whispered to Elinor, "To business, Cousin! Tell him he may have the manor for the clearing of the land and half the harvest!" The door closed behind her. Elinor Calvert and Christopher Neville stood looking at each other across the width of the fireplace. A long silence followed, broken at last by Elinor's impulsive speech. "Why art thou come hither?" "Maryland is free to all." "Why dost thou seek to become my tenant?" "I have a fancy for the land at Cecil Point." "Thy answers ring false. Tell me the real reason in a word." "As well in one word as in a thousand, since the word is _Thou_." The flush mounted to Elinor Calvert's brow and she stood playing with the tassels of her girdle, finding nothing to say in answer. "Yes," Neville went on, "for thy sake I am come hither out of England. For thy sake I came this night that I might have speech of thee. For this reason I would fain be thy tenant, that I might add one strong arm for thy defence in the dangers which threaten." "Thou art a friend indeed." "Ay, a true friend, since thou wilt have me for naught beyond. It is ten years since I asked thee wouldst thou have me for a husband, and thou didst deny me, and wed Calvert. For four years I strove as an honest man should to put thee out of my mind. I was fain to believe I had succeeded, when the news of thy freedom reached me; then the old love I had counted dead rose up stronger than ever, rose up out of the grave where I had laid it as in a trance, rose up and bade me never again cheat myself into the belief that I and it could be put asunder." The man paused for breath, so shaken was he by the force of his passion. Elinor Calvert looked at him in terror, unable to break by word or movement the spell under which he held her. He made a stride closer, and grasped her hand. "What stands between us?" he asked, holding her eyes with his, those penetrating eyes that had the power to pierce all disguises, to rend all shams to tatters, "Norse een like grey goshawks." Most eyes only look--Neville's _saw_. The woman before him felt evasions impossible, subterfuges of no avail. "Your faith," she answered. "You cared a little for me, then, in the old days?" "I did," she answered, like one in a trance bending to the will of the questioner. As she spoke she unconsciously laid her hand upon the diamond crescent at her breast. His eyes followed her motion and he colored high, for he saw that it was the brooch he had sent her at her marriage. She saw that he saw, and she too blushed, a painful blush that stained her face crimson and ran up to lose itself in the shadow of her hair. "I know who have stood in the way of thy loving me; but let them no longer come between thee and me, or their tonsured heads shall answer for it to my sword." Elinor frowned, and Neville saw that he was endangering his cause. "Forgive my impetuous speech!" said he. "Forget that the words were spoken." "I cannot." If Elinor had told the whole truth she would have added, "I do not wish to." "Then at least put them aside and deal with me in cold business terms as though we were the strangers thy cousins believe us to be. Wilt thou have me for thy tenant on shares--three quarters of the harvest to go to thee and one quarter to me?" "Tenant of mine thou shalt never be. I could not be so unfair, to let thee give thy life for me and get nothing in return!" "To let me do the thing I have set my heart on and get in return a sight of thee once in the year. That is to make one three-hundred-and sixty-fifth of every year blessed." "My tenant," said Elinor, slowly, "thou canst not be." Neville bent his head. "But--" "Blessed be but--! But what?" "But--perhaps--Cecil's." "Ay, that is better!" said Neville, smiling a little; "that will be best, for then there will be no favor on either side, and as the lad grows older he and I can deal together as man to man." "Oh, it is such a relief to my mind!" sighed Elinor. "And to mine," quoth Neville. "It is not the same thing as being my tenant?" "Not at all--quite different. And thou wilt come with Cecil to see how the land fares from time to time?" "Why, that were but business." "Truly to do aught else were treason to thy son's interest, and by and by when the house is built and the title of Robin Hood's Barn suits the manor no more, thou and he will come to visit me there?" "That could not be--" "No, I feared that was asking too much," Neville said humbly, "but at least thou wilt let me have the boy?" "How good thou art!" "_Good!_--I to thee? Shall I tell thee whose picture dwells in my soul by day and night, Elinor?" There was a curious vibration in Neville's voice, as if memory were pulling out the stops of an organ. "Ay, tell me," said Elinor, tremulously, in a voice scarce above a whisper. "'Tis that of a girl in a robe of green like the one thou wearest this night--ay, and floating sleeves like thine, whereby she caught the name she bears in my heart." A softness stole into Elinor's eyes and the flush of girlhood rose to her cheek. "Ah," Neville went on. "Dost thou remember that day in the Somerset wood, and how I gave thee the name of Lady Greensleeves, and how I sang thee the dear old ballad, thou sitting on the stone wall and I leaning against the great chestnut-tree?" "Nay, 'twas not a chestnut--'twas an oak, for I do recall the acorns that lay about thy feet as I listened with my eyes cast down." "And I stood looking at thy lashes, scarce knowing whether I would have them lift or not, as they lay against the rose of thy cheek." "How long ago it all was!" sighed Elinor. "Yet when thou dost speak and look like that it seems but yesterday. Oh, my dearest--" Neville, carried beyond his prudence, drew nearer and was about to fall upon his knees before her, when he saw the door open to admit Mistress Brent, followed by a servant bearing a steaming bowl of posset. How much of his speech had been overheard, he knew not. Manlike he found it hard to steer his bark in an instant from deep waters into the shallows of conversation; but Elinor took the helm and dashed into the safe channel. "Mary, thou art come in good time to help me to argue terms with a too generous tenant." Mary Brent came forward smiling, but a little bewildered. Elinor took the goblets from the tray and filled them with the posset. "Drink!" she cried gaily. "Drink both of you to the prosperity of Cecil Manor, and I will drink a health to Cecil's tenant, Sir Christopher Neville." With this, she swept a deep courtesy, and rising, clinked her goblet against Neville's. At the same moment Cecil burst upon them from the stairs, his golden curls topped by Master Neville's brown cavalier hat, and the heavy cloak sweeping the floor after him as he walked. "Good evening, madam!" he cried, sweeping off his hat before Mary Brent with a droll imitation of Neville's manner. "Small boys," said Elinor, "wax bold as bed hour draws near. Ask pardon of Sir Christopher and be off to thy bed." "Thou wilt come with me?" "Not to-night, sweetheart; we have a guest--" "Guest or no guest, I go not without thee," cried the child. "'Tis the first time since our coming thou didst ever deny me. I should lie awake and see bogies an thou didst not tuck in the counterpane about me with thine own hands." "I pray thee," said Neville, under his breath, "grant the boy his wish. Let not his acquaintance and mine begin with misliking." At this, Cecil, who till now had hung back and glowered at the stranger from behind his mother's skirts, came forward with the grace of the Calvert line, and stretching out his hand frankly to Neville, said: "I thank you, thir; I am glad you are come to stay with us." As his mother led him away to bed he turned on the landing and kissed his hand to the new-comer. Then, with a sudden relapse into the barbarism of childhood, he dropped on hands and knees and climbed the remaining stairs in that fashion--growling like a wolf as he went. Ten minutes later the group in the hall heard him chanting an evening hymn, and his voice had the high, unearthly sweetness, the clear, angelic note of those who stand before the Throne. CHAPTER II ST. GABRIEL'S AND ST. INIGO'S When Elinor returned from Cecil's bedside, Neville detected traces of weeping in the flush of her cheek and the heaviness of her eyelids; but her manner was gracious and marked by a gaiety which would have led one who did not know her well to believe that she was as light-hearted as the boy upstairs. The candles on the supper-table shone on a strangely assorted group. At the head of the board sat Mistress Brent. She was a demure little lady, like a sleek white cat, full of domestic impulses, clinging to her hearthstone and purring away life, content to rub against the feet of those whom she counted her superiors. Her placid face beamed with joy at the thought that her roof was found worthy to shelter the holy Fathers from St. Inigo's. Yet, even as she rejoiced, she remembered with some misgivings a conversation she had held with her brother Giles before his setting out. "Mary," he had said, "it is rumored throughout the province that thy house is headquarters for the Jesuits." "Brother," she had answered, "my house is open to all who seek its shelter, and shall I shut its doors to the priests of our Holy Church?" "There is no arguing with women," her brother had said, with a testy shrug of his shoulders. "Thou must needs turn every question of policy into an affair of pious sentiment. Baltimore is as good a Catholic as thou; but he is first of all an Englishman, and second, the ruler of this province, wherein he hath promised fair play to men of all creeds; and he will not have the reins of control wrenched from his hands by the Jesuits, who hold themselves free of the common law, and answerable to none but the tribunals of the Church." "I know naught of questions of policy, Giles, as thou sayst; but while I have a roof over my head, I will take for the motto of my house the words of Scripture: 'Knock, and it shall be opened unto you.'" When this motto is posted over the lintel there will never be a lack of footmarks on the threshold. Many were the guests who came to try the hospitality of St. Gabriel's Manor, and no visitors were more frequent than the Jesuits, those brave men who for the sake of their faith had crossed the sea, braved the perils of the wilderness, and planted a mission near St. Mary's which they christened St. Inigo's. On Mary Brent's right hand this evening sat one of these priests, Father White, whose shrewd eyes shone with love to God and man, whose heart yearned over the sinner as it bowed before the saint, and whose life was at the service of the order of Ignatius Loyola. His features were delicately cut, and the skin of a transparency which recalled the alabaster columns at San Marco with the light shining through them. So translucent to the soul behind seemed his fragile frame. His mulatto servant, Francisco, stood at the back of his chair and ministered to his wants with loving care. Opposite Father White sat Christopher Neville, and one at least of the company found him good to look upon, despite his square jaw and the sabre-cut over the left eye. But for the particularity of his dress he might have conveyed the impression of rude strength, but his black velvet doublet fitted close and gave elegance to the heavily built figure, and the shirt that broke out above the waist was adorned with hand-wrought ruffles of an exquisite fineness. Notwithstanding his plainness, his personality carried conviction. The whole man made himself felt in the direct glance and the firm hand-clasp. His words, too, had a stirring quality. People differed, disputed, denounced; but they always listened. He often roused antagonism, but seldom irritation. It is not those who oppose, but those who fail to comprehend, who exasperate, and Neville had above all the gift of comprehension. Yet with this intellectual perception was combined a singular imperviousness to social atmosphere. So that in his presence one had often the feeling of being a piece of china in a bull pasture; but, in his wildest assault, the slightest droop of the lip, the faintest appeal for sympathy reduced him to the gentleness of a lamb. "I would he were of our communion," thought Father White, studying him. Near Neville sat a younger priest, the same who had watched Elinor Calvert and her son from the shadow of the settle. His aspect was more humble than that of his superior. He bowed lower as he passed the crucifix rudely fastened to the chimney breast; his eyes were seldomer raised, and he mumbled more scraps of Latin over his food; but all this outward show of holiness failed to convince. It was like the smell of musk which hints of less desirable scents, to be overpowered rather than cleansed. His narrow gray eyes, cast down as they were, found opportunity to scrutinize Elinor Calvert closely as she sat by the side of Neville. Set a man, a priest, and a woman to watch each other--the priest will catch the man; but the woman will catch the priest. "Prithee try this wine, Father!" said Mary Brent to the venerable priest on her right, holding toward him a cup of sparkling red-brown wine. "'Tis made in our own press from the wild grapes that grow hereabout, and Giles has christened it 'St. Gabriel's Blessing.'" "Tempt me not!" said Father White, smiling but pushing the goblet away. "I have not spent my life studying the _Spiritual Experiences_ of Saint Ignatius without profiting by that holy man's injunction to regard the mouth as the portal of the soul. The wine industry is important, but I fear the effect of drinking on the natives. I have seen a chief take blasphemous swigs of the consecrated wine at the sacrament, and at a wedding half the tribe are drunken." "Prithee, tell me more of these missions among the natives," Elinor said to Father Mohl, bending the full splendor of her glance upon him; "are they not fraught with deadly peril?" "To the body, doubtless." "'Twould be to the soul too if I were engaged in them, for I have such hatred of hardship that I should spend my time bewailing the task I had undertaken." "Nay, daughter, for ere thou wert called to the trial thou wouldst have faced the tests that do lead up to it as the _via dolorosa_ to Calvary. Before we take the final vows we undergo three probations, the first devoted to the mind, and the last a year of penance and privation, that we may test our strength and learn to forego all that hampers our spiritual progress; this is called _the school of the heart_." "Would there were such for a woman!" "There is," said Neville from the other side; "but it is where she rules instead of being ruled." Elinor turned and looked at him with that lack of comprehension which a woman knows how to assume when she understands everything. "He loves her," thought the priest; "but she only loves his love." Yet, knowing how many matches have been brought about by this state of things, Father Mohl set himself to study Neville. He found him reserved in general, with the suavity and self-command of a man of the world, but outspoken under irritation. "We must make him angry," thought the priest. Seeing that Neville was a Protestant, he began relating the deeds wrought by priests. "Do you recall, Father White," he said, "how the natives brought their chief to die in the mission house, and how Father Copley laid on him a sacred bone, and how the sick man recovered, and went about praising God and the fathers?" "I do remember it well," Father White answered. "Yes," continued the younger priest, "and I recall how Brother Fisher found a native woman sick unto death. He instructed her in the catechism, laid a cross on her breast, and behold, the third day after, the woman rose entirely cured, and throwing a heavy bag over her shoulder walked a distance of four leagues." "Wonderful! wonderful!" murmured Mary Brent. Neville was irritated, and thought to turn Father Mohl's tales to ridicule. Whom the gods would destroy they first make droll. "Did you ever hear of the miracle of the buttered whetstone?" he asked. "Pray you tell it," said Father Mohl, with his ominous smile. "Why, there was a friar once in London who did use to go often to the house of an old woman; but ever when he came she hid all the food in the house, having heard that friars and chickens never get enough." If only Neville had looked at Elinor! but he steered as straight for destruction as any rudderless bark in a storm on a rocky coast. "This day," he went on, "the friar asked the goodwife had she any meat." "'Devil a taste!' she said. "'Well,' quoth the friar, 'have you a whetstone?' "'Yes.' "'Marry, I'll eat that.' "So when she had brought the whetstone, he bade her fetch a frying-pan, and when he had it, he set it on the fire and laid the whetstone in it. "'Cock's body!' said the poor wife, 'you'll burn the pan!' "'No! no!' quoth the friar; 'you shall see a miracle. It shall not burn at all if you bring me some eggs.' "So she brought the eggs and he dropped them in the pan. "'Quick!' cried he, 'some butter and milk, or pan and egg will both burn.' "So she ran for the butter, and the friar took salt from the table and threw it into the pan with butter and eggs and milk, and when all was done he set the pan on the table, whetstone and all, and calling the woman, he bade her tell her friends how she had witnessed a miracle, and how a holy friar had made a good meal of a fried whetstone." Father Mohl was now angered in his turn. Priests, having surrendered the love of women, cling with double tenacity to their reverence. "A merry tale, sir," said he, smoothly, "though better suited to the ale-house than the lady's table, and more meet for the ears of scoffers than of believers--Daughter," turning to Mary Brent, "you were amazed a moment since at the wonders God hath wrought through the hands of His chosen ones; but the judgments of the Lord are no less marvellous than His mercies. There was a Calvinist settled at Kent Fort who made sport over our holy observances." Elinor Calvert colored and looked from under her eyelids at Neville. But he went on plying his knife and fork. "If he were angry," she said to herself, "he would not eat." But in this she mistook the nature of man, judging it by her own. "Yes," continued Father Mohl, "although, thanks to our prayers, the wretch was rescued from drowning on the blessed day of Pentecost, yet he showed thanks neither to God nor to us. Coming upon a company offering their vows to the saints, he began impudently to jeer at these religious men, and flung back ribald jests as he pushed his boat from shore. The next morning his boat was found overturned in the Bay, and he was never heard of more." Neville looked up. "I am glad," he said, "to be able to supply a happier ending to your story. The man, as it happens, was picked up by an outward-bound ship, and is alive and well in England to-day." "You knew the blasphemer, then?" "I know the man of whom you speak--a fine fellow he is, and the foe of all liars and hypocrites." "Ah, I forgot," answered Father Mohl, smoothly, "you are not one of us." "Not I," cried Neville, hotly; "I have cast in my lot with honest men." "Say no more," said Mohl, satisfied, "lest thou too blaspheme and die! _Misereatur tui, Omnipotens Deus!_" Having thus achieved the difficult task of giving offence and granting forgiveness at the same time, Father Mohl smiled and leaned back content. Neville, on his side, was smiling too, thinking, poor fool, that the victory lay with him; but looking round he saw Elinor raise her wine cup to her lips, and looking closer he saw two tears rise in her eyes, swell over the lids, and slip into the wine cup. Instantly he cursed himself for a stupid brute. "Madam," he said, speaking low in Elinor's ear, so that she alone could hear him, "thou art wasteful. Cleopatra cast only one pearl into her wine-cup, and thou hast dropped two." At the same moment a little white figure appeared in the doorway. "May I come in for nutth?" asked a small voice. "Cecil, for shame! Go back to bed this instant!" cried his mother; but Neville drew a stool between him and Mary Brent, and silently motioned to Cecil to come and occupy it. "The child should be taught obedience through discipline," said Father Mohl, looking with raised eyebrows toward Elinor. Cecil cowered against the wall; but kept his eyes upon the coveted seat. Neville crossed glances with the priest as men cross swords. "Or confidence through love-- "Cecil," he continued, "beg thy mother to heed the petition of a guest and let thee sit here by me for ten little minutes; I will bid thee eat nuts,--so shalt thou practise Father Mohl's precepts of obedience." Elinor smiled, Neville put out his hand, a strong, nervous hand, and Cecil knew his cause was won. "Lonely upstairs," he confided to Neville as he helped himself to nuts; "makes me think of bears." "Bears come not into houses." "They say not, but the dark looks like a big black one, big enough to swallow house and all. I do not like the dark, do you?" "I did not when I was your age,--that's sure; but I have seen so many worse things since then--" "What?" "Myself, for instance." "That's silly." "I think it is." "Do not say silly things! Mother sends me to bed when I do." "Is it not silly to fear the dark?" "Mayhap, but I lie still all of a tremble, and then I seem to hear a growl at the door, and then blood and flesh cannot stand it and I scream for Mother. Three or two timeth I scream, and she comes running." "Wouldst have the bear eat thy mother?" "Nay, but sure 'nuff he would not. The Dark Bear eateth only little boys." "Oh, only little boys?" "Ay, and he beginneth with their toes. Therefore I dare not kneel alone to say my Hail Maries. The Dark Bear is not like God, for God careth only for the heart. Thir Chrithtopher, why doth God care more for the heart than for the head and legs?" "Come, Cecil," said Elinor's warning voice, "thou art chattering as loud as a tree-toad, and the ten minutes are more than passed. Run up and hide those cold toes of thine under the counterpane!" "If I go, wilt thou come up after supper to see me?" "If I can be spared." "Nay, no _ifs_--ay or no?" Father Mohl smiled, and his smile was not good to see. "Is this the flower of that confidence through love which you so much admire, Sir Christopher?" "No," answered Neville, "only the thorns on its stem; the blossoms are not yet out." "Ay or no?" repeated the child, oblivious of the discussion going on around him. "Oh, _ay_, and get thee gone!" cried his mother, thoroughly out of patience with the child and herself and every one else. Cecil ran round to her seat, hugged her in a stifling embrace, and then pattered out of the room and up the stair, reassuring his timid little heart by saying aloud as he went, "Bearth come not into houtheth! Bearth come not into houtheth!" Father Mohl sat with bent head, the enigmatic smile still playing round his lips. At length, making the sign of the cross, he spoke aside to Father White,-- "Have I leave to depart?" "Go--and _pax tibi_!" The company rose. "Father, must thou be gone so soon?" Mary Brent asked, with hospitable entreaty in her tones. "I must, my daughter." "This very night?" "This very night." "But the road to St. Mary's is dark and rough." "Ay, but our feet are used to treading rough roads, and the moon will show the blazed path as clearly as the sun itself." "Farewell," said Father White. "Bear my greetings to my brothers at St. Inigo's, and charge them that they cease not from their labors till I come." When Father Mohl passed Neville, Sir Christopher, moved by a sudden compunction, held out his hand. "Hey for St. Mary's!" he exclaimed, with a note of cordiality which if a trifle forced was at least civil. Father Mohl ignored the outstretched hand, and with his own grasped the crucifix at his breast. The sneer in his smile deepened, and one heard the breath of scorn in his nostrils as he answered, with a meaning glance at Elinor, "The latter part of the Marylanders' battle-cry were perchance honester. Why not make it 'Wives for us all'?" This passed the bounds of patience, and Neville cast overboard that self-control which is the ballast of the soul. His outstretched hand clenched itself into a fist. "Sir!" he cried, very white about the lips, "if you wore a sword instead of a scapular, we might easily settle our affairs. But since your garb cries 'Sanctuary!' while your tongue doth cut and thrust rapier-like, I'll e'en grant you the victory in the war of words. Good-night, Sir Priest!" For answer the father only folded his cloak about him and slipped out of the door as quietly as though he were to re-enter in an hour. Father White followed Mistress Brent to the hall, from the window of which she strove to watch the retreating figure of Father Mohl. Neville thus found himself alone with Elinor Calvert once more. He regarded her with some anxiety, an anxiety justified by her bearing. The full round chin was held an inch higher than its wont, the nostrils were dilated and the eyelids half closed. A wise man would have been careful how he offered a vent for her scorn; but to her lover it seemed that any utterance would be better than this contemptuous silence. "You are very angry--" ventured Neville, timidly. "I have cause." "--and ashamed of me." "I have a right to be." "Thank Heaven for that!" "If you thank Heaven for the shame you cause you are like enough to spend your life on your knees." "I deprecate your scorn, madam. Yet I cannot take back the saying." "Make it good, then!" "Why, so I will. None feel shame save when they feel responsibility. None feel responsibility for those who are neither kith nor kin save where they--" "Where they what?" flashed Elinor, turning her great angry eyes full upon him. "Save where they _love_, Mistress Calvert." It was out now and Neville felt better. Elinor clenched her hands and began an angry retort, and then all of a sudden broke down, and bending her head over the back of the high oak chair, stood sobbing silently. "I pray you be angry," pleaded Neville; "your wrath was hard to bear; but 'twas naught to this." "Oh, yes," answered Elinor between her sobs, "it is much you care either for my anger or your grief, that the first proof you give of your boasted love is to offend those whom I hold in affection and reverence." "'Twas he provoked me to it," answered Neville, sullenly, "with his tales of my friend yonder, as honest a fellow as walks the earth. Is a man to sit still and listen in silence to a pack of lies told about his friend?" "Say no more!" commanded Elinor. "I see a man is bound to bear all things for the man to whom he has professed friendship--nothing for the woman to whom he has professed love." There was little logic in the argument, but it made its mark, for it was addressed not to the mind but to the heart. "Forgive me!" cried Neville--which was by far the best thing he could have said. If a woman has anything to forgive, the granting of pardon is a necessity. If she has nothing to forgive, it is a luxury. "I do," she murmured. "Perhaps I was rougher of manner than need was." "Yet 'twas but nature." "Yes, but nature must be held in check." Thus did these inconsistent beings oppose each other, each taking the ground occupied a few minutes since by the other, and as hot for the defence as they had been but now for the attack. Neville seized Elinor's hand and kissed it passionately; then snatching up his hat and cloak he exclaimed, "I will go after Mohl and make my peace. Henceforth I swear what is dear to you shall be held at least beyond reproach by me." Elinor turned upon him such a glance that he scarcely dared look upon her lest he be struck blind by the ecstasy of his own soul. "At last!" he whispered as he passed out into the night. Was it luck or fate that guided him? Who shall say? Luck is the pebble on which the traveller trips and slides into quicksands or sands of gold. Fate is the cliff against which he leans, or dashes himself to death. Yet the pebble was once part of the cliff. CHAPTER III BLESSING AND BANNING "Mother! Moth-_er_!" It was Cecil's voice on the landing, and Cecil's white nightgowned figure hanging over the balustrade. "Yes, Poppet, what is it?" "Thou didtht not come upstairs as thou didtht promise when the nuts were served...." "Dearest, I could not. I was in talk with Sir Christopher." "But thou didtht promise, and how oft have I heard thee say, 'A promise is a promise'?" Elinor started from her chair to go toward the stair; but Father White stayed her with uplifted finger. "Let me deal with him," he said under his breath; "'tis time the lad learned the difference between the failure which is stuff o' the conscience, and that which is the fault of circumstances." Then aloud, "Cecil, wilt thou close thine eyes and come down to me when thou hast counted a hundred?" "Ay, that will I." "Without fail?" "Why, surely! There is naught I would love better than toathting my toeth by the great fire." "Very well, then; shut thine eyes and begin!" Cecil counted faithfully to the stroke of a hundred, and then springing to his feet with a shout, started down the stair, but to his surprise the priest was nowhere to be seen. Cecil searched behind the settle and under the table as if one could fancy Father White's stately figure in such undignified hiding-place! At length the child gave up the search and called aloud,-- "Where art thou?" "Here, in this little room," answered a muffled voice, and Cecil ran to the door only to find it securely fastened by a bolt within. "Come in," cried the voice. "I cannot; it ith bolted." "But you promised--" "But the door ith fatht." "What of that? '_A promise is a promise._'" By this time Cecil, perceiving that jest and lesson were both pointed at him, stood with quivering lip, ready at a single further word to burst into tears; but the kind father, flinging wide the door, caught him in his arms, saying, "We must not hold each other responsible, my boy, for promises which God and man can make impossible of fulfilment. We must be gentle and charitable and easy to be entreated for forgiveness; and so good-night to mother, and I will lay thee again in thy trundle-bed." "Has Sir Christopher Neville left us also?" asked Mary Brent, as Father White came down from Cecil's room and joined her and Elinor at the fire. "He has." "A strange man!" said Father White. Elinor colored. "Ay," answered Mary Brent; "I cannot make out why Giles hath taken such a liking to him. To me he seems proud and reserved, with something in his tone that suggests that he is turning the company into a jest. For myself I did not see anything droll in his story of the fried whetstone." Elinor shrugged her shoulders. "If every man were condemned that told a tale in which others could see nothing droll, we should need a Tyburn Hill here in Maryland." "Ay, but what's the use of telling a droll story if it be not droll? I do not understand Sir Christopher." "I don't think you do." "I think _I_ do." It was Father White who spoke, and his shrewd gray eyes were fixed upon Elinor, who turned to the fire without a word. Mary Brent sat tapping her foot on the floor. "'Tis strange he should have left without a word," she said at last. "Never fear, Mary! We have not lost him. He is too large to be mislaid like a parcel. He did but go out to fulfil a behest of mine, and if Father White understands him, as he says he does, he will have divined that it was an errand of courtesy and good-will on which he set out." A silence fell on the group. Then Father White, looking out, exclaimed: "'Tis a bitter night and the snow is falling again! No wonder the settlers grumble over such a winter in this land where they were promised all sunshine and flowers." "Yes," said Mary Brent. "If the weather is to be like this, we might as well have settled on the bleak Massachusetts coast." "It cannot last long. The natives all say they never knew such a season. They fear to go abroad at night, there are so many half-starved wild beasts prowling around." Elinor rose and began to pace the floor uneasily. "But," continued Father White, "there are more reasons than those of climate for preferring Maryland to Massachusetts. How wouldst thou have prospered in a Puritan colony?" "I trust even there I should have been true to Mother Church, and perchance converted some of the heretics from the error of their ways." "Yet," interrupted Elinor, "they too are serving God in their own way." Mary Brent shook her head. "I care not to talk of them. In truth had I known this Neville was a Protestant, I had never urged him for thy tenant at Robin Hood's Barn." Elinor murmured something about "toleration." "Toleration!" repeated her cousin scornfully. "I hate the word. He that tolerates any religion against his own is either a hypocrite or a backslider." "Shall there be no liberty of conscience?" "Ay, but liberty to think wrong is no liberty." "These be deep matters, my daughters, and best left to the schoolmen," said Father White. "None doubt that Mistress Brent hath kept her fidelity unspotted to the Church. Let Elinor Calvert pattern after her kinswoman." Thereafter Father White turned again to the subject of missions, and the two women listened till the hour-glass had been turned and the candles began to burn low in their sockets. At last Mary Brent grew somewhat impatient. If she had a vice it was excess of punctuality. She was willing to share her last crust with a stranger; but he must be on hand when it came out of the oven. The hours for meals and especially for bedtime were scrupulously observed in her household, and to-night it irked her to be kept up thus beyond her usual hour for retiring. Elinor, perceiving this and feeling some sense of responsibility for the cause, said at last,-- "I pray thee, Cousin, wait no longer the coming of Sir Christopher, whose errand has kept him beyond what I counted on, else I would not have given my consent. Father White and I will sit up to await his coming. Go thou to bed, and see that the counterpane is drawn high over Cecil, for the howling of the wind promises a cold night." "Poor little one!" said Mary Brent, rising and evidently glad of an excuse for retiring, "I will see that he is tucked in warm and snug. Sir Christopher is to sleep next Father White. I have had his bed made with our new homespun sheets." As Mistress Brent passed out of sight up the stairs, Elinor turned to Father White with tears standing in her eyes,-- "How good she is!" she murmured. "Ay, a good woman--her price is above rubies. I pray that by her example and influence you may be held as true as she to your duties to God and His Holy Church." Elinor stirred uneasily. The movement did not escape the priest's eye, accustomed to studying every symptom of the soul's troubles as a physician studies the signs of bodily tribulations. "My daughter," he continued, "is your heart wholly at peace--firmly stayed upon the living rock?" "No! no!" cried Elinor, "it is rather a boat tossed upon the waves at the mercy of every tempest that sweeps the waters." "How strange!" said Father White, speaking softly as to a suffering child. "How strange that you thus of your own will are tossed about, and run the risk of being cast upon the rocks; yea, of perishing utterly in the whirlwind, when peace is waiting for you, to be had for the asking." "I would I knew how to find it." "Even as St. Peter found it when he too was in peril of deep waters, by calling upon the name of the Lord. Come, my daughter, come with me to the altar, that we may seek it together!" Taking a candle from the table he rose and led the way to the recess at the end of the hall, which Mary Brent had piously fitted up as a chapel, where before the altar burned the undying lamp of devotion. "Here," said the priest, "peace awaits the storm-tossed soul. It shall be thine. But first must thou throw overboard all sinful desires, all guilty memories, all selfish wishes, and seek in simplicity of heart that peace of God which passeth understanding. Kneel, my daughter, at the confessional!" So saying he seated himself in the great oaken chair, brought out of England. Elinor fell upon her knees beside it and poured out the grief and struggles of her tumultuous soul. "Bless me, Father, because I have sinned." The voice trembled at first so that the words could scarcely be heard, but grew firmer as she went on in the familiar words: "I confess to Almighty God, to blessed Mary ever Virgin, to Michael the archangel, to blessed John the Baptist, to the holy apostles Peter and Paul, to all the saints, and to you, Father, that I have sinned exceedingly in thought, word, and deed, through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault." "_Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa!_" How the words ring down the ages laden with their burden of human penitence and remorse! Still, despite all the uses to which they have been wrested by hypocrisy and levity, they remain infinitely touching in the link they furnish, the bond of unity for the suffering, sin-laden souls of many races and many generations. When Elinor had finished the list of offences whereof she wished to free her soul, and which even to the sensitive conscience of Father White appeared over trivial for the emotion she had shown, the priest asked softly: "Is there nothing else? Examine well thine heart. Leave no dark sin untold to grow in the shadow and choke the fair flower of repentance." "No, Father, I know of no other sin." "Nor any unworthy wish?" "Nor any unworthy wish." "Nor any carnal affection threatening to draw thy soul away from the path of salvation?" The shaft was shrewdly aimed. It struck home. "Father, is it a sin to love?" "It may be--a deadly sin." "To love purely, with a high and unselfish devotion?" "It may be." "Prithee, tell me how, since God himself is love." "There is indeed a Godlike love, stooping to the weakest, bending over the lowest, yearning most over the most unworthy, such as the love of the shepherd for his sheep, of the mother for her son, of the true priest for his flock; but let a woman beware how she brings to the altar such a love for her husband." Elinor started. "Yes," Father White went on tenderly, but as one who must probe the wound that it may heal the sooner, "it is the nature of woman to look up. She will do it, and if she cannot raise the one she loves she will stoop to the dust herself, that from that abasement the man may still seem to stand above her." "Father," cried Elinor, casting aside all concealment, "the man I love is not base." "Do I know him?" "You have seen him." "This night?" "This night." "Can a man who knoweth not how to rule his own tongue rule a wife, and above all a wife like thee, aflame one instant, the next melted to tenderness, full of pity and long-suffering, yet quick of spirit and proud as Lucifer?" Elinor was silent. "A captious temper is a grievous fault, yet it may be mended--if he is of the true faith. But, oh, my daughter, tempt not thy fate by marrying an unbeliever! Faults thou mayst conquer; sins thou mayst forgive or win forgiveness for; but unbelief is a blight which fosters every vice and destroys every virtue. Root up this passion, though it seem to tear thy life with it. Think on thy boy! Durst thou expose him to the influence of such an example?" "Father," said Elinor, tremulously, "I cannot answer now--I must have time to think. Who knows but my love may draw him into the right path?" The priest shook his head; but as he was about to answer, the stamping of feet was heard outside, and Father White dismissed his penitent with a wave of his hand. "Go, my daughter. But as thou dost value thy soul and the soul of thy boy, entangle thyself no further till thou hast taken counsel once more with me. And may Almighty God be merciful unto thee, and, forgiving thee thy sins, bring thee to life everlasting!" Elinor rose from her knees, and drawing aside the curtain passed out into the hall, while Father White tarried for the candles. Neville came in at the outer door, bringing with him a gust of wind and cold. Knut rose from the hearth with a low growl and moved suspiciously toward the stranger, then, drawn by some magnetic attraction, he nosed about him and at last fawned upon him and rubbed against his legs, seeking a caress. Neville bent over and patted his head. "Good dog!" he said, "I would I had had you with me in the forest yonder. Belike I had not been so long in finding my way out. Ah, Mistress Calvert," he added, peering into the shadow from which gleamed the shimmer of Elinor's gown, "I am grieved to have kept the household awake so late, and all for naught, since I failed as completely in the search for Father Mohl as though he had vanished like a spirit in the air." "Yet of old you were a swift runner. I have seen you chase a hare across the fields at Frome and keep the pace." "Ay, but that was over Somerset turf, and with the light of day to guide me." "I am much disappointed--" Neville felt the chill in Elinor's tone. "Not more disappointed than I," he answered. "'Tis the elements must bear the blame. When I started out the moonlight shone full on the path, and I could see my way for a quarter of a mile, but even then the clouds were hanging round the moon like wolves about a sheep-fold. In half an hour she was swallowed up, and then, to confuse me the more, a light snow began falling, slowly at first, then faster and faster, till, what with the wind in my face and the snow on the path, I lost the trail somewhere near the cross-road. Before I knew it I was caught in a thicket of brush and briar, and when I had struggled out there was no hope of catching the priest." Elinor looked closely at Neville. He was very white and breathing heavily. "You are hurt," she exclaimed, moving toward him with quick sympathy. "See, your garments are pulled this way and that as if you had struggled with worse foes than the wind." "Only contact with a few brambles through which I forced my way back to the road I had lost." "But your jerkin is torn--" "Ay, caught on a stray branch which hung too low." "And there is blood on your boots--yes, and on your hands. Oh, tell me what you have gone through while we sat here at our ease by the hearth!" Neville drew near and spoke low: "For such sympathy I would have dared far more than I met. If you will have the story, it fell out thus. Having forgot to buckle on my sword as I went out, I found myself scantily armed with my short poniard. Yet did I never think of danger, till after I had turned about, and losing the blazed path, began to scan each branch I passed, for some token that might lead me straight. "Peering about me with my poniard in hand to cut the boughs, I was aware of a rustling in the branches over my head as of something heavier than bird or fowl. I jumped aside. The creature sprang and missed me. My hope lay in a counter attack, and I in turn leaped upon her, and buried my poniard in her neck. She must have been made of something other than flesh and blood, else she had fallen dead at my feet from that blow; but instead she made off at a bound, and with such speed that I had no chance to discover her species, though in the dark she looked about the size of a panther. The worst thing in the whole adventure was the loss of my knife. It has helped me through many a perilous place, and it goes hard with me to have lost it now. I suppose I may count this the best service it has done me. But why do I dwell at such length upon a trifle? I warrant there be few hunters who have passed a night in our wilderness without some such taste of the manners of wild beasts." "Make not light of such an escape," murmured Elinor, breathlessly. "As for me, I will give thanks for thee upon my knees in my closet. Father White will show thee to thy chamber. 'Tis the one next his, and hath the distinction of owning a bed with sheets in place of a deerskin." Neville gazed at Elinor with some disappointment. He did not appreciate that this was the way her quick wit chose to let him know that their conversation was overheard. As he looked up at her words, he saw Father White moving towards them. The candle in his hand shone upward and cast a light on his white hairs, which gave them the effect of a halo around his forehead. As he held up his fingers in token of benediction to Elinor as she passed him, he seemed like some saint breathing serenity and heavenly joy. Despite his lifetime prejudices Neville felt himself vaguely stirred by the half-unearthly vision of the saintly face framed in its snowy halo, and the dark robes fading into the blackness of the hall beyond. "Bless me too, Father!" he murmured, "for I have sinned." The priest moved as if he were about to comply, then suddenly recalling himself, he dropped his half outstretched arm and asked: "Is it the blessing of Holy Church you crave?" "No, faith!" cried Neville, suddenly emancipated from the thrall of his first impression. "It was but the blessing of a good man I asked, which to my thinking should have some value, with the backing of any church or none; but since it must be bought with hypocrisy or begged on bended knee I will have none of it. Good-night, madam," he added, bowing low to Elinor; and helping himself to a candle from the table, he lighted it at the fire. "Good-night, my daughter!" the priest echoed, and added softly: "_Concede misericors Deus fragilitati nostræ præsidium!_" CHAPTER IV THE LORD OF THE MANOR The morning sun streamed into the bedroom where Cecil slept on his low truckle-bed beside his mother's curtained couch. The brilliant rays tugged at the boy's eyelids and lifted them as suddenly as the ropes raise the curtain of a play-house, and indeed to this small observer it seemed that a perpetual comedy was being acted in the world for his special benefit. Better still, that it was his delightful privilege to play the part of Harlequin in this rare farce of life and to make the gravest grown-people the sport of his jests. The earliest manifestation of humor, in the individual as in the race, is the practical joke; so it was quite natural that as a fresh and delightful pleasantry it occurred to Cecil, instantly on waking, to creep over to his mother's bed and begin to tickle her ear with the tassel of the bed curtain. The mere occupation was pleasure enough, but the sensation rose to ecstasy as he watched the sleepy hand raised time after time to brush away the supposed insect. At length the enjoyment grew too exquisite for repression, and at the cost of ruining its own existence burst out into a peal of laughter that roused the drowsy mother. "Thou naughty implet! What hour o' the clock is it?" "I know not the hour o' the clock; but o' the sun 'tis past rising time, and Couthin Mary is stirring already." "Then we must be stirring too; but first sit thee down here on the edge of the bed and try to listen as if thou wert grown." "I am, mother,--I am above thy waist." "Ay," said Elinor, smiling, "but the question is, art thou up to my meaning? Hearken! Dost thou know what a tenant is?" "Ay,--'tis a man who farms thy land, giving thee half and keeping three quarters for himthelf." His mother laughed. "Thou hast a good understanding for one so young, and the description is apt enough for most tenants; but how sayst thou of one who would give thee three quarters and keep only one for himself?" "Why, 'twould not become a Calvert to drive such a bargain with such a poor fool." "Thou art not far wrong. Share and share alike is fair dealing 'twixt land and labor, and so let it be between thee and Sir Christopher Neville." "Thir Chrithtopher Neville! The gentleman that came last night? Why, he ith no laborer. He cannot be in need to work for a living." "Nay, Cecil, 'tis a labor of love." "There, mother, I knew he liked me, for all thou saidst my borrowing of his sword and cloak did anger him. Every one likes me. Couthin Mary says so." "Vain popinjay! thou art too credulous of flattery." "Would Couthin Mary tell a lie?" "Never mind that question now, but don thy best clothing for the ceremony of receiving the homage of thy tenant this morning." "Hooray! Am I to wear my morocco shoes with the red satin roses?" "Ay." "And my thilver-broidered doublet?" "Ay, little peacock." "And my stockings with the clocks of gold? Oh, Mother, it makes me feel so grand! I like being lord of the manor. And Thir Chrithtopher Neville must kneel before me; and how if I tickle him on the neck when he bends, and make him laugh out before them all?" "Cecil, if thou dost disgrace me by any of thy clownish pranks, thou and I will never be friends more. And give thyself no airs either with this kind new friend. Say to thyself, when he bows before thee, that it is strength bending to weakness, and pride stooping that it may help the helpless." "Do I stand on the platform at the end of the hall where Couthin Mary stands when her tenants come in?" "Yes, with Cousin Mary and me beside thee." "I hope Thir Chrithtopher trips on the step. But I like him, for all he hath the eyes of a hawk and the mouth of a mastiff." "Well thou mayst like him! Friends like him are scarce enough anywhere, and most of all in this new land. Now run away and make haste lest we vex Cousin Mary by our tardiness, and so begin awry the day which should open with all good omens. But, Cecil, I have a gift for thee, something I gave thy father on our marriage. I did think to keep it till thou shouldst be of age; but on the whole I would rather thou hadst it to remember this day by." So speaking, Elinor unlocked her jewel-chest of black oak bound with brass, and drew from within a pomander-box of gold, the under lid pierced with holes which permitted the fragrance to escape till it nearly filled the room with the mingled odor of rose attar and storax, civet and ambergris, the upper lid adorned with a miniature of Elinor Calvert painted on ivory and set in pearls like the picture of Cecil which she wore at her breast. The artist had worked as one who loves his task, and the delicate tints of neck and arms shone half-veiled by the creamy lace that fell over them. In the golden curls a red rose nestled, and around the throat glistened a necklace of rubies. "Mother!" exclaimed Cecil, "wert thou once as beautiful as that?" Elinor smiled; but it was not quite a happy smile. "Yes, once I was as fair as that, and in those days there were many to care whether I was fair or not. Now there be few either to know or care." "Nay, to me thou art still fair, Mother, and there is another who thinks so too." "Who is that?" "Thir Chrithtopher. I saw him looking at you last night, and, Mother, dost not think, since he thinks to deal so generously with us, it would be a fine thing for me to give him this portrait of thee to bind the bargain?" "Foolish baby, 'twill be time enough to think of that when he asks for it." "Then if he asks for it, I may give it--" "A safe promise truly," said Elinor, smiling this time with beaming eyes and cheeks, whose rose flush matched the coloring of the ivory portrait. "Now hasten with thy dressing." Cecil's head was so filled with thoughts of the pomander-box and his own greatness that his mother was fully dressed while he sat mooning over the lacing of his hose and breeches, and gazing with admiring fondness at the red roses on his holiday shoes. Three times Cousin Mary had called to him to make haste, and when at last he entered the hall every one had finished eating, and he was sent in disgrace to take his breakfast in the buttery. This was too great a blow for his new-swollen pride, and he fell to howling lustily, while the tears flowed into his cup of milk and salted it with their brine. The day which an hour ago had been one glow of rose color all arranged as a background for the figure of Cecil Calvert in his velvet suit and gold-clocked stockings, had become a plain Thursday morning in which a little boy was crying into his milk in a bare buttery hung with pails and pans. Suddenly he felt a strong arm thrown over his shoulder, and a kind voice said in his ear: "I have been late more than once, Cecil; but it will not do for pioneers, least of all for Little John or Robin Hood." "Go away; I hate thee," answered the amiable child. "Dost thou truly? and why?" "Because were it not for thee I had not put on my best suit with the troublesome lacings, and but for that I had not been late, and but for that Couthin Mary had not been vexed, and but for that Mother had not punished me." "I see clearly it is I am to blame; and now if thou hast finished thy bread and milk let us go and ask pardon for our--I mean my fault, and perhaps we shall be forgiven." Hand in hand the Lord of the Manor and his tenant sought the hall. As they walked along the corridor, Neville's face wore a characteristic smile. This smile of his seemed to begin in one corner of his mouth and ripple along without ever quite reaching the other, which, to tell the truth, would have required a goodly journey. There was a certain fascination in the smile; but one who would fathom its meaning must look for it, not in the lips at all, but in the pucker of the eyelids and the gray twinkle of the eyes and the chuckle that lay hid somewhere in the little creases that the years had drawn in diverging lines from the point where the lids met. If Neville was amused he felt no need of proclaiming the fact. A sense of the ridiculous marks the noisy man, wit the talkative man; but humor and silence have a strange affinity, and a smile needs no interpreter to itself. "Pray, Mistress Brent," said Neville, bowing before his hostess when they reached the hall, "wilt thou forgive me for being the cause that Master Cecil did put on his best suit with the troublesome lacings, whereby he was late to breakfast?" Mary Brent, being a literal soul, replied, "Why, 'twas not thy fault at all." "Then," said Neville, "let the offence become a fixed charge upon the estate, which I as tenant must assume, and whereupon I promise to give a breakfast party at Robin Hood's Barn to those here present on this date each year in remembrance of this day's delinquency. "As for thee, Sir Landlord, I will give thee an Indian bow and arrows, that thou mayst play Little John, and when thou dost come a-hunting at Robin Hood's Barn, thou mayst work havoc at thy will among the heron and wild duck which I am told do specially abound on the shores of the bay. "How say you, Mistress Brent, are the terms accepted, and are we ready for the ceremony of investiture?" "I have already bidden in the household," said Mary Brent, and following on her words there came filing in a train of men and maid servants, white and black, all arrayed in holiday attire, till the lower part of the long room was filled. "'Tis a stately ceremonial thou hast planned," said Elinor, smiling at her cousin. "Well enough!" Mary Brent answered, veiling her satisfaction in deprecation, "since thou hast as yet no tenants, and canst not hold a court baron at Robin Hood's Barn. I would Giles and Leonard Calvert were here, for in truth 'tis as goodly a show as we have held." The tenantry were gathered. On the dais stood Cecil, his eyes dancing under the page-cut hair which fell like thatch over his forehead, and his curls tremulous with the excitement, which would not let him be still for an instant. Elinor stood beside him in a white dress with a golden girdle, and on the step knelt Neville. Elinor found leisure to note the elegance of the jewelled buckles which he wore on his shoes, and that his collar was of Venice point. It pleased her that he had taken as much trouble to array himself for his investiture as he would have done for a court function. Of what was Neville thinking as he knelt there on the step of the dais? Was it of Cecil and his manor? Not at all. Of law and leases? Still less. Of what, then? Why, of the tiny point of a lady's slipper under a white robe, a slipper that tempted him to bend a little lower still and kiss it. Would she feel it, he wondered? Would she chide him if she did? Men kissed the foot of a saint without blame. If the adorable is to be adored and the lovable to be loved, why was not the kissable to be kissed? Besides,--only a slipper! He was in the hem-of-the-garment stage of his passion, and fancied himself humble in his desire. "Stretch out thy rod, Cecil!" It was Elinor's voice that broke in on Neville's indecision. [Illustration] The boy reached forth the stick of ebony tipped with silver which was Baltimore's gift to Mary Brent on her coming out of England. Neville grasped the other end, and smiling at Cecil, with a single upward glance at Elinor bending over him, he said,-- "Hear you, my lord, that I, Christopher Neville, shall be to you both true and faithful, and shall owe my fidelity to you for the land I hold of you, and lawfully shall do and perform such customs and services as my duty is to you, so help me God and all His saints." "Amen!" said Father White. "By the terms assigned I do promise to pay to you on taking possession of the manor at Cecil Point ten Indian arrows and a string of fish, and thereafter, when the land shall be cleared, to yield you three quarters of the harvest yearly." "Nay," interrupted Cecil, "'tis not the bond mother and I did agree upon; 'twas to be share and share alike. Saidst thou not so in bed this morning, Mother?" Before Elinor could reply, Father White spoke as he stepped forward,-- "The case may be happily settled, my daughter, by the yielding of the quarter in dispute to the revenue at St. Inigo's for the benefit of Holy Church." The mutinous blood rose in Neville's cheeks and his chin went out quarter of an inch; but he held his peace and looked toward Elinor, who also colored but spoke firmly,-- "Nay, Father, 'twere not well that the Church should profit by an injustice. What duty Cecil hath to the Church is for thee and me to settle later, but it must come from his share and not from Sir Christopher's. Now, Cecil, 'tis thy turn to make thy promise to thy tenant. Go on: 'I, Cecilius Calvert--'" "Now, Mother," said the young landlord, shaking off the admonishing hand from his shoulder with a petulance for which a young Puritan would have been roundly punished, "if thou dost prompt me like that none will believe I know my part, and I have learned it as well as thou, thus: I, Cecilius Calvert, do hereby accept thee, Chrithtopher Neville, as my tenant at Cecil Point, and promise to protect thee in thy rights to the extent of the law, and if need be by the aid of my sword." Neville smiled in spite of himself at the words, and a ripple of laughter went round the circle of tenants as they noted the comparative size of protector and protected; but Cecil was too full of his new-fledged dignity to heed them. He called for the written deed and the candle and the wax, and on the oaken table he scrawled his name under those of his mother and Sir Christopher, and then taking off his signet ring--'twas his father's and a deal too wide for his chubby finger,--he pressed it firmly into the wax covering the seam of the folded paper, and then stood looking with admiration at the print of the crest; a ducal crown surmounted by two half-bannerets. "'Tis a pretty device, is it not, Thir Chrithtopher? I would you had as pretty a one. Mother, if Thir Chrithtopher Neville married thee would he bear the Calvert crest?" If one could slay one's child and bring him to life again after an appropriate interval many of us might be tempted to infanticide. A great flame of anger and shame rose to Elinor's cheek; but Neville came to her assistance. "Nay, little landlord," he said coolly, "no husband of thy mother could bear thy crest. 'Tis for thee, as the only heir in this generation, to bear it worthily before the world. Mistress Brent, is the ceremony ended?" "Ay, and most happily," said Mary, nervously, struggling between desire to laugh and cry; "let us have in the cake and wine." The servants went out to fetch the great trays of oaken wood with rim and handles of silver which had been in the Brent family for generations. As they re-entered in procession,--for Mary Brent dearly loved form and ceremony, and kept it up even here in the wilderness,--a knock was heard at the iron-studded door. Being flung open it revealed the figure of a man, a tall, slender man with Saxon flaxen hair and true blue eyes. "Mistress Brent?" he said questioningly, looking from Mary to Elinor. "I am she," said Mary, stepping forward and holding out her hand with even more than her usual warmth of hospitality. "Can I be of service to you?" "The question is, rather, are you willing to allow my claim upon your far-famed hospitality?" "I think it has never yet been denied any one." "I believe it well, but perhaps no one ever yet claimed it who lay under such a shadow. If you consent in your goodness to shelter a traveller, you must know that you are harboring the brother of Richard Ingle." Mary Brent started, for her brother had confided to her Richard Ingle's treasonable speeches, and in her eyes treason ranked next to blasphemy among the unpardonable sins. For an instant she hesitated and half withdrew her hand, then stretching it out again she looked full at him and said,-- "'Twere a pity frank truth-telling like yours should cost you dear. Let me ask but one question, Do you hold with your brother in his treason?" A pained look came into Ralph Ingle's eyes. "Lady," he said, "'tis a hard matter to hear or speak evil of one's brother--one's only brother." His lip trembled, but the voice rang clear and steady. "Yet when the time comes to choose between brotherly affection and one's duty to King and Commonwealth, the knot must be cut though the blood flows. So I told Richard yesterday, there on the deck of _The Reformation_, and hereafter we have sworn to forget that the same father called us both son." "You speak like a true man," said Mary Brent, "and shall be taken at your word. You find us celebrating the tenancy of Sir Christopher Neville yonder, who is taking up land of Mistress Calvert and her son. "Elinor, this is Master Ingle. Judge him on his deeds--not his name!" Ingle swept the ground with the plumes of his hat before Elinor as he murmured,-- "Nay, rather judge me of your own gentleness, and let mercy temper the verdict." Neville stood, looking coldly at the intruder. He was jealous, for he saw the light of a new interest dawning in Elinor Calvert's face, and he saw the hot, passionate light of love at first sight as clear as day in Ralph Ingle's eyes. For the first time he was conscious with angry protest that he was growing old. His cast-down glance fell upon his grizzled mustachios, and he inwardly cursed the sign of age. "The conceited stripling!" he muttered, as he looked at the bowing golden curls. "I know I am not just. I have no ambition to be just. I hate him. Come, Cecil," he said, crossing over to where the child stood holding a wine cup in one hand and a distressingly large slice of fruit cake in the other, "thou and I have no larger part to play here than the cock in Hamlet." "What part did he play?" asked Cecil, crowding his mouth with plums, while he held the remaining cake high above his head to escape Knut's jumping. "Oh, the important office was his to announce the daybreak and put an end to the ghost's walking. Do ghosts walk nowadays dost thou think, Cecil?" "Sure." "I think so too; I have seen them,--in fact, I feel sometimes as if I were one of them." "Art thou really?" Cecil's eyes were round as saucers. "Well, never mind that question just now. Perhaps I am--perhaps I am not; do thou drain thy wine, and let us be off outside to build a snow-man in the road." Nothing loath, the child slipped his hand into the big, muscular one held out to him, and unobserved by the preoccupied group around the fire, they slipped out. Ralph Ingle turned as they passed him. "I must watch that man," he thought. "He who takes a child by the hand takes the mother by the heart." "Wait," said Cecil at the door. "I must doff my finery, for who knows when I may need it to receive another tenant?" "Prudent lad! I will do the same, lest I catch the fever and then thou must needs seek a new tenant. But, Cecil, promise me one thing." "Ay, a dozen if you wish." "Promise me that, whatever tenants thou mayst have hereafter, thou wilt like me best." "Why, so I will, especially if you give me the bow and arrows you promised. I liked you right away last night, and mother likes you, and Cousin Mary likes you, and Father White likes you a little; but I'll tell you who doth not." "Let us hear, then; who is he that has such poor taste in likings?" "Father Mohl." "Why do you think that?" "He thmiled at you." "Oh! Is that a bad sign with the reverend Mohl." "You mutht not call him that--you mutht call him holy Father. But you are right, it is a bad sign when he smiles that way. It is how he looks when he complains to Mother of me, and gets me a whipping. Father White smiles like a kind old pussy-cat; but Father Mohl smiles like a wolf." "But thou wilt stand my friend even if Father Mohl like me not?" "Pooh, that makes no difference!" "And thou wilt help thy mother to go on liking me?" "Yes. She does everything I ask her to, and I'll tell her you are going to be my best friend." "I thank thee." "Well, you are, you know. Of course you are rather old and somewhat plain, and I cannot promise not to think Master Ingle within there is handsomer, but I shall always like you best, and beauty doth not count when you know a person." "No, but 'tis an amazing good letter of introduction. Now fly up and change to thine old suit and we will build a snow-man as high as the window and we will put curls on him as long as those on that jackanapes inside--I mean as those of the beautiful young man who calls himself Ralph Ingle." When Cecil had changed to his every-day clothes he came down again looking more comfortable in mind and body. "I think," he confided to Neville, "that I could eat another piece of cake. The belt of this doublet is so much looser than in my best." "Ay, but there is dinner to come, and 'tis best to make allowance for this future; besides, who is this at the wharf in the in-bound boat?" "Why, 'tis Couthin Margaret." "So it is. For a moment I thought her a man in that long cloak and those heavy boots. Let us go down to meet her!" When they reached the dock, the man in the ketch was already clewing up the sails, while the woman on the wharf stood giving orders. At the sound of approaching footsteps she turned. Despite her rough attire and forty-odd years, Margaret Brent was a woman worth looking at. Her personality was marked by a noble largeness which obliterated detail, and cast a mantle of oblivion over defects. The first impression made upon all who came in contact with her was of her adequacy to the situation before her, whether it was a rout or a riot. This it was which a few years later won her the thanks of the Maryland Assembly for her prompt action in a political crisis, which led her kinsman to leave her sole executrix of his great estate with the brief instruction, "Take all--pay all!" and which, finally, before her death made her the most famous woman in the colony. Through all the vicissitudes of pioneer life she kept the air and bearing of race. Even now, though a wave of gray wind-blown hair had escaped from her hood, and her falling band was pulled awry, yet no princess in full regalia could have been more the great lady than she as she came forward to meet Cecil and his companion. "Sir Christopher, I greet you. I would I had known of your coming yesterday that I might have had your company and protection." Neville bowed, smiling. "The advantage of both would have been on my side, for Mistress Brent's prowess is a byword." "Say they so indeed!" Margaret answered without attempt at disclaimer and with a smile which showed her strong white teeth, "I am glad of that, for I may need the repute in the near future. Sorry was I to hear that you had thoughts of taking up land in this part of the country and deserting Kent Fort. I count you the strongest man we have among us, and since Claiborne's rebellious efforts we need all the help we can claim. 'Tis in regard to this that I have followed my brother hither." "I am sorry; but I fear you must meet disappointment. He has been called to St. Mary's by troubles over Dick Ingle. He may return to-morrow." "Nay, if he comes not back to-day I must turn out the trainband on my own responsibility. The matter will not keep." "You should be made a captain." "Not I! I am too wise for that. The captain must give place to the colonel, and the colonel to the general; but the woman is above them all, and what men would never yield of their obstinacy to equality, they will oft give up of their courtesy to her weakness. Besides, men never forget the obedience to women they learn at their mother's knee--or over it-- "Is it not so, Father?" she went on, turning to Father White, who had joined them. "Have I not heard thee say any one might have the training of a child after seven if thou couldst have the teaching of him till then?" "Ay, 'tis so--though this boy may not do so much credit to my teaching as I could wish;" and he pinched Cecil's ear, laughing. "He is too busy keeping his body a-growing, I fancy, to pay much heed to his soul. How say you, Cecil,--wilt thou lend me those cheeks of thine for cushions?" "No," answered the child, gravely, "elthe how could I keep my food in when I eat? Let me go! I mutht tell Couthin Mary thou art come. I dearly love to be the firtht to tell newth." But this time he was too late, for Mary had caught sight of the group, and came running down the path. "Oh, Margaret, but I am glad to see thee! Bless thine heart, how thou art blown! I have great need of thy counsel. I must have thee tell me if the pickles want sweetening, and if the stockade be high enough, and how many cattle I should order out of England--" "Why hast not asked Giles all these things?" "Why, Giles is so great a man he will give no heed to small things, but puts them off with a 'Presently--presently--'" "Ay, and if he have not a care, this 'Presently, presently' will cost him dear. In a new land least of all can we afford to despise the day of small things.--Ah! there is my Cousin Elinor!" She broke off, seeing Mistress Calvert in the doorway. The two women did not altogether harmonize. They were too much alike, and neither cared for her own type. Both loved to dominate men, though neither would have owned it. Elinor had early chosen the heart as her sphere of influence, and Margaret Brent the mind. It was in the border land that they clashed. Yet, had either been asked, especially when separated, who was the noblest woman she knew, one would have said "Elinor Calvert," the other, "Margaret Brent." "Come in," said Elinor, as she kissed her cousin's cheek. "Come in and share the feast set out in honor of Sir Christopher Neville, Cecil's new tenant, at Robin Hood's Barn." "I knew thou wouldst have him." "Verily? then thou didst know more than I." "No doubt--'tis the privilege of the looker-on. Besides, I knew thy business head, which is better than one would think to watch thine impulsive bearing, and none but a fool would let such a tenant as Christopher Neville slip through her fingers." Elinor reddened. "Nay, now I see I have said somewhat amiss, but the time is too short to find out what, so forgive my sins in the bulk, and believe that I do love thee much for all we fit not always in our moods. Mary, if thou hast something hot for the inner man, prithee let me have it, for I am well-nigh starved and frozen." To herself she said, "Neville is in love with Elinor Calvert--foolish man! She means to use him--wise woman!" Which proves that a clever observer may be too clever, and see both more and less than there is to be seen. Neville, after watching the women enter the house with Cecil hanging to his mother's gown, strode down the path with head thrown back, and the glint of a firm purpose shining from between his narrowed lids. CHAPTER V PEGGY Giles Brent was not in an enviable frame of mind on this January morning, after his visit to St. Gabriel's manor. The gold lace on his coat, marking his rank as deputy-governor of Maryland, covered an anxious heart, and as he walked along the path over the bluff in the village of St. Mary's he twirled the gold-tipped lacings of his doublet, and cursed his fate in being caught in this coil of colonial politics, and wished his cousin Leonard Calvert would come home from England and attend to his own business. Why, all of a sudden, was his brow cleared of its furrows, and his mind of its worries for the moment? Because he had caught sight at a window of a girl's face,--a faulty, charming face with velvet brown eyes, and hair that shook a dusky glamour over them,--the face of Peggy Neville. This Peggy was a born coquette--not of the type that sets its cap at a man as obviously as a boy casts the net for butterflies, but a coquette by instinct, full of contradictory impulses, with eyes that whispered "Come!" even while blush and frown cried "Halt!"--with the gaiety of a flight of larks, alternating with pouts and tears as sudden and violent as a summer thunder-shower. Such a girl has often a peculiar charm for an older man, who looks on amused at her coquetries, and finds her friendship as firm as her loves are fickle. Between Governor Brent and Peggy Neville such a friendship was established, and it was with a delight dimpling into smiles that she threw wide the window, and leaning out into the frosty air, cried out joyously,-- "Good-morning, your Excellency! Do you bring any news of that good-for-nothing brother of mine?" The governor shook his sword at her. "I will have you in the sheriff's hands if you speak so lightly of my close friend," he answered. "Is your aunt at home?" "No, but my aunt's niece is, and much exercised to hear the news from Kent Fort. So prithee come in and rest awhile." Brent entered at a door so low that he was compelled to bow his tall head. "The news of most interest to you," he said, seating himself by the fire, "comes not from Kent Fort, but from St. Gabriel's Manor, which I left just before the expected arrival of that aforesaid good-for-nothing brother of yours, who is in treaty with me for the manor at Cecil Point, which Baltimore christened Robin Hood's Barn when he made a grant of it to Mistress Elinor Calvert. The lady is staying with my sister Mary at present." "You have just come from St. Gabriel's?" queried Peggy, "and just seen Mistress Calvert? Then pray tell me all about her. She is very, _very_ handsome, they say--" "Then for once they say truth. I have seen her enter the gallery at The Globe when all the gallants on the stage rose to catch sight of her, and I have seen the London street-sweepers follow her for a mile. There's beauty for you!" "And she is very wise too?" "Ay, as good a head for affairs as mine, and I think no small things of mine own abilities." "And she is virtuous and tender and true?" "The tenderest of mothers, and the loyalest of kinswomen." Peggy cast down her long-fringed eyes and studied the pointed toes of her red slippers. At length looking up timidly she asked,-- "Think you I could ever be like her?" Giles Brent burst out into a great laugh. "Oh--not in beauty!" Peggy rushed on, all in confusion--"not in beauty, of course, nor in mind, but could I make my character like hers? You see, Christopher has always told me how perfect she was, and said how proud he should be to see me like her." "Christopher!" exclaimed Brent. "Oho!" he thought to himself, "so the wind blows from that quarter, does it? That explains many things. But why under heaven did he conceal the whole business from me?" Aloud he said: "Never mind what Christopher tells you, pretty Peggy! Take my advice and do not waste your time in trying to be like this one or that,--not even my Cousin Elinor. You have gifts and graces all your own. Make the most of them, and let the others go. Who is that outside the door? I thought I knew every man in St. Mary's, at least by sight." "That?" said Peggy, looking out at the window with a fine show of indifference, and then moving hastily nearer the fire, "that is no citizen of St. Mary's, but a young Virginian in command of the ketch _Lady Betty_ from the York River." "And his name?" "Romney Huntoon." "Huntoon--? I wonder who his father is. Know you anything of his family?" "No, save that his father was a physician once and won great reputation somehow, and his mother was a daughter of Sir William Romney, and heiress to a fortune, wherewith they bought wide tracts of land on the York River, and live, 'tis said, in more state than any in Virginia save Governor Berkeley himself." "Ah, now I place him. He was head of Flower da Hundred at the time of the massacre, and since has risen to be a member of the Virginia House of Burgesses. I would like to speak with this young man. Is that his knock at the door?" "I--I think it may be," hesitated Peggy. "He brought a letter from his mother to my aunt, who knew her in their youth at home in Devonshire." Hard upon her remarks a young man entered the room, and stood hesitating in the doorway as if loath to venture further without assurance of welcome. He was a colty youth, with long legs and slim body, and hands and feet that had not learned the repose of maturity. He had also a shock of dark curls, and under arching brows a pair of merry blue eyes that danced when anything pleased him beyond the common, like the sun on Easter morning, while under their surface mirth lay steadfast depths which bade fair to endure when their dancing days were over. Just now there was more of anxiety than mirth in them as they turned toward the slip of a girl by the hearth, as timid a glance as if she were the Shah of Persia and he a humble subject in terror of the bowstring. "Come in!" vouchsafed Peggy,--but with some impatience in her voice, for she had not yet begun on the list of questions she had prepared for her other visitor. "Governor Brent, this is Master Romney Huntoon. Master Huntoon, I have the honor to present you to Governor Brent." Both men bowed, the younger man lower. "I fancy," said Brent, "that I am not wrong in taking you for the son of that Humphrey Huntoon whose good repute has travelled beyond the limits of his own province, and become familiar to us dwellers across the borders." Romney Huntoon blushed with pleasure and secretly treasured up the words to say over to his mother; but he received them with some discomposure. To tell the truth, it is not an easy matter to meet a compliment for one's relative; the disclaimers wherewith a man may receive such for himself not quite fitting the situation, yet consanguinity seeming to demand a corresponding degree of modesty. "My father will feel deeply honored," he murmured, and lost the end he had fashioned for his speech in watching a curl that had fallen forward over Peggy Neville's ear. Brent was too much occupied with his own thoughts to heed the break in the young man's reply. "You have been at St. Mary's for some days?" he asked. "A week yesterday, your Excellency." "And spent much time on the wharf?" "The better part of every day, overlooking first the unloading of the tobacco, and then the getting aboard of the farm implements and household stuff I am to carry back to Romney." "Hm! Perhaps, then, you were witness to the--the unpleasantness that fell out betwixt Captain Ingle and Reuben Early." "Ay, sir--I saw the blow struck." "Of your kindness, tell me how it all fell out. The village folk are so hot over the matter 'tis passing hard to get a clear story from any of them. Was Richard Ingle drunk or sober?" "Why, not fully the one or the other, I should say; but more as one who has been in his cups overnight and is at odds with the world next morning." "And Reuben Early--was he in liquor too?" "Truth, I think Early was a bit the worse for beer, for he was continually dropping the sacks with which he was loading the vessel under Ingle's direction, and when one slipped into the water, instead of making excuse for himself, he threw up his silly cap and shouted, "God save the King and Prince Rupert!" "Fool!" "Ay, 'twas enough to anger any man, and it seemed to drive Ingle mad with passion. 'The King!' he cried; 'I'd have you know your King is no king; and as for Prince Rupert, if I had him here he should be flogged at the capstan!' Then turning to Early, whose mouth was agape at such treasonable utterances, he let fly a bucket he had in his hand, and hit Early full in the head, knocking him over like an ox. If Early had picked himself up and returned the blow I'd had some sympathy for him, but instead he went off whimpering and vowing he'd make complaint and have Ingle under arrest before night." "A pestilent fellow that Ingle!" muttered Brent; "I'd have him in irons this day were it not for the trouble over seas; but with King and Parliament at loggerheads we must be civil with both and Ingle hath powerful friends in high places among the Roundheads. But of the quarrel--did you see Richard Ingle after?" "Nay, but I believe he is still on _The Reformation_, though some say he was seen to board a ship that sailed yesterday for New Netherland, and 'tis known the Ingles are on good terms with Governor Stuyvesant, who hath the Dutch hatred of papists." "For the matter o' that," said Brent, with some bitterness, "he need not have gone further afield than across the river. He would have found enough Catholic-haters in Virginia to protect him." "We may be over zealous, your Excellency," the young man answered, "but we do not countenance evil-doers, and 'twere hard to find in Maryland a cavalier who has the King's cause more at heart than Sir William Berkeley." "You say truth, Master Huntoon, and do well to maintain the honor of your province against all slander. My regards to Sir William Berkeley when you return--and when is that to be?" "In two or three days at furthest now. The ketch is already loaded and I tarry only from hour to hour." "May the ketch and all your other ventures come safe to shore!" said Brent, rising and taking the hand of Huntoon. "Mistress Neville, I will see you again before my return to St. Gabriel's, and charge myself with any message you may wish to send." With this adieu the Governor took his leave. The young people, who had risen with him, still stood facing each other in silence, now that they were alone. "Why do you not take a chair once more?" asked Peggy, fingering the border of her flowered lawn apron. "I have not been asked," Huntoon responded. "I feared to detain you from business of more importance," murmured the little hypocrite. "Mistress Neville," said Romney, "I have known you but seven days." "Is it really so long?" asked Peggy, demurely looking out at him from behind the protecting curtain of her long lashes. "So long!" exclaimed the youth. He was only twenty, and the power to receive and parry comes later to men than to girls. Even Peggy Neville felt a twinge of compunction at his throwing himself thus upon her mercy. "They have been pleasant days," she continued, "and therefore by all the laws of life should have seemed short." "Why, so they have!" the boy rushed on,--"short as a flash of lightning in the passing, long as July sunlight in the thinking over; and now they are drawing to an end, somehow a darkness seems to fall around me. When I think of sailing down the river, away from the sight of the huddle of cottages, from the great cross in the centre of the village, from the glimpse of this little window that gives on the wharf, my heart sinks." "I wonder why," said Peggy; but this time she did not look at him. "May I tell you?" "No, no--of course not," the girl hastened to say in a quick, business-like voice. "'Tis no affair of mine to pry into the feelings of all the young men who come to St. Mary's. Besides, here comes my aunt, and she will be more concerned to bring out wine and seed-cake for your entertainment than to hear of your regrets at parting. However," the tease went on wickedly, "if it would relieve your mind to tell her I will bring the subject before her." Romney stood still, and looked at her without a word. She had hurt him beyond the power of speech. This first love of his, which he had been cherishing by day and brooding over by night for a whole week, seemed to him to overshadow the world, and that she, the lady of his dreams, should be the one to make light of it was past bearing. "'_All_ the young men who come to St. Mary's,'" he repeated to himself as he strode down the street. "So to her I am no more than one of the crowd of gallants who hang about the corners and cast eyes at the girls in the little church o' Sundays. Oh, but I will make her give me a serious thought yet! She shall know that it is not a ball she holds in her hands, to be tossed about and caught and thrown away, but a man's heart." Then, as he recalled that dimpling face and those eyelashes sweeping the rich red cheek, he smiled in spite of himself, and fell to thinking of a little song his mother had sung to him years ago, a song of another capricious damsel, mightily like this provoking Peggy,-- "He kissed her once, he kissed her twice, Though oft she coyly said him nay; Mayhap she let him kiss her thrice Before she bade him go away-- Singing heigh-ho! Whether or no, Kiss me again before you go, Under the trees where the pippins grow." As he reached the widening of the street in front of the Indian wigwam transformed into a little chapel and dedicated to Our Lady, he was struck with the number of people standing and walking about. It was like an ant-hill suddenly emptied of its toilers. Then he recalled that it was market day at St. Mary's, and that the village was all agog over Dick Ingle. Women stood at the door of their pioneer cabins, their arms akimbo, and their heads bare regardless of the winter winds, giving and getting the latest news. Governor Brent had come last night. That was sure. He had ridden over from St. Gabriel's Manor, where he was visiting his sister, and he had been seen this morning walking about the town. A mighty secrecy had been observed about the object of his coming; but no one doubted it had to do with Ingle. "'Twill go hard with Dick," said one; "the Governor is a just man, but a terror to evil-doers. I miss my guess if Dick and his brother Ralph both know not the feeling of handcuffs ere nightfall." "Not Ralph!" interrupted another. "What justice were there in punishing the innocent with the guilty? Ralph Ingle is as frank and hearty-spoken a gentleman as there is in Maryland. He comes into my cottage and plays with the baby, and the boys run to the door as soon as ever his voice is heard." "Ay, but how comes it he is so friendly with that rascal brother of his?" "Why, blood is thicker than water--even holy water." A laugh greeted this sally; but the laughers took the precaution to cross themselves. "You would none of you exercise yourselves much over the intimacy," said a third gossip, "had ye seen as I did the two brothers talking on deck after the row with Early. Ralph told Dick he was quit of him, tired of trying to make a gentleman of him, and wished they might never meet again. He did indeed--I heard it with my own ears." "That's the most wonderful part of it," said the first speaker; "most of the things you tell you've heard through the ears of some one else." Gossip number three turned red and opened her mouth to deliver a crushing retort, when she discovered that the attention of her hearers had been distracted by the arrival of a new-comer. It was Reuben Early, whose wife had bound as big a bandage as possible about his head. He came up to join the group, receiving on all sides gratifying commiserations upon the wound he had been dealt by Richard Ingle's hand; and though he had some difficulty in explaining why he had not returned it, nor made any defence after all his bold talk, he still continued to pose as a hero, and to make his townfellows feel that in his humiliation they had received an individual and collective insult. "When the villain struck me," he explained, "I was encumbered with the sack of grain I was bearing, and ere I could lay it down and reach my weapon, the fellow had disappeared down the hatchway." "Come, come, Reuben!" cried a sceptic near-by, "we all know you are readier with your tongue than with either sword or musket; and I for one am not sorry to have you taught a lesson, were it not that the blow was struck at a citizen of St. Mary's, and therefore at us all. I am for punishing Dick Ingle for the assault, yet lightly; but for the treason he spoke he should be hung at the yard-arm of his own ship." "Not hung perhaps; but surely put in custody of Sheriff Ellyson here," suggested another of the group, who stood in the morning sunlight outside the log cabin which served for a hostelry. "Aha!" laughed the man next him, "our innkeeper would not see the number of drinkers of his good ale diminished by one. How say you, Master Boniface, would it not be well to compel the traitor to drink himself to death at the expense of the Lord Proprietary?" All but two of the men laughed at this sally. The innkeeper naturally failed to see the fun of a jest of which he was the butt, and the sheriff took the suggestion into serious consideration. "By the Saints, it were a good scheme and has much to commend it. It may seem a pity to waste good wine on a bad man, when the one is so scarce and the other so plenty; but it would mightily relieve the authorities. 'Put him in the custody of the sheriff!' you say; and how, pray, am I to hold him when I have no jail save my two hands? Can I lie with him at night and eat and drink by day with my arm locked in his? I would he were at the bottom of the sea!" "If every man were at the bottom of the sea who has been wished there, it would be hard to find a channel for the ships, and we might walk to England dry-shod!" It was Giles Brent who spoke, and the men, who had not seen him approach and did not know how much he had overheard, looked somewhat taken aback, for the discussion of public officers and their duties was not looked upon with special favor. "I tell you, my men," Governor Brent continued, returning their salute with a wave of his hand, "this standing about the door of ale-houses is a poor way of life for pioneers. It breeds idleness, and idleness breeds discontent. Get you all in and drink the King's health at my charge, and then off with you to work; and the more you use your mouths to eat and drink withal, and the less for idle chatter, the better it shall fare with you and your families." The men, nothing loath to obey the behest, filed into the inn, cheering alternately for the King, Lord Baltimore, Leonard Calvert, the Governor now in England, and his deputy, Giles Brent, the last cheer being the mightiest of all and only drowned by the gurgling of the great draughts of October ale pouring down their throats. "Hold, Ellyson," said Brent, as the sheriff passed in last of all. "I want a word with you." "Yes, your Excellency; you do me honor," said Ellyson, doffing his cap of maintenance. "Does Richard Ingle take his meals on board ship or ashore?" "I'm not rightly sure, your Excellency; but I do think he takes his supper here at the inn, and the other meals on his ship." "Does he come alone?" "Sometimes alone, but oftener with his brother." "At what hour does he sup?" "Oh, any time after the day's work is done, and then sits carousing till all hours. I have seen him drunk enough to light his pipe at a pump ere midnight." "That is well. A man in his cups may be apprehended, even by a sheriff. Here, read this. 'Tis a proclamation bidding him yield himself to your custody before February first. That will put him off the scent, for he will plan to finish loading and slip off at the end of the month. But to let him do this were to encourage all evil-doers and enemies of the Commonwealth; therefore it behooves us to get him under arrest in short order. When he comes to-night, do you invite him to sit down and sup with you. Give him all he will drink, and scrimp not yourself either. Remember you both drink at my charge. Then, when the rest of the drinkers are gone, do you serve your warrant on him, and hold him at your peril till I call for him. Do yonder fellows know anything of the prospect of the arrest?" "They said nothing." "Then they know nothing. I would I could be as sure that when they know nothing they say nothing. Be you silent as the grave. You are a close-tongued fellow enough save when the wine-cup loosens your tongue and lets out your brains, and leaves you rolled up in a corner like a filthy hogshead. But never mind--never mind; you are better than many around you. I give you good-morning." So the two parted, Ellyson entering the tavern and Brent turning into the path that led to the house of Councillor Neale. As he passed on his way, he thought to himself, "Pray Heaven he heeds not that caution! If he be not well drunken this night our well-laid plan falls to the ground, and then there's a pretty muddle." CHAPTER VI THE KING'S ARMS It was already dark on the night after Giles Brent's talk with young Huntoon, when Captain Richard Ingle entered the doorway of The King's Arms. On the outside there was little to mark the difference between the hostelry and the other log-cabins, except that at right angles both to house and road hung a sign-board decorated with the name of the inn, and bearing below in gaudy colors the standard of the Commonwealth. Within, the long low-raftered room, despite its bareness, had that air of good cheer which the devil knows how to throw around places where men meet to drink themselves into his likeness. With his swashbuckler air and swinging bravado of carriage, Ingle was a not unattractive figure. His height was above the average, and he wore his jerkin and slashed doublet jauntily. His face might have had claims to beauty, but for its sinister expression, and to many of those who looked at him this expression, combined with his reckless bearing, constituted a certain fascination. The hall mark of the devil adds value. With the smell of the sea which hung about Dick Ingle was associated an air of mystery, as of one who could tell much if he would, and the dignity of a captain who from his quarter-deck might defy king, lords, and commons; though justice might some day reach out its long arm for him ashore, and sweep along with him any rash landsman who ventured on too close an intimacy. Just now, after his recent treasonable speeches aboard _The Reformation_, any display of acquaintance was held to be specially injudicious, and consequently, though all the men around the inn-board looked up at Captain Ingle's entrance, none moved to make room for him on the bench. The room was so thick with tobacco smoke that the candles set in pine knots for sockets at various intervals along the board (which was literally a board, supported on horses of wood) cast only a glimmering dimness around them. Ingle raised his hand to his eyes and stood a moment, peering from under it at the table and the group seated around it. As he took in the meaning of the sudden silence and the averted glances, a smile of contempt settled about his mouth. "Ah, friends," he cried jovially, "I am glad to find so many good fellows met together. Councillor Neale, I will ask a word with you later about the bill of goods consigned to you." The councillor cast down his eyes as sheepishly as though all must know the goods were of doubtful repute. "Cornwaleys, _The Reformation_ sails in a day or two, and I advise you to prepare your message of loyalty to the Lord General Cromwell without delay." Cornwaleys would have given a hundred pounds rather than that any should know he had planned to make his future safe by riding two horses, and making his submission to Parliament while he threw up his cap for the King. The other men about the board cowered. The whizzing of the lash was in the air, and every back quivered with the expectation that it might feel the next blow. But having vented his spleen in these unpleasantries, the great man grew affable, and turning to the wall where a large placard was posted, he exclaimed,-- "Ha, Sheriff, here is a letter addressed to thee and me by our worshipful Governor _pro tem_. Let us read it out for the benefit of the company, who have not book-learning enough to decipher it for themselves. 'Tis writ in a shaking hand, too, especially the word 'treason,' and in truth it is as well it should be a trifle vague, for who shall write 'treason' firmly nowadays, when the war has left it so dubious who is our lawful master that none can say but a year hence the very name of this tavern shall be changed from _The King's Arms_ to _General Cromwell's Legs_?" A titter ran round the room. "Hush, gentlemen! He who laughs makes himself sharer in the jest, and a jest at royalty is treason--at least, so says our king-loving Governor. Listen!" And in a sing-song voice Ingle began to read aloud from the placard,-- "20th January. "PROCLAMATION. "I do hereby require, in his Majesty's name, Richard Ingle, mariner, to yield his body to Robert Ellyson, sheriff of this county, before the first day of February next, to answer to such crimes of treason as on his Majesty's behalf shall be objected against him, upon his utmost peril of the law in that behalf; and I do further require all persons that can say or disclose any matter of treason against the said Richard Ingle to inform his Lordship's attorney of it at some time before the said court, to the end it may be then and there prosecuted. "G. BRENT. "You see, gentlemen, the proclamation grants me till the first of February to deliver myself up; therefore my good friend Ellyson yonder must needs keep his hands off these ten days. Landlord, bring out your ale, and all good fellows shall drink with me a health to--let me see; shall it be Charles, or Oliver? And everlasting damnation to the enemies of--shall we say the King, or the Parliament?" The men who sat around were ready enough for a drink, but they had no mind for such dangerous toasts, and great was the relief when one shrewd fellow cried out, "Oh, quit your politics, Dick, and let us drink to the next voyage of _The Reformation_. And now do you give us a song, for there is none can sing like you when you can abstain from swearing long enough. But first, here's to our town, and I give you our rallying cry,--'Hey for Saint Mary's, and wives for us all!'" Ingle joined with good-humor in the ringing cheer that followed. "Here goes, then," he said, as the landlord brought in the tankards. "You may guzzle while I sing, and for the benefit of you family men who are so fond of shouting 'Wives for us all!' I'll make it a song of married life. 'Tis sweetly entitled _The Dumb Maid_, and runs thus,-- [Illustration (music score)] "'There was a country blade Who did wed a pretty maid, And he kindly conducted her Home, home, home. There in her beauty bright Lay his whole delight; But alack and alas, she was Dumb, dumb, dumb.' "Now, gentlemen, you might think this lucky husband would have been content with his good fortune, and let well enough alone; but no, he was for having a perfect wife--which was as if he would have had a white blackbird or a moral courtier or a wise king; so-- "'To the doctor he did her bring For to cut her chattering string, And he let her tongue on The run, run, run. In the morning she did rise, And she filled his house with cries, And she rattled in his ears like a Drum, drum, drum.' "Now the stupid oaf began to discover his blunder,--but perhaps you've had enough." Cries of "Go on! Go on!" "Well, then, listen to his fate and take warning,-- "'To the doctor he did go With his heart well filled with woe, Crying, "Doctor I am quite Undone, done, done. Now she's turned a scolding wife And I'm weary of my life, For I cannot make her hold Her tongue, tongue, tongue." "'The doctor thus did say-- "When she went from me away She was perfectly cured of being Dumb, dumb, dumb. But it's beyond the art of man, Let him do the best he can, For to make a scolding woman hold Her tongue, tongue, tongue."'" Roars of applause greeted the ending of the performance. In the midst of it Ingle crossed the room to the end of the table where Sheriff Ellyson was seated. "Come, Sheriff, since you and I are met, let us sit down at the further end of the board where our conversation may not disturb these gentlemen." With this he drew up a stool for himself, and as the mugs of ale were quaffed and the pipes emptied, one after another of the bibbers and smokers reached for his cap, and moved out into the darkness with a muttered good-night, till at last none were left but Neale and Cornwaleys, two men in high standing in the colony and close friends of Governor Brent. Meanwhile Captain Ingle made vast inroads upon the mighty haunch of venison which the landlord set before him with obsequious attention, and a pasty with five small birds stewed together vanished into his capacious stomach without appearing to diminish his appetite. "Let us have prawns," he called to the landlord, "prawns and cheese to finish with, and brown ale from one of the hogsheads I brought in _The Reformation_. I always call for that," he added with a wink to Cornwaleys, "when I want something extra good. When you drink what you bring, you know what you get." "Ay," responded Ellyson jovially, "trundle it up, landlord, cask and all, and we will help ourselves. You may go to bed and welcome, for we mean to make a night on't. Who gets the ale-cask needs no host." "But who will lock the door?" "Why, we, to be sure!" "Faith!" cried the landlord with a shout of laughter, "I've seen ye both after a night's drinking bout, and neither one of you could keep your legs or lift hand to mouth, let alone turning key or drawing bolt." "Then we'll stay till you are up in the morning," roared Ingle, "and woe to the thief who dares intrude upon the majesty of the law as represented by Sheriff Ellyson, or the rights of freemen supported by the sword of Richard Ingle." With this the freebooter drew his weapon and after waving it round his head in token of what marauders might expect, laid it on the bench beside him. The innkeeper, overawed by the sight of such prospective prowess, began to think what a fine thing it would be to substitute this gallant blade for the pale little sheriff. "I'll tarry at least till these other gentlemen are gone home," he said, and betook himself to the other end of the table. Neale and Cornwaleys loitered a few minutes, then rose with a yawn and a stretching of the arms and legs. "Give you good evening, gentlemen!" Neale said to those at the end. "Good-night, Sir Landlord, and thanks for your good fire and better ale!" called Cornwaleys, following him lazily out at the door. But outside their idle lounging ceased. They drew close together and whispered anxiously. The watch passed. They only drew closer into the shadow and let him go by. Then they pressed their faces to the hole in the shutters, and stood gazing at the pair inside, who sat quaffing tankard after tankard by the wavering light of the candles and the red glow of the embers on the hearth. A few moments later they were joined by a third man. A Monmouth cap was pulled low over his eyes, and the collar of his cloak raised to meet it so that none could see his features. Neale and Cornwaleys showed no surprise at his approach, but seemed to be awaiting him. "How goes it?" asked the new-comer in a whisper. "To a charm so far," answered Neale. "I confess I like not the part we are playing." "Nor I either, but it must be played. The villagers are much roused against Ingle, yet have a group of them been drinking at his cost at the tavern to-night, and whatever is done by the authorities will give offence in some quarter." "Ay, and his punishment most of all. There be many that like him for his dare-devil ways, and more that tolerate him for the sake of his brother." "Ralph is a fine fellow," said Cornwaleys, "and Dick himself is open-handed." "Ay, and open-mouthed," added Neale. "Some daring souls may whisper touching matters of state; but he must needs shout out his opinions louder than any Roundhead in Parliament." "The fool!" muttered Brent (for it was he who had just come up). "Fool he is," answered Neale; "who ever knew Dick Ingle other than a fool? But who shall say it was not truth he spoke when he said the King was no king." "Well, well," Brent said impatiently, "waste no words on idle speculations; but let us keep our wits to try how we may steer a safe course between the devil and the deep sea. If we apprehend this man 'tis an affront to the Parliament to whom he swears allegiance. If we apprehend him not, 'tis as good as to make ourselves partakers in his _lèse-majesté_. So 'tis clear the only course is both to apprehend him and to let him go. All the people will hear of the proclamation and of my order of arrest. This will satisfy their sense of justice, and so are we quit of our official duties. And afterward if the sheriff, through some carelessness and neglect, let Richard Ingle go free and he reach his own quarter-deck and set sail for England before ever he be caught--why--" "Sh!" whispered Cornwaleys, "speak softer, or all will fail. Neale, you have your eye to the chink in the shutter?" "Ay, and can see as if I were in the room. It is hard to say which is drinking the harder." "No man can keep his legs with that quantity of ale in his belly," answered Cornwaleys; "we shall find them in the morning on the tavern floor." "Hm!" reflected Neale, "there is some danger o' that and 'twill not suit our plans neither. We'd best stir Ellyson a bit." With this he shuffled his feet and moved the shutter back and forth. The sound reached the ear of Ellyson. He paused with his mug half-way to his lips, and then, setting his flagon down hard on the board, he rose, and putting his hand into the breast of his jerkin drew forth something white. "The fun begins," whispered Neale, flattening his nose against the shutter in the effort to lose no glimpse of what was going forward. "We must be ready to rush in if Ingle uses him too hard," announced Cornwaleys. The two men watched with all their eyes, and this is what they saw:-- The giant, having the paper thrust in his face, grew red with rage and strove to rise and reach for his sword, but only succeeded in falling across the table, his hair trailing into the mug of ale. Then the nimble little sheriff, who was perhaps less drunk than he had feigned, whipped around the table and drawing a length of cord from his capacious jerkin succeeded in binding the wrists of his adversary before he could rise. Ingle roared out curses. The landlord shouted from his bed to know what was the matter. "Oh, 'tis naught. Give yourself no trouble in the matter. Captain Ingle has had overmuch drink even for him, and I am taking him home." "There seems to be a break in our fine plan," murmured Neale. "What if Ellyson prove the better man of the two?" "Rubbish! How can he?" But a weak arm backed by a clear head can do more than mighty muscles befuddled with beer. Ellyson rapidly made fast his cord, and drawing out a stouter one tied that too, and tugging might and main pulled the captain off his stool headlong to the ground, where he lay for an instant grovelling, and then, gathering himself up, staggered a few paces to the door. "Thank ye for that, my fine fellow!" said Ellyson. "I could scarce have got ye so far without your own help." The next move of the little sheriff was a clever one. Hard by the door stood a hand-car used for the moving of casks to the slant of the cellar-way. Its wheels were made of sections of pine logs revolving on rudely fashioned axles. This car Ellyson rolled directly in front of the doorway, and then getting behind Ingle gave him a push which sent him forward face first upon the car. "What say ye now, Neale?" whispered Cornwaleys, pressing closer than ever into the shadow. "Say? I say the devil is let loose and helping the little sheriff. Let us follow. His luck may have a turn." Down the street went the four men, Ellyson grunting and sweating under his burden, but full of the joy of conquest over an unequal foe, and of the complacency born of a sense of duty fulfilled, combined with the hope of preferment. Already he saw himself promoted to fat office, perhaps to the Council itself. But at this juncture a strange thing happened. The night air had begun to cool Ingle's hot head and clear the beer-befuddled brain. With a mighty effort he tore his arms loose from the encircling cords, and reaching for the poniard in his breast sprang from the car. Luckily for Ellyson, Ingle's legs were still unsteady. As it was, the doughty little man was consumed with terror at the sight of the giant lunging about with his weapon gleaming in his hand, as he waved it wildly and aimlessly about his head. In his terror Ellyson called aloud for help; but excitement made his voice so weak it could scarcely be heard a hundred feet away. "The end has come," said Neale and Cornwaleys in a breath. Then to their dismay, they saw the door of a cottage open and a young man dash out half-clad, but with a loaded pistol in his hand. "Who cried for help?" "I, the sheriff! I hold an order from Governor Brent to arrest this man, and I call upon you as a good citizen of Maryland to come to my aid." Ingle by this time had got his back against a tree, and stood there waving his dagger and calling to his foes to come on if they dared. "I am no citizen of Maryland," said Romney Huntoon; "I come from Virginia, but I've no objection to bearing a hand in the arrest of this man, for I heard his traitorous ranting, and I vowed then to do him a bad turn if ever it came in my way." "Your chance is come," muttered the sheriff. "Do you stand here and cover him with your pistol, and I will go round behind the tree and try if I may not bind him where he stands. Ingle," he added, turning to the other, "if you move you are a dead man." "_Hold! in the King's name!_" The three men started as if a cannon had exploded in their midst. The surprise even sobered Ingle. He looked up in speechless amazement as Councillor Neale and Captain Cornwaleys strode up, and with all the double weight of civil and military authority called out to Ingle to surrender. Seeing his position desperate he sullenly obeyed. "March in front," commanded Cornwaleys. "Ellyson, do you walk beside him. Master Huntoon, if you will favor us with your company and your weapons, you will oblige us by your escort down the road as far as the wharf where _The Reformation_ lies." "_The Reformation?_" exclaimed Huntoon. "I said so, I think," answered Cornwaleys. "But--but--you do not understand," stammered Ellyson; "I am acting by Governor Brent's command. I am by no means to lose sight of the prisoner until further commands from him." "You have fulfilled your commission," said Neale, "and stand discharged of all responsibility. Master Huntoon, I charge you take notice that Sheriff Ellyson is hereby relieved of all blame in this matter, whatever the outcome, and that I do hereby take upon myself all the burden of Governor Brent's displeasure if such there be." "The Councillor has spoken," said Cornwaleys, "and with my approbation. Forward, march!" The walk down the hill to the wharf was covered in perfect silence. Ingle walked between Ellyson and Cornwaleys, able to keep his feet with occasional support from his escort. As the men halted on the wharf, Neale stepped forward. "Richard Ingle," said he, "are you drunk or sober?" "Sober enough, as you shall some day learn that have put this affront upon me." "Then listen and give heed to the words I speak. Because of your treasonable talk, your ill conduct, and your disturbance of the peace, you do richly deserve the most that the laws of Maryland could pronounce as your punishment." "Ay, that he does!" murmured Huntoon. "Then why not give it to him?" grumbled Ellyson, loath to see the prize he had captured at such expense of difficulty and danger slip through his fingers in the moment of triumph. "Be silent, Sheriff! It is not in your province to criticise your superiors. Ingle, we shall now put you aboard ship and give you six hours to make good your departure. But if at dawn so much as a topmast of _The Reformation_ be seen from St. Mary's, we will have her overhauled and her captain strung up at the yard-arm." Ingle's senses were returning fast, and he responded to the Councillor's words with a smile, the cool impudence of which irritated Neale beyond endurance. He saw that the sailors were gathering on the deck, and that time was short. "Seize him!" he cried suddenly to Huntoon and Cornwaleys; "seize the cur and toss him on board his vessel as he deserves." Huntoon and Cornwaleys, delighted at the chance to wreak even a portion of their vengeance, needed no second bidding. Cornwaleys seized his head and Huntoon his feet, and with a mighty swing they flung him clear of the wharf and landed him in the middle of the deck amid a circle of sailors half angry, half grinning. "Remember!" cried Neale, warningly. "A good riddance!" exclaimed Cornwaleys as they walked away. "Yes, if he stays rid," answered Neale, doubtfully. "Ellyson, you are to be silent on this night's doings." "I know my duty," said Ellyson, sullenly, "even when I am not permitted to do it. But I know not how I am to answer to Governor Brent for this night's work." Neale leaned over and whispered some words in his ear which seemed to amaze him, the more so as something which showed under the struggling moonbeams round and yellow and shining was slipped into his hand by Cornwaleys on the other side. "Master Huntoon, we trust to your honor." "You may," Huntoon responded with some haughtiness; and he turned upon his heel and strode back to his lodgings, thanking Heaven that he was a Virginian. CHAPTER VII IN GOOD GREEN WOOD "Now what say you, Mistress Peggy?" "Say? What could I say to such an offer save that, if my aunt allows, 'twill give me more pleasure than aught else that could befall. I have longed for months to see your sister Mary and St. Gabriel's, and now to see them, and besides to have sight of my brother and of Mistress Calvert--" "To say nothing of a ride through the forest under escort of the Governor of the province!" "Why, to tell the truth, it is that only which gives me pause, for I know well that he has grave matters of state on his mind, and would fain perhaps be alone to think them over, whereas I am such a chattering magpie, as my brother has often told me, that no man can have a thought in his head when I am about." "And how do you know, little Peggy, that that is not just the reason why I have asked for your company? It is quite true that I am vexed and worried and harried half out of my senses over recent affairs here in St. Mary's,--affairs which call for anxious meditation and drastic action; but for this one day I would fain forget that I am a grizzled man weighed down with matters heavy enough to sink him, and make believe that I am a light-hearted lad again wandering about the forest with a maiden as care-free as he. We will have a merry ride of it, and we will stop by the wayside and build a fire in the snow to cook our noonday meal." "But--but--I know not how to cook," Peggy confessed with much embarrassment. "Not know how to cook! For shame! and you a pioneer--I must have speech of your aunt, and counsel her to take order with you at once till the deficiency be mended. But for this once it will not matter, for I am taking back with me to Kent Fort a lame servant, Anne by name, owned by Sir Edmund Plowden and lent by him to my sister Margaret. She will be of our party, and likewise Councillor Neale and Captain Cornwaleys. So with them to guard us against foes without, and her to fortify us against the worse enemy of hunger within, you and I may have good hopes of coming safely to St. Gabriel's." "O Aunt, Aunt!" Peggy called out, "his Excellency has asked me to ride with him to St. Gabriel's. Only think of it--to St. Gabriel's, and this very day!" "Foolish child!" said her aunt, with reproof in her voice. "You can think of nothing but the pleasure of the moment. How could you manage your home-coming? And how do you know that Mistress Brent desires your company?" "If you will permit me to take upon myself the burden of answering your questions, Madam, I think I can set your mind at rest on both points. My sister Margaret has in mind a journey to St. Mary's from Kent Fort, and will stop on her way to pick up your niece and bring her home to you in safety. As for the other question, it could only be asked by one who knew little of Mary Brent. Why, I have seen her eyes light up with joy when a total stranger stopped at the door for a meal or a night's lodging, and at a friend's coming she is clean daft with pleasure. Between you and me too she has a particular and foolish fondness for this saucy slip of a niece of yours, and will count it a red-letter day when she sees the baggage jump off her donkey at the gate, and come running in at the door. Oh, there will be great rejoicing at the manor this night,--I can promise you that." The Governor of Maryland was not lightly to be denied. So it was settled that Peggy was to go, and the saddle-bags were filled on one side with her clothing, since, even in the wilderness, a maid must needs carry her bit of finery, and in the other side her aunt's hospitable care had stored away an ample supply of bread and meat and wine, with other eatables and drinkables to be heated in the ashes of the noonday fire. When the two donkeys stood at the gate and Mistress Peggy and the lame serving-woman were mounted there was no happier or prouder maid in the province than Margaret Neville. Giles Brent joined the procession at the edge of the village. He was seated on Governor Calvert's horse, one of the few in the colony, and his large frame with its red-lined cloak showed well on the big black Flemish steed. Behind him walked three men. Yes, Peggy distinctly counted three, though Governor Brent had named only two. There was Councillor Neale, with his heavy staff and big foreign boots, and Captain Cornwaleys, brave in his military uniform with gilt trimmings; but who was the third? Not--surely not--Oh, no, nothing could be more unlikely!--and yet--Yes, there was no doubt of it; however the thing had come about, the man who walked between them was Romney Huntoon. If there had been any doubt in her mind at the first glance, it was set at rest as they drew nearer, for the young man stepped forward close to the little brown donkey, and sweeping off his hat laid bare his dark curls, and then looked up at Peggy as though he had been the devoutest of Catholics, and she his patron saint. Now, I will not deny that Peggy Neville was good to look at; but never did any one bear less resemblance to a saint than she as she sat perched upon her mottled brown and gray donkey, her saucy, smiling face peeping out from its scarlet hood, her cheeks as red as the wool covering around them, and her brown eyes sparkling with fun and health and girlish glee. Her first care was to give this youth fully to understand that it was with no thought of him she had joined this expedition. She took pains, therefore, to throw an extra amount of surprise into her tone as she exclaimed,-- "Master Huntoon!--and pray how happens it that you are acting as escort to the Governor of Maryland? Or is it but out of courtesy that you are walking with us as far as the gates of St. Mary's?" "As far and farther," answered the young man, proudly. "Not to St. Gabriel's!" "And why not, pray? Did you think you were the only person honored with an invitation? May not I too be a bidden guest?" "But you were to sail for the York River to-morrow or next day." "Ay," answered Huntoon, with some embarrassment, "I was; but there have arisen certain complications with which I chanced to be connected, and I have received a request which was as near a command as befitted the message of a Governor of one province to the subject of another, asking me to tarry for a few days yet and to set out with him this morning for St. Gabriel's. It was not till an hour ago," he added, "that I learned what cause I should have to give thanks for my assent." "Come, come, young people!" called Giles Brent; "my horse has more sense than you, for he is pawing the ground and eager to be off. Since we can move but at a snail's pace along the trail, which is harder than ever to keep, with the snow on it, we'd best waste no time. I will ride in front to prospect, and the women shall follow. Do you, Huntoon, walk by Mistress Neville's bridle, and Neale and Cornwaleys shall follow as a rear guard keeping a sharp look-out, for wolves and other wild beasts are grown desperate with hunger in this cold weather, and may be met when least expected." The little procession took up its line of march along the narrow street and out at the gate which gave upon the road leading across country. As they wound up a hill that lay behind the town Peggy turned in her saddle for a last look at the huddle of log cabins. Hers was one of those tender hearts that can cling to bare walls, so they be hung with associations. The scene on which the girl's eyes rested was fair enough in itself to need no associations to give it interest. From the height she could look down upon the broad, placid river lying in a series of loops like little lakes. For a distance of eight miles it stretched away blue as the sky above it till it merged itself in the dimmer gray of the Potomac. Across the river rose gently swelling hills, and there in the foreground like a giant sentinel loomed the great mulberry tree which had witnessed Calvert's dealings with the natives, which bore on its trunk placard and proclamation, and, in short, served most of the purposes of a town hall. Peggy looked long over the enchanting prospect, then letting her eyes fall upon the hamlet of St. Mary's she scanned the little group of houses, the great cross in the centre, the smoke curling up from the mud chimneys, the blue reach of the stream at the foot of the bluff. Suddenly she gave an exclamation of amazement. "Why, where is Captain Ingle's ship?" she asked, turning from one to another of her companions. No one answered. "I saw it last evening at sunset," she went on. "I am sure of it, for I went down to the wharf with our serving-man to buy grain, and I asked Captain Ingle when he would be off, and he said, 'Not for some time;' and that when he went he would fire a salute of five guns in my honor." "'Tis like his insolence," muttered Huntoon between his teeth. "Yes, but how is it that he is gone? Surely, you who are about the village so much must have heard something of the matter." The mysterious silence continued a moment longer. Then Giles Brent said repressively,-- "Master Ingle sailed last night." "Oh, so you _do_ know all about it," cried the irrepressible Peggy. "I know nothing to speak of," answered Brent, in so significant a tone that even Peggy could find courage for no rejoinder, but turned to Huntoon and bade him walk a little faster, or the donkey would tread upon his heels. Huntoon strode on as perfectly happy as is often given to mortals to be in this sadly mixed world. There is an elation in the solitude of a wilderness at any time, a sense of freedom, of room for soul-expansion, and there is a beauty in a snow-clad forest that summer cannot match. The shadows lay in long blue patches on the snow, the pine trees held a load of white on their wide-spreading branches, each clump of green capped with glittering frost. The gaunt branches of oak and maple etched themselves against the blue of the morning sky. Everything in nature was radiant. Was it likely that the heart of the young man who walked with the rein over his arm was less jubilant than the scene around him? One thing only troubled him. He could think of nothing to say. At last he saw a bunch of scarlet berries peeping out of the snow at the roots of a great pine tree. He stepped aside and picked them. When he came back he handed them to Peggy. "What are these for?" she asked. "I thought you might wear them." "So I do not look well enough as I am?" "I said not so." "No, but you thought I could look better, and so I could not have been perfect in your eyes." "They hang offerings on the neck of the statue of the Madonna. It is not that she may look better; but I suppose it brings her nearer to see her wearing their gifts, be they never so humble." [Illustration] "You are quite a courtier, Master Huntoon," Peggy answered with a nervous laugh; "you are thrown away upon these colonial wilds and should betake yourself to Whitehall. The King would doubtless lend a favorable ear to your silver tongue." "Alas!" sighed Romney, in the folly of his youth, "what care I what the _King_ might say, if the _Queen_ will not listen to me?" What further softness he might have ventured on, no man knoweth, for there is no setting limits to the weakness of lovers; but his speech was interrupted by the crack of the fowling-piece from behind, and looking back they saw Cornwaleys stooping to pick up a brace of quail which his gun had just brought down; and which he straightway tossed over the saddle of Anne, the serving-woman, bidding her pick them as she rode. The sun climbed higher and higher till its genial warmth began to make itself felt. The icicles let fall drop after drop of water, slowly trickling themselves away. The snow-banks melted into gurgling streams, which ran along on the surface till they sank noiseless into the softened ground. The air, balmy with the scent of pine trees and mild with the bracing mildness of dry midwinter, pulsated in the perpendicular rays of the noonday sunlight. "Come, friends," called Giles Brent, reining in his horse and turning in his saddle to await the arrival of the rest of his party, who could by no means keep the pace he set, "I know not how it is with the rest of you, but one man here hath an appetite which tells him that the dinner hour is come." "Here is another!" cried Cornwaleys. "Ay, and a third," came from Neale. "How say you, Huntoon, has your walk given you a zest for an hour's rest and a bite of good victual?" "I?" stammered Huntoon. "Why, to say truth, I thought we had but just set out." At this Brent laughed and cast a meaning glance at Peggy, who colored redder than the bunch of berries she had tucked into the front of her cloak. "There may be a magic in the bridle-rein of beauty to ward off hunger and fatigue from him who touches it; but the rest of us poor mortals have felt the pangs of both; so, as we are come to a clearing, with two logs convenient for a seat, I counsel that we make a halt and build a fire wherewith to test Anne's skill as a cook." Peggy slipped from her saddle and opening the bags brought out the bread and meat and wine. Cornwaleys spitted the birds upon his sword, and Anne twirled them before the fire, seasoning them as they cooked. The men sat on the logs, and Peggy laughed and sang and poured forth a flood of mirth and gaiety which beguiled the anxious men about her from all thought of care and worriment, while she herself was like a meadow lark intoxicated with its own music. "Is it all your fancy painted--this ride through the forest?" asked Governor Brent, smiling as he seated himself beside Peggy. "I should say so!--all and more--the very happiest day I have ever known. I feel as if I were a snow-bird picking up crumbs here in the desert. I think I will never live in a house more. I would we were all going back together," added Peggy, after a little pause. "But going back you will have my sister Margaret, and she is worth us all." "Shall I not be afraid of her?" "No-o," answered Brent, conscious that he had known times when he was. Then, loyal to kinship, he continued, "Margaret is a fine fellow. She lives out the motto of Lord Baltimore, 'Deeds are masculine, words feminine.'" "Oh, I am sure I should be afraid with her!" "No, you will not. Margaret's words have both weight and wit, and her wit bites sometimes; but it is like a blooded dog and will not hurt a friend. How often I have wished for her trenchant common-sense when we were sitting round the council table and the men droning folly. If she came in it would be like a north wind clearing the air of dulness." "Ah, Huntoon is coming this way with a cup of sack. I like that youth. There is meat in his discourse." "Oh--ay--_veal_," answered Peggy, scornfully. "Hush, you naughty girl! He will hear you. Here, Huntoon. Pass the cup. Drink all of you to the happiest day Mistress Peggy has ever known, and may there be many more like them!" When the noonday meal was ended, the party took up the line of march once more, but this time Neale walked by the governor's saddle. "It is an ugly business--a very ugly business," Brent began. "Ay, it could scarce have turned out worse." "So many heard the row that the tale can scarce be suppressed, and Ellyson is full of wrath over what he calls his wrongs." "We will advise together yonder at St. Gabriel's. Neville is ever rich in suggestions, and this young Virginian behind us has a ready wit of his own. We must bring the matter before the Council; but they will be sure to see it in the same light as we." "They may, and they may not," answered Neale. "The chief business of councils from the beginning of the world has been to find a scapegoat and then to send him out, as the Hebrews did theirs, loaded with the sins of the nation." "Nay, take it not so to heart! You did but as I should have done in your place, and if the Council resent the escape of Ingle and fear to involve themselves in the King's displeasure they must deal with me as well as you. We are both in the same boat. Faith," Brent added as they came to a swampy place, "it would be well to have an actual boat if we come to many spots like this. It should be one of the first pieces of work done in the province to lay a road where a Christian may travel without losing his way or wading to his chin. Climb up behind my saddle, and my horse shall save your heels." Neale did as he was bid, and they waited to see how the rest would manage. Anne was transferred to a seat behind Mistress Neville, and Huntoon and Cornwaleys mounted the maid's donkey. Their legs were so long and the donkey's so short that they were forced to hold their knees half-way to their chins, and cut so sorry a figure that the others who were safely across stood shaking their sides with laughter. Cornwaleys, being over thirty and a man of sense, joined in the laughter; but Romney Huntoon, being twenty and in love, turned sulky, and walked along in would-be dignified silence in his old place at Peggy's bridle. As he grew solemn she grew lively, and entertained him with rambling tales of her wild doings before ever she came out of England, how she had ridden a horse after all the grooms had given him up, how she had stolen away from home and gone down the lane at midnight to get her future told by an old gypsy woman. In spite of himself Huntoon's interest kindled. "These gypsy horoscopes have something uncannily like truth in them," he said. "Tell me, did the old crone predict aught about--about your marriage?" "Oh, ay, to be sure. What gypsy would ever get her palm crossed with silver twice by a maiden, if she failed to promise her a husband?" "So she described him--" "To the length of his shoe-string and the color of his doublet." "Hm! What said she of his looks?" Peggy cast a malicious look at the dark curls and the clean lip and chin beside her. "Oh, she set him off to the top of my satisfaction! He was to be like a Viking of old, with fair hair and mustachios like that--" and Peggy twirled her fingers off at either side of her dimples. "I am glad to know the manner of man you do prefer," said Romney, stiffly, and they went on in silence for several minutes, and Mistress Peggy quite at her ease nevertheless. Finally she broke the pause, saying, "Do you remember what night the last was?" "Surely I do, for I noted it on Governor Brent's order for Ingle's arrest posted on the tavern door. 'Twas the twentieth of January." "Ay, the twentieth; and what night was that?" "In truth I know not. Being no Papist I keep scant account of Saints' days." "Nor I either for the most part; but this was a very particular night indeed." Then, with great impressiveness, "_It was the Eve of St. Agnes._" "And what of that?" "Why, 'tis on that night every maid may see her future husband,--that is, if she have the wit to go about it the right way." "And did you go about it the right way?" Peggy nodded. "And after what fashion was that?" "Why, after dusk I went to my chamber as usual, and I took off my garter--you must, you know, or the charm will not work. It must be the left garter too, so I took it, and knit three knots in it, and then with my eyes shut I said the rhyme--" "What rhyme?" "Stupid! You don't seem to know anything. Why, this rhyme, of course,-- "'I knit this knot, this knot I knit To know the thing I know not yet-- That I may see The man that shall my husband be, Not in his best or worst array But what he weareth every day, That I to-morrow may him ken From among all other men.'" "And then did you see him?" "No, not yet. After I had said the charm I lay down and folded my hands like St. Agnes, and sure enough as soon as I fell asleep a young man appeared before me. There he stood, as large as life and as clear as day." "Yes," said Romney, eagerly; "and what like was he?" "Why, there's the queer thing," answered Peggy, "his mouth and his curls and his odd-shaped nose were the image of thine." "What is wrong with my nose? I have always thought well of it--" "Oh, 'tis a proper nose enough. No doubt an excellent and serviceable nose for all practical purposes; but for pure beauty it might be better without the little hump in the middle of the bridge, and with the nostrils set closer--but no matter! such as it is, the vision bore it too, and the eyes were like also and the brows. There was the whole face and figure, so like that any seeing them would have cried out, ''Tis Master Huntoon to the life.'" "Peggy!" "But--" "Nay, no buts--" "I must, for 'tis the strangest of all--_but_ his doublet was as like as two peas to the one Captain Cornwaleys wears this morning, and his figure was the captain's too, height and all. Now, what is a poor maid to do under such distracting confusions?" "Mistress Neville, you are a coquette." Peggy raised her eyebrows till they arched like a rainbow. "I'd rather be a tailor and make coats for the moon than fit myself to your humors." "Every man knows best what trade fits him; and now you have spoken of it, the goose doth seem your proper symbol. "Yes," Romney went on, growing more and more nettled, "the moon changes but every quarter, while to meet the changes of your whims a man must be on tip-toe every hour." "Tip-toe--ah, yes! now I do recall that the vision _was_ on tip-toe and looking first at the moon and then at me, as though he knew not which he liked the best." "It is my belief you never saw any such vision." "Perhaps I was mistook. Anyway, the charm has not come true, for it said I was to meet the man I should marry to-day, and you see for yourself he is not here. Now my limbs are weary sitting so long; I think I will try walking." With this she slipped from her saddle and walked on a few steps in advance of Romney, humming as she went,-- "'I am as I am, and so will I be; But how that I am, none knoweth truly; Be it ill, be it well, be I bond, be I free, I am as I am, and so will I be.'" There was a peculiar quality in Peggy's voice that made it an interpreter of her personality. It had as many changes in it as her moods. Now it sounded like a church bell over distant meadows, now like a child praying at its mother's knee, and then would come a sudden break of laughter like the trill of a bobolink shooting Parthian arrows of song as he flies. Huntoon followed her, watching the scarlet cloak against the green background of the pines, and the stray curls that the wind blew backward as she walked. Neale and Cornwaleys were far behind beyond the turn in the road. At length he could bear it no longer. They were alone. He drew closer and whispered something in her ear. "Indeed! And pray what of it?" answered the girl, coolly. "I will tell you what of it," said the young man between his teeth. "I am not to be treated as I have seen you treat those tame gallants in the town back there. When I tell you I love you, you may refuse the love and you may say me nay; but you shall hear me out with respect, and you shall give me a serious answer, as the true love of an honorable man deserves whether it be returned or no." Peggy did not turn, but she listened. This masterful note in his voice was a new thing. She could scarcely have told whether she liked it or resented it--perhaps a little of both. Certainly she was not inclined to accept it meekly or without protest. As Huntoon finished speaking, Peggy had just bent forward a pine bough that she might pass without stepping in the mud. A wicked impulse seized the girl, and releasing the branch suddenly she stepped aside, and the bough struck Huntoon sharply in the face, his cheek reddening under the blow of its stiff needles. In an instant Peggy was sorry for her naughty trick, and turned with an apology on her lips; but without a word Huntoon seized her in his arms, and kissed her passionately. A red spot of anger showed itself in Peggy Neville's cheek. She stopped and stamped her foot. "How dare you?" she exclaimed. Romney made no answer--only stood looking at her. At last he said, "I forgive you." This was too much. What Peggy might have said in answer can never be set down, for at this moment the donkey, whose rein had slipped off Huntoon's arm, finding himself free of restraint, kicked up his heels and set off at full gallop along the path. Huntoon started after him at his fastest pace, whilst Peggy could not to save her life refrain from bursting into a fit of laughter at this undignified ending of a lovers' quarrel. As the donkey, and Huntoon following after, rushed past Brent, the Governor's horse shied so violently into the bushes that the rider had hard work to keep his seat. In his vexation Brent called out,-- "I would there were as many donkeys in the province with four feet as with two. Chase him, Huntoon! Not that way!--to the left--to the left!" Huntoon had lost sight of the donkey; but now catching the last words, he turned to the left, following the trail of the animal's feet in the new-fallen snow. Brent paused a moment and then started after him, for it was no light matter to be lost in the woods, and the path the young man had taken was an unfinished one ending in a tangle, though a side path connected it with the main road to St. Mary's. The fallen leaves lying thick in the forest path crackled like brown icicles as they crisped beneath the horse's hoofs, and Brent held a tight rein to prevent his slipping. Huntoon's pace was swifter and he was gaining rapidly; but before he had gone fifty rods, he stopped suddenly. "My God!" he cried. His breath came in deep gasps, and the sweat stood out in beads on his forehead. "Huntoon! Huntoon! Where are you?" "Here." "Where's your voice, man? I can scarce hear it. And how white you are, like one who has seen a ghost." "I have. LOOK THERE!" CHAPTER VIII A CLUE At Huntoon's exclamation, Giles Brent dashed forward still faster, and then he too stopped short and stood at gaze, for there in the centre of the blazed path lay the body of a dead priest, his cloak and cassock showing black against the whiteness around, his arms outstretched as if on a cross. The snow lay upon his breast in delicate, ruffling drifts; above him circled a hawk with ominous, flapping wings; around, far as eye could reach, stretched the interminable forest. Utter solitude! Complete isolation from humankind! Yet from that solitary figure stretched threads of destiny which should be found twisted close about the heartstrings of many fellow-beings. With a shock Brent recognized in the prostrate form the Jesuit priest whom he had left at St. Gabriel's but two days since, the same man against whose too constant visits he had found it necessary to caution his sister; and now to meet him _thus_! He rushed toward the body and knelt beside it. Tearing away cloak and cassock and hair-shirt under all, he leaned his ear above the heart. For a full minute he listened. "He is dead," he said at last, "and must have been dead for hours." "You know him?" "Ay, he is one of the Fathers at St. Inigo's. He was staying with my sister Mary at St. Gabriel's, and probably had started on the journey back to the Hill when this overtook him;" and Brent began rapidly to repeat a prayer for the dead. Huntoon stood by in silence with bowed head. When Brent had finished Huntoon said,-- "Did he--was death natural?" Brent shook his head gloomily. "Look," he said; and as Huntoon stooped, he drew aside the shirt and showed a wound on the left side above the fifth rib. The clothing below it was dark and stiff with blood. No words were needed to tell the tale. "It must have been done by a native," said Huntoon. "Ay, 'twas a deed of revenge or pure malice,--either of a native or, perhaps, of some of the Protestants. To say truth, Father Mohl had many enemies among them. He has been a great stirrer up of dissension 'twixt Catholic and Protestant, and 'tis partly on account of him and his brethren that Leonard Calvert is gone home to consult with Lord Baltimore. Father Mohl had ever a sneering way with him, and to look at him one would say he had taken it with him to the next world." "Ay, 'tis a ghastly smile! Think you could we draw the lips more together and close the eyelids above that horrible stare?" "You can try. Nay--'tis vain." "Hulloa! Hulloa! Hulla-ho!" The distant call brought back the two men for the first time to the thought of their comrades. Huntoon looking round saw that the donkey had entangled his reins in the low branches of a tree near by. As he moved toward it Brent called out,-- "Nay, leave him there! We shall have need of him. Take my horse and go back to the women, and prepare them for what they must see. Mount Mistress Neville on Anne's donkey, then stay you with them and my horse, and send Neale and Cornwaleys back to help me here." The younger man bowed and turned back as he was bidden. At the joining of the road he saw the four grouped where he had left them, Neale and Cornwaleys talking in low tones, and Peggy feeding nuts to a wild squirrel half tamed by the magic of her voice. "Come, bunny! bunny! bunny! Here's fresh nuts gathered in the woods this fall. Be not afraid! I'm as harmless as thou. I have no gun and could not fire it if I had. Nay, do not cock thy head and turn thy black eye toward Captain Cornwaleys! He reserves his fire for larger game. Why, he will not even shoot a glance at me, for all I have on my best bib and tucker." The Captain, who for some time had been chafing under the too pressing demands on his power of listening made by Neale, broke away now and drew near Peggy. "I am honored that Mistress Neville is willing to share her attention between me and a squirrel, or perhaps, as I seem to have the minor share, I might better say between a squirrel and me." "That should be set down to my modesty. I felt more equal to the task of amusing a squirrel than Sir Thomas Cornwaleys of Cross Manor." "And to the same cause, perchance, I am to set down the gracious pleasure wherewith you have received the devotion of that young gallant from Virginia who has walked by your bridle-rein since ever we left St. Mary's." "'Twas the Governor's orders." "Ay, and no doubt vastly displeasing to your ladyship." "Oh, I enjoy talking to any one; the one thing I cannot abide is solitude. Is not that a sign of a vacant mind?" "Rather, I should say, of a mind filled with some one person--" "Do I look like a love-sick maid?" "No, but that condition doth oft lie hid under quips and smiles. A girl will pick up her skirts and go lilting over hill and dale light-hearted, the looker-on would think, as a milk-maid, and all the while some love-sorrow eating into her heart like a canker-worm. Now, a man is not so. He goes about biting his thumb and scowling at every son of Adam that speaks to his sweetheart, and, for the matter of that, often enough scowling at his sweetheart herself, as that callow boy has been doing all day." "Faith, I gave him cause." "The more fool he to let you see that your teasing had met with such success. However, I care little how he feels, so long as you are heart-whole; but in the name of all the gallants of Maryland I do protest against seeing Mistress Margaret Neville, on all hands allowed to be the most charming damsel in St. Mary's, carried off by an interloping Virginian. Troth, if the boys don't oust him I'll enter the lists myself." "Truly?" "Try me and see!" Peggy burst out into a merry ringing laugh, suddenly interrupted by the sight of Romney Huntoon coming toward them with white, drawn face and set teeth. The talk and laughter died on the lips of the two who saw him. "Oh, what is it?" said Peggy, running to meet him. "Sure, something dreadful hath befallen! Governor Brent--is he killed?" "No, he is well--he sent me hither; but--there has been an accident--" "Are you hurt, that you look so white?" "No, no; no one you know is injured--but a stranger, a priest, has been struck with a knife and killed." It was Peggy's turn to grow pale now. Here she had been laughing and lightly jesting while this tragedy was brushing her so closely with its sable wings. "Master Neale," Huntoon said, turning to the Councillor, "you and Captain Cornwaleys are to follow this path till you find Governor Brent, and help him to lift the body of the priest to the donkey's back; Mistress Neville, you are to ride before Anne on her donkey here." "Could I not be of use if I went too to the Governor?" "Hast thou ever looked on death?" "Never, to remember it. My mother died when I was a little child and my father at sea." "Then do not look upon that corpse yonder. I have seen a dead baby and it looked like a waxen lily, and I have seen a man shot by an Indian's arrow and he looked grand and stern like a marble statue, but this priest was ghastly, horrible. No, I am sure the Governor would not wish you to see it. Mount, and we will ride on and prepare the household at St. Gabriel's." When Romney had left him Giles Brent stooped over the body of the dead priest. "My God!" he murmured, "were not things in this unhappy colony tangled enough without this new trouble? There is a deviltry here that must be sifted to the bottom. We must mark this tree by which the corpse lies. The distance must be two miles from St. Gabriel's and within ten paces of the cross trail from the main path. If there is any clue we must follow it. There should be footsteps; but the fresh snow has covered them whichever way they turned. Death must have been mercifully swift from such a wound." As if to put an end to these disconnected thoughts, he stooped and turned the body on its side. As he did so, something fell from the folds of the cloak. Giles Brent looked at it, studied it more closely with a gaze of fixed amazement, and then as he heard the sound of approaching footsteps slipped it into his pocket. But his face was ashen as he spoke to Neale, who was in advance. "Come, Neale, do you lift on that side and I on this, while Cornwaleys may bind him to the saddle with the rope he will find in my saddle-bag. So--gently there--now steady him! Cornwaleys, take the bridle and lead on gently. Thank Heaven, the distance is short!" "Hast thou--is there any clue?" asked Neale. "Nay, who shall say what is a clue? Heaven forbid I should even in thought accuse an innocent man, but as God is my judge, if the guilt be proven the murderer shall be punished, ay, though he were mine own brother." Slowly the men set forward,--Neale and Cornwaleys supporting their terrible burden between them, Brent walking behind with his horse's bridle-rein over his arm, and his head bowed as if with a burden too heavy to be borne. "Who could have thought it?" he murmured. "Who could have believed it of _him_ of all men?" Raising his eyes, he caught sight of the little party in advance, Peggy in her scarlet cloak and Romney by her side. The sight seemed to give rise to new and still more painful reflections. "Poor child," he thought, "would it were possible to punish the guilty without bringing down shame and sorrow on the innocent as well!" On and on the caravan moved till the last bend in the road was reached, and there, beyond the clearing, lay the manor house of St. Gabriel's. The sun was setting behind the hills and touching the white tips of the snow-covered trees with flame. The smoke curled from the kitchen chimney and the fire on the hearth of the hall shone out merrily to greet the travellers. Giles Brent was expected, and he rarely came alone. His sister Mary, who had all day been regretting that he could not be present at the investiture of Elinor's tenant, was resolved that a noble supper should console him for the loss. Venison pasty flanked by game graced the head and foot of the table, and hot bowls of soup simmered before the kitchen fire. Cecil was stationed at the window to keep watch and bring early report of the approach of the cloaked rider on his black Flemish horse. Already they had been seen, for Cecil and Knut were tearing across the snowy fields, and Mary Brent and Elinor were at the door with two men by their side. Brent's heart rose in his throat and choked him as he recognized Christopher Neville waving his hand in joyous welcome. Oh, treachery! And who was that beside him--Ralph Ingle? Well, he might be of use. 'Twas as well that he had come. Ah, now Peggy had reached the door. She was telling the story. Brent's eye never moved from Christopher's face while it went on, and he noted with grim satisfaction that at least the man had the grace to shudder and turn pale. But what was this?--instead of hiding himself as he should from the gaze of honest men, he was coming forward toward him, toward _it_! "This is a sad business, Brent!" "_Sad_ is not the word; 'tis a _shameful_ business." "Ay, full of shame for the doer, and sadness for the rest of us. Can I help in lifting the body?" "Nay, that is for those to do who, if they loved him not, yet bore him no malice." Neville started. How could Brent have heard of the quarrel when he was absent? "Not only am I one of those, but I sought this priest last night to beg his pardon." "Hush!" said Brent, hoarsely, "incriminate thyself no further!" "INCRIMINATE!"--That one word cast a lurid light upon the situation. In an instant Neville saw the pitfalls around his path, and the habit of facing danger had taught him the habit of self-control. "This," he said, looking Brent full in the face, "is neither the time nor the place for the discussion of your words and all that they do imply. I shall hold myself ready to meet you when and where you will, to answer any and all charges, whether they come from friend or foe." As Neville turned on his heel he was aware for the first time that Ralph Ingle had been standing close beside him, and of necessity overhearing all that was said. He in turn could not fail to catch Ingle's words addressed to Brent: "Surely, this judgment is over hasty. I have known Sir Christopher but one day, yet am I loath--" "Thou loath! and pray what dost think of me? Why, I had torn my heart out rather than believe such a thing of my friend; but justice is justice." "Yet mercy is mercy." "Ay, but mercy to one is injustice to another. And this deed is so dastardly it puts the doer beyond the pale of clemency." "And who is the doer of the deed?" It was Mistress Calvert's voice that spoke, and both men started. Elinor Calvert stood there before them in her dress of white and gold. She who had come lightly walking across the snow-covered fields, holding her head high and bidding her heart not to beat too joyously, seemed now like some animal decked for the sacrifice, that has been allowed to make merry on the journey to the altar, but now must bare its breast to the sacrificial knife. "Who is the doer of the deed?" Even as she put the question she knew the answer, yet she stood her ground and gazed steadfastly at the men, whose eyes fell before hers. Ralph Ingle looked at the earth and began to stir with his foot a brown branch of ground-pine which had pushed its way through the snow. Brent stroked the donkey's ears for an instant, swallowed hard, hesitated, then spoke impulsively, "Elinor, there is no use in attempting to hide it. The man who did that foul murder is _Christopher Neville_." "NEVER!" "Ay, so I would have sworn two hours since; but tell me one thing--did he and the priest quarrel here at St. Gabriel's last night?" "Ay--but--" "Nay, no buts--plain facts tell their own story with no 'buts.' Did he or did he not start out into the night after the quarrel with Father Mohl?" Elinor quivered as though the knife had entered her own heart. "Oh, I will not answer! How can I when I know every word will be twisted to one fell purpose?" "Elinor, what is it to thee what befalls a man whom thou didst meet but yesterday?" "That is false. I knew him years ago in England. Years ago he loved me and I loved him, and we would have wedded but for--" "But for what, Elinor?" "For his faith." "Ah, thou hast said the word. Now we have the thread to guide us through this dark maze. Neville loves thee still. He follows thee to this country, he begs me to intercede with thee to accept him as thy tenant, and all without a word of having known thee before; not a word, you see, Ingle, even to me, this woman's natural guardian. Doth it not smack of deceit and treachery?" "I cannot deny it hath that appearance, yet beware how you do wholly commit yourself to appearances!" "Ay, if appearances were all, but listen how the story all fits together. Faith, I can tell it as though I had seen all. This man comes to St. Gabriel's, and finding Mistress Calvert alone he tells her of his love. She, like the good Catholic she is, tells him in turn that his faith still stands between them. He swears at the fanatical priests who stand between her and him. Is not this all true so far, Cousin?" No response; but the silence answers him. "Next comes a quarrel 'twixt Neville and Father Mohl, how bred I cannot say, though doubtless this lady could tell us if she would; but, by my guess, at her behest her lover follows the priest to ask pardon; then--then--the rest is known to God only, but the result we see lying before us in mute and ghastly protest at the wrong done to humanity." "Shame, Cousin Giles, that you are so ready to think evil of your friend! What is all this tale of thine when sifted? A tissue of what was, and what might have been. You have shown a possible motive, but 'tis a far cry from that to proving the deed." And what say you, then, to this? As he spoke, Brent drew from his pocket a poniard, with a handle curiously inlaid with silver and ivory, and cut upon it the initial "_N_" sunk in a deep circle. Elinor's only answer was a deep groan. Drawing her cloak close round her, she turned and fled toward the house, her head bowed like some wild creature that had got its death-wound. CHAPTER IX A REQUIEM MASS Gloom lay on St. Gabriel's. In the little chapel at the end of the hall stood a rude bier, and on it lay the figure of Father Mohl, his hands crossed upon his breast. Near the bier knelt Elinor Calvert, telling her beads, but absently, as though her thoughts were far away, and on her face such a look of utter and unspeakable grief as would have melted a heart of stone. Her golden hair was drawn back from her pale forehead, and her lashes fell over deep shadowy circles which sorrow had traced on her cheek. Grief's pencil works swiftly. Gusts of chill wind swept along the uncarpeted floor in little eddies, and stirred the heavy folds of her black dress. Not far from her knelt Peggy Neville, miserably ill at ease in a ceremonial unfamiliar and unsympathetic. She was too young to throw herself into the spirit of other people's emotions, and found comfort only in the society of those who threw themselves into hers. In spite of her awe in the presence of death, her thoughts would wander ever and anon to the scenes in the forest, to Romney's words, and, shame upon her! she could not for her life help wondering if he were looking at her now, and if her feet showed beneath her dress as she knelt. And all the while the young man saw her as a vision of a saint kneeling in the depth of the shadows. From the altar sounded Father White's voice in the solemn rhythmic cadences of the mass, and the voices below answered in their tremulous responses,-- _Dominus vobiscum--_ _Et cum spiritu tuo._ _Benedicamus Domine!_ _Deo gratias._ _Fidelium animæ per misericordiam Dei, requiescant in pace._ _Amen._ As the candle-light shone on Mary Brent's face, it marked a curious change wrought by these few hours. The placidity had stiffened into obstinacy, as a water-drop stiffens into an icicle. The nostrils were slightly pinched, and the lines which bigotry draws around the mouth were already defining themselves in dim outline. No one can determine to believe evil of another without planting in his own soul the seeds of deterioration. Mary Brent had no sooner said in her heart, "Christopher Neville is a murderer," than she began to desire his punishment, and having banished him from the circle of her sympathy, she was fain to justify herself by seeking, and secretly wishing proof of his guilt. From this, it was but a step to suspicion of all his acts; and after that came uncharitableness, and hatred cloaking itself under love of justice and pious devotion to holy Church, which had been thus outraged in the person of its priest. Already the dark deed enacted in the forest was working, not only on the lives, but on the character of those among whom it had fallen. The men and women here at St. Gabriel's were being tried in the crucible of destiny, and none could foresee which should emerge pure gold, and which should be utterly consumed in the fire. Still the priest's voice sounded from the altar, and the responsive chant rose and fell on the still air. An awe such as had never before touched her young life stole over Peggy Neville as she listened, and crowded out the petty vanities which had filled her mind at first. As she looked at the bier and the priest's body stretched upon it, she seemed to see her own future strangely intertwined by destiny with the fate of this rigid figure. How still it lay! Oh, if it would only move! The mass came to an end. Dead silence fell, and lasted. Peggy felt that she could bear it no longer. She must cry out, scream, or perhaps by one of those strange, contradictory emotions which assail the human soul at great crises, laugh aloud with wild, unreal hilarity. At this instant she felt a touch upon her shoulder, and her brother's voice said in her ear, "Get thy cloak and hood and meet me outside the door." His voice sounded grave and ominous. With beating heart she stole away from the circle already breaking up into whispering groups, and, having donned her cloak with the scarlet berries still clinging to its breast, she made her way out at a side door, and walked hurriedly down the path till she saw her brother waiting for her beneath the shadow of the snow-laden trees. At sight of him her tense mood broke suddenly, and bursting into tears, she threw herself into his arms. "Oh, Kit! Kit! Tell me about it! Who is he? What is he to us? Why dost thou look so white and strange?" Christopher Neville swallowed hard, and moved his lips without utterance. "My heart is troubled," he said, speaking to himself rather than Peggy, and then fell to repeating the words of the psalm: "My friends and my neighbors have drawn near and stood against me. And they that were near me stood afar off." With round eyes Peggy watched him sadly, sure that he was in a fever, and wishing she had brought her aunt's medicaments of herbs and sweet waters from St. Mary's. "Come, Christopher," she said gently, "come into the house. There is naught amiss--thou art walking under the shadow of a bad dream." For an instant he faced her in silence. Then at last his words came out, swift and compelled as if shot from a cannon. "Little sister," he said, "a sudden trouble has fallen on my life, and almost the saddest part of it is that it is like to darken thine too. I would to God," he cried with sudden bitterness, "I had never brought thee over seas." "Am I in thy way?" "No! no!--rather art thou the only comfort I have to turn to." "Then," said Peggy with the characteristic stamp of her foot, "then why say such hard things? I am not very old and I am not very wise; but I think--I hope--I can be trusted, and I know I love thee dearly, and would lay down my life to serve thee." "Faithful little heart!" he murmured. "But tell me," she said, speaking softly, as one does to those in trouble,--"tell me what is this dark cloud which has fallen upon thee since thou didst come all smiles to lift me from my saddle this very day. Surely thou didst know of nothing then." "No, a few short hours since I would have refused to change my lot with any man in the province,--a few short hours, yet they may suffice to blight a life." "For the love of God, talk no more in riddles, but tell me plainly, what is it has changed thee so? Cheer up, dear heart, and do not talk as if thou didst stand accused of some terrible crime!" "_I do._" "For shame! 'tis no time for idle jesting." "Never were words spoke less in lightness. If thou must have plainer speech, know that I, Christopher Neville, thy brother, stand accused of murdering yonder priest." "What fools utter such imbecile slander?" "Alas, they are no fools that utter, ay, and believe it." "Why not go straight to Governor Brent and give them the lie?" Neville staggered as if a blow had struck him. "Peggy--" "Brother--" "_It is Brent who accuses me!_" At these words Peggy turned pale, but she never flinched. "Some villain has his ear," she cried. "Tell me who it is; I will face him down,--yes, I, girl though I am, will show him what it is to lie away the character, perhaps the life, of the best man in Maryland." "How do you know it is a lie?" Peggy Neville laughed--a nervous, hysterical laugh; but the sound was music in her brother's ears. There was one person, then, to whom the idea of his being a murderer was impossible--absurd. He smiled, but he repeated the question; "How dost thou know it is a lie?" "I know it as I know that water runs downhill, that fire burns. Shall I swear by these and doubt the laws that rule a soul?" Neville looked at his sister in a sort of trance of bewilderment. Could this be the little girl he had played with and laughed at and teased and loved as one loves a pet and plaything,--this pale young creature, with eyes aflame with righteous wrath, with pity on her lips, and all her heart bursting with sympathy and tenderness? Her brother took her hand in his with a feeling akin to reverence. "You will never know how much you have comforted me," he said. "I did not do it, Peggy. I did not do it. Cherish that certainty as a support in the hard, dark days thou wilt be called to pass through." "Waste no time in telling me what I know already as well as thou. Let us take counsel rather, while we may. Tell me first what do they say? What reason have they? What have they found, seen, imagined?" "Not much, but enough; they know that I followed Father Mohl out into the night--that he was never seen after till he was found dead in the wood yonder." "But how couldst thou have joined in a death struggle and brought home no trace of conflict?" "When I came back I was torn with brambles and stained with blood--of a beast, I told them--but who could know if I spoke truth?" It was characteristic of Neville to see his adversary's case more strongly than his own. "This is all but a series of happenings. Any one might have met with the same disaster, and come to his death by an arrow from the bow of one of the natives." "It was no arrow that did the deed. It was a knife--an English knife." "Oh, I am so glad! now surely they can trace the murderer." Neville gave a deep groan, and leaned his head upon his arm against the tree. "_Peggy, the knife was mine._" "Thine!" "Ay; Governor Brent found it hid in the folds of the priest's cloak. He knew it for mine. Canst thou wonder that he accuses me?" "Does--does any one else suspect thee?" Neville said nothing, yet his sister was answered. "Oh, cruel! cruel!" she cried. "How could she know thee so long, and credit any such base slander? She is a--" "Hush! Not a word of her. Whatever she does, says, thinks, is right and forever beyond cavil." "Monstrous!" groaned his sister, "the man is so daft that if this woman tells him he has committed murder he will bow his head in meek assent. Oh, be a man, be a man, I pray thee, and give her back scorn for scorn!" "She has shown me no scorn,--only a sad, half-sick listlessness, as though she too had got a death-wound at my hands. It is that which has cut me to the heart as no pride or wrath or disdain had had power to do." Peggy shivered. Her brother noticed it. "What a brute I am," he murmured, "to keep thee standing here in the cold night air. 'Tis of a piece with my selfishness. Get thee in and know that thou hast brought something like comfort to the heart of a sorrow-stricken man. Good-night, and God bless thee!" "I will go in as thou bidst me, for the night air waxes cold. But thou--what wilt thou do?" "I do not know; I have not thought. It matters little." "Oh, yes, it matters very little whether thou dost catch thy death of cold!" "Would to God I could!" "Well, as for that, it might serve thy turn, but it would be passing hard for me!" Here she began to cry. "By Heavens, thou dost speak truth! Listen, little one: for thy sake I will take care of myself; for thy sake I will fight this thing to the bitter end. And if by any chance I conquer, thou mayst have the joy of knowing that but for thee it never had been done." For the first time a ring of determination, of energy, of unconscious hope sounded in his voice. "Now art thou brave once more," cried Peggy, raising herself on tip-toe to look into his eyes, which shone like cut steel in the moonlight. "Never fear but all shall come right yet!" As she tore herself away and hurried up the steps, she saw with amazement that Ralph Ingle was pacing up and down the cleared space before the door of the manor-house. Stranger still, he carried a gun. He saluted gravely as Peggy drew near, and would fain have passed on, but she stopped before him. "Wherefore abroad so early?" she asked. "By order of Governor Brent," he answered. The words struck a chill to her soul. So Christopher, her brother Christopher, the idol of her childhood, the revered hero of her girlish dreams, was being _watched_, like a criminal! A quick flame of rage rose in her heart, and drove back the numbness of despair. "How dare they?" she whispered to herself; but she hid her thoughts, and spoke no word further. As she passed through the hall to reach her chamber, she saw Elinor still kneeling in the chapel, and the hot anger rose in her stronger than ever. Was this the pattern of perfection she had wasted so many thoughts upon,--this woman whose faith broke at the first trial? Oh, paltry faith! Oh, travesty on confidence! At the foot of the stair Giles Brent and his sister Margaret stood in low-toned conversation. As Peggy drew near, Giles started and moved aside a little, but Margaret stretched out a warm, comforting hand. "Oh, thank you, thank you!" sobbed Peggy, as breaking away she rushed up stairs. "Poor child, she hath a heavy load to bear!" said Brent, looking after her. "Giles, thou art a fool!" A moment ago Brent had been ready to take his sister into his confidence; but her frank speech angered him. Her great mistake lay in answering appeals for sympathy with advice. "Margaret, thou art too prone to think that wisdom will die with thee. It is time thou didst take to heart the fact that I am Governor of this province, and responsible to God and Calvert alone for my ruling." "The more the pity that so great a trust is fallen to so little sense." "Thou hast a shrewd tongue, Margaret, and I have felt its lash often; but I think thou mightst spare it to-day. Surely, I have enough to try me." "Ay, without conjuring up new troubles of thine own imagining." "'Tis easy said, but hath little meaning. Is the murder of yonder priest of my own imagining?" "No." "Is Neville's knife falling from his garments my own imagining?" "No." "Then where comes in the point of thy words?" "I mean that thou hast walked as fast to meet this trouble as thou shouldst have walked away from it. Was any with thee when thou didst find the knife?" "No, 'twas between the going of Huntoon and the coming of the others." "And didst show it to Neale or Cornwaleys?" "No--I was half stunned and walked on in silence; but when Neville came to meet me I was maddened by his impudent boldness, and I charged him with the crime then and there." "Were you two alone?" "Ay, but for Ralph Ingle and Elinor." "But for them! As well tell a secret to two hundred as to two. No flies get through a shut door; but once open, it may as well be kept so, and let them in and out at will. Therefore, as I said at the beginning, thou art a fool." "Thinkst thou I would defeat justice, and make myself sharer in such a guilty secret as that?" "I think thou art first of all Governor of this province, wherein the chief danger lies in the hatred that Catholic and Protestant have for each other. Now, once 'tis known,--nay, suspected, since for my single self I believe it not, though I own the proof is strong,--but once, as I say, let it be suspected that a Protestant hath murdered a Catholic, and then all the dogs of war are loosed at once. How can it be that thou who hadst the wit to deal with Ingle shouldst so have lost thy head here?" Brent was irritated by the explicitness of his sister's explanation, as a deaf person is irritated by a tone a shade louder than necessary. Really, he could take in her meaning without having it lined out to him as if he were a schoolboy. "Margaret, I have heard thee through because thou art my sister, and because thou hast in times past been a faithful counsellor; but in this I will be my own master, and I am in no humor to submit to orders from thee. Therefore say no more." "So be it, then, Brother! Thy folly be on thine own head; but bear in mind that folly ofttimes claims a more usurious interest than sin. I go back to Kent Fort at daylight, and shall do my best to quell the rising discontent; but I know not what will follow the news of the arrest of a Protestant, especially of such a Protestant,--a man like Christopher Neville, loved and trusted of all men." "There, Margaret, thou hast turned the knife in the wound as thou hast a trick of doing. This is the very root of bitterness in my heart. I too loved and trusted this man, and he hath betrayed me. He deceived me about Elinor, whom it seems he hath known and loved for years back. He deceived me about his wealth, letting me believe he had need to work at Cecil Point, when in truth he has lands of value in England. And now worst of all he has betrayed my hospitality by this unpardonable villainy." "Enough of this, Giles! It is useless for thee and me to argue this matter, wherein we cannot see alike. Only do not thou deceive thyself with talk of statecraft or public duty; these may be in thy mind, but there is somewhat under them,--thou art jealous--" Giles Brent started as if a lash had struck him. "_I_--jealous!" "Yes, Giles, the love of long ago still lives in thy memory." "And what harm if it do?" "No harm save as it drives thee to injustice. Beware! and trust not thy judgment when thy heart holds the balance." "Good-bye!" said Giles Brent, and turned upon his heel. CHAPTER X THE ORDEAL BY TOUCH The second day after the murder had come, and still Father Mohl's body lay in the centre of the great hall, the inscrutable smile still on his lips, the fringe of hair streaked over the high, pale forehead. The candles at his head and feet guttered and dripped in their sockets and opposed their yellow flame to the grayness of the January day which seemed to be peering in curiously at the scene in the hall, where all the household of St. Gabriel's were gathered to watch the final test of Christopher Neville's guilt or innocence. The dwellers by Chesapeake Bay two hundred and fifty years ago had not banished the influence of the supernatural from the conduct of life in public or private affairs. If their easy toleration prevented their taking satisfaction in the witch-burning practised by their contemporaries in Massachusetts, they yet found nothing incredible in witchcraft, for they too saw ghosts and felt the malign influence of the evil eye. To such a generation it was quite natural that a murderer should be arraigned before the dead as well as the living. "If the vile actors of the heinous deed Near the dead body happily be brought, Oft hath't been proved the breathless corpse will bleed." It was a test based half on superstition, half on deep knowledge of human nature; for how indeed could a murderer, brought face to face with the still accusation in his victim's rigid form, fail to betray himself before the hostile or coldly neutral eyes of the witnesses. And as for the corpse showing signs of recognition of the assassin, why, there were so many ready to swear that they had known that to happen that it would have been flat scepticism to doubt it. So the household of St. Gabriel's waited for Neville and his guard to enter the room, a deep silence hanging over all. Giles Brent, from his end of the long table, sat gazing at his sister, and thinking how strangely her smooth, round face and domestic bearing contrasted with the grim scene around her. It was as if some brown thrush had been caught up from its nest in the bushes by the wind of destiny, and suddenly enveloped in the black cloud of a tornado. Mary Brent kept her eyes steadily fixed upon the portrait of Lord Baltimore, painted by Van Dyck, and hanging on the wall on the turn of the stairs. She studied every detail of his costume,--the small clothes of blue velvet, coat embroidered in gold, and doublet embroidered in silver, the open sleeves with their azure lining, the breastplate of blue inlaid with gold, and the sword-hilt studded with jewels, the powdered wig that topped the whole, and the cocked hat, its flap looped and held back with brilliants, which shone bright as real gems. These seemed real while the figures around her receded from her sight dim and blurred, wavering like figures in a dream. There was Mistress Calvert on the settle below the bend of the stairs. Was she really Elinor Calvert, or a corpse like the one which lay scarcely more white in the middle of the room? Elinor herself was almost as doubtful as her cousin whether she really lived and breathed. It seemed rather as though she had already tasted the bitterness of death, and now moved about, a pale, miserable ghost in a land where all was ghastly and miserable. Even Cecil seemed unreal, and that worried her more than all the rest. In the last three days the touch of those little arms had in some way lost its power to comfort, and the childish presence had grown irksome because it forbade her giving way to the bursts of wild weeping which had alternated with stony despair. Just now Cecil was pressing close to her side and whispering in her ear,-- "Mamma, did Thir Chrithtopher Neville kill the priest? Dost thou think he did it?" "Hush, Cecil!" "But did he?" "I know not." "Father White thinks he did it." Silence on Elinor's part. "And Couthin Giles thinks so." Still silence. "And Couthin Mary thinks so; but I do not." "And why?" "Because he promised me a bow and arrowth and he knew thou wouldst not let me take a gift from a murderer." The quick stab of the word was intolerable. Elinor thrust the child away from her side with a swift, tragic gesture; then, at sight of the angry flush in his cheeks and the grieved wonder in his eyes, she caught him to her heart again close, and bowed her head over his curls. The only person who caught the meaning of the action was Peggy Neville, who sat in a corner a little back of the Governor's chair. Heart reads heart in crises like these, and sympathy is second sight. Her first feeling was a quick thrill and a desire to run across the room and kiss that cold proud face with the swollen eyelids. Then the blood of the Nevilles, proud every whit as that of the Calverts, surged angrily back to her heart. "She to dare to doubt him! Why, nobody thinks great things of me, but I would never desert any one that I cared even the least little bit about. I'd stick all the closer when people turned against him, and as for evidence, what is the use of being a woman if you are going to be influenced by such things as that!" Oh, little Peggy! women do not own the only minds superior to evidence. From across the hall a young man is watching every expression of your face, feeling sure that your brother is innocent because you think him so--confident that Governor Brent is a cold, hard man, eager to believe evil of a friend, and vowing that as for him, Romney Huntoon, his sword, his honor, his life itself are at the service of Christopher Neville, with whom he has scarcely spoken, and of Christopher's sister Peggy whom he has known for a matter of ten days. A silence deeper than before falls on the company as the tramp of feet is heard at the door and Neville enters between two guards. The Coroner's inquest is formed after the fashion of the day, Giles Brent as Chief-Justice and Chief Coroner of the province, under that charter which in Maryland invested the governor with the _regia potestas_, on the platform at the end of the hall. Associated with him by courtesy is the lady of the manor, while on either side are ranged Councillors Neale and Cornwaleys. All face the central figure stretched rigid on the bier in the middle of the hall, and as the prisoner walks the length of the room that lies between him and the bier, all eyes are fixed upon him. To each person present his bearing denotes a different thing. It is not beauty alone that is in the eye of the gazer. To Peggy Neville that bearing speaks lofty consciousness of innocence. To Mary Brent it swaggers with the effrontery of brazen guilt. To Giles Brent the face is an impenetrable mask. To Elinor Calvert--but how describe the emotions that surge through her soul, each obliterating the former like waves on a beach of sand! Her first feeling, as she watched Neville stride up the room, was a thrill of pride in his imperious personality as he towered taller by a head than his guard, and in his bearing outranking all present in courtliness. Then came a longing to speak out before them all and claim him for her true love; then, as her glance travelled upward to that pale set face, the deadly chill of doubt and distrust struck cold upon her heart, and she bowed her head upon her hands. When she awoke to consciousness of what was passing around she heard the voice of Giles Brent saying,-- "That all here present may understand the business which is going forward, let me first set forth my duties under the law. 'A coroner of our lord the King,' says the statute, 'shall go to the places where any be slain, and shall summon the honest men of the neighborhood, and of them shall inquire what they know touching the death; and if any person is said to be guilty of the murder he shall be brought before the coroner and his inquest, and shall be put upon his defence that he may, if he can, purge himself of the charge.'" "Oh, dear, how Giles doth love form! I believe he would see us all hung if he might pronounce sentence in Latin." Elinor's foot kept time to her angry thoughts, and that so loud that it caught Brent's ear and brought a frown to his brow. "Christopher Neville, you stand accused of a dastardly crime,--the murder of Andrew Mohl, a priest of the Jesuit order, who lies here before us, and who is known to have come to his death on the night of January twentieth." "Who are mine accusers?" Brent turned and whispered first to Neale and Cornwaleys, then to his sister, and finally, turning again toward the prisoner, he said,-- "'Twill serve no good turn to press that question." "I stand upon my rights." "Is it not enough that there be a dozen here who are convinced of thy guilt?" "I stand upon my rights. I will have the name." "Then, since thou dost demand the name of him who lodged the charge, 'tis that of Father Fisher, come hither to-day from St. Mary's." "Father Fisher? The head of the Jesuit colony at St. Inigo's?" "Ay; yet he makes his charge not as a priest, but a citizen." "No doubt." "Sneers, sir, will not help your case, with which we will now go on. What plea are you fain to enter, 'guilty' or 'not guilty'?" "Not guilty." "Master Neale, kindly act as secretary and record the plea. Sir Christopher, will you hear the evidence against you?" "I will." "On any disputed point you shall confront witnesses; but that we may not waste time, let us settle first that whereon we agree. First, you are a Protestant." Neville bowed assent. "Second, here in this house you did quarrel with the dead priest touching matters of faith and doctrine." "We had words, certainly." "And angry words, as I am told." "I was angry. Belike he was angry, too." "He admits that he was angered. Put that down," whispered Mary Brent to Neale. "Tell us what happened after your talk with Father Mohl." "He rose and started to walk to St. Mary's." "And what did you then?" "I followed him." "For what purpose?" "To beg his pardon." "Ah! Now we have it. You felt you had done him wrong." "I did not." "Then why ask his pardon?" "Because I had wounded other hearts than his, and, moreover, I had offended against Mistress Brent's hospitality." Mary Brent's lips drew themselves into a tight, straight line. "Now, Sir Christopher, will you tell the court something we are most urgent to know,--did you, or did you not, return from that search agitated and distraught in bearing, with garments torn and stained with blood?" "I did." There was an ominous pause, during which one could well nigh count heart-beats. "Christopher Neville, do you know this knife?" "Yea; 'tis mine own." "Ay, and found in the folds of the priest's garments, and fitting with fatal exactness the wound in the breast. Now, one more question: when you came in that night did you, or did you not, crave blessing and absolution from Father White?" "No--not absolution!" "A mere quibble! You confessed to him that you had sinned, and you begged his blessing. Not one of these points do you deny; and, indeed, denial were worse than useless, for, as you well know, I have witnesses enough at hand to prove them all. The explanations in your written statement, which lies before me and which I have examined, your silly tales of the wild animal, the brush and briar, do credit neither to your mind nor your conscience. Rather I beg of you while there is yet time make a clean breast of it here before God, before me, and before this assembled household of St. Gabriel's." Here Brent's voice took a tone almost of pleading, strangely at variance with his magisterial manner at the beginning. "We all know," he went on, "that the priest had the cause of the Church so much at heart that he might have been tempted to use words to a heretic hard for hot blood to brook. Tell us all that happened, and there may be circumstances making for leniency if not for justification." "I did not kill the priest." The dulness of the speaker's tone might be the result of the reaction from strong excitement, or the apathy of guilt. It angered Brent. "Neville, I would like to stand your friend; but the Governor of the Palatinate of Maryland declines to be a compounder of felony. I ask once more, have you any confession to make?" "None." "Gentlemen, are you ready for the test?" Councillor Neale and Cornwaleys bowed assent. "Mistress Brent, do you, as lady of the manor, approve the aforesaid test that Christopher Neville be commanded to lay his hand upon the breast of Father Mohl yonder and take oath before God that he knoweth naught of how the dead man came by his death?" "I approve it," said Mary Brent, rising in her place, "and I do command all those here present to draw near the bier and keep watch upon the face of the dead while the oath proceeds." Slowly and solemnly the assembled household drew together in a circle about the corpse. Neville placed his right hand upon the breast of the dead man. For an instant he stood silent so, then raising the hand to heaven he said slowly, calmly, distinctly: "I swear to God I am innocent of this man's death, and I know naught touching it." Why did all present suddenly shrink back as if a leper stood among them? The dead priest lay rigid as ever, the folded hands had not stirred, the inscrutable smile had not wavered on the lips or given any hint of its meaning. Surely there was no accusation in those still eyelids. Neville himself looked round in some bewilderment, till he caught his sister's murmur of horror,-- "Kit! oh, Kit!--YOUR HAND!" Yes, as he turned it he saw for himself, a drop or two of blood trickling from a tiny wound in the palm, made by a rough place on the crucifix as he drew his hand from the corpse. A scratch so slight that it yielded no sensation to one in his tense, nervous state. "Ay," he said coolly, but bitterly enough, "that ends it, I reckon. Such testimony as that closes the case against me; yet, before God--" "Hush! no more blasphemy!" It was Giles Brent's voice that spoke, and all echo of friendliness was gone out of it. "Guards, remove your prisoner to the tobacco-house and keep him close. Gentlemen, the inquest is ended." CHAPTER XI THE GREATER LOVE The guards turned, one holding Neville by the wrist, the other marching behind, and thus he walked down the hall between the rows of unfriendly faces. As he passed Elinor she looked up timidly, but met a glance of freezing contempt. So she read the language of his eyes, and he knew not that they spoke any such thing. Instead he had but a vague consciousness that among the dull ranks of meaningless faces his eyes suddenly fell upon a glory, a brilliancy of sunny tresses straying over cheeks of a luminous pallor. That was Elinor Calvert. Oh, yes! he knew that very well. Who else had that bearing, with its strange blending of a dignity too unconscious to be majestic, with a simplicity too dignified to be wholly simple? And those purple eyes, why were they so sad? Ah, because he was guilty. He had forgotten that; but Giles Brent had said so, and all these hostile faces confirmed the verdict. At any rate, since she thought so, it mattered little whether the verdict were true or false. Suddenly there came to him a vision of a new circle in the Inferno, a circle where one forever questioned the eyes he loved and dared not read the answer written therein. "My son, harden not thine heart; but rather submit thyself in penitence and humility to the sentence of justice." It was Father White who spoke. The words brought Neville back to the present with a shock. He shook off the kind priest's hand rudely. "Judgment, not justice!" he answered, with haughtiness, and moved on with a smile on his face. Pride is the fox that the Spartan carries under his cloak, smiling while it eats his heart. Father White drew back, but so full was Neville's mind that he noted not the movement, nor indeed aught else, till he was aware of a yellow head at his elbow and a pair of short legs striding to keep the pace with his own long ones. Cecil had crept from his mother's side, and joining Neville was now seeking to slip his little hand into the close-clenched one beside him. "I've brought thomething for you," he whispered, putting his other hand to the breast of his jerkin as they came to the door. Neville answered by a dreary smile. "It's a knife to take the place of the one you lost." The guard shook his head reprovingly. "No knives for prisoners, Cecil," said Neville. "Well, you shall have thomething, because you are my friend. I mean that you shall be my tenant at Robin Hood's Barn yet, and I don't think you killed the priest. Mother does; but men must think for themselves." Neville bit his lip till the blood came. "See," said Cecil, "here is a picture of Mother done on ivory. She gave it to me the morning I was lord of the manor. I asked if I could give it to you. She smiled and said it would be time enough to think of that when you asked for it, and I promised never to offer it to you till you did; but it ith a pretty picture, and you would like it to look at in the tobacco-house, and you could sell it for bread if you escape"--this in a lower whisper. "Now, do you ask for it?" Neville grew white to the lips. He looked at the picture as a starving man looks at bread. After an instant's hesitation he shut his teeth and drew himself up. "_No!_" he cried. Then wrenching his wrist from the jailer's clasp, he lifted Cecil in his arms, kissed him, and set him down again. "But I do thank thee from the bottom of a sad heart," he said, and added, "God bless thee and reward thee!" Inside the hall, with the dignity and formality of which neither fewness of numbers nor bareness of surroundings could rob our forefathers, the court filed down the room, Mistress Brent on her brother's arm. "Now, Giles," said his sister, "art thou satisfied at last who is the guilty man?" "I fear there can be no doubt." "I should say not, indeed. Even Margaret must needs give over her hot defence and admit that the voice of the Lord hath spoken." "I wish it would tell me what were good to do." "It does, Giles. It says, 'Be firm! Let not ill-timed tenderness protect the criminal! Blood guiltiness must be wiped out in blood.'" "That is not a gospel of love, Mary." "'Tis the gospel of justice. I feel a sense of guilt in myself that Holy Church hath suffered such outrage in the bosom of my household, and this guilt can only be purged away when we withdraw fellowship and sympathy from the evil-doer and deliver him up to justice. To-morrow, Giles, thou must go to St. Mary's and--" "Softly, Mary! In this matter we must move slowly and with caution." "Thy friendship for this man makes thee weak." "Come, come, Mary!" said her brother, testily; "'tis time we discovered whether this province is to be ruled by men or women. Elinor calls me hard of heart for persecuting Christopher Neville; Margaret calls me a fool for suspecting him; now you will have me a weakling for not hanging him out of hand. I tell thee I will have no more meddling in this case; when I see my duty clear before me, I will do it. Till then I bid thee hold thy peace." Brent's last words were overheard by the worthy Masters Neale and Cornwaleys, who followed close after them. "The Governor is nigh distraught over this wretched business," said Neale, meditatively stroking the tuft on his chin. "And well he may be," replied Cornwaleys. "It needs but a small torch to light such a flame of religious dissension here in Maryland as a century shall not suffice to extinguish." "Yet you would not have the guilty escape?" "Why not Neville as well as Ingle? Better that than set the province afire. Besides, so many innocent must needs suffer with the guilty. Look at that little sister of Neville's! Yesterday she was gay as a lark; to-day she can scarce lift her swollen eyelids. Poor child! I would I could help her." Another man in the hall shared the wish of Captain Cornwaleys. As Peggy passed Huntoon she felt her hand grasped, and held in a strong, heartening clasp. "Courage!" Romney whispered. "We are not yet at the end. Much may still come to pass in our favor." Peggy's heart rose at the word "_our_." "But the blood," she murmured. "I believe it was the priest's revenge for the quarrel he had with Kit." The girl shared the superstition of the age, and it seemed to her that some supernatural and malign agency was working against Christopher. "Nay," answered Romney, "else how account for this?" and he held up his own hand scarred from joint to the joining of the wrist. "'Twas from the same edge of the crucifix I got the scratch as I watched by the corpse last night, and leaned over to set the candles at the head straighter in their sockets. No, no, Peggy! it will not do to lose heart now. We must think of nothing but how we can help your brother,--clear him if we can; save him if we cannot clear him." The contagion of hopefulness spread to Peggy's sorrowing little soul, and with it came a blessed sense of having a firm support at hand to lean upon, let the winds of adversity blow as they would. The firm arm and brave heart and ready, resourceful wit were all hers for the asking; nay, were themselves pleading with her to be allowed to spend their life in her service, and she had flouted them and their owner but three days since,--yes, and answered the proffer of honest love by a slap in the face from an evergreen bough! It would seem by all the laws of psychology that this angry humility and consciousness of her own errors should have made pretty Peggy more tolerant of the mistakes and shortcomings of others; but by a strange revulsion, as she drew near the corner where Elinor Calvert sat gazing into vacancy as if turned to stone by the sight of the gorgon's head, her anger swiftly changed its object. Slowly and somewhat scornfully Peggy looked her over from head to foot. "Do you believe this calumny?" she asked. No answer from lips or eyes. "Oh, shame!" cried the girl. "I can bear it for the rest; but that you, who have known him half his life, you whom he loved, nay worshipped, putting you well nigh in the place of God above, that you should condemn him--oh, it is too much! Thank God he still has me to love and cling to him!" Slowly the stony face relaxed, the fixed eyes began to see things once more, but the voice was still dim and distant as Elinor answered,-- "Cease, child!--prate no more of what you feel for Christopher Neville! You say you love too much to doubt him. What is your love to mine? I _know_ him guilty, and yet, God help me, I love him still!" CHAPTER XII HOW LOVERS ARE CONVINCED Nothing is more impossible than to predict what one's emotions will be in any given crisis. If any one had told Christopher Neville that lying in a shed under accusation of murder, believed guilty by his lady love, cast off by his friend, his most acute sensation would be envy of the tobacco which the sentry was smoking outside the door, he would have laughed the prophet to scorn; yet so it was. The nervous strain, added to the cold of the tobacco-house, was more than he could bear, and beyond any spiritual help he craved physical stimulant, something to make "a man of him" again, to give him back that courage and coolness which had never yet deserted him, but which he felt now slipping away fast. At length he felt shame at such loss of manhood, and began to take himself to task. "Come, now, Christopher Neville, thou sourfaced son of ill fortune!" he said aloud, as if talking to another person, "state thy woes, one by one, and I will combat them with what heart I may. Begin then!--What first?" "I am in prison." "Where many a better man has been before thee. In a palace thou mightst be in worse company." "I am cold." "Walk about!" "I am hungry." "Pull down yonder tobacco-leaf and chew it." "My friends have forsaken me." "So did Job's." "My sweetheart has turned the cold shoulder to me." "Then do thou turn thy back full to her. Use thy reason, man alive! Hast thou lived to nigh forty years, to be hurt like a boy by a woman's inconstancy? Laugh at her, revile her if thou wilt, rip out round oaths; but, an thou be not quite demented, put not thy courage beneath the foot of her scorn!" "But I love her." "Ah, poor fool! There thou hast me. Thou knowst well I have no balm in my box to medicine that hurt. Yet what can't be cured, may be forgot, for a while at least. Wine would do it. Perchance tobacco may--Curse that guard! How good his pipe smells!--I would I had one." Neville had never yet failed of a benefit for lack of asking, so now he set up a tattoo with his fists on the wall. "What's wanted within there?" came gruffly from the guard. "What would you want if you'd been shut up in this cold hole for a night and a day?" "I might _want_ ortolans and pheasants and a bottle of old Madeira; but if I was a murderer, and as good as a dead man myself, I shouldn't look to get them--not in _this_ world." Neville kept his temper. It was all he had left. "Maybe not; but if you saw a fellow outside, with a pipe in his mouth and a tobacco pouch in his pocket, and another pipe bulging out at the breast of his jerkin, it's likely you'd count on his taking pity on the poor devil locked up inside, and giving him a bit smoke." The guard weakened visibly. Neville could see through the crack that he half turned and put his hand irresolutely to his pocket. Then he straightened himself more rigidly. "How do I know but you want to set the tobacco-house afire? And then off you'd be, and 'tis I must answer for you to the Governor--a just man, but hard on one that fails in his duty." "Come, then," called Neville more cheerfully, feeling his point half won; "why not come in and smoke with me? Then you can keep an eye on me and the tobacco together, and it will be a comfort to me to have speech of a fellow mortal instead of being tormented by my cursed unpleasant thoughts." Truth to tell, the guard was nearly as weary of solitude as his prisoner. This walking up and down in the dusk from one pine-tree to another was not lively work, and besides, there was a compelling magnetism in Neville's voice that had charmed stronger men than the guard, Philpotts. Slowly, and with a certain reluctance to yield characteristic of Englishmen, and quite independent of the value of the thing conceded, he drew the heavy bolt and entered. The interior of the shed, for it was scarcely more, was dismal enough in the half light. The long tobacco leaves hanging from the beams suggested mourner's weeds, and waved ominously in the wind as the door was opened. Daylight still peeped in through the chinks. By its help Neville studied the heavy outlines of the guard's figure clad in a sad colored campaign coat lined with blue and surmounted by a montero cap which shaded a pock-marked face, a typical English face, square cut, obstinate, with persistence and loyalty writ large all over it. "Pardon my not rising," said Neville, as if he were receiving a courtier. "The cold and dampness of this place have given me the rheum to such extent that each bone in my body hath its own particular pain. If I kneel my knees ache, if I sit my hips ache, if I bend my back aches." "Marry," interrupted the jailer, with a coarse laugh; "'tis well you are to try hanging, which will rest them all." "You have a very pretty wit, jailer, and so keen one would say it had been sharpened on an English whetstone. The French have no gift for such rapier thrusts." "Oh, to Hell with the French!" "Hell must be crammed full of foreigners. We English are always sending them there." "No doubt you'll know soon." "Very likely. If I do, I'll send you word--and by the way, so that I may not forget, what is your name?" "Philpotts." "Ah! Related to Robert Philpot of Kent?" "No; no such fine folk in our line. Besides, my name is Philpotts." "One _l_ and two _t's_?" "That same," replied the guard laconically, having no mind to be drawn into too friendly intercourse. "A droll name!" "None too droll for many an honest man to bear it." "Pardon me, I doubt not the honesty; but I question whether there be many Philpottses floating round the world. I never knew but one, and he lived in Somerset." "Somerset?" "Ay, in a little village on the coast between the Mendip hills and the river Axe." A look of recollection stole into the dull gray eyes, but still the shrewd self-restraint lingered. "How did the village lie, and what is its name?" "Its name is Regis, and it lies like a baby in a cradle, snugly tucked away in the dip of the hills; and there is a brook close beside it that comes tumbling over the rocks to lose itself in the Axe." Philpotts nodded unconscious assent. "Oh," continued Neville, "but I would like to see that river Axe once more! I do remember a famous pool where the fish leaped to the hook in the spring in a fashion to make a man's blood sing." "Did ye know Philpotts, then?" "Ay." "What mought his first name ha' been?" "James--James Philpotts. He had a farm of my father, and he and I were wont to go a-fishing together in the Axe, and one cold day he fell in. He couldn't swim, if I remember; and how like a drowned rat he did look when he got out!" At the memory, in spite of all his troubles, Neville laughed aloud. Philpotts slowly laid down his pipe, and propped it against a board, determined, before yielding to emotion, to attend to the safety of the tobacco-house. Then striding over to Neville he seized his hand in his own two brawny ones with a grip that made the other man wince. "Swim? no, that he couldn't, and it's his life and all he owes to you, sir, and he bade me look out for you in the New World and pay back the service an ever I got the chance; but 'twas the name misled me,--'Jack Neville,' says my brother; 'Christopher Neville,' says the Governor in the manor-house yesterday." "Ay, my name is Christopher; but as I had a cousin who bore the same, and who was often at Frome for months at a time, the family were wont to call me 'Jack,' after my father." "So--thou--art--the son of Master John Neville of Frome House?" The words came hard, as if forced out. Philpotts stood looking at the prisoner till slowly the mouth began to work, two tears slipped out from his eyelids and slid down his nose. He put up the sleeve of his jerkin to wipe them off, and then, fairly overcome, leaned against his arm on the post in the corner and fell to sobbing aloud. "Forgive me blubbering, sir; but, oh, to see you in this sorry case, and me a-guarding you that should be helping you to escape. Shame on them that shut up an innocent man and planned his ruin!" "An innocent man?" queried Neville; "why, 'tis not five minutes since that I was a murderer unfit to share an honest man's pipe." "God ha' mercy on my blind stupidity! I see not how I could ha' looked in your face and not seen that 'twas na' in those eyes to look on a man to murder him nor in that mouth to swear falsely." "Not so fast, Philpotts! Many a saint has had the ill luck to look like a pirate, and I was thrown in with a man in Algiers that I would have shared my last crust with, and he stole my wallet and made off with it in the night." "Well, mebbe it's because I'm not of the quality and have no book learning, but when I feel things in my bones I don't question of them; and now my eyes are open and I see you're innocent, I'm going to help you out of this hole." "But the danger--" "To Hell with the danger! There never was a Philpotts yet was a coward." "But your farm is well started here." "Let it go to seed, then. It's little good there is for a Protestant in this Papist province, anyhow, and I'd not be sorry to be off to Virginia. I've a boat on the river below. So you see there's nothing between you and freedom." "Yes, there is one thing." "An' what's that, pray?" As if in answer to the question came a rapid knock at the door outside. The guard grasped his musket and marched once or twice up and down the barn to recover his severe military bearing before he drew the door a crack open. "Who goes there?" "It is I, Mistress Calvert, cousin to Governor Brent." Neville's heart felt as if it were an anvil, and some unseen power were laying on the hammer-strokes thick and fast. The blood surged to his face, and then fell back again leaving it white. She had come. Was he glad or sorry? Pride said, "You are sorry." Love whispered, "You are glad--do not deny it." Pride answered, "Yes, glad of the chance to make her sorry." "I know not how to deny you, Mistress Calvert," came from without in Philpotts' voice, "but my commands are that none should enter save by the Governor's orders." "Uncivil fellow!" Neville instinctively felt for his sword, and would have made a trial of his strength without it, but that on the instant he heard that voice, the voice that could make little shivers run from head to foot. "You are in the right, as usual, good Master Philpotts, and foreseeing that you could not be swayed without the Governor's order, the Governor's order I have brought for a half-hour's talk with the prisoner, you meanwhile to be within call, but not within hearing. See! is't not writ as I have said?" she asked, holding the paper toward him. "I am not such a churl as to dispute a lady's word," said Philpotts, glad in this chivalrous manner to evade a too severe strain on his powers of reading a written document. "The Governor's order shall be obeyed," and swinging back the door he closed it again behind him and resumed his march from the green pine-tree to the brown one, and from the brown tree back again to the green, watching the yellow sun set behind the distant hills. His taciturnity yielded at last to the extent of one exclamation, "By the Lord Harry, what a coil!" As Elinor Calvert entered she threw back her sable hood, and her pale, beautiful face, surrounded by its golden hair, shone like the moon against the dark setting of the tobacco-hung rafters. Her only ornament was the diamond crescent at her throat, which glistened as a ray of the setting sun struck upon it. Her eyes were full of unshed tears, and her lips trembled so that she could scarcely control them enough to utter the words she had come to speak. Her hands were clenched tightly, as if by that force alone she held to her resolution. Inside the door she waited for some word of welcome or greeting. She put up her hand to her throat as if to ease the sorrow which was rising and swelling within. By accident her fingers grasped the crescent, and she clung to it as to a talisman. Neville made no step toward her. He stood leaning against the wall, his arms folded before him. It was as if she were the criminal and he the judge. The silence was intolerable to Elinor. "Speak to me!" she cried at last, stretching out her hands toward him. Her voice betrayed a dry anguish in the throat, and her breath came in quick, short gasps. "Are you come as Governor Brent's messenger?" Elinor shivered as though his tone had more chill in it than the January air, but her own was equally haughty as she answered,-- "I come by permission of my kinsman, who never deserts a friend." "No, faith! since when the friend needs help he ceases to be one." "Your words are brutal." "Perchance. I have not been trained by your Fathers to mean one thing and say another." Elinor felt for her hood as though she would have drawn it over her head again and left without another word; then changing her mind, she advanced nearer. "This is not a kind greeting," she said, "for one who comes to help you." "If I were not past help I might have spoke more kindly." "Oh, but you are not past help. And that is what the Governor bade me say, that it is not too late; that he knows Father Mohl pricked you past endurance, and that he will move heaven and earth to get you off if you will but confess, so that no innocent man may suffer." Neville bowed with ironical courtesy. "You will give me an answer to take to him?" "I have given Governor Brent my answer once." "Oh, think! Do not send me away hastily. Think what is before you,--the chains, the prison, the--the _scaffold_." Neville smiled. "Have you no feeling? How _can_ you smile?" "Was I smiling? I suppose I was following your words and picturing the scenes you called up, especially the last. I was thinking about the fellows who would make the noose fast and swing me off, fancying, poor fools, that they had killed me. How little they would know that the death came off weeks before, and was dealt by one glance from a pair of purple-gray eyes that said in yonder court-room, 'I count you guilty.'" "Stay not to bandy phrases!" interrupted Elinor, swaying a little unsteadily on her feet. "Talk no more of guilt or innocence; but let us look about for another plan of escape since you will not trust Giles Brent. Look, I am near as tall as you. I measured height the evening you stood by me at the fire. You have fair hair, too, like mine. Let us change attire, and you in my cloak shall slip out yonder door." "And you?" "What matter what befalls me? As you say yourself, I have got my death wound already." "But your boy--Cecil." "There are others who will care for him. Mary Brent loves him as her own, and Giles will look to him for my sake." Neville started; he had never thought before of that possibility of Brent's having once loved Elinor, yet why not, when none could be near her and not feel the magic of that charm before which even now his pride was ebbing fast; but this thought stung him to new haughtiness. "You and your cousin have been equally at fault in your judgment of me," he said, dryly. "I am as capable of murdering a priest as of taking shelter behind a woman and leaving her to bear my punishment. If I wished to escape I am not dependent upon your help. There are others, tried and true and firm believers in my innocence, who have offered me freedom, but my honor would not be clear. There is just one way out of the present coil, and that road leads up the scaffold--and down again." "No! No! No! I say it shall not be!" cried Elinor, carried beyond herself in a burst of passion. "You must--you _shall_ get away from this horrible place. Come!" she added with a smile, changing suddenly from anger to sweetness--"come! you have oft said there was naught on earth you would not do for my sake. Now what I ask is such a little thing." "I have heard of Jesuit methods," said Neville, as if speaking to himself. "'Twas a shrewd trick when other shifts failed to tempt a man through the woman he loved, the woman who had once loved him." "_Had_ loved thee! Would to God the taunt were true! Have not faith and reason grappled with each other through the long midnight hours, one saying, 'He is innocent, you feel it;' and the other, 'He is guilty, you know it'? And at the end, when both fell down conquered by the combat, Love rose up greater than either and took me by the throat and brought me here. Listen, Christopher! If you have done this thing _I_ have done it, for you and I are one. If you are put to death I will end my life by my own hand, and then we shall be together to all eternity; and what matter if the priests call it Hell!" Neville took a step forward. Falling on his knees at her feet he raised the hem of her dress to his lips and kissed it once, twice, thrice. "Oh, Elinor! Oh, my darling!" he murmured, "this is love indeed, perfect love which passeth understanding; but oh, how, how,"--with this he rose and strode impatiently up and down the floor--"how can you love me like this and still doubt me? You have known me these many years, you have seen me go in and out among my fellows, surely not like a cutthroat and assassin. You have seen me raise my hand to Heaven and swear in that high presence to my innocence, and still you condemn me. What in God's name can I do or say more?" [Illustration] He fixed his eyes upon Elinor, whose whole frame shook with the force of the feeling that swayed her. The blood rushed up and overflowed her face and neck, and her voice sank to a whisper as she leaned toward him and murmured,-- "I think--I think if you were to take me in your arms and whisper it in my ear, I--even I--should believe--and be at peace." CHAPTER XIII A CHANGE OF VENUE For an hour after Elinor had left him Neville sat staring into the gathering dusk as if it had been the gate of Paradise. The swaying of the tobacco leaves in the night wind was as the rustle of angel's wings, and the light of heaven itself seemed to fall round him like a halo. For him life had been lived out, and looking back he pronounced it worth while. The years of suffering, of waiting, of toil and danger threatening to end in ignominious death were weighed in the balance against the minutes when he had held Elinor Calvert close to his heart, and lo the years flew up light as thistledown, not worthy to be compared with the weight of glory of those transcendent moments when they stood together, he and she, cheek to cheek, heart to heart, no word said, because all was understood, and they two alone in the round world of a kiss. Philpotts was quite disappointed when he came in with the lantern to find his prisoner so cheerful. "I ha' brought summat to comfort you; but ye are smiling as if ye'd been bid to the King's ball." "Eh! What?" asked Neville, dreamily still. "I'm saying you might from your looks ha' been to court, or knighted over again, or summat like that." "There's more knighting than comes from the King's hand, my good Philpotts." "H'm?" said Philpotts, uncomprehending. "Nothing," answered Neville. "I'm glad to see you're not giving in beaten." "A man, Philpotts, is never beaten till he has said in his heart, 'I am beaten.'" "That's right. Keep up your heart, and your heart'll keep you up in spite of Fate." "Pooh! Show me Fate and I will show you the will of a man; but what have you there in your hand?" "Oh, ye may well ask. 'Tis no slight honor, I can tell you, to get a letter from Mistress Margaret Brent. I know 'tis from her, for the boy that brought it bade me say so; twice he said it, and bade me not forget, as if that were likely." Neville reached out his hand for the letter, and bending near the lantern broke the seal and read,-- "I am sure, sir, you will be glad to know that there are those who believe in your innocence and will do all they can to establish it. My position is a delicate one, for I can neither thwart those in power, nor openly act against them; but what I can do I will, and meanwhile should you by any chance reach Kent Island you may find a refuge and a shelter." The note had neither beginning nor end. "I thank you!" said Neville aloud, as if the writer of the note were near; and may not souls draw near as well as bodies? Philpotts hearing his voice turned back. "Was it good news?" he asked. "The best." "Will it help ye?" "Ay, on the scaffold itself." "Never be talking so much of what's far off. There's no luck in prophesying ill things. Was ever any one in your family hung?" "No; none rose so high," said Neville, with bitter humor. "Still another sending for thee. 'Twas brought by Mistress Calvert's son while his mother was within. I wonder does the child think we mean to starve you." As he spoke he drew out a loaf of bread. "He said you were not to wait till morning, but eat it _all_ to-night." Neville smiled, a sweet, wholesome, human smile. "Give it me," he said, and broke off a great chunk. To his surprise he found the loaf hollow, and inside was Cecil's knife wrapped round with a bit of paper on which was scrawled in a childish hand,-- "I crep out of bed to get this Loaf. I was afraid of bars tho you say they cum not into houses. I dug out the Bred with my nife and thru the crums out at the Windo so Mother sh'd not see them. I hope you will stab your jalor, and jump out your Windo too. Sum day you shal cum to Robin Hood's Barn. You may keep the Nife. CALVERT." "Here, Philpotts," said Neville, handing over the knife, "this is for you; but with your leave I will keep the note," and he folded it and laid it next his heart, as though it had been written by his own son. "Why not keep it yoursel', Master?" "I have no use for it." "I can find one." "Still harping on escape? Every one seems to know me for a coward." "No son of Master John Neville was ever that; yet I do beg of you, sir, see, on my knees, to quit this prison now, this hour, for who knows what the next may bring forth!" "My kind jailor, my good friend, get up from those honorable knees of yours which bend before adversity as most men's to prosperity." "Your promise first!" "Never to that you do propose; but here's my hand, and it's proud I am to offer it; and now, good-night, for it is well with me in body and soul, and I would fain try to fall asleep to see if I can conjure up again in my dreams certain visions which have made me happier than ever I was in my life before." Philpotts thought Neville's troubles had driven him mad, and withdrew to his own corner, muttering curses on those that had unhinged this noble mind; but Neville lay still in such bliss as only angels and lovers know, till sleep came softly and kissed his eyelids. The long slumber somewhat tarnished the glory of Neville's mood, and when he awoke at the turn of morning he was conscious of a reactionary depression of soul. Say what we will of the gloom of gathering night, it is as nothing to the grimness of the gray dawn. Night swallows up detail. The facts of one's life seen in midnight hours may look tragic; but they are large and vague, with somewhat of the vastness of eternity. In the morning they stand out in all their bare, shabby pettiness, and we shrink back appalled from the tasks of the coming day. As Neville woke he felt a hand upon his breast, and looking up saw Philpotts standing over him with a grave face. "They've come for you, Master Neville." "'They?' Who?" "They are come by the Governor's orders to fetch you away, belike to St. Mary's for trial. Oh, sir, but you'd best have heeded my offer last night and got away while there was time!" "My good Philpotts, when milk is spilled it is spilled, and there's no good in thinking what fine puddings it would have made. You've done your best for me, like a man. Now go away and forget the whole business. Plant your cabbages in the spring, and water them not with any tears for me!" "Me go away! Not me, sir! And by good luck it's orders that I'm to be one of the escort to St. Mary's. That is, if 'tis to St. Mary's we're bound; but the orders are sealed, or some flummery like that they talked about, as the paper's not to be opened till we're out in the river." "Ah! You make me feel like a State character. My importance is rising. Where are the gentlemen? We must not keep them waiting." A rattle at the door showed that the visitors were growing impatient, and as Neville stepped toward it two men flung it open and entered hastily. One was tall, the other short. Both wore long cloaks and hats pulled rather low over their faces, as though they felt little pride in this charge of their prisoner. In truth, Neville even in his short stay in the colony had made the reputation of a gentleman and a brave man, and there were many that grieved for him, and wondered whether the knife alone were evidence enough to hang a man upon. Moreover, despite the wise and liberal rule of the Lord Proprietor, the Papist-Protestant feeling ran high throughout the length and breadth of Maryland, and the Protestants were ready to a man to swear to Neville's innocence for no other reason than his religion. This alone might have been enough to make Giles Brent wish the trial to take place at Kent Island, where enough force could be brought to bear to keep the peace while the trial proceeded. "There is one favor I am fain to ask at your hands, gentlemen," said Neville, as he took up his hat. "Any favor consistent with the Governor's wish and the good of the Commonwealth we will be pleased to grant." "I have a sister at the Manor, a sister who would cry her pretty eyes out if her brother had the ill manners to take his departure without a word of farewell. May not our course take me past her window, that I may at least wave a good-bye?" The smaller man, he of the purple cloak and broad, drooping purple hat, moved as if he were in favor of granting the petition; but the other spoke with some sternness,-- "We have no time for such courtesies as farewells spoken or wafted from finger-tips. Our orders are to set forward with all speed and to be aboard the ketch before sunrise." "As you will. Poor little Peggy!" he murmured to himself. "So end all her plans of escape. On the whole I am glad. Now she will cease pestering me to save myself." "I fear," said the larger man, "that we must ask you to submit to having your arms bound. 'Tis an indignity we would gladly spare you, but the Governor's orders--" "Spare me at least your apologies. On with the ropes!" Five minutes later the door was flung open and the four men took the road. Neville in the lead with the tall stranger, Philpotts and the other following close behind. In his zeal to keep up with the great strides of Philpotts, the smaller man tripped over his sword and well-nigh fell down the steep pine-needle carpeted path slippery with hoar frost. The larger man looked back annoyed. Neville smiled at his discomfiture. "Faith, Brent despatched a boy to do a man's work. Were't not for Philpotts I could, an it pleased me, make short work of you and yonder stripling." "Ay, but it _is_ for Philpotts; moreover, yonder stripling is marvellous handy aboard the boat, as you will see when we shake out the sails." Neville spoke no more, but tramped along, looking well to his footsteps, for he too found the ground wet and slippery with its thin glazing of ice. The treacherous Southern winter was in one of its relenting moods, and the morning air, even now before the sun was fully risen, held a hint of spring. The green pines sent forth their sweet odor, and a bird fluttered up and flapped his bright wings full in Neville's face. It was a morning to give a man courage for meeting life or for leaving it. Neville had faced danger and death too often to be wholly absorbed in his own fate, and now interwoven with his dull web of despair was a bright thread of enjoyment of the scene around him. Never will any romancer truly tell the story of a man's inner life till he takes cognizance of the many trains of thought, gay and sombre, that can slide on side by side, neither wholly filling nor dominating the mind. The tingling air, the slant sunshine, and the sense of unknown adventure awaiting him raised Neville's spirits, so that as a turn of the path brought the ketch in sight he found himself humming the refrain of a song,--a song he had first heard rippling from the lips of Elinor Calvert, oh, how many years ago, among the green fields of Somerset,-- "Greensleeves was all my joy, Greensleeves was my delight, Greensleeves was my heart of gold, Who but Lady Greensleeves?" The words called up a vision of Elinor as he had seen her at eighteen tripping along the forest paths of the Somerset woods, her robe as green as Maid Marian's and her floating sleeves catching ever and anon on bush or briar,--a blessed chance which gave her lover opportunity to bend over it and touch it with his lips whilst disentangling it slowly--oh, so slowly! And again he saw her in a dress of a similar fashion there in the hall of St. Gabriel's, and again she smiled upon him, and those warm slender fingers rested in his, and those perfect eyes unveiled their tender depths before his gaze. To have come so near and then to have lost--oh, it was unbearable!--and he kicked viciously at the innocent root of a tree in his path. As the last words left his lips, his mood sank to despair again. "Look alive there, sir! Jump aboard, Philpotts, and loosen that forward sheet! Sir Christopher, step on that board and you'll reach the stern easy! That's your seat by the helm." "You are shivering," said the younger man, who had scarcely spoken till now. "Take my cloak." "No, no," reproved his elder, "not too much softness to the Governor's prisoner! He'll do very well for a while yet with his jerkin and doublet. Come on! we need your help there forward." "Let me thank you for the intention at least before you go," said Neville, ignoring the churlish speech of the older man and addressing himself to the one in purple. "A kind word may carry more warmth than a purple cloak." Then he sank back, gazing out over the water, while the sails were raised and the ropes cast off from the wharf, which slowly receded as the bright sunrise-tinted water slipped along the keel, and the brisk little waves slapped the side of the ketch as if daring her to a game of tag. They were out in the river now. The Potomac spread far to the southward as far as eye could reach, with vague hints of low hills so near the hue of the water that one could scarce tell where water ended and land began, or where the land again slipped into the misty blueness of the western sky. Neville strained his eyes to catch sight of a particular point as they passed it,--a point rising a little from the water and crowned with a thick growth of primeval forest. There lay Robin Hood's Barn, and the wide acres of Cecil's Manor stretched peacefully along the river just where it widened into the bay. There is a peculiar irony in watching in our unhappiness the scenes associated with hours of hope and joy. Neville smiled bitterly as he contrasted what might have been with what was. Then he reproached himself for a coward and a faint heart that was ready to yield to the first buffet of Fate. He resolved to turn his mind from gloomy thoughts and find comfort in the cheerfulness around him. The ketch was running free with all sails spread and looked like a big white bird skimming the surface. It was a sight to cheer the heart of the most downcast, but more cheering still was the smell of breakfast a-cooking in the cabin, and right willingly did Neville respond to the call and seat himself at the rude board in the tiny cabin, which, rude as it was, proved a welcome shelter from the fresh wind blowing outside. "I reckon," he said, looking with a smile at his captors, "that I am to be allowed the freedom of my arms while eating unless ye do intend to feed me with a pap spoon like an infant." "All in good time, Sir Christopher." It seemed to be always the tall man who spoke. "Curse his ready tongue! Why will he never give the other fellow a chance?" thought Neville, but held his peace while the spokesman continued,-- "Before we remove the rope we want your oath to two things. First, that you will make no effort to escape. Second, that you will cheerfully obey our orders and those, whatever they may be, in this sealed paper." "A largish contract; but for the first I can well afford to promise, since having put aside the chance of escape when 'twas easy, I am not like to undertake it now 'tis become well-nigh impossible. I'm neither whale nor Jonah that I should set out to swim a matter of a dozen miles to land; and as for running away, I am bound to see this trial to a finish and try what Maryland law for Protestants is." Here Philpotts was guilty of the indiscretion of sighing. Neville, fearing he would show himself too much the prisoner's friend for his own good, turned upon him with simulated fierceness. "Sirrah, I will have none of your officious sighing as if I were already as good as a dead man. Keep your breath to cool your porridge. When I want it I'll ask for it. "Now," turning again to his interlocutor, "as for the second clause, you ask a trifle too much. As much of your will as I must obey I shall, and with three against one to enforce it that share seems likely to be well-nigh the whole; but as to the cheerfulness with which I meet it, that must needs depend on God and my own mind. But make haste ere those cakes be cold to unbind me and let me have at them!" "Are you satisfied with the prisoner's promise?" The other two men nodded, and Philpotts went on deck again. The stripling began in a trice to undo the ropes which bound Neville, whereupon he fell to and made as hearty a breakfast as ever he laid in on firm land with high hopes and bright prospects. When they were come out of the cabin again, he noticed that the boat had changed her course and was running with a beam wind. "Why, how's this?" he asked of Philpotts as he took his seat once more by the stern. "Surely this ketch is not laying her course for St. Mary's." "Do not ask me, sir! I'm not the captain of this infernal ketch. In truth, I'm no sailor at all, and would be right glad if I could be set ashore this minute." Neville could have laughed as he saw the green and yellow melancholy that too surely tells the story of coming sea-sickness, but pity ruled and he said sympathetically, "Go you below, and I'll keep the helm till you have braced your insides with some hot meat and drink." "How's this?" cried the tall man, coming on deck just as Neville reached for the tiller. "Mutiny already! Troth, I have a pair of irons below, and you shall be clapped in them if I see you move toward the tiller again. Philpotts, give me the helm and go below!" Neville shrugged his shoulders, but refrained from speech. He withdrew his outstretched hand, pulled his hat over his eyes, and sat gazing over the sail at the blue distance which seemed of a sudden peopled with all the friends of a lifetime. He could see his father and mother seated by the great stone fireplace at Frome Hall, the Irish setter with his head on his master's knee. Yes, and there in her own little chair, the tiny Peggy, with rebellious curls shaken back every now and again from the bright eyes beneath them, and then the quick lighting up of the face, the leaning forward of the little figure as Christopher himself entered the room with his game-bag over his shoulder, the eager peep into the bag, and the jumping up and down with delight as she counted the tale of the day's success. Perhaps he had scarcely realized in those days how much that little sister's adoring love had meant to him. But now it all came back with a swift stab. Oh, to take her in his arms once more, to tell her how he felt to the heart's core her loyalty and devotion! Why do these impulses so often come too late to all of us? As Neville withdrew his gaze from the water to the deck, the hallucination of familiar figures followed him. There close at his elbow was the dear round face with its roguish dimples and mischievous eyes, not cast down and swollen with crying as he had seen them last, but full of life and light, and her dear voice was murmuring in his ear,-- "Kit, my darling brother, I am here. Are you glad?" Neville brushed his arm across his eyes: the figure was too real. It savored of madness, but it would not move. When he opened his eyes again, there it stood, more solid than ever, but now the tears were rising in the eyes, and the hands were stretched out softly toward him. "Where am I? What does it mean?" Christopher murmured. "It means," said the senior escort, removing his hat, and revealing the dark curls of Romney Huntoon, "that we have decided upon a change of venue for your case, and have arranged to remove the jurisdiction to Romney Hall, York County, Virginia." "Bless my soul!" cried Philpotts, from the companionway; "he's told him, the mean devil, and me not there to see the fun--me, that's beaten any play actor in the old country at deceiving tricks. Sir Christopher, the Captain and crew of the ketch _Lady Betty_ are at your service, and it's no more of prison bars we'll hear after we touch Protestant Virginia." "Peggy, Peggy, what have you done?" exclaimed her brother, bending over her brown head as it lay on his breast, as she knelt close beside him. "Done? We have saved you from prison, to be sure. He and I and good Master Philpotts, that we thought to outwit and found full ready to help us. And this is Master Huntoon's boat all ready loaded for Romney. He brought it round yesterday from St. Mary's. He's rather clever, that Master Huntoon, though he keeps his wits mostly for great occasions." "Vastly clever of you all three, and vastly dull of me to be your dupe! I thank you all heartily; and now will you please put your helm about, and head the ketch for St. Mary's with what speed you may?" "Christopher!" exclaimed Peggy, in such a heart-broken voice that her brother clasped her closer than ever as he said,-- "Indeed, indeed, I appreciate what you have all done, and risked for me, but I cannot run away." "Then you care nothing for me compared with your flimsy honor." "Nay, 'tis partly that I care so much for you that I must have a care of this flimsy honor, which is yours as well as mine. Philpotts, will you kindly put about that helm?" Philpotts made a motion to obey; but Huntoon stopped him with a movement of his hand. "Listen, Sir Christopher, I pray you," he said. "Of course I am a younger man, and you may resent my counselling you; but remember, I love your sister, and her honor and yours are no less dear to me than to you. I see the situation more clearly as a looker-on, and this is how it looks to me. There is no hope here and now of a fair trial. The Catholics are hot for the punishment of the murderer of a priest, and Calvert and Brent have already angered them by the leniency they have shown to Protestants. Give the matter but time to cool, and make sure of a fair hearing. That is all I ask." Neville sat silent with his head bowed on his hands for an instant, then he spoke low but firmly,-- "Go! I must have time to think. Go you all below and give me the helm! When I have made up my mind, I will summon you, and my decision must stand. You, Huntoon, must give me back the oath I swore to obey you. This matter touches none so close as me, and in my hands it must be left. Go!" Slowly and dejectedly the three conspirators crept into the cabin. There Romney and Peggy sat silent and expectant for what seemed an eternity. Ropes creaked, sails flapped on deck. Who could say what was passing? At length they heard a cheerful call of "All hands on deck!" They rushed up the companionway and saw Christopher standing at the helm, his hair blown back and his hand grasping the helm, the tiller pushed far to port, and the ketch standing for St. Mary's. CHAPTER XIV IN WHICH FATE TAKES THE HELM AS the three conspirators emerged from the companionway one after another, they made a forlorn picture of disappointment, so chapfallen were the faces of all. Philpotts stood still, his shaggy eyebrows drawn into a frown, and under them a pair of eyes that threatened resistance. 'Twas as if Sancho Panza had come to the end of his patience with Don Quixote, and thought it time that common-sense took control for the good of all concerned. Romney twisted his cap and looked at Peggy, who bit her lips to keep back the tears which, in spite of her will, were gathering in her eyes, and standing large on the fringe of her lashes. As Christopher watched her, he felt his courage ebbing so fast that he must either yield or smile. He chose the latter. "Troth," cried he, "'tis as though you were condemned criminals and I the judge. For having connived at the escape of a prisoner, I do sentence you to a happy life forever after, but in the present case to be balked of your good intent. Wherefore I am bound for St. Mary's, there to surrender myself to Sheriff Ellyson; but 'tis no part of my plan to give you up too. So if you are minded to risk the trip across the bay without yonder shallop bobbing along behind us like an empty cork, I'll e'en borrow it, when we are within a mile of the town and then--" here he paused and swallowed hard for a minute, "then, tried friends and true, we'll say good-bye for a while and you must continue on your way." "Let them go, then, since thou wilt have it so, and we will make our way safe to St. Mary's, thou and I." It was Peggy who spoke, coming close to her brother and looking up at him with unwavering love in her eyes. "Nay, nay, little sister," said Christopher, gathering her soft hand into his. "That will not content me neither. Thou art well-nigh a part of myself, and it will content me much, whate'er betides, to feel that one part at least is happy. I will not have thee go back where thou must be made wretched by hearing hard words of thy brother, and be looked down upon by all. Huntoon, thou hast in right manful fashion declared thy love for my sister Margaret here. I venture not to give her answer. That must thou win from her thyself, and perchance 'tis not yet ready for the giving; but I trust her in thy keeping. Take her back to thy mother! She will, I know, receive her tenderly, for I am familiar with the repute of Mistress Huntoon's hospitality." Huntoon came swiftly forward and grasped Neville's other hand, which released its hold on the tiller as Philpotts took the helm. Tears stood in the lad's eyes. "Be sure," he said, "that your sister shall be treated with that love and reverence which are her due, nor shall she be hurried to any decision she might after regret. To my mother she will be dear as a daughter of her own." Men are prone to believe in a family welcome to their loves as warm as their own. It does not always fall out according to expectation, but Romney Huntoon knew his mother's heart, which was soft to a folly, especially to young and unhappy lovers; she herself having suffered much, 'twas said, in her youth. "'Tis well," said Neville, clasping Huntoon's hand on his right almost as firmly as he held his sister's on the other side. "Thou art a man after my own heart; and if thou dost win this little sister of mine, be tender, be gentle to her whimsies, of which she hath a full assortment; but keep the whip hand, my friend, keep the whip hand! And now one more charge I pray thee accept for my sake. This good Master Philpotts,--he is not made for a roving life, as his sea-sickness but now did bear witness, yet hath he without a murmur left farm and implements and all means of earning a livelihood to help me out of this hard place." "Yes, and if thou wert a wiser man, thou wouldst stay helped and not go throwing thyself back into the pit from which we ha' digged you." "Have thy fling, good friend Philpotts! Having never laid claim to wisdom, I am not over-sensitive to the charge of lacking it; but what I would say to Master Huntoon was this, that if my lands at home in England be not confiscate, I do intend them as a dowry for my sister. I would counsel that they be sold and land taken up in Virginia, where Philpotts may have a farm and implements as many as he left and whatsoever more is needed." Philpotts tried to speak, but could not. The tears choked him. He gulped and bent over the tiller. Peggy, too, was crying hard, and Huntoon sat with steady gaze fixed upon Christopher. The silence that fell upon the little group continued long. So much must be said if that silence were once broken! So bowed down were their hearts that it seemed quite natural that the sunshine should fade out of the sky and a universal grayness slowly spread itself over the sea. Philpotts was first to speak. "Look yonder, Captain!" he said, pointing Huntoon to the eastward; "is that yonder Watkins Point or a bank of fog?" "That's the Point. No, it cannot be the Point either,--'tis too far south for that; besides, it looms as we look. It is drawing nearer, and the fogs do drift in with marvellous quickness in these waters. Give _me_ the helm!" "'Tis unlucky," murmured Neville, "for 'tis not the easiest thing in the world in the brightest weather to make one's way past all these headlands, they are so much alike. What's that craft yonder by the wooded point?" Huntoon made a glass of his two hands. "She hath the look of a packet sloop outward bound, somewhat heavy laden too, for she lies low in the water and goes slowly with a fair wind." "How far away is she?" "A matter of a mile, I should say." "Ay," put in Philpotts, "and she hath seen the fog too, and is setting all sail to make what way she can before it strikes her." The air grew colder as the sky clouded, and Huntoon brought Peggy's red cape from below and wrapped it close about her. She thanked him with a smile that he thought the sweetest and the saddest thing he had ever seen. The fog was closing in on them now, and the wind dropped before it. The rail dripped with the chill dampness, and the sails flapped heavily as they swung over the deck whenever the vessel changed her course. "Peggy dear, wilt thou not go below and keep warm?" said Christopher's voice. "Nay, let me stay by thee whilst I can; and, Kit, if I obey thee in this, mind, 'tis only that I may help thee more. Romney--Master Huntoon--hath friends in the colony who are sure to sift this matter to the last. And it will go hard but we find some way to bring thee aid and comfort yet." "Philpotts, can you see how we are heading?" "No, faith, Master Huntoon, no more than if I were blindfold. The wind is dead ahead now; but whether it hath shifted or the boat hath run off its course, I know not." "Hearken!" cried Peggy, putting her hand to her ear. "Did ye hear no noise? Methought I caught a sound as of a horn or a distant bell. Perchance 'twas the church bell ringing for noonday prayers. I heard them telling of some saint's day celebrated to-day." All the men stood listening. Neville rose and running along the deck climbed to the bowsprit to listen again. Suddenly he cried out at the top of his voice, "Boat ahoy! Ahoy there!" Too late! The three huddled together in the stern were aware of a large vessel looming up and up above them, rising with the rising wave, and then lunging forward full upon _The Lady Betty_. Huntoon clasped Peggy in his arms as though he could shield her thus from the inevitable crash. Philpotts dropped the helm and rushed forward to drag back Neville. Again too late. The two boats met with a shock. By good luck when Philpotts dropped the helm, _The Lady Betty_ had veered away from the larger vessel, so that the packet's bowsprit, having crashed against her, bumped along against the side, knocking away rail and stanchion, and staving a hole in her, deep and dangerous but not instantly fatal. For one instant all drew a breath of relief at the deadly peril passed. Then, to their dismay, they heard Philpotts crying out, "He's overboard! The bowsprit hit him!" "Overboard!" cried Peggy; "but he is a famous swimmer, surely he can reach the boat." Even as she spoke, something white rose to the surface and sank again, and Peggy knew it for Christopher's face with death in it, and but for Romney's strong arm around her, she, too, would have thrown herself into that cold grave. "Let me go to him!" she shrieked aloud in her anguish of soul. "O Kit! Dead! Dead!" The words seemed to fall dully on the surrounding wall of fog. No sound; not even an echo answered. Away to the right a single sail flitted ghostlike, showing no hull to support it. On the left close at hand loomed the packet which had wrought so much harm. Save for these the waters were bare of life, and the girl in the ketch sat looking with frozen gaze, as if she had seen the Gorgon's head, at that spot unmoved now by so much as a ripple, that silent grave which had opened and closed again over a life precious to her beyond aught else that earth held. As she gazed, she was seized by a sudden madness, following hard upon the stony stillness. "I will go! I will!" she screamed, struggling with Romney's grasp, which held like steel. She was as powerless in that clasp as a bird in a gauntleted hand. Of her sense of powerlessness a new emotion was born, a nameless quivering thing that nestled in the heart of her desolation and in that moment of deepest despair struck a peace. CHAPTER XV DIGITUS DEI Much ado there was at St. Gabriel's when it was found that the door of the tobacco-house stood open, and the prisoner was gone. All the more exasperating was it when it proved that there was no one to be blamed or held responsible, because the jailor was gone too. Each member of the household took the news of the escape differently. Cecil jumped for joy. Father White betook himself to solitude and prayer in his oratory. Mary Brent made few comments, but went about with her mouth pursed up as though she feared to relax the muscles lest they betray her into rash words. Her light lashes too were cast down and her eyes carefully discharged of all expression. Such silence has more power to irritate than reproaches or curses. Elinor felt this irritation so keenly that she could not stay in the house with her cousin, but took refuge in the woods beneath the calm sky, in that silence of Nature which holds only balm for wounded hearts. Brent too thought it well to give his sister a wide berth. His own irritation found vent in an honest volley of oaths directed impartially at himself and each member of the household except perhaps Ralph Ingle, to whom he turned for that comfort which a strong and autocratic nature finds in a pliant one. With such a man as Brent, to concur is to conquer. Ingle in return gave him sympathy and silence. Silences differ as widely as speech, and Ingle's silence was no more like that of Mary Brent than the calm of a sunny day is like the electric stillness preceding storm. Ingle's silence was full of delicate suggestions of assent, of a sympathy too subtle to be put into words, of comradeship and support to that self-esteem which just now felt itself sadly shaken. No wonder his company was desired! We succeed with others as we comprehend them. We value others as they comprehend us. Giles Brent was a man of action, and lost no time in locking and double barring the stable door after the horse was stolen. Two messengers he despatched to St. Mary's to learn, if they could, whether any news had reached the town of Neville's escape. The other available men he divided into parties of four, and sent them to scour the woods in all directions. Then, taking Ralph Ingle with him, he buckled on his sword, lifted two guns from the rack in the hall, and marched grimly down the little path to the wharf. "You have a keen eye, Ingle, and are a mariner born and bred. Therefore have I brought you with me, for it seems far likelier that Neville has made his escape by sea than by land. I will take the helm, and do you go before the mast and keep a sharp lookout for any small boat, especially one that may seem to hug the wooded points at the mouth of the river." Ingle ventured a few words by way of conversation, but found his companion in a taciturn mood and not to be drawn into conversation. Both men scanned every headland and inlet till their eyes ached, but with no success, till at length Ingle called out,-- "There's a ship yonder,--a packet, I should say, from the size and build of her." "Ay, for a guess 'tis Prescott's. I ordered him from St. Mary's yesterday for being too much hand in glove with that scapegrace brother of thine." A pained look crossed Ralph Ingle's face. "Forgive me!" said Brent, who had a soft heart under a quick temper. "Whatever may be said of your brother, I put trust in you, and here's my hand on 't." Ingle did not note the outstretched hand, for his eyes were fixed on something beyond the ship, a smaller boat making for St. Mary's. "Look!" he said, "to the right there, to the southward of Pine Point! Damnation, how the fog is shutting down!" Even as he spoke a film gathered between him and the two boats,--a film deepening into a thick veil and that into an impenetrable, impalpable wall of fog. Brent held his boat straight on her course. On, on, till once again he caught the outline of the packet looming close at hand. Then from the other side he heard a voice which he recognized as Neville's shouting "Boat ahoy!" Then a crash as if a sea monster had both boats and were grinding them between his teeth. A rebound, and then another crash, and above the noise the voice of Philpotts crying, "My God! He's gone!" and a woman's voice sobbing, "O Kit! Dead! Dead!" "Hard alee!" shouted Ingle to Brent. "Hard alee! or we shall be in the coil with the rest;" and running aft he threw his whole weight on the tiller just in time to shave the packet. They swept into open water, and the wind bore them away till once more the two boats looked like gray phantoms against the grayer sky. "Well done, Ingle! But for your quickness we should have been snarled up with the other boats. Next time we must come to them with more caution." "Why take the risk again? Death has been before us in claiming our prisoner." "Ay, but his jailor and the accomplices are yet to be reckoned with if Maryland justice is not to become a byword and a hissing." "Governor Brent," Ingle spoke in slow, reluctant tones, "did you chance to read the name of the larger packet as we passed?" "Nay, I was too much occupied with saving the skin of my own boat. Did you?" "I did." "And the name--" "Was _The Reformation_." "Ah!" "Yes, and I saw Dick aboard her striding up and down the deck in a fury, swearing like the cutthroat he is." "Yet shall he not hinder me from the performance of my duty. No man shall say that Giles Brent is a coward." "No fear that any man will ever say that. Let none have cause to say that the Lieutenant-General, Admiral, Chancellor, Keeper of the Great Seal, Chief Captain, Magistrate, and Commander of the Province forgot the sacredness of trust involved in all these offices and ran risks. Do not drive me to say what risks; but believe me when I say that I know my brother well, and I know he would stop at nothing,--even to the carrying off of an officer of the King. He is mad, fairly mad, over his treatment at St. Mary's yonder." Brent frowned, shook his head, and hesitated as if uncertain what course to pursue, then he gave the helm to Ingle entirely, saying,-- "You are right. It is hard to draw the line betwixt cowardice and caution; but in Calvert's absence I have no right to run risks." Still in the distance hovered the two phantom ships gray against the universal grayness, yet dimly discernible, the smaller boat settling lower and lower like some despairing animal feeling death near at hand yet struggling to the last. "It is the end," said Ralph Ingle. "The man is drowned, and his boat is sunk. Whatever he has done, he has made the fullest atonement man can make." "Yes," said Brent, uncovering his head. "I think that we have seen the end of this unhappy business. A life has been given for a life. The judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether." Ralph Ingle bowed his head as one too much moved for words. Silently they drifted shoreward and still silently clewed up the sail and tied the boat to the dock. Once more Brent held out his hand. "You have proved yourself a tried and trusty comrade this day, and if you have aught to ask of me, be sure I stand ready to grant it." "Nay, nay," said Ralph, with his frank smile, "'twere poor comradeship to begin with asking of favors; besides, there is naught in your gift that I crave unless--unless--" "Out with it, man!" "Well, then, your influence with your kinswoman, Mistress Elinor Calvert." Brent started. "I never dreamed of this," he said. "Nor I, on my faith, till I was so deep there was no turning back. She is one of those women that to love once is to love always. I would do anything for her,--sacrifice my life, nay, my soul itself,--but she is cold as the ice floating in yonder river." Giles Brent's face grew set and stern. "I can well believe it, for I fear 'tis not alone that she loves you not; but that her heart has been given to another and clings but the closer, the unworthier she finds him." "Then it _was_ Neville. I suspected as much. But now, surely now that he is dead, there may be a chance for me." "My friend, you little know Elinor Calvert. She has made this murderer into a saint, and she will burn candles to his memory and say masses for his soul while she lives." "Hush! is this not she coming down the path?" "Ay, go you round through the underbrush and leave me to tell her." So advised, Ingle took a short cut through the woods, and Brent, walking on alone, met Elinor face to face. "Good morrow, Cousin!" "Would it were a _good_ morrow, Giles! But that can scarce be till we are good ourselves and credulous of good in others." "I have no time to play with words. I am come from stern scenes that wring men's souls." Elinor turned pale. "Hast thou seen him?" "By _him_ signifying Christopher Neville, I doubt not. Now I might put thee off by saying I have not seen him, as in a sense I have not; yet I have been near him and in a way to know his fate, which, not to delay ill news in the telling, is death by drowning." Elinor answered not a word. She grew deadly white, bowed her head, and turning about began to walk toward the house. Brent would not have been surprised to see her swoon at his feet, but this unnatural calmness terrified him. "Whither art thou bound?" he asked, catching up with her. "To the manor-house--there to say a prayer for the soul of him that's gone, then to pack my belongings and Cecil's." "To _pack_?" "Ay, and to make ready for our departure to St. Mary's. There we will make our home till we can betake ourselves to Cecil Manor. The house of the Brents can never again be shelter for me or mine." "Elinor! Have I deserved this?" "Thou hast been a kind kinsman to me, Giles, and for the past I thank thee; but thou art a hard man, and my heart is bitter against thee for the part thou hast played in driving an innocent man to his death." "I drive the poltroon!" muttered Brent. "Was he not drowned in a cowardly attempt to escape from a trial he dared not face?" "No!" flamed Elinor. "Thou dost speak as one who knows. Perhaps thou hast information. How canst thou talk so bold?" "I talk so bold because I do know--alas! none better. I--I tempted him--the other night--I promised him aid and begged him to escape, and he would not. He scorned the cowardice and vowed he would stand his trial and abide by the result." "Some other must have had more influence with him, then, for there was a woman's voice in the boat when he sank." "Bless her!" cried Elinor, "whoever she was, that did plan his safety--but hold. I know who it was,--his sister Peggy,--who, as we thought, went back to St. Mary's yesterday; whether he be taken with or against his will, she is with him. God has been kind to her, but she deserved it, for she was stanch and true. She has her deserts, and I had mine. 'Twas God's truth she spoke when she told me I had been false, and vowed she never wished to see my face again. I know how she felt, for I feel it now toward thee. Ay, stand back, Giles, and hear my vow: Never again after this day will I hold converse with thee or remember that there is a bond of kinship between us till thou shalt kneel as I have knelt in contrition and shame for the part thou hast played." "These are wild vows, Elinor, and will be repented when thou dost consider them. I would be well-nigh as glad as thou to see Christopher Neville acquitted of the charge of this terrible crime. To say truth, against all the evidence, against reason itself, I cherished faint hope that something might be unearthed even yet to show us that we had all been mistaken, but now that he hath skulked away under cover of darkness--why, 'tis the same as a confession." "Ay, and for that reason he has never done it. Never--_never_--_never_! 'Tis not in his nature, not near so much as to have done the murder of which he stands accused. Giles, 'tis but a little while since thou didst urge my taking Christopher Neville for my tenant yonder at Cecil Manor; and why? Because, thou saidst, he was the boldest and the truest and the faithfullest man in Maryland. So he was and is. Thinkst thou a man's soul is changed in a day or two days or a week? Fie! thou hast not enough knowledge of human nature to be ruler of a county, much less a commonwealth." Brent drew his brows together impatiently. "'Tis all very well to rail like that, but it proves nothing. He is gone. That is a fact not to be gainsaid. What is it, then, but jail-breaking?" "Ay, but he may not have gone of his free will." "A likely story. Who, then, hath taken him by force?" "How do I know? Some that have reason to profit by his accusation, yet fear to press the trial to the end. Perchance the fathers of St. Inigo's." Giles Brent was furious, all the more that the same possibility had been floating dimly in his own mind. He answered coldly,-- "Since thou art so lost to all sense of dignity and decency in the cause of thy lover as to accuse Holy Church herself rather than admit what one who runs may read, that he hath done a dastardly deed and then hath run away to escape the consequences, why, I will waste neither argument nor entreaty, but when the day comes that all is made clear, thou wilt have a heavy account to settle." "I know not how it may be in the future of this world, Giles; but when the day comes that the secrets of all hearts are laid open, I feel sure as that I stand here that Christopher Neville will have naught to fear. For myself my shame will be that I loved not too much, but too little. To love cautiously is not to love at all. For thee, thy punishment--the hardest, I believe, for a just man--shall be to see too late the wrong thou hast done; the friendship lightest held where it should have been strongest, the faith withheld where the hand should have been outstretched in aid, the life sacrificed that should have been a bulwark to the state,--all this will be laid at thy door--" Then,--with a sudden break,--"God forgive me! What a hypocrite I am! My sin is heavier than thine. I knew him, I loved him, and I failed him. Death holds no bitterness like this." Without another word she turned and left him. Brent fell back, awed by the force of her passion, and stood still watching her as she swept on, a tall vision of Nemesis, vague and gray in the mist that clung about the long folds of her cloak. On she walked, slowly at first, then faster and faster till she was almost running. At the third bend of the path a man slipped out from behind the twisted pine, and fell in with her step so naturally that she was scarcely conscious of his companionship. There was a softness in Ralph Ingle's silence, a soothing quality in his sympathy that made itself felt. Elinor's gait slowed, and she removed the hands that had been pressed to her temples, as if to quiet the intolerable throbbing pain. "Pity me!"--Ralph Ingle spoke low. "I pity thee! Have I room in my heart for pity of any save myself?" "Thou shouldst have for one more miserable than thou." "That cannot be; and why shouldst thou need pity?" "Because thou art sorrowful, and I can give thee no help. Is not that reason enough?" Elinor stopped and looked at him with wide, half-seeing eyes, striving to force herself to put aside her own trouble enough to realize that of another. "Do not!" she cried, stretching out defensive hands, "do not tell me that I have made someone else wretched too! My life seems destined to be a calamity to all who fall within its fateful shadow." "No; speak no such sad words," cried Ingle, falling on his knees before her. "To me your presence has been pure sunshine; but were life all shadow, I would rather live under the clouds with thee than in the light of heaven itself without thee." "Forgive me!" answered Elinor, wearily, brushing her hand across her eyes. "It is idle to talk thus. I loved--I love--Christopher Neville, and I cannot listen to any other." "My words were untimely; I spoke too soon." "Nay, for me there is no time any more,--only a waiting for eternity." "Think a moment, Elinor! I must call thee so once if nevermore. Wilt thou in good earnest condemn me to despair?" "I condemn no one. If despair be thy portion, thou must needs drink the cup as I am draining mine. Farewell!" "Farewell, then, Elinor Calvert! And on thy head be my soul's ruin, and all that may befall me or thee hereafter!" So absorbed in her own grief was Elinor that her ear scarcely caught his words, nor did her mind take note of his wild look and manner as he flung away into the forest. She quickened her pace and saw with relief the walls of the manor-house rising between the trees. A few more paces and she would reach the house, then if Fate were kind, her room, and then she could at least be alone with her despair; but no, she thought bitterly, even this poor comfort was to be denied her, for, as she drew near the house, she saw Father White standing in the doorway. She would have swerved from the path and sought entrance through the side room, but it was too late; she had been seen. Father White moved toward her like some strong merciful angel, holding healing and benediction in his outstretched hands. "My daughter, thou art ill." "Ay, Father, so ill that I must needs with all speed seek rest in my chamber." "Is it indeed illness, or grief?" "They are much alike." "Ay, but they may need differing treatment." "Rest and solitude are best for both." "Nay, for bodily sickness thou hast need of a physician of the body, and for soul sickness of a physician of the soul." "Father," said Elinor, sinking on her knees before him, "I am past all help of medicine for body or soul--_He is dead!_" The old priest raised his eyes to heaven, murmuring to himself, "_Digitus Dei est hic._--Yes," he added slowly, "surely it is the finger of God himself, and it is the Lord who has spoken." Aloud he said: "I know how troubles such as thine shake the soul till there is no power left to seek aid. Then the Lord sends the help the sufferer is too weak to reach out a hand for. If thou shouldst probe this wound of thine, thou wouldst find that its deepest hurt lay not in what hath befallen without, but from that which hath gone wrong within." "'Tis God's truth thou speakest." "There lies no help in man." "None! None!" "Then look above! Oh, my daughter, hast thou not before found comfort at the confessional, at the foot of the altar? Listen: I am a priest of God and charged with power to absolve sin and declare His pardon to weary, struggling souls like thine." With a wild cry Elinor threw up her arms above her head. "Talk not to me of God's pardon! Will that bring Christopher Neville to life? Will that save his poor heart one of the pangs my distrust dealt, or his faithful soul one hour of the weary years my cold disdain cost him? Nay, Father, save pardon and penance for those who can still use them! I tell you, it is _I_ who cannot forgive _myself_,--_I_!" CHAPTER XVI LIFE OR DEATH "Hold her, Philpotts! Dead or alive, I must find _him_." With these words, as Philpotts laid his controlling hand on Peggy's wrist, Huntoon threw off his coat, kicked away his boots, and springing to the taff-rail, plunged into the icy water. As he plunged, the body rose again, this time further away from the boat, and Huntoon struck out towards it. Peggy shut her eyes and prayed. One minute--two--three--went by. Then with fear and trembling, white as the sea-gull that wheeled above her head, the girl opened her eyes once more, and strained them toward the spot where Huntoon had plunged. Not there; so he too had gone. No, that dark object to the right must be his head; now she could see one strong arm cleaving the water, and surely, surely he was holding some person, some _thing_ with the other. Yes, and now he is calling for a rope. Oh, fool, fool! not to have thought of that! She turned to the cabin; but Philpotts was before her. He dashed down the companionway, and reappeared with a coil of rope in his hand. Bracing himself against the mast, he flung the coil with all his might. It flew straight as an arrow and fell within reach of Huntoon's free hand. "Bravo! Well done!" came from the crew of the packet, which had come about and stood by to render what help might be needed. Philpotts, having made sure that his rope had carried, made the other end fast to a cleat, and then as Huntoon passed his end around Neville's body, Philpotts and Peggy drew it in hand over hand, till the two in the water, the swimmer and his burden, were brought close to the boat. Philpotts leaped into the shallop, brought it round, and together he and Huntoon succeeded in lifting Neville's body into it. Huntoon's teeth were chattering, and his limbs shaking with cold; but he gave no heed to himself. "An ugly blow!" he muttered, looking at the great round swelling above the temple where the blood was already settling black. "Brandy, Philpotts, quick--from my flask in the cabin!" and falling on his knees in the shallop, he began to chafe Neville's icy hands. At the same time he called aloud to the sailors on the packet to send their small boat to make examination of _The Lady Betty_, to take off the young lady if the danger were imminent, and to lend a hand at saving the cargo. He and Philpotts rowed the shallop to the packet, and lifted Neville with the sailors' help to the deck of the larger vessel. Then, and not till then, he looked about for the captain who stood facing him, and behold it was--_Richard Ingle_! The best gift of the gods is prudence; the next best audacity. Romney Huntoon was handsomely dowered with the latter commodity, and he invoked it now in his awkward predicament. Walking up to Ingle with a smile, he stretched out his hand. "You and I are quits," he said; "I did you a bad turn yonder at St. Mary's. You have done me a bad turn now by sinking my boat. Shall we wipe the slate and begin again?" Huntoon's opening was happily chosen. Had he apologized, all would have been lost; but the freebooter was pleased with the boy's boldness. Yet that alone would scarcely have won the day. It was the bright eyes of Peggy Neville that lent a certain civility to his surly voice. "If I'd known whose boat we were running down, I'd never ha' given myself the trouble to come about, for I could ha' seen you go down with her in great comfort; but since ye chanced to have this young lady aboard, I'm not sorry things fell out as they did. But that's as far as I'll go. And as for your cargo yonder, I warn you that all we save of that goes to Ingle and Company, to make good the damage to _The Reformation_." "A bit of paint--" began Huntoon, and then turned his back and stood looking over the rail, watching the death-struggle of _The Lady Betty_. The little vessel rolled first this way and then that, shipping water in her hold at every turn. There is a solemnity in watching a sinking ship akin to that of standing by a death-bed. As Huntoon looked, a wave of memories swept over him. He recalled the first journey he had taken aboard her, the pride of setting out with his father, the smell of tar on the ropes, as the sailors cast them loose, and the anxious face of his mother as she stood on the pier to wave a farewell. With this thought of his father and mother came the wonder how this disaster would strike them. He dreaded their consternation at the loss, but he felt sure of their sympathy. Blessed is the son who holds to that, let come what may. Meanwhile, Neville lay on the packet's deck, pale as death, with eyelids closed, and only the faint beating of his heart giving evidence that he still lived. Peggy sat beside him, holding sal volatile to his nostrils. The sailors stood around in a sympathetic circle, their Monmouth caps doffed, though the winter air was searching. None doubted that they were in the face of death, and the roughest sailor grows reverent in that august presence. At length, however, the lowered lids quivered and lifted themselves first a crack, then wider and wider till the eyes--those long steel-gray eyes--rested with full recognition on Huntoon and Philpotts. His lips moved, and formed one half-audible word, "St. Mary's!" Huntoon looked questioningly at Ingle who answered as if he had spoken,-- "No, by the Lord! and any one who suggests turning about for so much as a mile, will be spitted like a pigeon on my sword here and flung into the sea." "As you will," said Huntoon, coolly. "So far as I know, none has suggested it save this man who is raving in delirium from the cut in his head. For my part, I had far rather he did not get his wish, for we have but just saved him from Brent's clutches." "How's that? I thought they were as thick as thieves." "So they were; but time brings strange revenges. It was after you did set sail that the priest was murdered at St. Gabriel's." "I'm right glad to hear of it whenever one of those black crows is put out of the way. No word of it reached me, though I have been hanging about the river here waiting for cargo." "That means spying on the land," Huntoon thought to himself, but aloud he said,-- "Well, so it has fallen out, and because he had Neville's knife in his breast, the Governor will have it that it was Neville did the murder. He was hot for punishment, and will be sore angered when he finds his prey has slipped through his fingers." This was shrewdly spoken. To spite Giles Brent, Ingle would have taken much trouble; but his suspicions were not yet set at rest. "Then what for should Neville want to go to St. Mary's?" "'Tis a strange affection he hath. You would call it folly; some folks call it honor." Richard Ingle colored, and Huntoon hastened to change the subject: "Now, Captain Ingle, I have a proposition to make: In regard to the salvage of my cargo belonging to your crew, there might be two opinions; and if you took it without my leave, there might be awkward questions for you to settle when next you come to Virginia; but I'll agree that you may have it as ferryage if you'll take us four and our crew to Romney on the York River, which doubtless lies off your course." "S' let it be!" growled Ingle, adding under his breath, "Damn the fool! I was going that way anyhow to have talk with Claiborne. "Turn to, men! Have out the boats, and save what we can from yonder ketch, for by all the signs she will not last half an hour." Romney had no heart to watch the men at work nor the oars flashing over the water. He turned instead to where Neville lay. "He'll catch his death lying here in the cold," he said; "let us carry him below, Philpotts!" "Ay," said Ingle, carelessly, "ye may lay him in the cabin next mine, and the third and last cabin I'll have made ready for Mistress Neville. You're to be queen o' the ship while you're aboard," he added, turning to Peggy; "and when you land you shall have the salute of five guns I promised you at St. Mary's." Peggy thanked the Captain with gracious courtesy, but Romney glowered and made as if to speak, then thought better of it, and lifting Neville with the help of Philpotts bore him down into the cabin, where they chafed feet and hands with brandy and wrapped the cold form in hot blankets. To Huntoon's strained sense it seemed hours, though it was only minutes, before the rapid tread of feet on the deck, the creaking of ropes, and the flapping of sails gave notice that _The Reformation_ was once more under way. Hurrying on deck, he was just in time to see _The Lady Betty_ rise for the last time on the crest of the wave, and then, with a final shiver, plunge downward in five fathoms of water. Tears rose to his eyes and a ball that seemed as big as an apple stuck in his throat; but he gulped it down and began to pace the deck with a manner as indifferent as he could make it. "There's ship's biscuit and hot stuff in the cabin," said Ingle. "You'd best come below and have some. You look as though you'd fasted near long enough." It was the first time the thought of food had crossed Huntoon's mind, but he realized now that it was well on towards nightfall and he had not broken fast since seven in the morning. Yet when he was seated at the table despite his hunger he could scarce eat. Two things choked him: first, the thought of _The Lady Betty_ lying on the sand five fathoms under water and her cargo on this pirate's deck; and afterward, when he had conquered this bitterness and looked up, the anger in his heart at sight of the ogling attention Richard Ingle was bestowing upon Peggy Neville. The girl herself was more than a little frightened, but she held her head high. "Had I known we were to have a lady aboard, I had had the cabin decorated." "Bare walls go best with a sad heart, Captain Ingle." "Fill your goblet again and down with the Madeira!" "None for me, I thank you." "Ho! ho! I see you are jealous. Wine and woman, the old saw says, make fools of all men. So belike you care not to take your rival to your heart." "I crave your permission to withdraw." "Ah, do those bright eyes feel the weight of sleep so early?" Peggy bowed. "Then must we do without them, though 'tis like turning out the light in the ship's lantern. Your cabin, you know, lies between your brother's and mine." "I shall sit with my brother the night." "And you so overcome with drowsiness," mocked Ingle. Huntoon started up; but Peggy checked him: "Master Huntoon, will you take me to my brother? I will detain him but a moment, Captain Ingle, and I thank you for your courtesy." It might have been a court lady who swept past Ingle to take Huntoon's arm; but it was a trembling and much frightened little maid who entered Neville's cabin. "Will you do something for me?" "Anything." "I don't know how to say it." "I know. You fear Ingle." "I do." "And would like to have me sleep outside the door here." "No; that would make him angry, and we are all in his power." "I fear you speak only the truth." "But there is a way." "What?" "Keep him talking all night." "I will try, and, Peggy, if worst comes to worst--" "I know, and I trust you; but now hasten back." So he left her. When Huntoon returned to the table, Ingle poured him out a huge bumper of Madeira and another for himself, though his flushed cheeks and glazed eyes showed that he had little need of more. Then leaving his seat he went to the little locker at the end of the cabin, and drawing out two carefully preserved treasures set them down with a thump on the table. "Do ye know what those are?" "Drinking cups," said Huntoon, but he shuddered. "Ay, drinking cups of a rare make. The last voyage but one of _The Reformation_ we fell in with a ship and would have boarded her peaceably, as the crew were for letting us, but the captain and mate made a fight for it and cost me two of our best men. So angered was I by their obstinacy, I vowed if we won I'd have their skulls made into drinking cups, and here they are with the silver rims round 'em fashioned by a smith on board from a roll of silver on the ship. See, I'll take the captain, and you shall drink from the mate. Now give us a toast." Huntoon paled and his heart thumped against his ribs, but he kept saying to himself, "Yes, Peggy, I will do it. I promised you, and I must not fail." At length, grasping the ghastly cup, he raised it and in a voice of strained gayety cried out,-- "Here's to _The Reformation_! She's a gallant vessel, as this day's work has proved." "Ay, that she is, and fit to gladden the heart of any sailor in Christendom." "Were you bred to the sea?" "Not I." "That's strange. You walk the deck as if you had had sea legs on since you gave up going on all fours." "Ay, but that comes of natural bent and brains. Give a man brains enough and he can be anything from an admiral to a bishop. Now there was a time when I had thoughts of being a bishop myself." "You?" "Oh, you may smile, and I own there's not much in the cut of my jib to suggest its being made of the cloth, and this ring I wear being taken from the finger of a corpse in a merchantman would scarce do duty for the Episcopal symbol; but for all that I speak truth." "And what changed your purpose?" "What always changes a man's purpose? A woman. Here, pass over that Madeira. Do you know, I have more than half a mind to tell you the whole story." "Should I not feel honored by the confidence?" "Well you may, for I've never yet told it to any one; but the sight of that girl and you in love with her--oh, never mind coloring up like that. I knew it the moment you set foot on the ship--the sight of you two, I say, brings it all back." "You were in love once?" "Ay, that I was, as deep as you or any other fool." "Was the girl English?" "Ay, and a tall, straight, handsome girl as ever you saw, in those days,--far handsomer than her sister, who is and always was a weakling, with no more expression than a basin of hasty pudding." "She is living, then?" For answer Ingle pointed with his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of Kent Fort. "Here, in Maryland?" Ingle lurched half way across the table, and putting his hand to the side of his mouth whispered a name. "No!" exclaimed Huntoon. "Ay!" then jealously, "Perhaps you think she's too good for me?" Huntoon thought it prudent to evade the question by another. "Did you ever tell your love?" "I tried to, and more than once, but I could never get her to listen. Curse the pride of those Brents!" "They _are_ proud," Huntoon assented. "Ay, and Margaret proudest of all. Why, when I wrote her she sent back the letter, saying she could not read it for the spelling, and that I would be the better for a twelvemonth more of schooling. And when I spoke to her she bade me shut my mouth. And when I held her wrist and would make her listen, she said I was no gentleman." "But how were you on the road to a bishop's see? Not surely by writing of misspelled letters and holding of ladies' hands against their wills." "No, but in spite of it, for I had influence and the Archbishop was a friend of my father's, and I had his promise of preferment, which was good for its face value in those days, and I might have risen to anything; but when Margaret Brent cast scorn at me like that it maddened me--and what was she to hold herself above me? What are the Calverts themselves? Why, Leonard Calvert's grandfather was a grazier, and Leonard himself was a dolt when we were at school together." Huntoon, not seeing exactly what answer was expected, wisely attempted none, but made a feint of helping himself from the jug at his elbow, and then shoved it across the table. Ingle shook it and finding it still heavy, set it down with a contented thump. "Bide you there, my beauty!" he said jovially, "till I'm ready for you. I'll have you yet. Yes, and Margaret Brent too, for all her fine-lady airs. Who ever heard of the Brents till they sprang up like mushrooms in this new world? While the Ingles--my grandfather did oft tell me how all England took its name from them." "Faith!" said Huntoon to himself, "your spelling is not much improved since the days when you wrote Mistress Brent." Aloud he said, "And did the disappointment drive you out of England, the country named after your forefathers?" "It did," answered Ingle, with a hiccough, and fell into drunken weeping, "but perhaps I might have lost my head if I'd tarried, so maybe 'tis all for the best, and the life o' the sea is a merry one; but I've never forgotten nor forgiven, and for Margaret Brent's sake I've sworn an oath to make a hell of Maryland to all her kith and kin." With this Ingle came to himself a little and feared the confidences he was making this stranger in his cups might have gone too far, so he burst into tipsy laughter and shook the jug, which was made of leather, and then poured its contents to the last dregs into his silver-rimmed skull, and finally waving it above his head burst out singing,-- "'Oh, a leather bottel we know is good, Far better than glasses or cans of wood. And what do you say to the silver flagons fine? Oh, they shall have no praise of mine, But I wish in Heaven his soul may dwell That first devised the leather bottel!' Huzza for the leather bottel! and huzza for the wine in it! Wine and woman they're a fine pair; I'll sing you a song about them--hic!" Huntoon looked anxiously toward the door behind which Peggy was sitting, and he saw with satisfaction that the carousing Captain had promised more than he could perform, for when he started to sing his voice failed him, his arm fell at his side, and the whole man collapsed in a heap beneath the table. "At last," murmured Huntoon, gratefully, "I think he can be trusted to stay where he is till morning," and escaping from the close cabin with its foul-smelling lantern he made his way to the deck. The fog was gone, and the night stainlessly, brilliantly, radiantly clear. The stars twinkled a frosty greeting to him. The deep, dark blue of the sky calmed and soothed him. He took a dozen turns up and down the deck, then he went below, and stretching himself out before the door of Peggy's cabin fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. CHAPTER XVII ROMNEY It was on the afternoon of the day after the collision with _The Lady Betty_ that _The Reformation_ rounded the last headland that shut Romney from the view. The river ran cobalt blue between its brown banks, bare but for the patches of snow that lay here and there in unsunned hollows. The sky arched above far and clear, save where a group of fleecy clouds bunched together like a flock of white sheep on the horizon. The sunlight fell full on the western front of Romney as it stood in stalwart bulk against the black forest behind it, its wings outspread on either side like some wild bird sheltering its young. A stout stockade enclosed house and grounds, and ended on either side of the little wharf running out into the river. In the doorway of the house stood a woman, her hand raised to shelter her eyes as she scanned the river to the southward. Mistress Huntoon was still beautiful, though the radiance of youth was gone. The pencilled eyebrow and the transparent curve of the delicate nostril, the lambent flame in the eyes, yet remained, and, above all, that indefinable attraction which hovers about some women from the cradle to the grave. Just now she shivered a little as though she had been standing and looking long. Then she drew closer about her the cloak of gray paduasoy lined with yellow and held by carved clasps of polished marcasite. "Will he never come?" she murmured. "'Tis nigh a week since he was to have reached home, and I cannot help worrying, for all his father laughs and bids me put away womanish fears and remember that the boy is well-nigh come to man's estate and better able than either of us to look after himself. Ah, what's that beyond the headland? A sail, a sail, Humphrey! Do you hear? a sail in the river! It must be Romney's, though it looks over large for _The Lady Betty_." Her eager words brought her husband to her side, buttoning his doublet close as he shut the door behind him. "Poor, poor little mother!" he said, as he laid a comforting arm about her shoulder, "we cannot let the lad go beyond the length of her apron string again, if she is to lead me such a life as this of last week. Why, we have had him die of seven separate deaths already. Let me see," and he began counting soberly on his fingers: "first, drowned in Chesapeake Bay; second, caught by pirates and carried off to the Bermudas; third, languishing in prison, for taking the part of Virginia in one of Master Claiborne's skirmishes between commonwealth and palatinate; fourth, stabbed in the streets of St. Mary's on a dark night and robbed of his gold; fifth, shot in a duel brought on by his hot temper 'so like his father's;' sixth, frozen to death on some lonely Maryland road; or last and worst of all, dead in love with some designing maid, wife, or widow there at St. Mary's and wholly forgetful of his duty to thee and me--ay, sweetheart?" "Hush, Humphrey! Cease thy jesting and tell me is that _The Lady Betty_, or is it not?" "Why, no, as I make out, 'tis too large for the ketch, deeper built, and with a prow more fit to buffet ocean waves. 'Tis more likely a merchant packet plying a regular trade with James City or St. Mary's; but come, let us signal her from the wharf and perhaps we may get some news of Romney." The wind was blowing cold as they reached the dock, and Huntoon wrapped the gray cloak close about his wife, as they seated themselves under the shelter of a pile of logs to watch the approaching vessel. "Dost thou remember, Betty, the day I set sail from James City in _The Red Fox_?" "Ay, that I do, and I watching thee from the window of the Carys' cottage, with my heart in my throat." "And I that disappointed I could have cried like a schoolboy, because thou camest not to see me off." "I dared not." "If I could only have known that!" "Poor fool, too dull to ask what thou wast aching to know!" "Ay, poor fool indeed, and much needless trouble my dulness and diffidence together brought upon me, and on thee too; but in the end all came out right, and I sometimes think we could not have loved each other so well but for all the trials we went through." For all answer Elizabeth Huntoon slipped her hand into her husband's. "Yet such inconsistent creatures are we, I own I would not our boy should suffer as I did." "Never fear; Romney is a lad of spirit, and will never lose a girl for lack of asking." "Ay, but asking and getting are two different things. There was Captain Spellman. He wooed thee with as much spirit as any woman could wish." "The presuming coxcomb!" "There it is. What is a poor man to do, when asking is presumption, and not asking is dulness?" "Do? Why, hold his tongue and use his eyes, to be sure." "But, Betty, thou wert never twice alike." "So shouldst thou have changed too. When I was hot, thou shouldst have been cold. When I was cold, thou shouldst have turned to a furnace." "Who loves, fears. I played the fool; but, Betty, 'twas the fool who won. Pray Heaven Romney meets as kind a fate." "But, Humphrey, what can be keeping him?" "The old refrain; I have heard that question so often I could answer it in my sleep. Thy boy is safe and sound, and will give a good account of his absence, I'll be bound." For all his light treatment of his wife's terrors, Master Huntoon had his own fears for his son's safety, and realized better than she could the many forms of danger and temptations that beset a home-bred youth, setting out to do business or battle with the world. It was with a glad leap of the heart and a curious catch in his throat that he recognized the stalwart figure by the gunwale as the packet drew near the wharf, though a moment later he realized that something must have gone wrong with the ketch. "All's well, Father," cried Romney; which meant, "There's the devil to pay; but I'm alive." Before the ship had made fast her first hawser, the boy was over its side and in his mother's arms, with one hand held fast in his father's, pouring forth a torrent of words so bewildering that his father finally clapped his hand over his son's mouth, saying,-- "Softly, thou headlong stripling, or thou wilt split our ears in the effort to hear, and our heads trying to take all in. Now let me put the questions, and do thou say 'ay' or 'no,' and as little more as the grace of God lets thee hold thy tongue for. Now, thou didst load at St. Mary's?" "Ay, sir." "And cleared in safety?" "Ay." "And stopped at St. Gabriel's Manor?" "Ay." "What for?" "How can I say 'ay' or 'no' to that?" "Then explain more at length; but briefly." "Prithee let that stand. Suffice it to say a man--a friend of mine--was in mortal peril, and his sister and I resolved to save him." "_Sister!_ Ah, I begin to see a light. Is she with you?" "Ay, and I have promised her a welcome from thee and my mother fit to heal her sore heart." "Well, well, we'll come to that later. Now what befell the ketch?" "Why, the fog befell us first, and then Dick Ingle befell us, and then the devil befell us; but here we are in spite of all three; and, Mother, thou _wilt_ be good to her, wilt thou not?" The crisis had come to Elizabeth Huntoon, as it comes to every mother--gradually to some, suddenly to others--when she realizes that her supreme place is gone forever. Henceforth, for her, affection and esteem and a comfortable suite of dowager apartments in her child's heart; but the absolute sway, the power, the _firstness_ at an end. The blood surged back from Mistress Huntoon's face, leaving it gray, and for the first time with the touch of age upon it, so that one could know how she would look as an old woman. "Yes; I will be good. Where is she?" The lips formed the words which sounded cold and formal in her own ears; but she saw with a new pang that her son had no leisure for noting subtle shades of tone or meaning in her voice. "Here, Mother, here!" he exclaimed, turning to where his father was already assisting Peggy Neville from the deck to the wharf. Now, had Peggy been rosy and dimpling and happy as she was a fortnight ago, and as she must needs have been to arrest the wandering fancy of Romney Huntoon, his mother would have greeted her with as much coolness as Virginia hospitality permitted; but seeing a pale, tearful little face, weary and woe-begone, peeping out from the brown curls, the older woman felt her heart touched by a keen remembrance of herself as a young girl, a stranger in a strange land; and waiting no words of presentation, she made one of her swift, characteristic strides toward Peggy, and folding her arms close about her, kissed her on both cheeks. "Poor child!" she said in her low caressing voice; "thou art fair tired out and sadly in need of rest. Come with me to the little white chamber next mine; there shalt thou bathe thy face with fresh water and rest thy weary body in a warm bed." "But my brother--he is very ill--" "Leave him to my husband, who is counted the best physician in Virginia. He and Romney can do more for him than thou or I. Romney, receive our guests and do what is needful for their comfort! I will join thee shortly in the hall." "Captain Ingle, will you come ashore and try the quality of Romney cheer?" said Humphrey Huntoon, as his son stood looking like one dazed after the women on the path. "I thank you; but my time is short, and I must have speech with Master Claiborne, who is staying further up the river." "Perhaps on your return you will stop and let me try to repay--" began Huntoon, courteously; but the thought of _The Lady Betty's_ goods stored in _The Reformation's_ hold pricked Ingle's conscience. "I am already repaid," he answered stiffly, "and there is no call for thanks on either side. Here, you men! Lift Sir Christopher Neville over the railing there. Three of you go to this side; three to that. So! easy there. One--two--three! Now lift!" To give the devil his due, no man had such a gift as Richard Ingle for giving orders. It was scarcely quarter of an hour after _The Reformation_ touched the wharf before she was away again, leaving four of her passengers and the crew of _The Lady Betty_ on the wharf. When she was well out in the river, Ingle ordered a salute of five guns, and then bade his men give three cheers for the Mistress Peggy Neville, the handsomest girl that ever trod the deck of a vessel. "Here's to her!" he cried himself, "and may she have the luck to marry a buccaneer when yonder stripling is dead and gone!" Peggy smiled a watery, tearful smile as she heard the five guns. How little, she thought, had she imagined under what circumstances that salute would be fired when Captain Ingle lightly promised it at St. Mary's! But her hostess would give her no time for thought. She led her swiftly up the winding stair to the little white bedroom, and in a trice she had set black Dinah at work heating the sheets with the great brass warming-pan. Susan was fetching water hot and cold, and she herself was loosening the lacings with which Peggy's own numb fingers fumbled in vain. All the while she kept her eyes upon the wharf which lay below the window. Already a litter had been improvised of boards that lay on the wharf; four men lifted the figure over the ship's side and laid it down gently. Then the litter was raised and borne toward the house, Romney and his father walking on either side. Once or twice the figure struggled and flung its arms wildly above its head. So violent did the struggles become that at length Master Huntoon drew a phial from his jerkin, and pouring out some drops forced them between the prostrate man's lips. The head fell back, and quiet settled on the limbs so suddenly that Mistress Huntoon uttered an involuntary exclamation of terror. Peggy caught her anxiety in a moment. "What are they doing? Where is he? Oh, not--not dead!" "Why, no, foolish child," answered Lady Betty, ready to pinch herself for her ill-timed outcry. "Look for thyself. See, they are bearing him up the walk, and they will have him undressed and put to bed in no time. Go thou to rest likewise! I promise to bring thee tidings, should there be need of thee in the sick room, and meanwhile let me sing thee a little song that my mother sang to me in the old country, and I again to Romney here in his babyhood." Mistress Huntoon watched Peggy closely as she spoke Romney's name, but no answering blush marked her words. The girl was so utterly worn out that she scarcely took any heed of what was passing around her, but sank upon the bed, closed her eyes, and dropped into sweet slumber to the sound of a tender, preoccupied crooning of the old refrain,--the same that Romney had hummed to himself on the hillside path at St. Mary's,-- "Heigh-ho! whether or no, Kiss me once before you go Under the trees where the pippins grow." In her dreams it seemed to Peggy that she was standing on a ladder in an English orchard. Romney was shaking the tree and for every apple that fell claiming a kiss, while she from her vantage ground of the ladder pelted him with the red apples instead. The dream brought a smile to the pale young lips. "It is well," said Mistress Huntoon to herself, watching her; "she sleeps and she smiles. Youth will do the rest." After bending an instant over the sleeper she left her and slipped down the staircase into the hall. Romney was walking up and down. At the foot of the stairway he met his mother and kissed her hand, as had been his custom from babyhood. They crossed the hall and sat down side by side on the wide settle before the fire. Then a silence fell between them. "Alas," thought the mother, "when did ever my boy find it hard to speak with me before?" "She suspects something," thought her son. This was not the truth; she did not suspect, she _knew_. "Tell me now of all that hath befallen thee since ever _The Lady Betty_ touched at St. Mary's." "Nay, tell me first if thou, like my father, hast forgiven the loss of the dear old boat." "Speak not of the loss of a boat though it had held half our fortune when thy life was in the scale. Oh, my son, my son!" The mother covered her face with her hands and fell to weeping, not so much, to tell the truth, because her son might have been lost to her, as because he _had_ been. Romney, shrewd as he thought himself, never dreamed of what was passing in her mind. "Now then, little Mother, cheer up! What's the use of weeping when thou hast me here safe and sound? As for my adventures, they have in truth been many and wonderful. To begin at the beginning, I found St. Mary's mightily dull till I did make acquaintance with Mistress Neville and her niece who is with us here." "Neville, so that is her name?" "Why, of course, Neville,--Peggy Neville," Romney said the name slowly as if it were music in his ears. "'T was at their house, Mother, I met Governor Brent, and he did make particular inquiry for my father, and said the fame of his courage and wisdom was spread beyond the boundaries of Virginia." This was a good feint on the boy's part and drew his mother's attention for the moment. "Said he so indeed? Why, 'twas right civilly spoke. I trust thou didst return what courtesy thou couldst to the Governor." "Yes, and no. I did him some small favors; but in the end I robbed him of his prisoner." "Romney!" "Ay, that did I, and would do it again. The man was falsely accused." "Accused of what?" "Murder." Elizabeth Huntoon's face fell. She dearly loved the atmosphere of respectability, and had no mind to be mixed up with a felony. Her son paid little heed to her expression. "Oh, but 'twas shrewdly planned,--Peggy and I--" "Peggy!" Romney could have bitten his tongue out. The mischief was done. He halted, stammered, and finally resolved to throw himself on his mother's mercy, which he might better have done in the beginning. "Yes, _Peggy_!--the sweetest name for the sweetest girl in the colonies. When thou dost know her better, Mother, thou wilt say so too." "Thou dost not seem to have needed long knowledge to find it out; but thou must needs remember that all thou hast told me of her so far is that she is sister to a murderer." "Mother!" cried Romney, flinging off his mother's hand and jumping up to pace the floor. "It was thou who didst say the word." "Not I. Am I like to speak such a foul falsehood of the man I honor most in the world, next to my father! I said _accused_ of murder,--a mighty different thing, as any but a woman would know." It is a great relief to a man to vent upon the sex a charge which courtesy and respect forbid his laying at the door of the individual. "Perhaps it will be set down to the curiosity of my sex if I venture to ask whom this high-souled gentleman is supposed to have put out of the way." God gave sarcasm to woman in place of sinewy fists. Poor Romney felt his heart pommelled, but being in the right and knowing it, he kept his temper. "I'll tell thee as if thou hadst asked more kindly." The shot told, for it was deserved. "Sir Christopher Neville was accused of killing a Jesuit priest,--one of those who dwell at St. Inigo's. The evidence against him was strong, and Giles Brent credited it, though he had great liking for Neville. But his sister is much under the influence of 'those of the Hill,' as the Jesuits are called, and thou thyself, Mother, dost know how much that order is to be trusted." Cleverly aimed again, Romney! He knew that his mother had come to the greatest griefs of her life through the machinations of a follower of St. Ignatius; already she weakened a little, though her face did not betray it. "But why was it necessary that thou shouldst be caught in the toils? Neither deed nor charge was any affair of thine. What was it all to thee?" "What was it to my father when thou wert in trouble yonder in James City?" Elizabeth Huntoon trembled. "Oh, Romney, is it gone so far, in one little fortnight? Remember thy father had known and loved me for years." "Pshaw!" said Romney, striding up and down faster than ever, crowding his hands deep into the pockets of his jerkin. "Is there any calendar of love with directions, 'On such a day a man may take a liking, after so many days he may admire, at the end of a month, or three, or six, he may give rein to his fancy, and when a year is out he may love,--that is, if his mother gives consent'?" The lad was growing angry, and therefore letting down his guard. Trust a woman for seeing the advantage and using it! Elizabeth poked her little red boots out to the fire and looked at them as if they interested her more than anything in the world. Then as though the question were the most natural and casual one she asked,-- "When are you to marry?" It was at once the cruellest and the kindest thing she could have said. A huge sob rose in the boy's throat and choked him. Then he threw himself on his knees and buried his head in his mother's lap, crying,-- "Don't! Don't! She does not love me!" "Ask her!" "I have asked her." Let those who can, explain the workings of a woman's mind. Perhaps they can tell why Elizabeth Huntoon, who five minutes before had set her face like a flint against this love affair, of a sudden whiffed about like a weather-cock and was set for it as if she had planned it herself from the beginning. All she said was,-- "Then why did she ask thy help?" "She did not; I offered it,--nay, forced it upon her; and for her brother she would do anything. It's my belief he is the only human being she does truly love." "All the better. Love for a brother never yet blocked the way to any other. But, hark! I hear her stirring. Belike she will be able to come down for supper. Go thou, and don thy scarlet sash and the falling band with lace edge. Oh, and don't forget the lace cuffs and the gold lacings." "Mother, dost take thy son for a baby or a popinjay?" "Neither, but for the dullard he is, not to know that dress makes as much difference in men as in women. Why, who knows but I would have had thy father a year earlier, had he paid more heed to his attire! Go! Go!--Suppose thou hadst never come!" Here words failed her, and she caught her son to her heart, cried over him a moment, and then pushed him toward the stairs. CHAPTER XVIII THE EMERALD TAG With the dignity of absolute self-renunciation Elinor took up the cramped, new existence in the little cottage at St. Mary's. To Cecil it was but a play, this strange life in the tiny rooms, where the great four-post bed seemed an elephant in a toy house, and the head on the carved chest appeared to be perpetually grinning at the incongruity of its surroundings. What cared the child for narrow quarters, while in the evenings he could lie as of old before the fire, and in sunny spring days could wander through the village streets, now loitering on the wharf to watch the lumber loading for the new house at Cecil Point and anon pausing at the smithy for a talk with the blacksmith as he hammered at his anvil? For the first time in his life the boy was learning the meaning of democracy. The best gift money can offer its owners is the aloofness afforded by wide acres, and the servants who act as buffers to the multitude; but the eternal laws of compensation hold here as everywhere, and this aristocratic seclusion is bought at the expense of the feeling of kinship and sympathy with the average man. Elinor realized this, and it reconciled her to much that was trying in her new lot. She felt that her own life was at an end, the last page turned, and _finis_ written on that day when Giles Brent met her on the river path at St. Gabriel's and told her that the waters had closed over the head of Christopher Neville. On that day hope fell dead; but duty lives on after hope has died, and then there was always Cecil. On him she lavished all her pent-up love, all the unsatisfied ambition of her heart. For him she planned and worked. He was to be Lord of the Manor, then Councillor, then perhaps in the far-off days Governor of the Province, and always an honor to the Calvert name. Already men were at work building the house at Cecil Point, and the wood-chopper's axe rang merrily among the giant trees that must fall to clear the fields and make them ready for their burden of wheat and maize and tobacco. The superintendence of all this, combined with the keeping of the little house at St. Mary's, filled Elinor's days so full that she had scant time for grieving; but when Cecil was in bed and asleep, and Elinor sat by the fire alone with memory, then, indeed, the struggle was a bitter one, and often her head was bowed upon the table and the candle-light shone upon a figure shaken by a storm of tears and sobs. Yet each time, after the storm and stress came peace, as she betook herself to her closet and her beads. In nothing has the Catholic faith a stronger hold on men's hearts than in the tie its creed furnishes between the living and the dead, in the belief that the prayers of those who kneel before the altar do still reach forth to help and succor those who lie beneath the pavements of the church. Elinor, too, had her private liturgy addressed to Christopher, which she recited as the bells tolled the hours of devotion. At matins she said,-- "May the coming day grant me opportunity to serve thee and honor thy name!" At prime: "May thine innocence dawn upon those who doubt thee as the glory of the morning rises on the world of shadows!" At vespers: "So ends another day which did separate thee and me." And at complines: "I lay me down to sleep. May our souls meet in the world of dreams here and the world of spirits hereafter!" Elinor never spoke to Father White of Neville, for she knew full well that to the priest he was accursed as a heretic if not as a murderer, and she felt that she could only talk of him with one who held him as she did. Often in these lonely days did her heart yearn toward Peggy, who was known at St. Mary's to have been rescued from the ketch and to have made her home with the Huntoons; but something within her, whether pride or penance, forbade. She remembered the scorn in Peggy's voice as she reproached her with her doubts of Christopher, and she felt how idle it would be now to try to persuade the girl that her faith was as strong as her own. Some day, she told herself, when her prayer had been answered, her struggles rewarded, and she had shown forth Christopher's innocence to the world, then she would write in tender triumph and bid Peggy come to her and be her little sister for life. The chief comfort of all to her troubled soul lay in this task she had set herself as her life-work,--the proving to the world of Neville's innocence. Baffled at every turn, she never gave up, but followed every hint of a clue and rejoiced to find here and there men and women who believed in Neville as earnestly as she. Of all these friends in need, one was more helpful, more comforting, more sustaining than all the rest. Margaret Brent was like a granite cliff against which the waves beat mightily, but could not prevail. Had her nature sharp peaks, crevasses, and unsunned slopes? In times of storm one thought not of these, but of the rock's protection and the solid barrier against the fury of the tempest. The very bluntness of her shrewd comments on Elinor's conduct of life held a certain tonic. The people who help us most are those who make light of our achievements, and have faith in our possibilities. As Elinor compared Margaret with her sister Mary, she felt how unenlightened her former judgments had been. Mary Brent's virtues were for times of sunshine. Hospitality, tranquillity, pious observances, marked her placid progress through the world; but when the final test came, it laid bare under these qualities narrowness of mind and bigotry of soul and that hardness which sometimes underlies suavity. Her white eyelids, with their light lashes, never quivered as she pronounced Neville guilty and bade Elinor renounce him and his memory. Elinor would not? Then they were best apart, and she would not undertake to dissuade her cousin from her plan of taking up her abode at Cecil Point. When she bade Cecil good-bye, a brief spasm seemed to tear her heart; but it passed, leaving the face as unruffled as ever, and it was with a feeling of relief that Elinor turned from her to the wilderness. At first sight the cottage at St. Mary's had seemed impossible for one of Elinor Calvert's birth and upbringing; but outward things had no power to trouble her now, and she set to work with a certain sense of pleasurable independence to brighten the little house for Cecil's sake. Her chief helper was Bride, an old nurse of Cecil's who had come to the new land with her boy and who now proved herself as reliable in the kitchen as in the nursery. She was a picturesque figure enough in her short stuff gown with bright stockings and heavy shoes, a white kerchief folded above her checked apron, and a ruffled cap covering her gray hair. Her only wish was to serve her mistress, her only joy to prepare good things for Cecil to eat, her only terror fear of these strange blacks whom people seemed to take into their houses as if they were human beings like the white folk, instead of uncanny creatures of whom any deviltry might be expected. "Do ye think, Master Cecil, the black would come off if ye touched one?" she asked. "I know not; I never tried. Come here, Lysander! There, stand still while I rub you with this white cloth. See, Bride, the cloth is not black, no more than if you rubbed it on a black cow or any other beast." "Ay, it's beasts they are, and not men at all, and it's none of them I be wanting about my kitchen. Let them bring water from the well and leave it at the door, and then be off out of my sight before one of them casts the evil eye on me. And the females are worse than the males; they're like black witches." "Bride!" "Ay, my bairn!" "Ye remember the murder of Father Mohl?" "Am I like to forget it?" "Well, I've been thinking 'twas not like a man to kill a priest like that. Do you think it might have been a black witch that was riding through the forest on a broomstick, and did it with a witch knife,--you know they have them that they copy from real ones." "What's this talk of witches and witch knives?" It was Ralph Ingle who spoke. He stood leaning against the door, his hair falling light against his suit of huntsman's green with leather trimmings, in his hands a string of wild ducks. "Oh, Master Ingle!" cried Cecil, jumping up and down and clapping his hands, "you have been shooting again and when, oh, when will you take me with you as you did promise?" "When Mistress Neville grants her gracious permission; and, Cecil, do you think ever you could gain her consent to another thing?" "What thing?" "To her accepting me as a tenant at Cecil Point." Cecil shook his yellow curls and set his mouth in droll imitation of his mother's determined look. "Cannot be! Mother says we shall never have a tenant at the Point." "Not till the sea gives up its dead," said Elinor, coming to the door and laying her arm about Cecil's shoulder. At Mistress Calvert's approach Ingle bent forward with that unconscious deference which is the most subtle flattery, as though the soul stood at attention before its superior. "Say no more, I pray you," said Elinor, "though I know you do speak but out of kindness and deep thoughtfulness for me. You have been hunting," she added, striving to turn the conversation. "Ay, and have brought the spoils to lay at your feet," adding under his breath, "where my heart still lies." Elinor colored and shook her head, but, feeling that refusal were ungracious, she took the ducks from his hand, stroked the plumage, and bade Cecil carry them to Bride. Ingle watched Cecil disappear with the birds over his arm, then he leaned across the door near Elinor. "You are more beautiful than ever," he said. "I have outgrown the age of flatteries, Master Ingle. Beauty belongs to youth and joy, and both have left me forever." "One type of beauty belongs to these. At St. Gabriel's yonder you were beautiful like a great lady of the court. To-day you are beautiful like the Blessed Virgin." "Hush! You speak something akin to blasphemy." "Nay, not a whit. Did not the old masters paint Our Lady from the women around them, and none so fair as you?" "A pretty model for a sacred figure I should make, with my homespun apron and a bunch of keys in my hand." "They might be the keys of Heaven if the hand were in mine." "Master Ingle, I have told you more than once that I could listen to no such talk from you." "Your word is law," said Ingle, bowing low. Then with a swift turn of the tide of talk, "I must tell you how narrow an escape these ducks had from becoming food for some dirty red man instead of lying in state on your table. I shot them on the river a day or two since. Father White asked me to go with him as interpreter on a mission among the Patuxents. We took a boat and two chests, one containing clothing along with bread and butter and cheese and corn, and another containing bottles of wine for the eucharist and holy water for baptism. But in the night the savages broke into the tent where that dolt of a servant slept, and stole the sacramental wine and our chest of clothing and all the food save one pat of butter and a cheese-cake. "Father White was so pleased that the sacred vessels were untouched that he fell on his knees, giving thanks as though the whole affair were a great mercy; and for me, to tell the truth, when I found the ducks I did shoot for you were still there, I heeded no other loss." Elinor came nearer to a smile than the last month had witnessed. There was consolation in knowing that there was still some one to whom she was first, whose only thought was the gratification of her tastes and fancies. "They are in the nick of time," she said, "to garnish our supper to-night, when I do expect my cousin, Margaret Brent, who comes to spend some time under my roof. Perhaps you will join us." "Thanks, fair hostess; but Mistress Margaret Brent and I agree not as well as I and her brother and sister. Besides, I did promise the Governor to be back this night at St. Gabriel's." "Master Ingle?" "Yes, Cecil." "Will you pass by the road where Father Mohl was murdered?" Ingle started. He loved not ghostly thoughts nor sad memories. "Not I," he said hastily; "but by the main road." "I am sorry." "Why?" "I wanted so much to have you look in the branches of the tree and see if by chance you saw any scrap of cloth that did look like the cloaking of a witch." "Hush, Cecil!" cried Elinor, clasping her hands over the boy's mouth. "Drop no hint that might spread another calumny. We who are suffering from that dread scourge should see to it that we lay not the lash to the back of another. Whoever the guilty one is, we must leave him to God, and I believe in my heart his suffering is greater than mine, or than any that ever Christopher Neville knew." "Think you all souls are as sensitive as thine?" asked Ingle, gazing with reverence into the face so near and yet so infinitely far away. "I know not; but I can conceive no nature so base that it would not writhe to see its just censure borne by another; and to be so sunk in sin as to feel nothing,--why, that would be most pitiable of all." "It would," answered Ingle, and stood musing a moment; then he moved slowly away, walking backward that he might keep Elinor in view till the last. "Good-bye," he said finally, and turning strode hastily toward the gate nearest St. Gabriel's. Elinor stood long in the doorway gazing after him, and then when he had quite vanished, gazing on into vacancy like one who sees the unseen and holds converse with spirits. "Come, Cecil," she said at last, shaking off her lethargy with an effort, "fetch a pitcher, and we will go down to the Governor's Spring and draw water fresher than that which flows in our well." Nothing loath, Cecil slipped one hand in his mother's and with the other swung the earthen pitcher to and fro, to the imminent risk of its brown nose. When they reached the spring the two seated themselves on the stone curb with which by Calvert's orders the spring had been walled about. From the gravelly bank above, a group of tiny rivulets tumbled over each other in a laughing cascade. Held for a moment in the stone basin, they wandered onward to water the dell shaded by its thick growth of sycamores, elms, and holly-trees. Spring was misting all the foliage with green, not the rich verdure of summer, but a tender yellow, deepening here and there into the full green glory of unfolded leaves. Cecil leaned far over the curb, and laughed at his reflection in the spring. "Do thou lean too, Mother, with thy cheek near mine, that I may thee if thou dotht in truth look ath much like me ath folk say." As he spoke Cecil gave a little tug at his mother's sleeve and drew her to the margin, where she too stooped and looked down smiling at the golden curls and rosy cheeks of her boy looking up at her from the water. An instant later she caught another reflection, the face of a red man peering from the bushes over her shoulder. With an inward start she realized that they were on a by-path and beyond call of help. "Come, Cecil," she cried, striving to speak lightly, though she was conscious that her voice shook. "Pick up thy pitcher, for we must be going. Make haste, too, lest Cousin Margaret be at the house before us." "Nay, Mother, 'tith tho fair beautiful here," began Cecil, turning toward his mother with pleading in his voice. As he turned, his eyes too caught the Indian's face even as it was withdrawn into the shadow. "Why, 'tis the same native I did see on the wharf--" "Never mind, Cecil, who or what it is, but make good speed for home and I will follow. There, give me the pitcher. Now, run!" They reached the cottage door panting and out of breath just as Margaret Brent was dismounting from her donkey. Elinor ran on still faster to greet her. It was the first time they had met since the midnight mass at St. Gabriel's. The older woman took her in her arms. "So you could not go on living with Mary? Neither could I. She is a good woman, better belike than either you or I, yet--well, different. And when she has once made her decision, angels and archangels could not move her. Never mind, we must win the fight without her." "Oh, Margaret, do you think there is any ray of light?" "Foolish child, waste no energy in wondering when light will come; but stumble on in the darkness as best you may. I have several scouts from Kent Fort scouring the trail between St. Mary's and St. Gabriel's. So far they have met with little success, except for one trifle,--one tiny straw,--yet it may show the set of the wind." "What? Oh, what?" "Why, Master Halfehead found by the side of the path, on the low bough of a bush not ten paces from where the priest's body hung, the tag of a point such as men use to lace hose and breeches together. It had a bit of the green point hanging to it still." "But any might have worn that." "Not such a tag as this. It was made of wrought gold and had an emerald brilliant set at the tip's end. That tiny green gem must be our guiding star." "But how to follow it?" "Listen! where there is one point there are two, and each point has two tags; therefore, somewhere in this province, there must be three tags of wrought gold with a tiny emerald at the tip. It is our business to find them." "But if we find them, what then? Master Huntoon or Giles Brent or one of your scouts might have dropped this." "Nay, I'd stake my life that if we find the tag we find the murderer--" "What gives you such assurance?" "Why, 'tis clear as day. The point was of stout ribbon, somewhat broader than the ordinary lacing. Now that could have been torn off only by some one running and not without the knowledge of the runner. Being of some value, it was well worth picking up or going back to search for, unless the runner had some reason for haste which made him willing to sacrifice the tag rather than stay to look for it." "Oh, Margaret, how many shrewd ideas thou hast! Would I had a tithe of them!" "Ideas come with wrinkles, my dear, and are bought at a cost of years beyond their value. As for shrewdness, 'tis a mean virtue at best, and not to be compared with warmth of heart like thine, that draws all toward thee like bees to the red clover. Yet shrewdness has its value. Therefore am I now full of interest in talk of points and lacings with every man I meet, and I leave not off the subject till I have learned with what manner of points the man and his brothers and his cousins and his wife's relatives do lace together hose and breeches. There, that is the whole of my budget of news." "And thou art an angel to bring it; but having still some human nature, thou must needs eat, and Bride has set out the table with our best linen in honor of thy coming, and has cooked some rare ducks which Master Ingle did bring to the door this morning." "Does Ralph Ingle come here often?" "Why, yes and no. Never to stay long, yet often in going and coming for a brief converse at the door." "Dost thou like him?" "Faith, Margaret, I think I have no place in my heart warm enough for liking, save of old friends; but Cecil is overjoyed to see him, and Father White oft sends him here of an errand." "'Tis easy to see why." "Yes, thou art shrewd as ever, Margaret. Father White would be glad to see me wed now that he has returned to the bosom of Holy Church after long wandering. He accompanies the Father on his missions, and renders much service as interpreter. Ingle himself has given up all thought of marriage, but would fain be our true friend, and asked me this morning to consider of him as a tenant at Cecil Manor." "Be thine own tenant, Cousin. Trust me, 'tis safer." "Ay, so I think, and so I have decided. I am very ignorant, but the manor cannot be ready for habitation till next year, and ere a year is over I hope to learn much." "And I will help thee. Count upon me. Ah, Cecil, how fares it with thee?" "I do well, Couthin Margaret, yet I like not St. Mary's as well as St. Gabriel's, and in the summer 'twill be worth." "In the summer thou and thy mother are to come to me at Kent Island. What fine breeches thou dost wear, Cecil!" "Ay, they are my best, and donned for thee." "And with such pretty points, knowst thou any other that wears points as fine?" "Why, Couthin Giles hath points of azure silk with tags of silver, and Counthillor Neale wears rich ribbon points tipped with crystal, and the other day I saw an Indian, and on his blanket was fastened a single point of green silk, and--what think you?--the tag was of wrought gold with an emerald in the end. It made me laugh to see it worn like that. Oh, and, Mother, 'twas the same Indian we saw to-day in the butheth by the Governor's Spring. 'Twath that I strove to tell thee, but thou wouldtht not hear." The two women looked at each other and turned pale. "This Indian--who was he--did ever you see him before?" "Nay, 'twas on the wharf, and he was selling tobacco and shells; none knew him, for I asked." "Margaret, oh, Margaret, surely now we have found the guilty man." "Not so fast, Elinor! The Indian got that point of a white man. The question is, was it before or after the murder." The smile faded out of Elinor Calvert's face, and she drew a deep sigh. "Only another blind lead," she murmured. "Only another link in the chain," said Margaret. "Be of good cheer. You and I are not women to fail in an undertaking into which we have put our whole hearts. Depend upon it, we shall trace the owner of the emerald tag yet." CHAPTER XIX THE ROLLING YEAR "Is he better to-day?" "Better in body; but for the mind I can see little betterment." Elizabeth sighed at her husband's words. Months had gone by since Christopher Neville was borne into the house on his litter. Winter had thawed into spring, spring had bourgeoned and bloomed itself into summer, and summer had dropped its green mantle and taken on the dusky sadness of autumn with its intervals of Indian summer's hazy glory, and now winter was here again. Not last year's icy winter with the cruel chill of the north bearing down on the unpreparedness of the south; but a genial, soft, out-of-doors winter with roses blooming to deck the burial of the old year and welcome the birth of the new, to hearten the struggling and revive the sick. "Surely," they said, "this weather must put new life into Neville." It was only in the inner circle that they named him. To the outer world he was "the guest," or when need was, "Master John." Often when alone Huntoon asked himself what would happen if Brent caught wind of Neville's being alive, and made requisition upon Berkeley for his return. It would make an awkward entanglement, Huntoon admitted; but he vowed to himself that there should be a stiff fight before the prisoner was taken from Romney, and those who knew Huntoon's character and the look of his upper lip would have been slow to undertake the capture. In the first months under the doctor's skilful treatment, the invalid had gained rapidly, and the household rejoiced. Then Nature cried a halt. The color came back to the pallid cheeks, strength to the limbs, but the old light in the eyes never returned. A lassitude marked all motions. A gentle thoughtfulness showed itself in word and deed; but they were as the words and deeds of a child dealing with the present alone. The blow from the bowsprit or the shock of the water or both together, falling on nerves so terribly overwrought, had unseated reason and dethroned memory, at least made a gap which the wandering mind was powerless to fill. Neville dwelt much in the world of his childhood, fancied himself riding along English lanes, and pulling briar and eglantine in the valleys of Surrey and Somerset with Peggy by his side. Then his imagination led to a beautiful golden-haired girl who went robed in green holding herself like some stately palm. He remembered watching her walking over close-cropped lawn, and dancing galliards on polished floors. It seemed to him that he had loved her in that strange far away world, and he could recall vaguely a pang of regret when he heard that she was married. Then a blank and nothing more till he found himself here in this hospitable home, with Peggy still beside him ministering to him without ceasing, and the circle of friendly faces about. He knew neither curiosity nor sadness. It was well with him, and he asked nothing but to stay as he was. "That is the worst of the case," said Master Huntoon to his wife. "If Neville were discontented or unhappy, it would show that there was some half-conscious memory at work in his mind; as it is, I have little hope. And such a man! Faith, Brent must have been mad to believe anything evil of that broad, open brow. I have seen many criminals in my time, Betty, and I know the look of them; but there is another look--the look of a man who might commit a crime if the motive were strong enough--I know that too; and then there is yet another face that God keeps for the man who is to play a man's part in the world, to do and dare and bear bravely the worst Fate can lay upon him, and that is the face of Christopher Neville." "Alas that his mind should have died before the body!" "Nay, Betty, let us not give it up so easily. Memory may be gone and judgment even, and yet the vital spark linger. Thought is the breath of the soul. While that lasts there is life, and Christopher's thought is as beautiful and as pure as the heaven above us." "Ay, that's God's truth." "More than that, I have seen in him now and then a glimpse of recognition of earth as though the soul were shaking off its lethargy. Were the real world a less sad one for him, I might be tempted to try to call him back by mention of the Brents or Mistress Calvert." "Oh, that woman!" exclaimed Elizabeth; "not a word from her in all these weeks." "You forget. She counts him dead." "Ay, but she might have written to Peggy." "Yet when Peggy's aunt wrote it did not suit thee." "I should say not. Such a letter! It was as well Christopher was dead, since he had brought such disgrace on the name, but Peggy might come back to her if she chose. Oh, but it was good to see the answer Peggy sent, and how she scorned aid or protection from any that doubted her brother's innocence." "Perhaps Mistress Calvert feared a like rebuff, for she and Peggy did not part in love. Besides, thou must not forget that she has much to contend with. She is a Catholic and under the tutelage of Jesuit priests." "'Tis well I know what _their_ influence is. If I were Lord Baltimore, I would harry them all out of the province." "Ay, but thou art not Lord Baltimore nor called upon for the Christian task of harrying out of the land a band of brave men." "Thou dost defend them?" "Nay, there be few things in which they and I think alike; but this I do say: There is no chapter in her history to which the Church has better right to point with pride than this work of the Jesuits here in the West. At privations they have smiled, at danger they have laughed, at torture they have stretched out hands of blessing over their torturers. And who are they who have faced all these things for their religion? Not hardy pioneers full of love of adventure like many of our Virginia cavaliers, but delicately nurtured students, men for the chief part who prefer the cloister to the world, but have cheerfully sought these western wilds, moved only by love of God and man." "Humphrey, thou dost love to argue, but answer me one question, Dost thou put trust in them?" Huntoon shrugged his shoulders. "Why, for the matter of that," he said, "the older I grow, the fewer men do I put full trust in. But, Betty, there is something else I have to talk of with thee." "Ay," said his wife, laying down the purse she was netting, "and what is that?" "Faith, I scarce like to speak of it lest it vex thee." "The sooner I hear it, the less 'twill keep me on the rack." "Why, then, I do suspect that Romney is in love." "Verily!" "Ay, verily, verily. At the first I thought 'twas but a boyish softness; but I have watched him close of late, and I fear it is a man's passion." "Oh, mayhap 'tis thy fancy leads thee on to imagine all this. Romney is tougher than thou mayst credit. He can see a pretty face--ay, even for a year--and not lose his heart." "But, Betty--" "Well!" "What if the maid lose hers with looking at him? He is a well-favored lad." "Ay, he hath the look and bearing of the Romneys. But what hath put this fancy in thy head?" "Oh, I have looked and listened and I am very swift to take in such things, swifter than thou, I dare venture; oft would I have spoken to thee of the matter ere this, but feared to stir lest thou take it too hard." "Good Master Blind-as-a-Bat, once before I called thee by that name, and thou hast got no better eyes since. I have known this wondrous news of thine these twelve months more or less." "And never told me?" "Oft would I have spoken," answered Elizabeth, mockingly, "but feared lest thou take it too hard." "The same old Betty!" cried Humphrey Huntoon, laughing, yet a trifle vexed, for the most amiable of men loves not to be made a jest of. "But there must be some deeper reason why thou shouldst have held thy peace on a matter touching us both so nearly. Faith, thou art like the fish Walton tells of, that closeth its mouth in August and openeth not till spring." "Why, Humphrey, 'twas the first night of the Nevilles' coming, Romney did make a clean breast of his love for Peggy, and the next day we talked of it again. He told me all,--how he had asked her to marry him and got no answer; that is, none that suited him, for he swore she cared no more for him than for any gallant of St. Mary's save as he had befriended her brother; 'but, Mother,' he said, 'I spoke with her since she came to Romney and told her the matter was not to be opened for a year, that we were both too young, and meanwhile we were to be friends, and if she made any show of not being at ease with me, I would take myself off for the whole year, and that would be a great grief to you and my father.'" "Ah!" said her husband, "the boy has the blood of the Huntoons in him. 'Twas spoken like a man, and Peggy--what said she?" "She said nothing, only stretched out both hands and looked up at him in a way she has which would make a man in love with her that was cold before, and make her lover ready to live or die for another like it. Ever since they have been fast friends, though 'tis to thee rather than Romney she shows favor, and 'tis well I am a woman above jealousy." While they were talking Neville entered. "Is it not a pity, my good host, to be shut indoors when the sunshine lies on the river bank and the air is like mellow wine?" "Hast thou spent the morning in the open?" "Ay, Romney and I and Peggy have been sitting by the river bank. We made wreaths for her while she bound our wrists with withes and laughed to see us struggle with them. I did break mine full easily; but Romney could not for his life till Peggy did herself undo them." "Where did you leave the two?" asked Elizabeth. "They came up from the river with me, but turned in at the barn where the spinning-wheel stands. There! I ought not to have told, for Peggy was fain to surprise thee with a great skein of smooth flax." "She is more like to surprise me with a knotted skein, and a snarl on the spindle that will take a week to unwind. Never was there such a careless, heedless, captivating being." "Since the days of Elizabeth Romney," said Huntoon, who would listen to no word spoken in detraction of Peggy. His wife smiled and thrust out her chin at him. "I must go and try if it be yet too late to rescue the poor wheel," she said, and passed out at the door and down the path which led to the barn. At the entrance of the barn she paused and stood looking in at the picture which the doorway framed. Leaning against the rough wall stood Romney, his fingers idly sweeping the strings of a lute, while his eyes were fixed upon Peggy as she sat by the flax-wheel in the corner. Her little foot pressed the treadle, her round arms swayed this way and that with the moving skein, and her supple fingers hovered over distaff and spindle. The last year had left time's mark on the young man. In youth these marks are generally an improvement, and before thirty, the years add more than they take away. It was hard to define the change which the passing months had brought to Romney, but where a year ago the passing stranger saw the lingering boyhood, to-day he marked the coming manhood. The mouth shut closer, the brows drew a little together as if set in a purpose known only to themselves. If the smile were rarer, it was also sweeter, for it had learned to show itself only when another smile appeared to call it forth. Just now it was playing freely about his lips as he watched the figure at the wheel. When two are alone together, and a third is present, his name is Love. Peggy's mood was merry, and her mouth had lost for the time the wistful sadness that had hung round it ever since her coming to Virginia. Now it curved into the old-time dimples at the corner as she tossed back and forth the refrain of an old song of which Romney, in teasing humor, had begun the first verse. He sang to the music of his lute and she to the accompaniment of her whirring wheel. [Illustration] With a mocking smile he thrummed and sang: "'Pray, what are women like unto? Believe me, and I'll tell you true: Wine, wine, women and wine, They are alike in rain or shine.'" Peggy bridled, and Romney, still smiling, went on,-- "'Woman's a witch who plies her charm As doth the wine to work man harm, And when she sees his heart is sore, She smiles and sparkles all the more.'" Peggy dropped her lashes, leaned a bit more over the wheel till the curls shaded the round of her cheek as she took up the word,-- "'It is not woman is the wine, But love, but love, oh, sweetheart mine! Drink deep, and drinking thou shalt prove How heart'ning is the draught of love.' Is't not a silly verse?" "Peggy! 'Tis a year last week since thou didst come to Romney." "Ay--" "And then we did forswear all talk of love for a twelvemonth. But the twelvemonth is ended. May I talk of it now?" Peggy colored rose-red. "Dost know what manner of thing love is?" Peggy looked up but sidewise, and so looking took in a glimpse of Mistress Huntoon, and she ran to her as to a refuge. "Come, thou dear hostess," she said, drawing her in at the wide door, "thou art just in time to answer a question of thy son's, 'What manner of thing is love?'" Elizabeth Huntoon colored almost as red as Peggy had done but now. It was as though the question had turned back life's dial-point and her youth was before her again. She saw Humphrey bending over her in the window-seat at James City. She could recall the trembling of his fingers as they fastened her necklace. She could almost hear again the beating of her own heart. So real did all this seem that she stood stock still with her finger on her lips, like a statue of Memory, smiling to its own image in the past. "Love!" she said at last, rousing herself, "why, I am fain to think the beauty of love is that none can describe it because it is different to each soul; nay, that it is different each hour to the same soul." "Does it bring happiness?" "In that it is like life,--brilliant as a field of poppies one day, sad as a grove of yew-trees the next." "But how can one tell when one is--is in love?" "Because when one is--is in love," mocked Elizabeth, "Love tells one." "Wert thou _sure_?" "Nay, I was of the blow hot, blow cold sort. When Humphrey shunned me, I fell a-dying for him; but when he sat casting sheep's eyes at me, I yawned in his face. I wanted to own him; yet I had no yearning to bear bonds myself. But sometimes storms clear the air better than sunshine; and when we met at the gate of death, as it seemed, in the massacre at Flower da Hundred yonder, I knew that in life or death he was mine and I his." "Master Huntoon," cried Peggy, turning to Romney with a merry eye but a trembling lip, "thinkst, then, thou couldst get up a massacre? 'Tis evident nothing less will show a woman what manner of thing love is! Yet that would not serve either, for in such like times 'tis only the great things of life that we heed. If I could keep thee for such, thou wouldst suit me to the Queen's taste, but oh dear me! life is made up of such little things! When thou dost trip over the root of a tree, I hate thee for thy clumsiness; when thou dost turn a compliment, I long to take it from thy lips and say it to myself,--I know so well what manner of speech a girl would like." "And I what answer a man would go on his knees for." "Ah, there thou art again. When thou didst kneel, I saw thee first dust the floor with thy kerchief." "I never did, Peggy, I swear I never did, though I had on my peach-blow breeches and blue hose." "Well, 'twas as bad, for thou didst look as if to see where the dust was least. Oh, I could scarce help bursting into laughter." "The devil!" exclaimed poor Romney, looking toward his mother with despair in his eyes, but his mother only smiled. "Tell me, thou dear, wise Mistress Huntoon, can a woman truly love and yet be fain to laugh at herself and her love and her lover?" "Some women can, Peggy, women like thee and me; and, truth to tell, I believe their laughing love is as well worth having as the sighs of those who must pull a long face and grow pale and go about solemnly breathing out prayers and poems; but if thou wilt have my judgment in thy case, little one, I think thou art as one who uses the beads of a rosary to play marbles before the world, yet in the closet will string them once more and murmur Pater Nosters and Ave Marias as piously as any nun. "Never mind! By and by thou wilt make a little shrine for them and they will grow more sacred, and then little by little thou wilt forget that thou couldst once laugh and make merry over them. Kiss me and say, dost not feel it so?" No answer. "But Romney must wait patiently for the stringing of the beads and the building of the shrine, and not try to bless the rosary till the play is over. As for thee, Peggy, trouble not thy head over the future, and for the present cease to twitch at that skein which thou art snarling past all hope of disentangling." "How stupid of me! and I was going to make it such a lovely skein for a surprise," and Peggy's nervous fingers began to work with the refractory thread. "I came to talk of lighter things when I was drawn into this discourse of love," said Elizabeth. "I wanted to tell thee, Peggy, of a plan we have for a day not far off when this graceless boy of ours comes to man's estate. If we were at home in England we should keep this twenty-first birthday of his with state and ceremony, but here in the wilds our festivities must needs be primitive. We have thought of a barbecue in the forest for the tenants and a dance in the house for the friends and neighbors. For a dance, folk twenty miles away count themselves neighbors." "A dance!" Peggy's eyes lighted and then fell with a sudden sadness upon her black dress. Romney's glance followed hers and he said quietly,-- "Let us not attempt it, Mother. We are none of us in the mood." "Perhaps we all need it the more on that account. Even to the world Peggy's year of mourning is over, and there will be less questioning if she takes her place in the world once more; and among ourselves, where it is a question of Christopher, surely the best service we can do him is to bring what gayety of heart we can into his life." "You speak wisdom, Mistress Huntoon; but your words bring home to me something I have often of late wished to speak of with you. I--we--cannot longer trench upon even your inexhaustible hospitality." "Hush!" said Elizabeth, interrupting her with the quick impulsive tears starting to her eyes. "Little Peggy, it has been the one drop of sadness in our cup that we have had no daughter. Now we happen to have taken a fancy to you, though you do snarl flax. Nay, never blush and look at Romney; it is a daughter we want, though she be not our son's wife. We love you for yourself, and we love Christopher for himself. So speak no word further of parting, but rather play the daughter of the house and help me in planning the dance." "Oh, may I really? Do you think I ought?" "I do indeed think you both may and ought. It is more than any one woman can undertake alone. I must go into the house at once to begin." "And I will follow as soon as this is unsnarled," said Peggy. "And I will wait to practise kneeling to the Queen's taste," said Romney, with a look which brought a surge of red to Peggy's cheek. "Heigh-ho!" sighed his mother as she walked toward the house, "it is one thing to sigh for the moon; another to get it." CHAPTER XX A BIRTHNIGHT BALL It was the evening of Romney's dance. Lights blazed from every window of the Huntoon mansion, and outside the moon hung her yellow lantern in honor of the merry-making. Already the guests were gathering. At the wharf lay a flock of white-sailed boats, billing together like a covey of friendly swans. Around the door huddled a motley group of men and boys, holding the bridle of horse and donkey, and in the midst, the centre of observation, stood the lumbering yellow coach with a crest on the panel of its door, the state carriage of the Governor of the province and used only on occasions of ceremony. On the shore, in front of the house, a great bonfire flamed up, a beacon that could be seen far out on the river. Above the fire stretched two parallel bars supported on forked stakes. On one of the bars hung a huge moose figuring in place of the ox that would have adorned a barbecue in England. On the other bar hung a string of wild birds, duck, heron, and bittern, alternating with raccoon, squirrel, and possum. On the ground around the fire sat a throng of Indians and negroes interspersed with white servants, eagerly watching the game hissing on the spit. In the centre, Philpotts crouched, resting on his heels and holding out his hands to the cheerful blaze. "I tell you, Cupid," he said, turning to a negro seated beside him, "this is a sight for sore eyes, yet would I give more than all, if one I wot of could get the good of it with the rest of us." Cupid answered by raising his eyebrows in question and jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of a lighted window against which Neville's figure was outlined. "Ay," answered Philpotts, as if he had spoken, "it's my master I was thinking of. It's my very life I'd give to see him himself again. You did never see such a man as he was in his prime, Cupid, and that's not long since. My brother knew him when he was little more than a boy, and he says he was the bravest and the blithest lad in all the shire of Somerset. But he fell in love, Cupid. He fell in love, and that's how all a man's troubles begin." Cupid grinned so widely that all his shining row of white teeth showed against the blackness of his face like a row of candles. "Massa Romney he no tink so. See!" Following Cupid's eyes, Philpotts saw Master Romney standing on the terrace below the little white bedroom, and flinging roses against the window, from which Peggy was leaning and laughingly dodging the flowers as they struck. "Come down, mistress mine. Thou art late, and the company is half gathered already." "Go away, then, and do not break my window, and then leave me to thy mother's reproof." With the words she shut to the casement and flung down a rose which had landed on the sill. Romney stooped, picked it up, kissed it, and thrust it into the breast of his coat. Philpotts and Cupid looked at each other and burst into a shout of laughter. "Come, Cupid, we must in and help about the horses. Youth will be youth, and fools will fall in love while the world lasts." Within the house the girls were hastily donning their finery, shaking out their skirts, and making ready to flutter down to the foot of the stairway where their escorts awaited them, while such of the men as had ridden made use of the time to unloop the tails of their coats, prudently fastened back for their ride over forest trails. "Girls, have any of you seen this Maryland maid who is staying with Mistress Huntoon?" asked Mistress Nancy Lynch, as they came down the stair, buttoning their gloves. "Why," answered Polly Claiborne, "once I caught a glimpse of her standing on the terrace with Romney. I thought no great things of her. She was too brown, and but for a pretty trick of the eyes she had no claims." "Yet they say at the chapel of ease the parson can scarce go on with the service for gazing on her, and when in the litany he comes to 'Have mercy upon us' he looks straight at her in the Huntoon pew." "Well, there is one lucky thing, all the men are dead set against Maryland now. I dare say the poor thing will have scarce a partner at the ball." "You would not care to dance with a girl from Maryland, would you, Captain Snow?" said Mistress Polly, leaning over the railing to where the young officer stood smoothing back his cuffs. "Not while Virginia holds her own as she does to-night. You have promised me the first reel, remember. Faith! 'tis as fine a hall as ever I saw for dancing." "Ay, that it is!" echoed Nancy Lynch, and straightway the whole bevy of girls and men fell to echoing the praises of the house, and voting it the finest in the province, next to the Governor's. On the outside Romney was but a settler's house, noteworthy only in size and fine proportion; within, it was an English mansion, for all the furnishings of Romney Hall in Devonshire had been brought over and placed as nearly as possible in their relative position in the new house. Chairs and tables of black carved oak stood about. On the south side of the great hall hung a tapestry worked by the maids of Mary of Scotland in her captivity; in the corner stood a great bronze vase, wrought by a famous Florentine of an earlier day. Over the mantel breast scowled a portrait of Sir William Romney, and opposite him his wife smiled down, as if she wished she were alive, and could take part in the festive scene in the hall, lighted by the many candelabra and sconces and the hissing, sparkling, high-flaming fire on the broad hearth. The portrait bore a striking resemblance to the hostess, who stood under it in her gown of silver brocade over yellow satin, receiving her guests with that graciousness which made each one believe himself the one most desired, where all were welcome. Each girl felt that now _she_ had come, the ball was sure to be a success; each man, that it was upon _him_ Mistress Huntoon counted as her chief aid. Just now she was listening with an air of absorbed interest to the talk of Sir William Berkeley, who dispensed his compliments upon just and unjust alike. True to the cavalier ideal, his theme was always "lovely woman." If the particular woman with whom he was talking was lovely she must like to be told so, if not, she must like it all the more. In the case of Elizabeth Huntoon the strain upon his conscience was less than usual, and if she smiled at his elaborate flatteries, it was only after his back was turned. "I trust, Madam," he was saying, "that I am to be favored with this white hand in the first measure--that is, if no other partner has been selected by the queen of the ball." "Where the Governor asks there can be no other," answered Elizabeth, sweeping her best courtesy; "but I am only queen dowager to-night, and Your Excellency must honor some of the rising beauties by asking of them in the dance." "Ay, after you," he said, tapping his gold snuff-box; "but when one is looking upon the sun, one has no mind to be put off with satellites." Then, breaking off and looking toward the staircase, he exclaimed, "In the name of Venus and Cupid, who is _that_?" Following his eyes Elizabeth saw naughty Peggy, who should have been ready an hour ago, coming slowly down the winding stair, her figure showing lithe and erect against the oak panelling, her head thrown back, her nostrils dilated with the elation of a race-horse coming in sight of the grand stand. For the last year she had drooped into a Yorkshire rose, but to-night she glowed in full Lancastrian splendor. Her cheeks were flushed with carnation, her lips redder still, and her eyes flashing with a sense of untried power and latent consciousness of crescent beauty. She was like a young empress looking down upon a roomful of men destined to be her subjects, though as yet they knew it not. The girls looked up at her and instinctively fell to arranging their lovelocks, and wondering if they had not abandoned the mirror prematurely. The men looked up and straightway forgot themselves and their partners, or wondered only how soon they could civilly be rid of them. "That girl not a beauty!" whispered Nancy reproachfully to Polly. "Why, then, where's the use of being beautiful. Look at the men!" In truth, it was as if the company had seen a comet. All faces were turned upward, all eyes upon that figure which came slowly down the stair with as calm an assurance as if her life had been spent in courts. "This satellite," said Elizabeth, with amused emphasis on the word, and drawing the girl toward her as she spoke, "is Mistress Peggy Neville, Your Excellency." "I had never thought of her having a name," said the Governor, bowing low, "unless, indeed, it were Flora or Proserpine, or some of those goddesses who appeared now and then to man in old days to show him what goddesses were like. May I hope that Flora will tread the pavan with me later?" Peggy blushed rosier than ever and courtesied to the ground. The twanging of the fiddles was in her ears celestial music, the candles were the lights of paradise, and _this_ was life. "Good-evening, Sir William!" "Ah! Huntoon, I have not seen you since my return from England." "How did you leave affairs there?" "Badly enough. His Majesty is hard pressed. I urged upon him a temporary withdrawal to his dominions on this side of the water, and if things go much worse with him I believe he may consider of it." "Come, gentlemen," broke in Elizabeth, "the fiddles are tuned, and the young people cannot brook waiting while you settle the fate of the nation." In truth, to one little maid it did seem as though the dancing would never begin. What was the fun of having men struggle for the privilege of talking with her? Old ladies could talk. She could talk better at forty-eight than at eighteen; but to _dance_, to sway to the music, and feel the blood keeping time as it swept along; to promenade down the hall with all eyes fixed upon one; to wheel the gallants in the reel and feel the lingering pressure of fingers reluctant to let go their transient grasp; to feel the light of the candles reflected in one's eyes and the perfume of roses caught in her breath; to live and move and reign the princess of love,--this was the glorious privilege of youth and womanhood, the guerdon which kind Fate in atonement for many hard blows had flung at the feet of Peggy Neville. At last the march began,--Sir William and Mistress Huntoon leading, the master of the house following with Lady Berkeley; and when Romney held out his hand to Peggy, she was glad to be alive. As she looked down at her gown she experienced that satisfaction which the young knights of old knew in donning their maiden armor, for is not dress the armor of the social battle? Never in her short life of eighteen years had Peggy Neville looked as lovely as she did to-night. Never had her eyes been so bright, never her cheeks so red, never had Romney felt himself so helplessly her slave, and, alas! the poor boy thought, never had she looked so indifferently upon him. It would not perhaps have encouraged the lad to know that instead of thinking of him with indifference, she simply was not thinking of him at all, her entire attention being fixed upon the scene around her and the actors in it. Such beautiful girls, in their jewels and laces and brocades and high-heeled slippers! Such magnificent men, with rainbow colors in sashes and velvet coats, with ruffles of costly embroideries and buckles reflecting the light of the candles! Most gorgeous of all, Sir William Berkeley! It quite took Peggy's breath away when this elegant courtier bowed before her and begged her hand for the pavan. Yet there he was, sweeping the floor before her with the white plumes of his hat and craving the honor of the dance. Whatever might be thought of Sir William's powers of governing, there could be no doubt that he understood the art of dancing, and, final test of skill, of making his partner dance well. Holding the tips of Peggy's fingers lightly, but firmly, he led her to the head of the hall, where the host and hostess stood. These they saluted gravely, she with a deep courtesy, he with an equally deep bow, his hat clasped to his heart. Then sweeping down the room they paused again before the portrait of the King, and Berkeley saluted with his sword; then on again, the hautboys keeping time while the company marked the rhythm by singing together, after the fashion introduced by Queen Henrietta's French courtiers-- [Illustration (music): Bel - le qui tiens ma - vie - e cap - ti - ve dans tes yeux, Qui m'as l'â - me ra - vi - e d'un sou - rire gra - ci - eux, Viens tôt me se - cou rir ou me faud - ra mou - rir. ] At the end of the measure, the advance being ended, the retreat began, the Governor walking behind and leading his partner backward, always with delicately held finger-tips, the raised arm and rounded wrist showing every graceful curve as the girl walked. "Where did she learn it," wondered Romney, "and she never at Court?" For Peggy the most trying period in the ordeal was when she was left standing alone while her cavalier, with gliding steps and deep bows, retreated to the centre of the room, where, sweeping a grave circle with his rapier, he faced about and again advanced toward her with the proud peacock-motion that gave the dance its name. At first she had not the courage to look up to his face at all, but kept her eyes fixed upon the scarlet cross-bands embroidered with gold across his breast and the jewel-studded hilt of his rapier. Apparently His Excellency found the view of her eyelashes and lowered lids unsatisfactory, for as they paced down the room between the rows of gallants he compelled her to look up by asking how she liked Virginia. "Virginia much, but Virginians more," she answered. "That is doubly a compliment, coming from a dweller across the border," said the Governor, with a smile. "For our part, whatever quarrels we may have with the men of your province, we are forced to lower our swords before its women. Beauty is the David who slays his tens of thousands, where strength, like Saul, counts its thousands only. It is not every one," he added, with a look which older men permit themselves and call impertinence in a youth,--"it is not every one who can move in a ball-room as if it were her birthright to be admired." "Thank you," said Peggy, and then blushed crimson. "What a dolt I am," she thought; "as if he meant me!" To cover her confusion she fixed her eyes upon a soldierly man at the head of the room. "Can you, who know every one, tell me," she asked, "who is the cavalier who dances with an abstracted air, as though his thoughts were fixed on serious subjects, and his mind only permitted his body to dance on condition that it made no demand on his attention?" "Ah, you mean Councillor Claiborne." "Not Master William Claiborne?" "Why not?" "Why--why--" stammered Peggy, "I thought he would look like a cut-throat or a pirate." The Governor laughed so loud that every one turned and wondered what the girl talking with him could have said that was so mightily clever, and thus her blunder did the new-comer more good in social repute than the finest wit. "So the Maryland picture of poor Claiborne supplies him with all the attributes of the devil, except the horns and hoof? And you would never have known him as different from half the worthies here to-night. Well, I'll tell you privately what Master William Claiborne really is,--a good friend, an able secretary of the Council, and a damned obstinate enemy. When Baltimore undertook to oust him from Kent Island he might better have thrust his hand into a nest of live wasps. Ah, what? Our turn again. Why, young lady, your talk is so beguiling I had quite lost myself." Peggy smiled behind her fan at the Governor's notion that it was she who had done the talking. She wished--she did wish Christopher could have heard him say it, though. But Christopher, when she begged him to be present at the dance, had shaken his head and answered that he should not know how to carry himself at a ball. Peggy, remembering her mother's stories of Christopher at court, and how Queen Henrietta had asked to have him presented to her as the finest gallant at Buckingham Palace, had fallen to crying then. Even now, following her little vanity came a great rush of pity and tenderness that brought the quick tears, and made her glad when the dance was ended, and Sir William, bowing low over her hand, led her to her seat with a kiss. "Uncle William has resigned her at last," said the Governor's niece, who was talking with Romney in a corner under the musician's balcony. "Do you admire her as much as the other men do?" "_Her?_" asked Romney, with a fine show of indifference. "Mistress Neville, I mean, that they all talk of as if nothing like her was ever seen before." "Do they?" "Ay, Master Lawrence says she lights the hall more than all the candles, while Colonel Payne says that her dancing is poetry and her talk is music." "Indeed!" "Ay, and Captain Snow is worst of all, for he follows her about with his eyes opened twice as big as usual, lest he lose a single glance. If you doubt me, look at Polly Claiborne, who thought she had him safely landed for a husband, and now sees him drifting in the tow of another bark. She is furious." "She looks calm enough." "In the face, yes, but look at her hands; they are wringing that unlucky lace kerchief as if 'twere her rival's neck. But you have not said what you think of this paragon." "I was looking at you." "_Toward_ me, not _at_ me, and ever and anon your eyes took a holiday and wandered off to the Beauty. Oh, it is fine to be a Beauty with a capital letter. Yet I think really it is more her manner that charms than her looks. She has the air of being so pleased with each man she meets, and so more than pleased that he finds pleasure in looking at her." "She does." "It looks like vanity. Say you not so?" "It surely does--like coquetry, which is the very essence of vanity." "'Tis well she hears you not." "I will go over now, and you shall see me tell her so," Romney said, as a man joined them. "It was a shrewd device; but it fails to deceive me," thought his companion. "He is in love, and he is jealous." "It is like the days at old Romney Hall, is it not, sweetheart?" said the master of the house, standing beside his wife, as they watched the lines of men and maidens gliding down the length of the room, their gorgeous brocades and glistening jewels reflected as in a mirror in the polished floor. "Ay," answered Elizabeth, "and the county of Devon could not show more pretty faces than are here to-night. Nancy Lynch is a beauty, and Kitty Lee has the loveliest crinkly hair." "But Peggy is the queen of the ball," said Huntoon, with a satisfied nod. "See the saucy baggage smiling at her own reflection in the glass." "I fear she is vain." "No doubt, being pretty, and a woman." "She is neglecting Romney." "But is she not having a fine time! I vow it makes my slow, old blood dance to watch her." "But it is Romney's dance, and he enjoys it not." "And if the boy wants the moon, this being his birthnight, his mother must get it for him. See, Peggy is throwing a rose at Romney. It hit him squarely in the breast and she is smiling at him." "Stupid!" said Elizabeth. "Why does he not ask her for the galliard?" "He has; see how glum the others look. Call you that hospitality, to keep the best for himself?" "Oh, the others were best occupied in talking with the girls. But no, they must hang about looking at Peggy, as though the sun rose and set over her shoulder." Yet Elizabeth smiled. Meanwhile Peggy, having had her fill of admiration, turned gracious and bethought herself of the other damsels. She would fain have persuaded some of her superfluous partners to betake themselves across the hall to where Polly Claiborne was sitting in solitude against the settle; but such curious creatures are men, that they prefer to hover on the frigid rim of the outermost circle of success rather than to bask in the welcoming smiles of the neglected. One held Peggy's fan, another her kerchief, a third her roses, the ones Romney had gathered for her this afternoon, and now viewed with wrath, seeing them picked to pieces by the idle fingers of young Captain Richard Snow, who, having won a place in the inner line by her side, showed a determination not to abandon it before supper. "Never before did I know that the Huntoons were selfish!" he was murmuring. "That they could never be!" ejaculated Peggy, with anger in her voice. "Yet they have kept you to themselves for a whole year, you that should have shone like the sun over all Virginia." "Poor Virginia!" mocked Peggy; "she has indeed been sadly cheated." "You need not shine long to warm the province," said a second gallant, "since you have melted Snow in a single evening." "Ah," answered Peggy, "snow in this part of the world never stays long, but," with a side glance under her lashes, "it is lovely while it lasts;" then catching too a self-satisfied smile upon the Captain's face, she added pertly, "but somewhat soft." The Captain colored and glowered at his rival. "It is a misfortune," he said, stiffly, "to have a name that lends itself to jests." "Oh," said Peggy, feeling that she had taken a liberty and anxious to make amends, "I do admire your name much." "Really!" "Really and truly." "You have only to take it; I assure you it is quite at your service." At this a shout of laughter went up from the circle of men about. "What is the jest?" asked Romney, joining the group from which he had been vainly striving to abstract his eyes and interest. "Why, an offer of marriage from Snow, which Mistress Neville has not yet answered." Romney showed his vexation by tapping with his foot on the floor and biting his lip. "Yes," added another, "we are all waiting eagerly to try our own chance." "I am sorry," said Romney, stiffly, "to cut short your lottery, but my mother has sent me to conduct Mistress Neville to the supper-table, and begs that you gentlemen will find partners." Peggy, knowing that she was not behaving well, was incensed with Romney for showing that he knew it too. "The hero of a birthnight is no more to be denied than the King himself," she said, turning for a last smile at her court. Then as soon as they were out of hearing, "Romney, what is the matter? Have I a black smooch on my nose, or did I talk too much or laugh too loud that you look so--so--so righteously disapproving?" "If you are satisfied with your conduct I shall not presume to disapprove." "If I _were_ satisfied with my conduct I should not care a halfpenny whether you disapproved or not. It's just because I am not satisfied in the least that it makes me so vexed that you do presume to disapprove. See you not why I cannot bear to have you think ill of me?" Romney's heart beat thick and fast. "Why, Peggy? Will you not tell me why?" "Because if you do your mother will, and then I should have only your father for my friend, and by and by--perhaps--who knows?--he would give me up too." Romney's spirits, which had risen to boiling point at her question, sank to freezing at her answer. The lights seemed to fade out of the hundred candles and leave the hall gloomy; he heard the fiddles scraping out the tune of "Oil of Barley," and he hated the music ever after. In silence he stalked on to the door of the supper-room. Within was a merry din of talk and laughter. "Come, Peggy," said the hostess, "I was looking for you. We are waiting for you to cut the birthday cakes. Good friends all," she continued, turning to the company, "we have here two birthday cakes, and in each lies hid one half of a gimmal ring, which, as you know, is made of two rings that do fit together to form one. On the man's ring is inscribed '_to get_,' and on the maid's, '_her_,' and being united they read '_together_.' Come, Peggy, cut and choose first lot for the maid's ring!" Amid much shouting and laughter the lots were cast, and when it was found that the lucky numbers had been drawn by Mistress Neville and Captain Snow, all the company save one found the result vastly diverting. The Captain fastened his half conspicuously over his breast, and Peggy mischievously slipped hers upon the marriage finger. Humphrey Huntoon, seeing the gathering cloud on Romney's brow, filled a goblet from the great punch-bowl which stood in the centre of the table flanked by candelabra bearing twenty candles each. "A toast, my boy! a toast!" he called out, and under his breath he murmured, "Forget not that to-night you are host first and lover afterward." Romney colored but took the goblet, raised it and said, bowing to all corners of the room,-- "To my guests, one and all!" "I give you 'The Ladies of Virginia!'" called Colonel Payne. "Here's to Maryland! Confusion to her men, but long life to her women!" It was Claiborne who spoke, and Captain Snow capped the toast by clinking his new ring against his goblet and crying, "I drink to Her!" Peggy, seeing Romney's face darken again, took her courage in both hands and with it her goblet, which she lifted, saying in a soft voice which could yet be heard over all the room,-- "To Master and Mistress Huntoon, the kindest hostess and the noblest host, and--" here she stretched out her hand to Romney, "to the hero of the night, the best comrade in the world!" A chorus of "Long life to them all!" greeted the toast, and the goblets clinked merrily; but to Romney it might have been water or wine or poison they were drinking, for all he knew or cared. At last, when supper was ended Sir William Berkeley rose in his place, and with a solemnity quite different from his jovial manner of the evening hitherto he said, "One last toast, and we will, if you please, drink it standing. The King, God bless him!" Fifty men sprang to their feet, fifty goblets flashed in air. Then utter silence fell. It was as if the shadow of the scaffold at Whitehall already cast its gloom over the loyal hearts of the colonial cavaliers. The guests broke up into little groups of two and three and wandered back to the dancing-hall, where the fiddles were still working away for dear life at the strains of "The Jovial Beggar" and "Joan's Ale is New." The long lines of reel and brantle formed again, and the dancers refused to give over their merry-making till the gray dawn came peeping in at the window, turning the yellow candlelight to an insignificant glimmer, and hinting of the approaching day and its humdrum duties. As the guests, one by one, came up to bid their hosts a good-night, which might more appropriately have been a good-morning, Master Claiborne drew Huntoon aside a moment, asking,-- "Will you be at home to-morrow--I mean to-day?" "Ay." "Then I may come to see you?" "Why not stay now, since 'tis already day?" "Because there be others I must see first, but I will be back before noon." "And I glad as always to see you, but too sleepy, I fear, to give heed to any business." "Then get your sleep before, for it is business of moment touching which we need your aid and counsel." Before Huntoon could answer, another guest claimed his attention, and he followed to the door to help the ladies, who had donned their hoods and safeguards, to mount their horses or embark in the boats. As they rode or sailed away into the gray dawn, Peggy, wrapped in her red cloak, stood with Romney watching them from the porch. "It has been _such_ a beautiful ball!" she sighed. "You think so?" "Of course I do; but then, you see, I never saw a real, big ball before. Do you think they are all like that?" "To girls like you, yes, and I suppose to men like me." "But there are so few men like you." Romney's eyes looked a question. "So persistent and so jealous and so--dear--" With this Peggy pulled the ring off her finger and, tossing it lightly toward the lad, whispered,-- "Catch! and keep it if you can! It is my birthday gift." "I take the dare and I take the gift, and I will yet take something else. So there, Peggy!" But ere he had finished she had vanished up the stairway and the ball was over. CHAPTER XXI A ROOTED SORROW Before the last guest had taken his departure from Romney the red sun came bobbing up across the river and shot his rays in at the window. There is a sarcastic common-sense about the morning sun on such occasions. "Was it all worth while?" he seems to ask. "Consider the labor of preparation, the rushing about of the servants, the hours that my lady spent before her mirror with patch and powder-puff, the effort my fine gentleman expended upon his ruffles and falling bands. Then the occasion itself, the weary feet that trod the measure long after the toilsome pleasure had ceased to please, the lips that murmured sentiment knowing it was nonsense, the eyes that reversed the old moral maxim and strove to beam and not to see--Reflect upon all these and then sum up the aftermath,--the disordered rooms, the guttering candles, the faded flowers, the regretted vows, the heavy eyelids, the aching heads. Now, was it all worth while?" The answer of the overnight revellers would doubtless depend chiefly on age and temperament. Young men and maidens would reply that it was none of the sun's business; that he had never been at a ball, and did not know what he was talking about, and for themselves they preferred to reserve their confidences for the sympathetic moon, who, being so much younger than the sun, could better understand youthful experiences and emotions. Certainly that is what Romney Huntoon would have said. The commonplace day annoyed him. His mood was too sentimental for its searching light. He had slept little, and now at near noon hung about the foot of the stairway wondering at what time it would occur to Mistress Margaret Neville to come down. When she did appear disappointment was in store for him. She seemed to have forgotten wholly that little scene on the terrace, and when he held out his hand with her ring, that blessed little ring upon it, she only courtesied and asked if his mother were yet down stairs. At breakfast it was little better: she raved over Colonel Theophilus Payne, praised the bearing of Councillor Claiborne, said how she doted upon army men, commended the curls of one cavalier and the bearing of another,--all as if no such youth as Romney Huntoon had ever crossed her path. Romney avowed his intention of spending the afternoon in his boat on the river. Peggy thought it an excellent plan, and purposed retiring to her room unless Mistress Huntoon had need of her. Mistress Huntoon had _no_ need of her. In fact, in reviewing last night's events she felt that Peggy had treated her son rather badly, and she was inclined to make the culprit feel it, too. It must be admitted that justice is never so unrelenting as when Rhadamanthus has been up overnight. On another occasion excuses might have been found for the girl, but this morning she was pronounced unquestionably vain and presumably heartless,--in short, Elizabeth Huntoon was out of temper. It was not much better with her husband. He was uneasy over the approaching visit of William Claiborne, and annoyed with himself that he had not had the wit to devise an excuse. He knew well Claiborne's insubordinate temper, and had no mind to be drawn into any of his schemes. Peggy alone worked away at her stitching in exasperating content. At length Romney could bear it no longer. He rose, thrust his hands into his pockets and rushed out, opening the door with his head as he went, like a goat butting a wall. Peggy smiled, and the smile brought a frown to the face of her hostess. "Romney is not over well this morning, I fear," said his mother. "I thought he was not behaving well--I mean not behaving as if he were well." "He hath much to try him." "That is hard to believe, in this beautiful home and with thee for a mother." Elizabeth tapped the floor with her slipper. "'Twere well for young men if a mother's love sufficed them." "Ho! ho!" laughed Humphrey, roused from his abstraction by the tilt between the two women. "Faith, good wife, I felt the need of another love than my mother's, and I look not to see Romney more filial than I." "Oh, you may make a jest of me," began Elizabeth, stiffly; but there was a catch in her voice which led Peggy to throw down her netting, and run across the room to kneel beside her. "_I_ need a mother's love more than any," she whispered. Elizabeth's anger weakened. "Tell me where Romney has gone and I will follow and strive to make my peace." For answer Mistress Huntoon pointed through the window to where Romney sat on the edge of the wharf vexing the placid breast of the York River by a volley of pebbles, flipped between his thumb and forefinger. As the boy sat thus idly occupied, his hand full of pebbles, his head full of bitter thoughts, his heart of a curious numbness, he felt a light touch on his shoulder, but he did not turn. "Master Huntoon!" No answer. "Romney!" "Ay." "Of what art thou thinking?" "Nothing." "And what dost thou think of when thou art thinking of nothing?" "A woman's promise." "Hath some woman promised thee aught and failed thee?" "Ay, it comes to the same thing. Eyes may speak promises as well as lips." "Oh, yes, eyes may say a great deal, especially when they are angry eyes and look out from under drawn brows. I should scarce think any maid would dare wed a man with eyes that could look black when their color by nature is blue." Clever Peggy to shift the ground of attack! Silly Romney to fall into the trap! "I am not angry." "Yes you are, and have been all the morning in a temper. I felt quite sorry for your mother, she was so shamed by it." "What said she?" "Oh, that you were not well, which is what mothers always say when their son's actions do them no credit." "If my temper did me no credit, who drove me to it?" Peggy raised her eyebrows, puckered her pretty lips, and looked straight up into the sky as if striving to solve a riddle. "For my life I cannot guess," she said at last, "unless--unless it was that wretched woman who broke her promise." "Thou hast keen insight for one of thy years." "Then it was she!" "It was no other." "Tell me her name, that I may go to her and denounce her to her face." "Strangers know her as Mistress Margaret Neville. To her friends she is plain Peggy. Now denounce her to her face if thou wilt." Tripping to the edge of the bank, the girl bent over till she could catch the reflection of her curls and dancing eyes in the water. "Plain Peggy," she said, shaking her finger at the image below with a wicked smile, "you must be a bad baggage. It seems you have broken your promise to marry a gentleman here, and such a perfect gentleman! he says so himself,--one who never gets angry, never butts with his head at doors, never shames his mother. Why, plain Peggy, you must be a fool to lose such a chance; but since you have thrown away such a treasure, I trust you will meet the punishment you do deserve, and that he will go away and never--_never_--NEVER speak--to you again!" With this Peggy turned sharply on her heel, burning with curiosity to see the effect of her words. Poor, discomfited little maiden! Romney had withdrawn to the edge of the wharf, and there, close beside her, with his horse's bridle over his arm, stood Councillor Claiborne. With no attempt at salutation Peggy clapped her hands over her burning cheeks, and ran, yes, ignominiously ran, toward the house. At the door she met Mistress Huntoon. "Councillor Claiborne is--is--coming," she stammered breathlessly. "Why didst thou not stay to speak with him?" But Peggy attempted no answer, only fled on indoors. When Humphrey had been left alone, by Peggy's exit to the wharf and his wife's withdrawal to the offices, his thoughts turned with renewed irritation to Claiborne, till Christopher's entrance shed its usual benison of tranquillity. The glimpse of the ball which Neville had caught from over the stairway had lingered in his mind as a charming vision. The lights cheered him, and the music had lulled him to sweet slumber, from which he had wakened at peace with the world, yet with a haze of the Indian-summer sadness over the serenity. After breakfast, Neville and Huntoon sat by the open door smoking their pipes in that social silence so dear to men, so difficult to women. "Neville," said his host at length, breaking the long quiet, "you look better to-day than at any time since you came to Romney." "Oh, I am well enough." "Your tone hath somewhat of discouragement in it." "I do feel a certain sadness of late, as if I were ever grasping for something I could not see, much less reach. It doth often seem to me that I and you and all of us here at Romney are shut out from the world by a wall of fog, not dark, because it is ofttimes flooded by sunlight, but heavy, dense, dull. It is like a thick curtain with vague distances in it, like the distances between the sun and the earth, and through these spaces float familiar scenes and faces, and all the while I feel that if I could grasp one word it would prove a clue to guide me through the spaces from one scene to another; but the word--a name, I think it is--will not come, and when I think on it too hard I seem to hear an echo murmuring 'Far away, far away.' Then the whole vision fades, and I come back to you and Mistress Huntoon and the rest; and yet it is as if only half of me came back, and half were still wandering through these vague, gray spaces of mist, following the name. Think you I shall ever find it?" Touched to the quick, Huntoon opened his lips to speak. "Is the name--" At that point his attention was caught by a stranger's voice outside the door saying, "I am surprised to see you abroad so early after last night's mighty merry dance, Mistress Huntoon." "I am honored that you found it so merry, Councillor," said Elizabeth. "Ay, all counted it the most brilliant festivity yet given in Virginia, and as for the young Maryland beauty, she has turned the heads of half the cavaliers in York County." "Some heads are set on pivots, and turn to each new face," answered Elizabeth, irritably conscious that Romney and Peggy were both within hearing. "Perhaps, but many of these heads will find some difficulty in turning another way. Captain Snow raved all the way home over her charms, and Colonel Payne swore her coming had gone far to do away with his grudge toward Maryland; and by the way, the name reminds me that I came to see your husband on a matter of somewhat urgent business. Is he within?" "I left him in the hall," Elizabeth replied, leading the way back to the house, and turning back after she had waved the new-comer to enter. "Good-morning, Master Huntoon!" "Ah, Claiborne, you look as though you had had even less sleep than I." "I do suspect 'tis true, for I have been in the saddle since dawn." "You must have pressing affairs on hand." "Most pressing, and it is concerning them that I am come to consult with you privately." A certain emphasis on the last word caused Huntoon to glance toward Neville, who was scrutinizing the inside of his pipe, and had scarcely noted the stranger's entrance. "Go on," said Huntoon, "it is quite safe. I'll be warrant for the close mouth of my friend here. Besides," here he drew back behind Neville, and tapped his forehead significantly, "he is a stranger here, and neither cares nor knows anything of our entanglements." "Then, Master Huntoon, I will make a clean breast of the matter that brought me hither. You are a Virginian, and a man of honor." "Certainly the former, and I have some hopes of the latter." "Then join us in our effort to wrest away the land which the perfidious Calverts have stolen under guise of royal grant from the Commonwealth." "'Stolen' is a strong word, Councillor." "Not too strong to fit the occasion. Was not the license to trade with the natives along the Maryland shore granted to me by the government of Virginia, and afterward by the King himself?" "It was." "Was it not under authority of Virginia that I made a settlement at Kent Island?" "Yes, but--" "Did not Kent belong to Virginia by right of a charter antedating the patent of that upstart, Calvert?" "The Commissioners in England decided differently." "Ay, of course wire-pulling will always move the wires." Huntoon's only response was a non-committal smile. "You may remember, Councillor Huntoon, that this same question came before the Virginia Council ten years ago, that I did ask the opinion of that honorable body as to whether I should yield to Baltimore's claims. The board answered that they wondered how any such question could be asked, that they knew no reason why they should give up their rights in the Isle of Kent more than any other formerly granted to Virginia by His Majesty's patent, and that I was in duty bound to maintain the rights and privileges of our colony." "But that was before the decision of the Commission." "Ay, but that goes for nothing. 'Twas unjust, unfair, and should be unrecognized." "Who are concerned in your present plan?" asked Huntoon. "Half the planters along the river." "And who is to be the leader?" "I believe they look to me; but I shall not be alone in the responsibility. My friend, Captain Ingle, is already anchored in the bay with his ship _The Reformation_." "Richard Ingle?" "The same, and a gallant spark he is. Last winter Governor Brent had him tossed on to his vessel like a bag of grain, and the ship ordered off in mad haste as though she had the plague aboard. Ingle swore revenge then; but matters were in too ticklish a stage at home 'twixt King and Parliament to admit of his proceeding too fast. Now things are clearer, and he has come back with ammunition, armed with letters of marque from Parliament, and purposes to make hot work in more senses than one at St. Mary's." Neville stopped playing with his pipe and brushed his hand across his forehead. "Then what you purpose is an immediate raid," said Huntoon. "That's it. You're not one that takes long to grasp a situation, and so I told Ingle. We are to set sail to-morrow to a point in the bay where we look to find _The Reformation_ awaiting us, and then under cover of night we shall slip through the mouth of the Potomac River and be in the town ere daybreak. That, I fancy, will be a surprise indeed for Calvert, who, I hear, is lately come back from England, and fancies his little kingdom here secure from all invaders. Now, what say you? May we count on you and your son to be on the wharf with your firearms to-morrow, an hour or so past noon?" "You may not." Claiborne started. "You are not ready, then, to hazard anything for the honor of Virginia." "Pardon me; I never gave any man the right to say that, but neither gave I any man charge over my conscience to tell me what was needful to sustain my honor or that of the Commonwealth. For my part I see in this raid you do propose an outrage on the rights of a sister colony, an outrage sure to be resented and sometime revenged, and meanwhile to sow seeds of dissension among the little handful of civilized white men scattered along this unfriendly coast." "Forgive me," sneered Claiborne; "I had quite mistook both your character and your inclination. My time is too short to listen to longer sermon-making, the more as I must seek further for brave men who have stomach for a fight." Huntoon bowed coldly and made a step toward the door. Claiborne hesitated. "I trust," he said, "I may at least depend upon your secrecy." "As for that, I must settle it with my own conscience after more thought. I sought no confidence, and am bound to no silence which I count an injury to the colony; but as the enterprise is a private one, I see so far no reason for the Government's interfering, though for myself I tell you in all frankness I should count it strict justice if you and your precious friend, Ingle, found a noose awaiting you at your journey's end." Claiborne laughed, and played with the hilt of his sword. "Thanks, Master Huntoon, for your courtesy and good wishes, but we'll look after our own necks, and do you the same. We have no taste for hanging, and it behooves all of the name of Calvert to keep more than a rope's length from Richard Ingle and William Claiborne." With an assumed jauntiness the visitor strode out at the open door and went whistling down the path. Huntoon stood still plunged in thought, moving his foot about on the floor. When he looked up he was startled by the change in Neville's appearance. It was as if the soul had roused itself from its long trance and had taken command of the body once more. "I heard and I understood," he said. "Understood what?" said Huntoon, to test him. "Everything. It was as if his words made a gap in that wall of fog I told you of this morning, and of a sudden I could see the world beyond. Dick Ingle is come back. He and Claiborne are to attack St. Mary's. Is that true?" "It is true," sighed Huntoon. "And what will you do about it?" To Huntoon this spectre, raised suddenly, as from mental death, seemed like the embodiment of his own conscience risen to confront him. "What can I do?" he asked. Again Neville drew his hand across his forehead, as though he were striving to clear away the mist that still clouded his faculties. "Ingle--Calvert--St. Mary's," he repeated, as though the words were talismans to prevent his mind from slipping away again. "Ay, 'tis a coil--a grievous coil. I see not what I can do. I have no authority to act, and there is no time to call the Council together--" "For you I know not. For me one thing is clear, I must go." "Surely the Calverts and their friends have not treated you so well that you owe them either aid or warning." "I must go." Neville seemed to be talking to himself rather than to Huntoon, and to fear most of all that he should lose the power that floated just before him, still tantalizingly beyond his grasp. "Why must you go?" "There is some one there who needs me. I cannot recall her name, but I seem to see her face and I hear her voice. I wish--I wish--I could call her by name." Piteously he turned to Huntoon, seeking aid. "Is the name you seek _Elinor_--_Elinor Calvert_?" "God bless you! Yes; _Elinor_. Say it again to me if my mind wanders. Elinor! Oh, I do love thee! That face of thine--it has hovered in my dreams, but I thought it was an angel's. I remember it now, and with that smile on it and those words of thine, 'I think if thou shouldst put thine arms around me and whisper it in my ear I should believe!' Oh, Elinor, my love! Dost thou love me, dear, still? But the wall still stands between us." "What wall?" "The smirch upon mine honor. She would have been mine in spite of it, but I swore an oath to God never to call her wife unless I could offer her a name as clear in the sight of men as in His." The strong man bowed his face upon his arms and wept, silently at first, then with hard, heart-rending sobs, and Huntoon stood by awed and helpless. It was the birth-cry of a soul beginning life for the second time. At length the sobs ceased, and Neville rose and stood upright, looking inches taller than before, as though a miracle had been wrought and thought had added a cubit to his stature. He smiled, and the smile was sadder than the tears. "Help me, Huntoon," he said, "for I am as a little child, and I have a man's work before me." Huntoon struck hands with him, and a force of vital will-power seemed borne on that electric current of sympathy. "Fear not!" he said. "If God has work for you, He will furnish strength to do it." "Amen!" cried Christopher, bowing his head. When he lifted it again his face was as the face of an angel,--the angel of the sword. Turning, Huntoon was aware that Romney and Peggy and Elizabeth were standing in the doorway and looking in bewilderment from him to Neville. "We have had strange news, Neville and I. An attack is to be made upon St. Mary's, and Neville feels his Maryland blood thrilling to go to the rescue." Aside he said low to his wife, "Take no notice of the change, we are seeing a miracle,--the dead has come to life again." Peggy grew white. "Christopher," she whispered, running up and laying her face against her brother's shoulder, "thou wilt not leave me!" "Dear, I must; but I do not leave thee alone. Answer me, Peggy," and holding her face between his hands he gazed deep into her eyes, "Dost thou love Romney Huntoon?" Peggy felt the same spell that had lain upon them all, the compelling force of an almost supernatural presence, before which her little doubts and hesitations vanished and her dimpling artifices faded into utter pettiness. She stood looking up at him, "in the eyes all woman, in the lips half child," till his earnest gaze forced an answer. "I do," she said, without blush or tremor. "Come here, Romney," said Neville; and placing Peggy's hand in the young man's, "be good to her!" he said. Then turning to where Elizabeth and Humphrey stood side by side, he took a hand of each. "Kind friends,--and better no man ever had,--do me one more favor in accepting this little sister of mine as your daughter." "Trust me!" said Humphrey; but Elizabeth said never a word, only moved across the room and threw her protecting motherly arms around Peggy. Christopher smiled. "I am answered. Now, where is dear old Philpotts?" "Here, my master," spoke the faithful retainer, who had been holystoning the bricks of the great fireplace. To him Neville stretched out his hand. "It all comes back to me now,--what you have dared and suffered and lost for me. I thank you from my soul. Perhaps 'tis too much to ask, but could you find it in your heart to bear me company in one more troublous time, one more life-risk?" "Ay, ay, I'll follow your lead to the death!" "Then to the wharf and loose the little boat that lies there, the one that you have been building all summer. For the rest of you, good-bye, and God bless you, one and all!" The little group stood on the dock and watched the boat as it stole out into the twilight, Philpotts at the helm, Neville before the mast, just as he had stood on that fatal day twelve months since, the sunlight streaming across his pale face. "He is like Sir Tristan," thought Humphrey Huntoon, "'born to sadness and cradled in sorrow.' God grant him one glimpse of happiness before he goes hence forever!" CHAPTER XXII CANDLEMAS EVE "Couthin Marget, dost think the ground-hog can see his shadow when he comes out of his hole to-morrow?" "I fear it, Cecil. See how bright the west is!" It was Candlemas Eve at St. Mary's. All day Cecil had been in the woods gathering snowdrops for the shrine of the Virgin, and binding bay-leaves into wreaths to decorate Our Lady's Chapel. Now, at sunset, he was resting with his head against Margaret Brent's knee under the great mulberry-tree on the bluff. "Then the winter will be long?" "So they say." "And hard?" "That's what all the grandames tell." "Is it a falsehood or a truehood?" "True as most sayings belike." "Then, Marget." "Well?" "I think I'd best be up ere sunrise, and roll stones before all the holes, and I know five wherein ground-hogs live." Margaret Brent laughed. "That's just what Giles did once when he was little." "Wath Couthin Giles ever little--really little--like me?" "Yes, Cecil, little like you; and he and I were wont to chase butterflies through the English meadows, and it's small thought either he or I ever had that we should end our lives here in the wilderness." "End your lives!" To Cecil it was as impossible to conceive of an end as of a beginning to these grown-up people who always had been, and, of course, always would be, the backbone of his world. After a pause given to meditation he resumed,-- "What makes folks die?" "Oh! different things. They may be sick, or they may fall down stairs, or break their bones." "I see. Then they go up to God to get mended.--Marget!" "Ay." "I wish Mother would get God to mend her smile." "What's that?" "She used to have such a pretty smile, and now she only smiles when I make her." "Then see that thou dost make her smile often. Perchance 'tis thus that God will mend it. Come, Cecil, she will be waiting for us even now, and we shall catch the rheum if we sit longer on this damp ground." Cecil, always glad to be in motion, jumped up, and led the way home, his yellow curls bobbing along the path, as good as a lantern in the gloaming, as Margaret Brent told herself. At the cottage door Elinor stood bathed in the crimson light that flooded earth and sky. Her pale cheek had caught the rosy glow, and the damp February air had twisted her hair in soft clinging rings about her face. As she caught sight of Margaret and Cecil her lips parted in a welcoming smile, and she came down the path to meet them with arms outstretched. "Look, Couthin!" cried Cecil, "God's mending her already!" "Pray Heaven He does!" answered Margaret, under her breath. Then, after seeing the boy clasped in his mother's arms, she turned for a last look at the scene which she had left with reluctance, for it was one of the inconsistencies of Mistress Brent's practical nature to love the poetry of the twilight, and to be willing to barter all the noon-day hour for that last swift dip of the red sun behind the hills. To-night she stood with head thrown back and chest expanded, as though she were physically breathing in the beauty around her. The rose-purple of a moment since had narrowed to a single crimson bar, stretched above the opal barrier of the hills, athwart the deep yellow of the sky. "The walls were of jasper, and the city was of pure gold like unto clear glass!" "Supper, Couthin Marget! and wheaten porridge. Come in with speed!" "Peace, poppet! Who talks of porridge in the New Jerusalem!" "But this is not the New Jerusalem, only the ragged little village of St. Mary's." It was Elinor's voice that answered, and Margaret rejoiced to catch a strain of oldtime lightness in it. Moreover, the promise of the voice was fulfilled as they sat at the supper-table, for Elinor was as one who has shaken off a burden. Her gown was of a rich red that might have been stolen from the sunset, and in her hair she had set a wing of the cardinal tanager. Around her neck hung a single ruby. "Truth, Elinor, thou art like a flame to-night," exclaimed Margaret as Cecil drew out a stool for her at the table. "'Tis time, Cousin. Poor Cecil hath had too much of shadow in his little life. Now, I am fain to throw some brightness into it, if 'tis but a red gown and a tanager's wing." "Hurrah! Now art thou thine old self once more, as I saw thee on the morning when I was Lord of--" Margaret saw the gayety fade out of Elinor's face as swiftly as a sunlighted sail is swallowed up by the gray mist. "Dost thou mind, Elinor," she said, quickly, "how we were wont to make merry on Candlemas Eve at home in England?" "Ay, right well I remember how once, when I was a girl, I went through the woods gathering wax berries for the candles." Here she paused, and added softly, with a mounting flush and a tender smile, "'Twas with Christopher Neville." Margaret Brent looked up astonished. "Yes, Cousin, I can speak his name, and mean to talk often of him with Cecil, to make the boy, so far as I can, in his image, so tender and true, so steadfast and faithful to death." "Thou art a brave woman." "Nay, I have been till now a very foolish one. Even now, as thou didst see, Cecil's words and all they called up cut to the quick like a two-edged knife; but this is wrong, and I know it. Sure, God did not give us memory to be a curse, but a joy. So far as I sinned toward Christopher I must bear the burden of sorrow; but I mean not that it shall blight all the past. We were happy together once--then sorrow swept between; but now that too has passed, and I am fain to live once again, though alone, the happiness we shared." "Art sure it will not try thine endurance too far to dwell so on the past?" "Nay, for I love it, and 'tis so real,--far, far more real than the present. Why, I can smell again the fragrance of the waxen berries, and I can see Christopher as he stood pulling down the bushes and smiling at my eagerness to fill my pail. I think there never was a smile quite like his. 'Twas more in the eyes than the lips, and it seemed to have actual warmth in it, like the fire yonder." "Ay, 'twas clear wonderful to see what a change a smile could make in that stern face of his." "Oh, but in those days there was no sternness in his face, only a great gladness and gayety. I have seen him lie under the trees and whistle beneath the hat pulled over his face, till all the birds gathered round and wondered what strange new creature it was that had learned so merry a note." Elinor's eyes grew dark and misty as she looked across the candle-light into the darkness beyond; but the smile still curved her lips, and an expression lay on her face as of one who listens and responds. "Mother, wilt thou sing me a song as thou dost every Candlemas?" "Cecil, I fear my voice will not follow my resolutions; but yes,--it shall. What wilt thou have me sing?" "Oh, the song about the lady with the green sleeves." "Must it be that, Cecil? Surely some other would do as well." "No, 'tis my favorite of them all." Elinor paled a little; but she began bravely, and her courage and her voice rose together till at the end there came a triumphant burst that swelled beyond the narrow walls and could be heard out on the road, and the villagers stood still to listen, and nudged each other with wonder. "Heard ye that? 'Tis Mistress Calvert singing,--Mistress Calvert!" When the song was ended, Margaret took her turn at story-telling, and then Cecil must sing; and thus the time sped away so fast that they could scarce believe their ears when the curfew bell sounded for "lights out," and Cecil well-nigh forgot the answer to the bell, that he had been taught in babyhood and repeated every night since he could speak: "Christ send us the lights of Heaven!" "Off to bed with thee, Cecil," said his mother, taking his face between her hands, as was her wont, and kissing him on both cheeks. "To bed, and sweet dreams attend thee!" "Yet forget not to be up early," added Margaret. "No fear, I have all the candles to light for the Candlemas blaze, and Father White hath promised I may help him in the chapel of Our Lady." Leaning against his mother's knee he looked up into her face, exclaiming,-- "Oh, but I do love thee!" "I wonder why." "Why?--because thou art thou, and I am I." "Sweet, there is no other reason for loving in all the wide world." "I can think of other reasons too--little ones." "What?" "I love thee for the gold of thy hair, and for the holes at the corners of thy mouth, and for the seed cake thou didst give me, and for not beating me when I fell into the Governor's Spring in my new breeches, and for rubbing my legs that night." Elinor threw her arms about the child with a swift hug, jealously noting that he was taller by a head than last year. The boy belongs to his mother. The man belongs to the world or to some other woman. "I love thee too" was all she said. Clasping his arms close about his mother's neck, Cecil whispered, "God _is_ mending thee, and I _am_ so glad, 'cos now thou wilt have no need to die." When the child was gone the two women drew nearer to the fire and began to rake the ashes together, but slowly, as if loath to put out the cheerful domestic spark, though the air was too soft to need warming, and the full moon blandly shining in through the window served amply for light. With the dying of the fire Elinor's cheer seemed to die too, and she sat silent in the moonlight with hands folded before her and feet thrust out toward the warm ashes. "Margaret!" "Yes." "Ralph Ingle was here yesterday." "I thought I saw him vanishing from the door as I came." "Yes, he was here, and he asked me again to marry him." "And thou--" "I told him for the fortieth time that marriage was not for me." "Did that settle it?" "Nay, he only smiled." "Insolent fellow!" "No, Cousin, there is no insolence in Ralph Ingle, but something which frights me more,--or did till to-day,--a calm biding of his time, as though in the end, struggle against fate as I would, he must triumph and I must yield." "Bah, Elinor! That's the talk of a woman who seeks excuse for yielding. Your will is as strong as his; use it!" Elinor's lips shut in a proud silence. There was something in Margaret Brent's manner which did not invite, much as it justified, self-revelation. Few make confidences to those who never make mistakes. Elinor made a move as if to rise; but Margaret laid her hand upon her arm. "Cousin," said the older woman, "I have heard thy story; now listen to mine. I loved a man once--" Elinor started. "Ah, thou didst never think I had known what it was to love?" "He--he was a lucky man," stammered Elinor, in surprise. "He might have been a lucky man, though perchance it behooves not me to say it; yet I verily believe I could have made him happy, but that he was of a jealous temper--" Elinor, who had a blessed gift for silence, used it now. "Yes," Margaret continued; "he was jealous by nature, and therefore lent a ready ear when one dropped poison in it." "He doubted _thee_?" "He thought he had proof." "And the villain who traduced thee to him--" "Was Dick Ingle, and thou dost well to call him villain. 'Twas years ago in England, and we have met but twice since; but I know the blood, and I swear to thee I'd rather see thee carried out of this room in thy coffin than as the bride of an Ingle." "Yet Ralph--" "Oh, I know he hath not the brutal outside of his brother, but, Elinor, I count him falser at heart. You don't always see a snake, but you trace his course by the rippling of the grass. Something always goes wrong when Ralph Ingle is about. Trust him not with thy little finger, much less thy hand in marriage." "Listen, then, Margaret, and thou wilt rejoice with me and understand the better my lightness of spirit this night when I tell thee that yester morning Ralph Ingle renounced me, told me I was too cold for any love save for a dead man,--God help me, that is true,--then suddenly, as if carried beyond his own control, he seized me in his arms and kissed me, and then flung through the doorway. At the door he turned once more and said, 'Elinor, thy day of grace is ended!' "I was much angered by his free manner, and I answered,-- "'If the day of grace be the day of thy company, the sooner ended the better.' "'I am going away,' he said. "For answer I but courtesied, with a great gladness at my heart. "'The time may come when thou wilt beg me to wed thee.' "I laughed. "'Till that time comes I will never speak of marriage more,' he said. Then with one devouring glance, he bowed low and left the house, and Sheriff Ellyson told me to-day that he saw him with three men making down the river in a pinnace. Pray Heaven, he is gone forever!" "Ay, pray Heaven; but keep thy wits at work none the less, and never believe that an Ingle means what he says. They say only what they wish thee to believe; and as for Ralph Ingle giving thee up, he has about as much intention on't as my gray cat, that withdraws into the dark and lets her victim mouse play about till she's ready for the spring." "Cousin, thou art suspicious." "Say rather, watchful." "'Tis all one." "Nay. If thou art watchful, thou mayst find there is no cause for suspicion." Elinor sat looking at the woman opposite her. Dead silence fell between them, till at last, with a cry, Elinor threw herself on her knees at her cousin's side. "Love me, Margaret! Try to love me! There are so few to love me now!" It was as if the cry of Elinor's full heart broke down the barriers that had somehow raised themselves between her and Margaret Brent. A single word had laid them low, never to rise again. "I do love thee; I do," whispered Margaret, folding her arms close about Elinor. "Poor child! Life hath been a hard school for thee." "And I an unruly scholar," murmured Elinor, smiling through her tears. "Perchance; most of us are. But now shalt thou give proof of thy new-found spirit of obedience by obeying me, and getting this weary body of thine into bed. Hark! the watchman is crying ten of the clock." With a certain joy in being bidden like a little child, Elinor rose and moved to her chamber. It is, however, one thing to go to bed, and quite another to go to sleep. Strive as she would, she could not shake off the sombre shadow of Margaret's words. At last, unable to rest quiet longer, she rose and went to Cecil's little bed. There he lay, flushed and rosy in sleep, with the coverlid thrust aside and revealing the firm curves of a sturdy leg. "Thank God for him!" murmured his mother, and taking down a vial of holy water she sprinkled a few drops on the golden curls. Then from the shelf beneath the crucifix she took down a little brown book with worn cover and dog's-eared corners. Opening at random her eyes fell on these words:-- "Love is a great thing, yea, a great and thorough good: by itself it makes everything that is heavy light, and it bears evenly all that is uneven. For it carries a burden which is no burden and makes everything which is bitter sweet and savory." "Heigh ho!" sighed Elinor; but she read on. "Nothing is sweeter than love, nothing more courageous, nothing higher, nothing wider, nothing more pleasant, nothing fuller nor better in heaven and earth." "For some," murmured Elinor, and read on. "My child, thou art not yet a courageous lover. Because for a slight opposition thou givest over thy undertakings and too eagerly seekest consolation. A courageous lover standeth firm in temptations and giveth no credit to the crafty persuasions of the enemy--" A tear slid down upon the hand that turned the page. Tears are crystallized confession. Elinor bowed her head. "Alas! Alas! How the words pierce to my heart's core! It is to me surely that they were written. What a coward in love have I been! How ready at the first whisper to sink from faith into doubt! To me God gave such chance as falls to the lot of few women to hold up the hands of my love, and the chance slipped from me, and I joined the ranks of them that doubted and turned aside. "Is it too late now to repent? No, never too late for that. What consolation, what joy, what glory to feel that perhaps ages hence, when I have worked out the penance my sin demands in Purgatory, I may rise to the presence of the saints, where, for all the churchmen say, God must make a place for souls like Christopher's! Then I shall look into his eyes and he will forgive and bless me." The thought brought comfort, and she turned back to her couch with a calmer mind. As she passed the window she heard the watchman calling the hour of midnight, followed by the familiar cry,-- "From fire and brand and hostile hand God save our town!" For some time she stood still, watching, with a comfortable sense of safety, the queer figure and the twinkle of his lantern as it bobbed up and down along the street. "Elinor, is that thou?" "Ay, Margaret." "Now art thou unruly, indeed,--walking the house at midnight like an uneasy ghost, when I bade thee go to bed and to sleep. To bed, I say, this instant!" Elinor smiled, but obeyed, and drawing the coverlid over her fell into a light slumber, broken by a fitful dream in which the world seemed to be whirling around, and Ralph Ingle was pushing it to make it go faster, when suddenly Christopher Neville appeared, and all at once it stopped and she could hear his voice bidding her be of good cheer and fear nothing. Then came the unconsciousness of deeper sleep; and at last, out of that calm there swept a great noise, a rush of feet along the quiet street, a swinging of lanterns, a hurried knocking at the door, and a shout,-- "Make ready all within! _Dick Ingle is at the gates!_" CHAPTER XXIII "HEY FOR ST. MARY'S, AND WIVES FOR US ALL!" Morning was streaking the black of night with a single line of silver as Richard Ingle dropped anchor in St. Mary's River opposite the little town marked by its tall rude cross and its sentinel mulberry-tree on the edge of the bluff. Already the men were lowering boats and filling them with muskets, powder, and shot, and strips of wood soaked in oil. As Ingle looked upward at the sleeping village, his heart swelled with delight. Let no one fancy that happiness is the reward of virtue. To the good there can be little individual happiness that does not carry its own sting in the thought of the cost to others at which it has been purchased, but to the bad man life is simplified to "The good old rule, the simple plan, That he may take who has the power, And he may keep who can." Through these twelve long months the memory of the indignity thrust upon him at Brent's behest, as he firmly believed, by the townspeople of St. Mary's, had rankled in his memory. This, combined with his old grudge against Margaret Brent, drove him back to England. This kindled his delight at finding King Charles defeated and Parliament in control. This was always in mind when he represented to the government the dangerous growth of Catholic power in Maryland, and this the crown of his triumph when he found himself turning the prow of _The Reformation_ westward once more, armed with letters of marque giving him license to attack these dangerous monarchists and schismatics and harry them out of the land if he could. "Now, my friends," thought he, as he peered through the darkness at the dim outlines of the wharf, "we'll see whose turn it is to be tossed aboard a vessel like a sack of grain. I'll settle my score with you, Sheriff Ellyson, and with you, Worshipful Councillor Neale. As for you, Giles Brent, if you get not a sword-thrust from my blade that will make you carry your head a shade less high, my name is not Dick Ingle." As the buccaneer strode up and down the deck nursing his hot wrath, he came to where Claiborne was standing in talk with Ralph Ingle, who had joined his brother as soon as the secret news reached him that _The Reformation_ lay hid among the wooded points of the bay. "Now," said Richard, "remember that I am the Captain of this expedition and you are both to take the word from me." "Hm! I know not," Claiborne began doubtfully. Richard Ingle bent a compelling glance upon him. "Did you not ask my help?" "Ay." "Did you not say I was worth any twenty Virginians in this expedition?" "Belike I did." "Is not the ammunition of my providing?" "Oh, have done with your vain boasting!" "I'll have done with boasting when you have done with insubordination. Do you or do you not recognize my authority?" "On your ship, yes," answered Claiborne, flushing; "on land I take commands from no man. I am answerable to the authorities of Virginia and them only." "And I," said Ralph, "am a free lance, and will thrust where I see fit. Besides, this expedition is as much mine as thine." "The devil take the fellow's impudence!" exclaimed Richard. "Here have I been over seas to fetch letters of marque, and pulled members of Parliament this way and that, gathered a crew, begged, borrowed, and stolen money to buy powder and shot, and now you, who have stayed in the lap of luxury there at St. Gabriel's, would have me give you control." "The still hog sups the milk," answered Ralph, coolly. "'Twas I kept you informed of the temper of the colony, of Brent's unreadiness for attack; and did you but know it I did you the greatest favor of all in ridding the colony of the one man who might have detected your plot and made some head against us." Richard Ingle flushed and laid his hand upon the hilt of his sword; but Claiborne, foreseeing an ill beginning if the invaders fell to fighting among themselves before they were fairly landed, stepped between the brothers and laid a hand on the shoulder of each as he said,-- "There is honor enough ahead for each of you and for me too, so let us not quarrel over that. Let Dick direct his crew, while I lead the Virginians in the ship behind us, and you, Ralph, shall be the free lance." The words were timely. Richard put up his sword, and Ralph smiled again,--that frank smile that had won its way to Giles Brent's heart and deceived him to the end. Claiborne saw his advantage and pressed it. "First of all," he said, "we must have a rallying cry whereby we may know friend from foe." "The cry of the townsfolk up yonder is 'Hey for St. Mary's, and wives for us all!'" "We'll make it true by taking of their wives." "Ay," chuckled Dick, "we'll make hay of St. Mary's, set fire to the rick, and then off to sea again with wives for us all!" "A merry jest. You would have made your fortune as a clown, Dick." "The trouble is I have your fortune to make, too, Ralph, and you're too much of the damned fine gentleman for me, and find my ways over rough." "Keep to the point, my friends, keep to the point," interrupted Claiborne. "'Tis a rallying cry we want. Now what say you to 'God and the Parliament'?" A soft voice from Richard Ingle's right answered, "Think you not 'twere as well to leave the name of God out of the business? Considering the nature of the matter in hand, is it not just possible that He might take offence?" "Faith, I believe you're right for once, Ralph!" cried Richard Ingle, with a certain generosity, not detecting the sarcasm underlying his brother's words. "For my part, I think that cry too tame. I would like better 'The devil take the Brents!' or 'To Hell with the Calverts!'" "All save one!" murmured Ralph under his breath. Aloud he said, "Let 'Ingle!' be our cry. 'Tis short and sharp and sufficient." "So let it be!" assented Richard; "but were it not well to have badges on the arm besides the cry, that we may know each other by them when the growing dawn gives light enough to see?" "'Tis a good thought," said Claiborne. "I have a roll of green cloth which can be swiftly torn into bands; but I know not if 'tis enough to go round among so many." "I will be answerable for mine own," said Ralph Ingle, putting his hand to the breast of his jerkin and drawing out a green ribbon of watered silk. "See what a fop this brother of mine learned to be in France. His very points must be tagged with gold, and, on my life, the tags are tipped with emerald!" "Ay," said Ralph, coolly, "I got them of a French Seigneur without his permission, and they have been cursed unlucky so far. The first tag I lost in the forest near St. Gabriel's and could never find again, and the point with the other tag joined to it was stolen by a Patuxent brave while I was on a mission,--the sacrilegious savage! Since then for safe keeping I have carried this in the inner pocket of my jerkin." "Cease talking of your jewelled points and make haste," cried Claiborne, testily. "Speed is the main thing. To be discovered is to be balked, if not defeated." "Push off there in the first boat if you are ready! Shall I go in her, Captain Ingle?" "Ay, and command her crew. Wait for us at the shore, and we'll rush the stockade together." "But how to mount the bluff?" "There is a road, and I suppose it was made to be walked on." "Ay, but it leads to the strongest fortified of the gates." "You are a monstrous clever man, Master Claiborne; but for all that, Dick Ingle knows more tricks than ever a juggler taught you." "That means I am to have no confidences." Ingle laid his red finger to the side of his redder nose. "Are you Captain or I?" "You are Captain but not Pope; I suppose you may be questioned." "All in good time, Master Claiborne; all in good time. Yonder on the strip of beach below the bluff I will give my orders and divulge my plans." "Fend off!" called Claiborne, sullenly, to the man at the prow of the small boat, and seating himself in the stern he pulled his cloak close about him, muttering to himself,-- "Damn the fellow! I begin to hate him worse than Calvert." "Dick," said Ralph Ingle as the two brothers were left alone together, "what treatment might a prisoner look for if brought aboard this ship?" "Why, all the difference betwixt a swift death and a slow one." "And if the prisoner were a woman--" "Nay, none of that business, Ralph! I was but jesting when I spoke of carrying off the villagers' wives. Remember, we take our commission from the Roundheads, who do faithfully believe we are bent on promoting the Puritan religion in this part of the world." Here Richard Ingle burst into a roar of laughter, but his brother's eyes flashed. "You know not how to take a gentleman," he said. "Indeed," sneered his brother, "have a few months in the Brent household turned thee into such a white-livered fellow, half prude, half priest? Nay, nay," seeing his brother's sulky looks; "I meant not to vex thee, though 'tis a damned odd time for talking of such matters; but take thy pleasure as thou wilt, only now make ready for the prettiest fight thou hast seen since we met the pirates off Algiers." "The other pirates," corrected Ralph, and began buckling on his cutlass and feeling for his pistols. "Come on, then," called Richard, lowering himself over the ship's side, "come on, men; rally to the cry of 'Ingle!' Never mind giving quarter, and set the torches to every house in St. Mary's. There's plunder enough for us all, and then up sail and away before the burghers know who's struck them." The muffled oars sped silently through the water; silently, too, the keels of the boats slipped over the sand of the beach. With unshod feet, pistols in belts, and cutlass in hand, the men ranged themselves in a ragged line, and before them, Richard Ingle stood in a theatrical attitude, with one hand on his hip, the other waving a sword. "Are you ready for a fight, my men?" "Try us!" "Ready to make a bonfire of yonder town?" A waving torch answered, but was speedily extinguished by Ingle's order. "Ready to open the bung-holes in the tavern barrels?" "Ay, and drink the spirit as it runs." "Then you're the men for Dick Ingle. Claiborne, how many have you in your command?" "Forty." "Take twenty, and climb yonder stairs. There is a gap in the palisade at their head. Put your men through it single file, and in dead silence. There is no guard. "Ralph!" "Ay." "Do you take the other twenty and follow the longer trail leading to the rear of the town. When our approach is known, the rush will be for the river gate. That leaves your gate weak. Beat it down. Once in, I leave you to your work." "Trust me!" "The rest of you follow me. Swift and still. That's your motto till we burst in with a yell, and surprise our friends. The guard is bribed, the gate unbarred. Up and forward!" Forward they went with a rush, Ingle well in front,--up the hilly road at a double quick to the very shadow of the palisade, not a sound giving warning of their approach. Suddenly from that gray picketed line of logs broke a zigzag streak of fire, and out into the stillness boomed the sound of guns. "We are betrayed!" muttered Claiborne, turning at the head of the steps, out of breath with the climb. "Follow me!" cried Richard Ingle. "Twenty pounds to the first man over the wall, or through the gate!" "Ingle! Ingle!" the cry rose from all sides, as the men rushed after their leader toward the stockade. Several fell; but the others closed in and rushed on the faster. "I fear they're too many for us!" muttered Giles Brent, as he peered through the peep-hole of the gate. "If we could have had the news but a few hours earlier! Fire at the tall man with the green cap, Neville!--and there's Ingle, the same swashbuckler as ever! But he's a brave devil. Gather the guard, Neville. Open on them with the culverin; if they break in the gate, give them clubbed muskets: _Hey for St. Mary's, and wives for us all!_" No man who took part in that morning's fight ever forgot the day. Almost every fighter had his private feud to avenge, and under the guise of sustaining his colony, slashed and hacked for St. Mary, or St. Richard Ingle, and broke heads in fine style, all for the honor of the Commonwealth or the Palatinate in general, and the satisfaction of James and John and Robert in particular. Oh, but it was a fine skirmish! and when the invaders, despite the thunder of the culverin, broke in the iron-studded gate and rushed upon the defenders, the fighting took on still more interest. If there is pleasure in knocking over your enemy at a distance with a cannon-ball, it is as nothing to the joy of felling him with your clubbed musket, where he can claim no foul, no better armament, but must acknowledge as he falls, that he dies because you are the better man, and surrender his pride before he gives up the ghost. Who would not throw away years of inglorious safety to know the mad leap of the blood bounding along his veins as he cut and thrust and parried in the rough give and take of battle? When the Anglo-Saxon forgets that stern ecstasy, his domination of the earth is at an end. There is, however, one class to whom the struggle brings little of this exhilaration. The non-combatants bear the heart-breaking anxieties of the combat and know nothing of its delights. Little did Elinor Calvert know or care about the effect of fighting on national character as she stood at the door of her cottage in the little hamlet of St. Mary's, holding her boy by the hand. Her heart had room for only one thought,--terror,--not so much for herself as for her child. "But surely," she thought, "none could be so cruel as to harm him!" and she looked down on his yellow curls and drew him closer, and folded her cloak about him as though that feeble shelter could avail anything against men with hearts of steel and arms of iron. Her mind was still bewildered with the suddenness of the excitement. "Oh, Mother!" cried Cecil, anxious to be a hero, but conscious of a painful sinking at the pit of his stomach, "what manner of man is this Ingle? Will he have horns and a tail like the devil?" "Fear not, Cecil," Margaret Brent answered. "Dick Ingle has cowered before me ere this. Let him face me now if he dares. He has lied about me to the man I loved, he has done his best to ruin my life, but he has never yet dared to look me in the eye since. If he enters the town this day, he and I will have it out. Elinor, are there fire-arms in the house?" "Nay, but I have my dagger--" "Keep it; thou mayst have need of it. Stay thou here with the child, and I will take my pistol and go to the gate. Doubtless Giles will take command at the gate next the river." "Nay, Margaret, are there not men enough?" "Not so many but they will be the better for one woman." "Thou canst not fight like a man." "Perhaps not,--I have not yet tried; but at least I can make the men fight better. There was never soldier yet that did not shoot straighter and strike deeper if a woman were looking on. That's what we're for, Coz,--not to pit our strength against men's, but to double theirs." "Margaret, thy courage shames me; I will come too. At least, I can carry powder and water-buckets." "No; rather make ready thine house here, for I know Ingle well enough to be sure of hot fighting and many hurt. We shall need a hospital and a nurse. Tear thy linen into bandages, and set Cecil to preparing lint for wounds. Now, good-bye, and may God have you both in his keeping till we meet again!" As the door closed after her, Elinor felt that a strong presence had passed out and she shivered. Now she caught the sharp clash of combat at the gate and the rival cries,-- "Ingle! Ingle! Claiborne and Ingle!" Then, louder still,-- "Hey for St. Mary's, and wives for us all!" Her heart failed her as she looked at Cecil, and she thought of the powerful arm that might have been near to protect both her boy and her. She breathed a deep sigh. "Mother," whispered Cecil, "I will guard thee; do not fear!" But he crowded closer against her skirt. "Sweet one, 'tis for thee I fear most. Run thou within and hide thyself while thou canst." "Mother!" cried the boy, "I am a Calvert. Dost think Cousin Giles would ever speak with me again if I deserted thee? Why, I am almost a man. See, up to thy shoulder already. I can, at least, throw a stone;" and he picked one up from the road. "We can at least die together," Elinor murmured, "and it may be soon." "But perhaps we sha'n't die," Cecil whispered consolingly. "Thou knowst to-day is the festival of Candlemas. I remember, when we were gathering the greens and taking them down from the chapel last night, some one bade me see that no leaf was neglected, for as many as I left, so many goblins should I see. And so I went back and picked up the very last, and then Father White blessed two great candles and gave them me and bade me burn them on the shrine of St. Michael, because he was my patron saint and I was born on his day." "And didst thou?" "Ay, Mother, when I came home and saw the image in my room,--thou knowst the one of the saint, with his foot on the devil's head,--I thought, for safety's sake, I would offer one to the devil, too, for who knew when it might come his turn to befriend one. Now I will go in and light the candles, and I will pray to Michael and beg him to come and set his foot on Dick Ingle's neck. Ingle must look a deal like Lucifer; and Michael--Mother, dost not think Michael must look rather like Master Neville?" Elinor started as if a bandage had been torn from some hidden wound. She gave a little gasp; but the nearer trampling of feet called her thoughts back to the pressing needs of the present moment. In truth, they were urgent. Already the fighting mob was surging through highway and byway lighted by the glare of the burning church. They fought, not like an army, but in little detached groups, without order or leadership. Here the enemy gained ground, here the townsfolk. What was this the men were bearing to her door? Her heart sank as she recognized Giles Brent. "Oh, Giles! Cousin!--art thou hurt?" "A scratch,--a mere scratch, on my honor;" but he whitened as he spoke. "Bear him in," said Elinor to the two men on whose shoulders he was leaning, "bear him in, and I will make a bed ready for him." As she watched the men following her bidding, her mind leaped back to the last time she had seen Brent,--the day when he told her of Neville's death, and when she had sworn never to own kinship or speak with him again till he took back his accusation. "I have broken my vow," she said to herself. "God forgive me! Yet not so much the breaking as the making." Then she turned to follow him in; but as she moved, she felt her wrist grasped from behind, softly but with the irresistibleness of a handcuff of iron. Looking round, she caught sight of a sleeve of russet cloth bound about with a green ribbon with gold and emerald tags, and turning she found herself face to face with Ralph Ingle. Instinctively she struggled to free herself, then perceiving that her strength was no match for his, she stood still. "I am thy slave still," he whispered. "Give me one kind word, one glance to kindle hope in my heart, and my sword is thine for offence and defence. Nay, 'tis in my power to save thy kinsman, whom I have just seen borne in at thy door. I saw him fall and followed his bearers, sure that they would bring him here." "'Tis a fair return thou art making for his hospitality." "I wonder not at thy surprise." "Surprise! I feel none. 'Tis what I should look for in one of thy name and race. If I was once deceived in thee, I know thee now for what thou art." "What am I?" "A traitor." "Harsh words, my lady! Couldst not choose some gentler name?" "Nay, if I called thee aught else, 'twould be _murderer_." Ingle turned pale. "By what token?" "By that Iscariot badge on thine arm." The man looked down in bewilderment. "Ay, that point convicts thee. 'Tis as though the finger of the Lord were laid upon that emerald tag, and His voice said, 'Thou art the man.'" "Who told thee?" "No man told me; but murder will out, though the deed be wrought in the blackness of midnight and the body of the victim lie hid in the shadows of the forest." "'Tis false. Thou dost but babble to gain time." "'Tis true. Thy very pallor and trembling proclaim it true. Thou didst slay an unarmed man, alone and unprotected in the wilderness. Worse than that, thy victim was a priest of Holy Church, whose very garb should have been sacred to thee." Ingle reddened and spoke more sullenly. "There be many sins heavier than the taking off of a Jesuit." "Ay, there be heavier sins. Shall I name thee one?" "An it please thee." "Then I count it a heavier sin than the committing of a crime to let another be charged with thy deed, and still baser when thou thyself dost egg on his accusers. Thou _Judas_!" Ingle's look darkened, and he grasped her wrist still more firmly. "Thou hast had thy say. Now I will have mine. I will teach thee to call me by a new name." Elinor's lip curled with scorn. "Yes," he went on, "I will show thee what I am, and first of all I am thy master." "A moment since thou wert my slave." "Ay, both slave and master in one; and I am come to take thee with me to a place where thou shalt know me under both guises." "Never!" With her left hand Elinor Calvert pulled a dagger from her belt; but before she had time to use it, Ingle loosed her other hand and seizing Cecil cried, "When thou wouldst see thy boy again, seek the world through for Ralph Ingle." He was gone before Elinor could utter a word; and when she would have rushed after him her limbs seemed made of lead, her outstretched arms fell nerveless at her side, her knees tottered under her, and with her child's shriek of terror ringing in her ears, his pleading eyes still straining toward hers, she fell to earth in a dead swoon. As she fell, Margaret Brent turned the corner of the street, and seeing her believed her wounded, and rushed toward her with open arms, while from the other side Richard Ingle advanced, brandishing a pistol in one hand and a torch in the other. He and Margaret Brent met above the prostrate form. "So you are here," he said; "I thought you were at Kent Fort, and I meant to seek you there. I killed that precious brother of yours." Margaret Brent paid no more heed to him than if he had been a fly in her path. She knelt by Elinor's side, and finding the pulse beating still drew a breath of relief. Once more, however, she bent over lower still, and when she rose it was with a cocked pistol, which she pointed full at Ingle's head. "_If you move so much as a finger, I fire!_" So amazed was the invader that he made no attempt to stir, but stood looking at the woman before him with ashen face and dropped jaw. "Dick Ingle," said Margaret, still with pistol levelled, "you have pursued me for years, first with your unwelcome love and then with malignant hate; you have lied about me to Thomas White; you have tried to ruin my life. Now you say you have killed my brother. Is there any reason why I should not kill you? Nay, do not move so much as a hair, or you are a dead man. I know how to shoot, and I have no hesitation in taking life. Answer me. Have you not deserved death at my hands?" "The devil take my soul!--I have." "I like you for owning it. I like you for appealing to the devil, whom you love and serve, instead of to God. If you had denied your deviltries, I swear I would have put a bullet through your heart. As it is, I am satisfied. Go!" [Illustration] She lowered her pistol and stood looking at him, alone, helpless, unprotected. So he had seen her in imagination many times. So he had vowed he would have no mercy. Now she had shown mercy. She had held his life in her hand, and had spared it. This was the worst of all the wrongs she had done him. The thought galled him beyond endurance. Quick as lightning, he raised his pistol and fired, then covered his eyes with his arm. God forgive the wretch! He loved this woman still. When he looked again the vision stood there yet, the eyes still dominating him, a cool smile on the haughty lips. "Coward!" was all she said; but it was enough. Ingle, the redoubtable, the terror of the seas, the conqueror in fifty combats with desperate men, turned and ran as though the fiends were after him. The groups of his men that he passed, seeing a sight never before witnessed,--their leader fleeing with a look of terror on his face,--joined in the retreat toward the steps which led down the bluff, crying as they went, "To the ships! to the ships! Ingle! Ingle!" Cornwaleys, who had hastily gathered a band of followers from neighboring plantations, came rushing after and fancied that it was he and his men who had routed Ingle. So he told the story afterward at the tavern. So the villagers all believed. Only Margaret Brent knew. CHAPTER XXIV THE CALVERT MOTTO "Put me down! Put me down!" screamed Cecil. "I put thee down? I'll see thee roasted first!" "I hate thee!" "Very like; but wait, thou little imp, till I have thee safe in the ship!" "In St. Michael's name!" cried the child, and beat Ralph Ingle lustily about the head; but Ingle swept down his chubby arms as though they had been gnats, and ran on toward the nearest gate. When he reached the Governor's Spring, he noticed that the waters ran red with blood. By its margin two men were cutting and thrusting with sword and cutlass, while a third with hand clasped to his throat lay along the curb, his head hanging lifeless over the water. "Help, Ralph!" came in Claiborne's voice from the group. As he called out he retreated a step, that he might free the weapon which his adversary held engaged. His opponent, who fought with his back to Ingle, took advantage of the retreat, and making a lunge forward, drove his sword into Claiborne's side, crying out,-- "Take that for the death of Philpotts!" Claiborne fell, wounded. "Wait till I get some one to hold this wriggling brat, and I'm with you." So far Ingle had gone in his speech when the foeman turned, and Ingle saw that in front of him which made his cheek blanch and his heart fail and his knees totter under him, for there stood a dead man waving a sword and making ready for a thrust at his heart, while Cecil shouted aloud with joy,-- "Thir Chrithtopher! help! help! He is taking me from my mother!" No words answered. From a ghost none were to be looked for; but the steel flashed in air, and when it drew back it left a trail of blood. Ingle felt a quick intolerable pain at his heart, and the arm around Cecil slackened its hold till the child dropped to the ground. "So you are come to take me to Hell, are you?" he muttered between set teeth, then swayed, reeled, and fell to earth with eyes fixed. Neville stood over him with vengeance in his glance. "Are you from the charnel-house or from Hell itself?" asked Ingle. "Is not this enough like Hell?" "Ah, you _have_ come from Hell, and know what it is like. Did the devil tell you? I meant to thwart Satan himself by confessing just before I died." "If you have a confession to make, best be quick, for your last hour is come." "A priest!" he murmured, for years of indifference could not quite obliterate the memory of Pater Nosters lisped at his mother's knee; "or no, a priest would be harder than any, they stick so close by one another." "If you do indeed desire to free your soul of a confession," said Neville, touched in spite of himself by the look of death on Ingle's face, "speak to me and in the presence of this child whom you have wronged." "Do you think I could so escape Hell?" "'Tis no business of mine," answered Neville; "but for myself I'd not like to die with a sin on my soul." "No business of yours! Then--the--devil--did--not--tell--you." The words came slower now, with little gasps between. Suddenly his glazing eye brightened a little. "A priest! a priest!" he repeated. Looking round, Neville saw Father White passing up and down rendering help and solace to the wounded. "Run and fetch him, Cecil!" he said. The child plucked the good priest by the cloak. "Father, come, Father!" he said. "Ralph Ingle hath need of thee. He is dying and would fain confess." Father White dropped the cup of water he was carrying, and coming to the side of the dying man knelt beside him. "I think, after all, I won't tell," Ingle whispered. "Even this dead man had not heard it, and perhaps the devil himself has caught no word." "Think not to escape so," said the priest; "the moments of time for thee are short, but the years of eternity are long, and through them all comes no chance such as lies before thee now to make some scant atonement by confession, and earn, perhaps, if not Heaven at least Purgatory, in place of Hell." "Bah!" said Ralph Ingle, rousing himself to a touch of his old-time boldness, "'tis no use to strive to fright me with your ghostly threats. Perhaps the devil will send me up like Master Neville here to do his work on earth; that would be rare sport, to cut and thrust and be beyond the power of wounds." Here his head sank, and for a moment it seemed as he were gone, then the eyes opened again and the boyish smile curved his lips. "Besides, 'tis no such great matter to kill a priest; there are so many of you, you know." "So it was you!" cried Neville, with new interest in his voice and stooping he wet Ingle's lips with brandy from his flask. "Now," he said, "if you have the least spark of manhood in you, speak out. You killed Father Mohl?" Ralph Ingle moved his head in assent. "How?" "Speak!" exhorted Father White; "though thou be the chief of sinners, speak and trust in the mercy of the Lord who died to save such." "But I'm--not--the--chief--of--sinners--'Twas the knife did it--the knife in the panther's throat." "You found it?" A nod. "You were on your way from St. Mary's to St. Gabriel's?" Nod. "What for?" "To stay with Brent--I promised Dick." Father White spoke low: "At least he was true to some one. Remember it, O Lord, when thou dost count up the sum of his transgressions!" "Ay, 'twas Dick suggested it, so he and I feigned a quarrel before the gossips on the deck, and then I set out alone--More brandy--I cannot speak." Again Neville knelt beside him and poured the brandy down his throat. Under the stimulant Ingle revived and moved as if he would sit up, but Father White stayed him. "Waste not an inch of thy strength," he said, lifting his head, "but use it to save thy soul. Didst thou quarrel with Father Mohl?" "Ay, 'twas his fault--I was singing a tavern song to cheer me, when I met old shaven-crown--Nay, God forgive me, the holy father-- "'Good evening,' says I. "'God have mercy on your soul!' saith he. "'That's between Him and me,' says I, and then he must needs answer back in Latin--I had borne to be damned in English and never raised a finger; but to be called names in an outlandish foreign tongue was too much!" "Thou art sinning away the hour of mercy," said Father White, sternly; "speak of thyself and thy crime." "Ay, but I want God to know why I did it. "'Hold your tongue,' said I. "'_Pax tibi_,' said he, near as I could catch. "'Another word, and I'll have your life!' said I, raising the knife. "'_Dominus tecum!_' he answered, out of spite, as the ugly, ugly smile of him showed, and that finished him. "The knife came down, and ere I could pull it out I heard steps near by and did run for my life--" "Whither didst run?" "To St. Gabriel's; and, seeing lights still up, I would fain have entered, but thought better of it, and rested in an out-house till morning." "Traitor!" exclaimed Father White, "was thy conscience so dead thou didst feel no pricks at accepting hospitality,--thou, a murderer?" "Not a prick; only a mighty satisfaction that the devil looks so well after his own--or--hold--art thou going to tell all this to God? For then I must say it all different." "Speak truth! If anything could save thy guilty soul, 'twere that." "Then if I'm damned for the business, I'll own that I was glad when I thought myself safe, glad when I saw this man, Neville, accused, glad when I saw him sink in the river yonder. There, go back and tell that to the devil, will you?" "Faith, you can tell him soon enough yourself," muttered Neville, as he watched the laboring heart and the eye, which now glazed faster than ever. "Is this all?" It was Father White who spoke. Ingle pointed to Cecil, opened his lips, gasped out, "Elinor!" and fell back dead. Father White lifted his eyes to heaven, praying: "Judge him not according to his demerit, but through the infinite multitude of Thy mercies, and extend Thy grace and pardon in the name of Thy dear Son." When he rose from his knees he turned and would have clasped Neville's hand, but he and Cecil had vanished together in the direction of Mistress Calvert's cottage. "Mother must be dead," panted Cecil, as they hurried along; "else had she surely followed me." A deadly fear struck on Neville's heart, cold as a hailstone on an opening rose. Had he so nearly reached the goal to fail at last? "Look!" cried Cecil. "There she is!" Neville dropped the child's hand and rushed forward to where Elinor lay stretched, corpse-like, upon the ground, Margaret Brent chafing her cold hands. He fell upon his knees beside her and rained hot kisses on the cold fingers. "O Death," he muttered, "you must not, _shall_ not cheat me now! Not till she knows. Oh, not till then!" "This is not death," said Margaret Brent, "but a heavy swoon. Hast thou brandy?" For answer Neville pulled his flask from his jerkin, poured out some of the liquid and forced it between Elinor's lips, while Margaret ran to the Governor's Spring for water, taking Cecil with her to help carry the ewer. Left alone thus with the woman he loved, the only woman he had ever loved, Neville knelt on, and watched and waited,--waited as it seemed to him for hours, though in reality it was but minutes, to catch the first flicker of those white lids, the first tremulous movement of those chiselled nostrils. Two minds there were within him: one intent upon that still form, gazing in an agony of terror upon its immobility; the other living over the past,--that past which for him began and ended with Elinor. How radiant she had looked at St. Gabriel's that first night, when he came in out of the cold and darkness and saw her standing like a goddess of sunshine with her yellow hair gleaming above her green robe! How graciously she had smiled upon him when he made friends with Cecil; how tenderly she had looked at him when he offered to seek Father Mohl and beg his pardon! Here came a swift pang as the bitterness of those dark days that followed the priest's death swept over him. His lips framed the word "Unjust!" Then lifting his head he shook back the hair, and looking up cried aloud,-- "No, though it were with my last breath, and though she should never breathe again, I vow to God, I thank Him for it all, justice and injustice alike, else had I never known how she loved me." Up and down the street to the edge of the bluff the fight still raged around them, as one group of stragglers met another of the opposing force. None could say which had lost or won. As for Neville, he had no care for what passed around him. All the world held for him lay there on the ground. Oh, God! would those dark-fringed eyes never open? Would those pallid lips never again redden to their old-time warmth, nor curve into their old-time tender wistfulness, nor open in the old-time gracious speech? For one awful moment, Neville felt that this was indeed the end, and bowing his head he murmured, "It has--been--worth--while!" The first sensation Elinor knew after her fall was a rushing of water over face and neck, a gurgling in her ears and a gasping as of some dying animal near by, then a curious realization that the gasping animal was herself, and that a sound of voices rang far and vague around her. Gradually through her closed lids gathered a dim light which, as she opened her eyes, grew to a glory dazzling as though it streamed from the great white Throne, and shadowed against it was the outline of a familiar face, long dear to memory and of late enshrined in her heart of hearts,--the face of Christopher Neville. "So," she murmured, "this _is_ Heaven that lies beyond. I always said death would be nothing if we could be sure of that." Then the black curtain fell again, and the next sound that struck her consciousness was Cecil's voice calling,-- "Mother! Mother! Wake up! Dick Ingle is fled, and the broidery on my coat is torn, and the Church of Our Lady is burned to the ground, and we are very hungry, and there is but corn meal in the house--oh! and Ralph Ingle--" "Softly, little man, softly!" spoke Neville's voice. "Run into the house and fetch pillows for thy mother's head." Slowly Elinor's mind awakened to the scene around. So this, after all, was not the pale reflection of earth cast upon the clouds of a shadowy after-life, but Heaven itself come down to earth. Love and life lay before, not behind. Too weary to question the causes of the miracle, she accepted it and thanked God. "My dear!" she said simply, raising her arms and laying them about Neville's neck. The effort of speech was too much for her strength, and she fell back exhausted and so white that Neville laid his hand anxiously upon her heart. "Tell me all!" she murmured. Neville laughed, a natural hearty laugh, for the first time since that terrible day in January. "So," he said, "'tis curiosity alone can prick thee back to life. Well, thou shalt have the story. All there is to tell, as soon as thou canst bear it. Now, let us in." And raising her in his arms he carried her to the settle where Cecil was piling the cushions. As she sank into them, she laid her hand on the rebellious curls of her boy. "Poor baby!" she whispered. "Baby! 'Tis no baby thou hadst thought me, Mother, hadst thou seen me wrestling with Ralph Ingle? But he would not fight fair, and he had my arms pinioned when Thir Chrithtopher met us." "So, in addition to all my other debts, 'tis to thee I owe my son," said Elinor, turning with a new tenderness in her eyes to Neville. "Why, in a fashion, yes." "In all fashions, Mother. Why, 'twas like this--" "Hush, Cecil, I can make naught of thy prattle. 'Tis too fast and too broken. Prithee, let Sir Christopher tell me the whole story." "Art sure thou hast strength to hear it?" "I am sure I have not strength to do without it longer. Tell me, in Heaven's name, how it comes that thou whom all men counted dead art returned alive to be the saving of us all." "Thank God, I was in time!" "But how, when, where?" "Nay, 'tis too long a story, and thou art still too weak." "Not I," said Elinor scornfully, making an effort to sit up, but failing pitifully and sinking back again. "There, see, thou hast no more strength than I when I fell against the gate of St. Mary's last night, and they pulled me in like a log. 'Twas well Philpotts had kept his breath and could cry the warning. I think the villagers took me for a ghost, for they looked at me with dazed eyes and did my bidding as though I were something beyond nature. Sheriff Ellyson lent me his sword. I owe him much thanks, else had we not this valiant little warrior with us now." Elinor shivered and clasped Cecil close about the shoulders. "Go on, go on!" she whispered breathlessly. "All hands were ordered to the guns at the gates. I worked side by side with Giles Brent, he, too, half shrinking from me, half drawn toward me as if I were a messenger from another world. When he fell, two men picked him up and one asked, 'Whither shall we carry him?' "'To Mistress Calvert's home,' said the other. "'Mistress _Elinor_ Calvert?' I asked, my knees shaking under me. "'Ay,' said the soldier, 'she and her boy have been settled here since February. She is in the second house beyond the Church of Our Lady.' Oh, Elinor, may you never know the anguish that thought cost me! If I had fought like a man before, I fought like a devil then, but we had not ammunition enough for our guns. The time was too short for bringing it from the powder-house, and they burst in at the weakest gate, the one furthest from mine, and then my only thought was to get to thee and die fighting at thy side. No, that's not true neither, for I thought little of dying: my blood was up, and I was bent on trying how many of the rascally invaders I could put an end to. "I started from the gate on a dead run, and before I had gone a hundred paces I found old Philpotts by my side. Hard by the Governor's Spring we met Claiborne with a gang of marauders, armed with cutlasses. One of them made at Philpotts and ran him through the throat, so the poor fellow fell without a groan, and the blood of his faithful heart flowed out into the spring. Heaven rest his soul for truer friend man never had." "And thou?" "Faith, 'twas like to have fared no better with me; but that Neale and Ellyson and their following let drive at the invaders and drove them off, following them to keep them on the run. Only Claiborne stood his ground. Just as my sword touched him in the side, I heard him cry, 'Help, Ralph!' and turning I found myself face to face with Ingle, carrying Cecil in his arms; the poor child was screaming lustily." "And fighting, Thir Chrithtopher. Say now, was I not scratching and biting valiantly?" "That he was, and hath a handful of the pirate's hair as a keepsake. Just then Ingle caught sight of me, and 'twas as if he saw the Day of Judgment. 'So you 're come to take me to Hell, are you?' he said. With that he dropped Cecil, and ran at me with his cutlass, having no time to draw pistol. 'Twas scarce a fair fight, for I verily believe had he not been mastered by ghostly fear he would have finished me." "Thank God for the deliverance!" "Ay, and for a greater mercy than life. The wretch did make confession to Father White, and of what, thinkst thou?" "Oh, Mother," cried Cecil, unable to curb his impatience another moment, "it was he who killed Father Mohl." "I know." "Thou knowest? In God's name, how didst thou know?" Neville exclaimed. "The emerald tag." Margaret Brent had entered unperceived, and now her questioning eyes said, "Who wore it?" "Ralph Ingle, to-day, on his left arm, as if it were a badge to be proud of,--he, the man whose presence I tolerated, whose hateful love-making I permitted. Oh, Christopher, canst thou forgive me?" "_Forgive?_ Dearest, _I love thee_!" "And canst thou forgive one who cannot lay claim to that mantle of love that covers all sins?" It was the voice of Giles Brent, who had staggered to the door and stood leaning against the post, a new expression of humility on his proud face. "Sir Christopher Neville," he went on, "I have been hopelessly wrong, honestly but fatally wrong, and I do most earnestly entreat you who have been so deeply injured to believe in the depth of my grief and repentance." "You had every reason--" began Christopher. "Ay, but of what use are faith and friendship but to warm the fires about reason when she grows too cold. To my life's end I must bear the bitter thought of my injustice, but I pray God the lesson may not be lost. See, here is my sword, a present from Baltimore! If you can find it in your heart to forgive, accept this and wear it." With his unwounded arm Brent drew the sword with difficulty from its scabbard, and extended it towards Neville. It was a symbol of surrender. Neville took it, and seizing Brent's hand he raised the hilt of the sword, exclaiming, "By this token I swear fealty to my lady, and to all her kindred!" "Elinor," said Brent, "this Neville is a worthy gentleman, and thou hast made no mistake in giving thy heart into his keeping." "Amen," said Margaret Brent. "Ah," said Elinor, jealously, turning swiftly toward Margaret, "thou didst never doubt him; thou canst afford to be proud." Margaret Brent smiled. "No storm," she said, "no rainbow; no trial, no faith; no faith, no love." "Mother," broke in Cecil, "wilt thou wed Thir Chrithtopher?" "If he condescend to ask me again, I surely will." "Thir Chrithtopher! You do mean to ask her again?" "Perhaps, some day." "Couldst not make thy decidence now?" "Why dost thou seek to hurry me so? Marriage is a serious matter, and who knows but I might regret any undue haste!" "Nay, now art thou in jest and I in earnest, for we were to have the feast of Candlemas to-night, and there are not candles enough to go round; but if you and Mother are to be one--" "I do take your meaning,--then one candle will do for both." "'Xactly." "In that case, I must waive all scruples, and I do here commit myself to a solemn promise to ask Mistress Calvert to marry me; and, Cecil, I am fain to ask thee for a betrothal gift." "I know,--the Calvert seal." "Nay, I have no use for the seal, Cecil, though its motto stood by me well in the dark days last winter. Yes, Elinor, I said them over to myself many a time there in the tobacco-house,--'Fatti Maschij: Parole Femine,--Deeds for men; words for women.' They may not be read so in the bastard Italian, but so they were writ in my heart, and I said, 'After all, 'tis my life must speak for me. If that condemns me, protests are vain; if that acquits me, who in the end shall be able to stand against me?' But, Cecil, there is still something I did once decline like a churl when thou didst offer it, and have longed for in secret ever since." "Oh, you mean Mother's picture; why, of course you may have it, and mine too, which has larger pearls round it,--may he not, Mother?" "Cecil, what is ours is his." "And better still, what is his must be ours, so I shall have the bow and arrows without asking. We will have our feast to-night, and we will set out all the candles in the house and deck the table with flowers of purification and the bowl of punch and the seed-cakes." "_Ave Maria Purificante!_" quoth Father White, who had entered unperceived at the open door. "Sir Christopher, you have borne yourself nobly under the shadow of a great tragedy." "Tragedy! Nay, the story with a happy ending is not such. My life is no tragedy." And Christopher Neville spoke truth, for the only real tragedy is the degeneration of the soul under misfortune, and the only real misfortune is that which dominates character. "Hurrah for Candlemas Day, raid and all!" cried Cecil. From the street came an echoing cry,-- "Hey for St. Mary's, and Wives for us all!" As for Christopher, he knelt beside Elinor, and putting his arms about her close he whispered, "Now I have thee for always. Fate itself could not separate us. So thou must e'en make the best of a poor bargain, and take me for a life tenant of Robin Hood's Barn." THE END. * * * * * THE HEAD _of_ A HUNDRED _In the Colony of Virginia, 1622_ By MAUD WILDER GOODWIN, author of "Sir Christopher," "White Aprons," "The Colonial Cavalier," "Flint," etc. Illustrated edition. With colored miniature and five full-page pictures by JESSIE WILLCOX SMITH, WILFRED S. LUKENS, SOPHIE B. STEEL, and CHARLOTTE HARDING. 12mo. Decorated Cloth. $1.50. Although this stirring colonial romance was written in 1895, its scene, its chief historical incident and several of its historical characters are the same as those of Miss Johnston's popular book, "To Have and to Hold." The heroine, Betty Romney, comes to the shores of Virginia in the first shipload of wives to escape a titled marriage with a man she hates, chosen by her father. Among the historical personages who figure in "The Head of a Hundred" are John Pory, John Rolfe, and George Thorp. "The climax of the story," says a writer in the _New York Times_, "is the same in both books, the bloody Indian uprising of the period in which both heroes distinguish themselves." This new illustrated edition of Mrs. Goodwin's charming companion romance to her delightful and highly successful story, "White Aprons," is printed from a new set of plates and well illustrated, and presents in attractive form a book that since its first publication has found thousands of readers. "The Head of a Hundred" has met with favor both as an accurate picture of the early days of Virginia, and as a fresh and entertaining romance. =LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY= =Publishers · 254 Washington Street, Boston= * * * * * THE HEAD _of a_ HUNDRED =PRESS OPINIONS= One of the best works of its class.--_The Mail and Express._ Well deserves its popularity.--_Detroit Free Press._ She has indeed added a valuable page to the literature of Virginia.... The story goes with a rush from start to finish.--_San Francisco Bulletin._ Holds its reader fast from the first page to the end.--_The Independent._ A story of love and adventure delightfully told.--_New England Magazine._ Worthy to rank with the best romantic fiction of the year, at home and abroad.--_New York World._ The atmosphere and spirit of the Colonial period are skilfully depicted.--_The Indianapolis Journal._ Mrs. Goodwin's style is cultivated and charming, and in her chronicles of Virginia she is giving a new value to history.--_The Book Buyer._ A book that ought to be in every Virginia library.... A charming attempt to reproduce early Virginia colonial life.--_Richmond Despatch._ The book is sweet and true, and charming for its sweetness and truth. We have read it with a delight not commonly felt in these times.--_New York Times._ An exceptionally graceful piece of work--a love-story told with feeling and insight, imbued with the spirit of its period, and made quaint by effective touches of archaism.--_The Dial._ It is as sweet and pure a piece of fiction as we have read for many a day, breathing, as it does, the same noble air, the lofty tone, and the wholesome sentiment of "Lorna Doone."--_The Bookman._ A book of a thousand. One of those strong, sweet stories that entertain and refresh the reader. It is a pleasure to commend such a book as this, and it will give pleasure to all who read it.--_Boston Journal._ The book is written in a fresh, charming style, and is not overburdened with pictures of "Colonial life," as are so many chronological stories. Anything so wholesome and so old-fashioned in the simplicity of its story-telling is gratifying and refreshing.--_Springfield Republican._ Has studied the records of early Southern history until she is able to reproduce the characters and the times in which they lived with great fidelity.... One seems to be transported to those early days, when the ripe civilization of England was so rudely transplanted to the primeval forest. One understands better the people who grew from such conditions, after reading this story, than if a dozen histories were conned.--_Minneapolis Tribune._ =LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY= =Publishers · 254 Washington Street, Boston= * * * * * WHITE APRONS _A Romance of Bacon's Rebellion, Virginia, 1676_ By MAUD WILDER GOODWIN, author of "The Head of a Hundred," etc. New Illustrated Edition, from new type. 12mo. Decorated cloth. $1.50. The Scene is in part Virginia, and in part the Court of Charles the Second. The historical basis of the romance is the episode known as "Bacon's Rebellion," but the author has woven into it a charming love story, and given to the whole narrative much dramatic interest. A charming story.... Its fidelity to the conditions prevailing in the Virginia colony at the time is carefully sustained.--_The Review of Reviews._ It is no less a success as a literary monument than as a piece of most entertaining fiction. Its love notes are pure and sweet, and withal inspiring. Almost any scene picked out at random is a quotable instance of genuine ability.--_Boston Herald._ As sweet and pure a bit of fiction as often comes in the reader's way.--_Detroit Free Press._ A beautiful little story, sweet and inspiring, not less clever than true.--_New York Times._ Mrs. Goodwin invests her romance with a crispness and freshness that set it far above the ordinary novel, wherein facts and fiction are thrown together.--_Chicago Post._ * * * * * FLINT By MAUD WILDER GOODWIN. 16mo. Decorated cloth. $1.25. Mrs. Goodwin is at her best in dialogue, and some very spirited conversations are distributed through the book.--_Providence Journal._ The story abounds in bright, almost epigrammatic sayings and sparkling flashes of merriment and wit, and altogether is as sweet and pure a piece of fiction as we have seen for many a day.--_Detroit Free Press._ Miss Wilkins herself could not have drawn the inn-keeper and "general grocer" Marsden more truthfully or artistically. Winifred is a lovely creation--as charming a piece of womankind as we have encountered for some time.--_Buffalo Commercial._ A quick, sympathetic study of human nature and those bonds of interest which unite human souls.--_Boston Herald._ Sententious, witty sayings appear on almost every page.--_Chicago Journal._ =LITTLE. BROWN, AND COMPANY= =Publishers · 254 Washington Street, Boston= * * * * * _Romances of Colonial Virginia_ By MAUD WILDER GOODWIN. Illustrated Holiday Edition. 2 vols. 16mo. Cloth, extra, gilt tops, put up in neat box, $3.00. I. =The Head of a Hundred, in the Colony of Virgina, 1622= By MAUD WILDER GOODWIN. Illustrated with five full-page photogravure plates from drawings by Jessie Willcox Smith, Sophie B. Steel, Charlotte Harding, and Winfield S. Lukens; four decorative headings by Clyde O. De Land; and an ornamental titlepage by K. Pyle. II. =White Aprons= A Romance of Bacon's Rebellion, Virginia, 1676. By MAUD WILDER GOODWIN. Illustrated with five full-page photogravure plates from drawings by A. McMakin, Clyde O. De Land, L. R. Dougherty, Margaret F. Winner, and Violet Oakley; four decorative headings by Clyde O. De Land; and an ornamental titlepage by K. Pyle. * * * * * _The Colonial Cavalier_ =Or, Southern Life Before the Revolution= By MAUD WILDER GOODWIN. New edition, with notes. With numerous full-page and smaller illustrations by Harry Edwards. 12mo. Cloth, extra, gilt top, $2.00. Full crushed morocco, gilt edges, $4.50. This thoughtful and most suggestive and entertaining study of the domestic and social life of the early settlers of Virginia and Maryland has received the highest praise. It gives us, through the old-time gossip of letters and diaries, and the homely details of life and customs, _a fireside intimacy with old Virginian and Maryland life which we have never had before_.--_New York Evening Post._ _A delightful sketch of the colonial cavalier in his home, church, state, and social relations._ We are made acquainted with the whole man.--_The Outlook._ =LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY= =Publishers · 254 Washington Street, Boston= * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Many thanks to Chris Jordan for transcribing the music scores on pages 94 and 319-320 into digital form, and the HTML version of this work includes links on those pages to PDF, MIDI, and MusicXML files for the scores. Pages 94 and 319-320: The music scores on these pages are marked by "[Illustration (music score)]." The lyrics for the score on pages 319-320 include hyphens and spaces to indicate phrasing. Pages 94-96: _The Dumb Maid_ is a traditional folk song, and lyrics for a number of variants are on the World Wide Web under this title and others, including _The Young Gallant Trappan'd_, _There Was a Country Blade_, _The Dumb Wife_, _Dumb, Dumb, Dumb_, and _The Dumb Wife's Tongue let Loose_. An audio recording of a variant made during _The John and Ruby Lomax 1939 Southern States Recording Trip_ is available in _AFC 1939/001: AFS 02590b01 DLC-AFC American Folklife Center, Library of Congress_ under the title _There Was a Country Blade_. The notes on the page 94 score are too high for a male singer, who would probably sing this an octave or more lower. Pages 319-320: The music score is for the first verse of _Belle Qui Tiens Ma Vie_ by Thoinot Arbeau (1520-1595). Numerous performances of this are available on the World Wide Web, as well as lyrics for all the verses, including translations into modern English. The spelling for some words in the lyrics varies among different sources. Punctuation has been made consistent. Variations in spelling and hyphenation were retained as they appear in the original publication, except as noted below. Changes have been made as follows: Page 34: "t'is" changed to "'tis" (breath; "'tis time) Page 344: "non-commital" changed to "non-committal" (a non-committal smile)